Even when at the top, I’d been afraid to fall.
For a moment, I can’t breathe. My head is hot and too heavy to hold up. Then I exhale, and I’m lighter. “Fuck me,” I mutter, rubbing the back of my neck where the tension has fled.
Stella stares up at me. “You gonna do it?”
“Yeah, babe, I am.” I give her a swift kiss, then head toward the group, nerves thrumming through my veins, heart kicking against my ribs. I don’t know if it’s nerves or the anticipation of doing something risky. Maybe both.
There are three of them, all guys. All wearing skinny jeans and tatty trainers. One is taller than me and rail thin, his brown hair falling in his eyes, his beard spotty in places. The other is fairly short, blond, and already sporting an impressive amount of tats along one arm. Though he’s dressed in the most ragged clothes, I know a kid who comes from wealth when I see one. The last kid, the one holding a bass in a death grip, is around my height and sporting an ink-black mohawk. I had the same cut when I was around his age. Was I ever that young? God, I feel old.
They all watch me with wide-eyed wonder as I walk up to them.
“Hey, I’m Jax.” Might as well use my known name; in a few minutes, it’ll be no use hiding who I am.
“We know who you are,” the blond one gets out in a rasp. “I mean, we can’t believe it, but we know.”
None of them has taken my outstretched hand, and I’m beginning to feel like an ass. But then the guy with the scraggly beard reaches out and clasps my hand. “Jamie. That’s Joe,” he says of the gaping blond. “And that’s Navid.”
The guy with the mohawk lifts a hand in hello.
“We’re huge fans,” Jamie says.
“I guess that’s a relief,” I joke. “It’d be a little awkward if you just thought I was some nutter.”
They all stare at me as if I am, in fact, a nutter. I clear my throat, forcing down an uncomfortable wash of heat. “I was wondering if you could help me out with something.”
“W-what’s up?” asks Navid. His hands are fairly shaking but he quickly slides them into his pockets, and I bite back a smile of approval. Fake it till you make it is a key component in this shitty business.
“My girl over there, the cute redhead pretending not to look? Well, she really wants me to play for her right now. I was wondering—”
“Here.” Joe thrusts his guitar in my hands. “Go for it.”
“Thanks.” I take a better hold of the neck. It’s a beat-up Ibanez that cost less than my boots but has a pretty good sound for close quarters and if you aren’t too worried about nuance. “But I kind of thought you guys might like to play with me. I could sing.”
“No, no,” Jamie insists. “Please play my guitar too. It will be epic.”
“I’ll play with you,” Navid says. He looks slightly gray under his bronze skin, but he hides it well.
“Me too.” Joe is pink in the face as he stands tall and determined, gripping his guitar—an old Strat.
“All right.” I pluck a few strings and wince. “This is out of tune. Just slightly, but it shows when you play.”
Jamie winces too. “Fuck.”
I give him a smile of encouragement. “It’s something a lot of people have to learn to hear. Until then, use a tuner.” I adjust the strings until the guitar is tuned to my liking. “When I first started, I was always off. Killian used to rip into me for it.”
At the mention of his name, the guys brighten.
“He’s fucking brilliant,” Jamie says.
“That he is,” I agree, missing my friend with an ache that shocks me. I haven’t called him in a while. Truth is, I don’t want to know when he’s coming home because that means Stella will move. I shrug the feeling off and pay attention to the teenagers watching me with dazed eyes. “Right, then. Follow my lead, and listen. Listen as you play. When you’re starting out, you try to play all on your own. You concentrate only on getting your bit right. But you’re in a band. You’re part of a team. Make music with me.”
They all nod, even Jamie, though he’ll be sitting out. I go over a few songs, find out what ones they know. I’m not willing to play any of mine. The gig—thinly veiled though it is—will be up immediately if we do. Thankfully, the guys get that and are happy with anything I want to do. We settle on a couple of classics; people know the songs and will be drawn to them.
At this point, no one has noticed us. Only Stella, who perches on the top rail of a bench and silently watches, a Mona Lisa smile on her pink lips.
I start the opening chords of Nirvana’s “About a Girl,” keeping it nice and slow. The guys join in, hesitant but holding their own. The second I begin to sing, people slow down. I’m purposely making my voice sound like Kurt’s. One, because I don’t want to sound exactly like myself right now, but also because he’s my idol and always will be.
I was a little kid when he died, yet his loss hurts as though I’d known him well. Awareness prickles over my skin with a fine chill. I too might have been gone, might have missed this moment, and I close my eyes for a second. My stomach twists sickly. I’m going to lose it right here and now. This is why I don’t enjoy performing the way I used to. This fucking sick, slip-sliding terror of what could have been plagues me every damn time I get in front of an audience.
But it didn’t happen. You’re here. The sun is shining on your shoulders. The air is filling your lungs. You are here.
I’m here. It’s just me and the music, the vibration of the strings against my fingers, the stretch of a song in my chest and throat. The song spreads itself out over me, getting comfortable, amping up. I play the solo and it shivers over me with joy.
When I open my eyes again, we’re surrounded by onlookers. I’m not sure if they realize who I am. I don’t really care. The song ends, and I address the crowd. “Hey there, I’m Jax. I’d like to introduce you to a few members of the band.”
That gets me a few chuckles. People whistle in appreciation. Jamie is filming everything on his phone. The guys give the people hesitant waves. And because I’ve done a Beatles joke, I start in on “Hey, Jude.”
I step back, turning toward the young guys playing with me. They look as though they’ve hit the lottery, grins wide, eyes slightly dazed. But they’re feeding off me, getting it together. I nod, and face the crowd. “You’re going to have to sing along for this.”
And they do. That’s why the song is brilliant. Everyone knows it. Everyone wants to sing it.
By the time we’re nearly finished, money is spilling out of the open guitar case on the ground, and two horse-mounted cops have ridden over to investigate. I’m guessing we’re done, but they simply watch, bobbing their heads to the music.
Joe gives Jamie a turn on his guitar. In turn, Joe continues filming our performance. We play songs until the audience becomes too big, and the cops start to get twitchy. I’m not pushing our luck, and end it. Some people ask for autographs, but most just take pictures. I thank the guys and give them Brenna’s PR number. “She’ll hook you up with some tickets to our next show,” I tell them.
“Thanks, man.” Jamie beams.
“I can’t believe we did that,” Joe says. He’s picking up the money, sorting it. He tries to hand it to me, but I wave him off. “No way. This was my pleasure. You guys keep that.”
Navid grabs my hand and pumps it. “Seriously, thanks. It was … fucking cool.”
We all laugh. “Yeah, it was,” I agree.
And then Stella walks toward me with a wide grin on her face. I might have lost sight of her a time or two, but she’d been with me all the way, a presence in the back of my mind, holding me steady. With two strides, I reach her, gathering her up. She whoops in surprise, her legs wrapping around my waist.
“Well, hello to you too,” she says with a smile. “You did great.”
I kiss her hard and quick, then haul her up higher, get her comfortable as I head out of the park.
“You gonna carry me all the way,” she asks.
&nbs
p; “Yep. Or as far as the nearest cab.” There’s one rolling our way. I flag him with one hand while I hold Stella up with the other. “Then we’re going home and making out. A lot. Later, I’ll cook you dinner.”
Her lids lower as her arms wrap around my damp neck. “I can get with that plan.”
Goddamn, I like this girl. I like my life when she’s in it. I hold onto her a little tighter. “Thought you might.”
Chapter Nineteen
Stella
As part of his “woo Stella” plan, John proposes we continue to introduce each other to something that the other hasn’t done before. “You know, take each other out of our comfort zones. Kind of like you did with me in the park.”
“Non-sexually speaking?” I ask over the breakfast John takes me to. Breakfast being Cereal Milk ice cream with cornflakes on top at Milk Bar. I have to give him points for creativity and cheek.
He bites his bottom lip before grinning. “You’re fixating, Button. I’m not talking about sex.”
I’m horny; sue me. For the past few weeks, John and I have spent our days together doing whatever catches our fancy. Our evenings are spent on the couch, kissing.
When I say kissing, I mean just that. No touches below the neck, just kissing. Soft, slow, wet kisses. Drugging kisses. Frantic kisses. Little pecks between laughing and talking. Suckling kisses. Deep ones that make my back arch and my body shiver.
We kiss until my lips are sore and my jaw aches. We kiss until my body is one big, hot throb of want and a single touch to my clit would set me off. But he never touches me there. And I don’t trail my hand down his firm chest to squeeze the cock I know is rock hard. Even when I know he’s as primed as I am. Even when he’s leaning into me, his big body trembling, his skin damp with sweat.
God, those moments get to me more than anything—seeing John a touch away from coming in his jeans. It’s hot as hell knowing how worked up I’ve gotten him. We’re torturing each other, taking it slow this way. But if feels so damn good. And there is something to his mad methods—we are learning each other. He’s getting under my skin, becoming necessary.
“What exactly haven’t you done before?” I ask him, a rough edge to my voice.
John drags a spoonful of ice cream over his tongue, a golden bit of cereal lingering on his lip before he licks it away. Only John could make eating ice cream look carnal without trying. “That’s a tough one. I’ve done a lot.” His green eyes glint. “But not with you.”
“Hmmm … My list of exciting experiences is fairly small.”
He winks at me, his expression cheerful. Today, he’s full-on rock star, vintage Patti Smith T-shirt faded to gray, black jeans that hug his tight thighs and hang low on his lean hips. “You ever ridden a motorcycle, Button?”
I pause, spoon halfway to my mouth. “Death on two wheels? Nope.”
John laughs. “It’s fun.”
“Do you know what happens if you crash?” I shudder dramatically. “Skin puppet.”
He leans in and nabs the ice cream on my spoon. “Mmm, creamy.”
“Eat your own!” I swat at him and scoop another bite.
“But I want your cream,” he says with a wink.
“It’s a good thing you’re hot, or I’d be making a gag face right now.”
“You love it, Stella Button. You know you do.” John rests his chin in his hand and watches me like I’m high entertainment. A thick leather band circles his wrist, drawing my attention to his forearms. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to stroke the silky skin on the bottom of a man’s forearm this much in my life. “I want to take you on a ride on my bike,” he says.
“Of course you have a motorcycle.”
“Of course I do,” he agrees happily. “Many of them. I’ll pick a good one for our ride.”
“I’m not riding on a motorcycle through the city. I’ll have my eyes closed the whole time or be terrorized by cabs.”
He blows a soft raspberry. “Ye of little faith. I’m a kick-ass driver, Button. But, no, we’ll go outside the city, have lunch, ride the highways like our asses are on fire.”
“Lovely picture. I don’t know why I would ever worry.” I’m pretending to protest, but excitement fizzes through my blood like soda.
John clearly knows I’m into his plan because he rubs his hands together, biting his bottom lip to contain his grin. “This is going to be fun. Let’s go on Wednesday. It’s supposed to be warm and sunny.”
I might be protesting, but his plan sounds wonderful—mainly because it involves being with him. I haven’t taken on any new clients and left a message on my phone, stating I’m on vacation. A foreign concept for me, but I’m getting used to it. Until I’d stepped away from work, I hadn’t realized how much I needed time to just be me and enjoy doing things I like.
“Okay, I’ll let you torment me on a bike.” I wave a spoonful of ice cream in his direction. “But I get the second half of the day.”
I have an idea. Something of me that I can share with him. I haven’t told him about my hobby, haven’t told anyone really. It will be exposing myself in a way that feels slightly uncomfortable. But I asked the same of him in the park; I can’t do less for him. And I’m fairly certain John hasn’t experienced anything like what I’m going to show him.
“What are we doing?” he asks as we push back from our seats.
Shaking my head, I follow him out the door and into weak sunlight. “It’s a surprise.”
“Does it involve nudity? Because I’m down with that.” He waggles his brows, the pink tip of his tongue peeking out between his teeth.
“You put the kibosh on nudity and nudity-related antics, remember?”
“I’m beginning to rethink that plan,” he says darkly.
Laughing, I nudge his side and am about to respond when a strange sort of clicking-fluttering sound erupts around us. At first I have no clue what it is, only that John has gone stiff beside me. Then it registers that there’s a group of guys aiming cameras our way, all of them shouting “Jax!”
“That your newest, Jax?”
“How you feeling?”
“She know about your women, Jax?”
Shocked, I stand there and stare back at them. All this time, no press has bothered us. I’d half expected it at the park. But nothing. Now they’re all over us. I hadn’t a clue how it would really be. The noise they create is enough to scramble my brain.
John takes out his phone and texts someone as they keep shouting our way.
A squeal pierces the air, and a new group surges in. Fans. Having never been in a true fan crowd, I don’t know what to expect. It’s actually sweet. His fans are respectful, some shy, some shaking and crying. He signs autographs and takes a bunch of selfies with them. I’m edged back and move toward the curb to watch him work.
My John is gone, replaced by Jax Blackwood of the easy smiles that don’t quite reach his eyes, and the chuckles that aren’t as deep but louder, forced. Not that I think any of his fans notice. No, he has that unique quality of making a person think all his attention is on them. That he can manage it in a crowd that increases from ten to twenty, then thirty, is impressive.
“You work for Jax?” a teenage girl beside me asks, her eyes alight with curiosity. She’s with a group of friends who have already gotten selfies but linger, taking more pictures of him.
“No, I’m his friend.”
A few girls glance at me with wide eyes. “How did you get to be friends with Jax?” I don’t miss the emphasis on “you,” as though this is a miracle of the highest caliber. Maybe it is. Watching him now, everything we’ve done before could easily be thought of as a dream, some strange figment of my imagination.
“I’m his neighbor,” I say absently.
A ripple goes through the group of girls.
“Lucky,” the girl who asked me says.
“Where does he live?” another asks.
I shake my head and bite back a smile. “Sorry. Classified.”
One of them mutter
s “bitch” under her breath. The others glare, but the girl beside me gives me an overly sweet smile. “I get it. I’d try to keep him to myself for as long as I could too.”
“Good luck with that,” someone stage whispers, and there are a few titters.
I don’t know what to say. I get their annoyance; I’m withholding information they desperately want. But being the outlet for their disappointment doesn’t make me want to linger. I want to get out of here. This is nothing like the happy spectators watching John play in the park. The crowd is stifling, and the urge to turn and walk away is high. But I won’t leave John.
“Guys,” one of the girls cuts in, “don’t be rude.” She gives me a weak smile. “Sorry, they’re just jealous.”
She earns some glares, but one of them shakes her head and demurs. “We totally are. I mean, it’s Jax Blackwood. He’s a god.”
“What’s he like? Is he a sweetheart? I bet he is.”
“A sexy sweetheart,” another adds. “That body … when it’s all sweaty and moving on stage. I can’t even.”
I cut in before I have to hear more about his body. Having been up close and personal with him on the couch, visions of a shirtless John might make me flush. “He’s the best man I know.”
The absolute truth of that statement sinks in among the little group surrounding me and we all go silent, watching him.
At first, I didn’t think he noticed where I’d gone, but I quickly realize how wrong I am. The whole time he works, he makes his way closer to me. His awareness is blade sharp. It’s clear he knows exactly where everyone is and his position within the crowd. In an impressive move, he turns to shake someone’s hand and suddenly he’s at my side again, making it look like casual happenstance. But the way he puts an arm around my waist says it’s not.
All I want to do is burrow into his solid warmth. I don’t, though. Everyone is looking. I toss the group of gaping girls a small wave goodbye, though I know their attention isn’t on me.
Fall Page 24
