John’s palm presses into the small of my back as he moves us toward a glossy black SUV that pulls up. An Asian guy who looks vaguely familiar gets out and opens the back door. I slide right into the soft cocoon of black leather, and John follows me. The solid thud of the door shutting brings blessed silence.
The driver jogs around the front and gets into the SUV. Before I know it, we’re smoothly pulling out into traffic as people press forward for one last glimpse.
John sits back with a sigh, then turns his gaze on me. “You all right?”
He looks different now, covered in a patina of fame, and I can’t get past the rattled feeling that I’m with Jax Blackwood. Countless people would give anything to be in my place right now. The disdain of the girls lays hot and prickly on my skin, and a small voice in my head wonders what I’m doing here. Why me? I’m nothing particularly special. I tell that voice to shut up.
“I’m fine.”
He searches my face as if trying to read my thoughts. “You’ve gone all stiff.”
“I just wasn’t expecting to be bombarded. Or for you to be.” My smile is weak. “Sometimes I forget who you are.”
John’s warm hand settles over mine and squeezes. “You know exactly who I am, and it isn’t that guy back there.”
We’re facing each other now, our bodies turned on the backseat bench. “Is that why you don’t like me calling you Jax?”
A wrinkle forms between his brows, and he dips his head. “I’ve been Jax for a long time. After I crashed and burned, Jax felt more like … I don’t know, a stage name. John was the man beneath it all. Jax couldn’t breathe with all the fame pressing down on him. John was just the guy who liked to play guitar and make music.” He huffs, a shadow of a laugh. “God, that makes me sound seriously confused. I’m not saying I have two different personalities fighting for dominance in my brain or anything. Just that, when you call me John, I feel like you’re seeing me, not the rock star.”
“You’re both.” My thumb strokes his knuckles. “You’re both, and both are wonderful.”
His eyes close on a sigh. “As long as you don’t back away because of the fame. Though I wouldn’t blame you.”
“I won’t back away. But this life isn’t like anything I’m used to. I might get rattled at times. Or starstruck, as embarrassing as that sounds.”
A smile twitches on his lips. He peers at me through the veil of his lashes. “Starstruck, eh?”
My cheeks flame. “Shut up.”
John dimples, shaking his head slightly. “You’re too easy to tease. Which is true. When he speaks again, his voice is light and relaxed. “I forgot to introduce you to my sometimes bodyguard.” He’s still looking at me as he talks, but I glance at the driver who gives me a nod. “Meet Bruce Lee.”
I must have made a sound of surprise, because both John and Bruce are grinning. It isn’t hard to know why; Bruce Lee looks almost exactly like the kung fu legend. “Your parents do that to you on purpose?”
Bruce chuckles. “Total fans without repentance or worry over what their poor boy might endure.”
“I told him he should embrace The Bruce,” John says. “Wear some big sunglasses, get fitted shirts with huge collars, red bell-bottoms, go full on ’70s funk.”
“I wouldn’t want to outshine the rock stars,” Bruce quips.
“Please do. Sign some autographs and let me rest for a while.”
We laugh and joke all the way back to the apartment. But John and I are both clearly rattled and both clearly trying to hide that fact. I think John is embarrassed by his fame. My thoughts are a little more maudlin. I can’t help but think this isn’t real life. This is a fantasy. No one gets this lucky. Especially not me.
* * *
John
“So you have a girlfriend now, eh?” Rye nudges me with his big-ass arm.
Because he’s built like a tank, a nudge from Rye is more like being whacked by a tree branch. I rub the dull pain on my shoulder and glare at him. “Do you have to put a label on it?”
“I don’t,” he says easily, “but she will. Women want to label it, outline the particulars, chart its progress, then set a date. Be prepared for torture, man.”
We’re driving back from Brooklyn where Rye has hunted down a 1969 Moog synthesizer that he had to get his hands on, which prompted us to do a version of “People Are Strange” while testing it out. It makes me miss the hell out of Killian, because he does a great Jim Morrison impression. His version of “Roadhouse Blues” took down the house in London last time we toured. I haven’t talked to him in so long, it feels wrong, like I’m missing a part of me.
I shake it off and cut Rye a look. “You know, talk like that makes me think you’re afraid of women.”
He snorts loudly. “Please. I love women. I’m not afraid of them.”
I lean back against the seat and glance up at Bruce, who’s driving. “You hear that? Rye isn’t scared of women.”
Bruce nods. “Got it. Not afraid at all.”
“You two assholes keep patronizing me,” Rye says with a laugh. “See if I care.”
“Tell me, Ryland.” I turn his way. “When did you start calling Brenna ‘Berry’?”
He goes bright pink, kind of like the berry in question, which is such a sight, I want to pull out my phone, take a pic, and send it to all the guys. “Fuck off, pretty boy. It was an insult, not a nickname.”
I grin. “Sounded like a nickname to me, son.”
Rye’s jaw bunches. I’m playing with fire. Long experience tells me how far I can push Rye before he’ll tackle me. When we were young punks, we’d often end up pummeling each other. All in good fun, but it didn’t mean someone wouldn’t walk away with a busted lip or black eye. In my teens, it was a good way to work off steam. At thirty, I’m thinking I’ll regret it and be popping aspirin for a week.
When Rye finally talks, though, his tone is unexpectedly hard and pained. “You guys gotta let this thing between Brenn and me go. She hates my guts, and for good reason. That shit ain’t happening. Ever.”
Silence descends, awkward and thick. Bruce raises the glass divider, leaving me alone with Rye. Outside, horns blare, and the car bumps over the pitted road. I clear my throat and risk a glance. Rye’s staring out the window, his body a big bulge of clenched muscles.
“Why do you think she hates you? Because I don’t get that vibe, even though you two are constantly sniping at one another. I assumed it was some sort of perverse foreplay.” Even when we were kids, and skinny, knobby-kneed, sixteen-year-old Brenna started hanging around our jam sessions, she and Rye bickered. But they also looked at each other like the other was candy just out of reach.
Rye snorts softly. “Maybe at first it was flirting. I’m not gonna lie and pretend I don’t think she’s hot. Yes, we bicker. Yes, it’s fun to get at her sometimes. And maybe she gets some similar sick satisfaction out of bugging me.” He shakes his head slowly, like it weighs a ton. “But the rift is real and nothing I want to talk about.”
“Hey, you brought it up.”
He shoots me a glare. “No. I said you guys need to stop expecting something, because it’s a dead horse. I didn’t say I wanted to talk about my feelings or whatever.”
“Mate, I’ve never seen a guy more in need of talking out his feelings than you.” I laugh shortly. “You’re the poster child for repression.”
Rye relaxes against the seat, his expression opening once more. “Maybe. But I’d rather we talk about your feelings and shit. You happy, Jaxy?”
“Chicken.” We’re pulling up to my apartment. “And, yes, I am. Because I talk about my feelings and shit.”
The car stops and I open the door before Bruce can get to it. I’ve never liked him, or any of our staff, having to open my doors. It’s too reminiscent of my childhood and the way it made me feel isolated, stuck with my prim-and-proper family when I’d rather laugh and play like a normal kid. There’s a fair bit of irony that, while trying to use my music to get away from every
thing my family was, I’ve put myself in a situation where I often need guards and excessive security. I’m just as isolated as I was back then, only now I can choose to live by my own rules.
“You guys want to come up for a beer?” I ask. Surprisingly, I’m okay with being alone right now. Frankly, I’m feeling pretty fucking great in general. I have a date with Stella tomorrow, and the fact that I get to touch her, that I get to spend the whole day with her simply because we both want to, makes me giddy as a kid waiting on Christmas. But Rye looks like he could use some company, and I’m never leaving my guys to deal with shit on their own when I can offer a hand.
Rye brightens. “Yeah, sure.”
“I could go for a beer,” Bruce says with a shrug.
We’re halfway to the door when a guy approaches, his gaze locked on me as if I’m a target. Instantly, Rye and I stiffen. We know how to defend ourselves, but if this guy has a weapon, fighting won’t do shit. In my peripheral, I see Bruce stalking close, putting himself between us and the unknown.
The guy, a wiry older dude with shaggy, reddish-gray hair, halts, his pale blue eyes going wide. “I’m not trying to cause trouble,” he says, wisely reading the situation. “I only wanted to talk to Jax.”
“Then talk,” I say, standing at the ready. I could tell the guy to piss off, but it’s easy sometimes to let the person speak their piece and say no thanks to whatever they’re selling. Unfortunately, this could also be about one of the women I slept with. This guy could be a pissed-off father. Hell.
“Saw a picture in the tabloids of you with a girl.”
My back stiffens. “I’m often pictured with women. If that’s all you’re interested in, I suggest you take up another hobby.”
I start walking, and Rye moves to my left, Bruce taking my other side. They’re flanking me, which is nice but unnecessary.
Unfortunately, the dude is undaunted. “You were carrying her across a puddle.”
My steps falter. I’ve only carried one woman. Ever. Someone took a picture of that? Fucking hell. There goes my Clark Kent disguise. The thought of Stella’s privacy being taken then makes me queasy.
“Old news, man. That was weeks ago.” I wave the man off and start walking again.
His raspy voice follows. “There was another picture of you two from yesterday. Looked real cozy coming out of Milk Bar. I thought you’d like to know who you’re dealing with, is all. Stella Grey isn’t what she seems.”
Ice flows through my veins, and I halt, turning to face him. “What did you say?”
Dude shrugs his bony shoulders. “She’s cute, but she isn’t as innocent as she looks.”
The ice turns to hot steam, a red haze clouding my vision. I’m advancing on him before I even think. Bruce steps in front of me, blocking my path, as Rye’s big mitt grabs hold of my elbow.
“Easy, man,” Rye says low and hard.
My attention is on the little rat who stares back defiantly. “You stay the fuck away from Stella,” I grind out, pushing at Bruce’s back. My bodyguard is unmovable, though. “You want to hound me like some nutter fan, fine. But stay away from my friends.”
The guy just smiles, and the sight is oddly familiar. “Friend, is she? Looked cozier than that. Stella has a way about her. Very effective in sneaking under a man’s defenses.”
I surge forward, trying to break past Bruce and Rye. They both hold firm.
The guy holds up his hands. “Easy now. I’m trying to help you out here. The information I have for purchase might spare you some headaches along the way.”
“Like hell,” I spit out. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”
He stares back at me, totally placid. “I’m her dad.”
All the fight goes out of me as I gape back at him. I feel sick. Sick on Stella’s behalf. Her dad is trying to shake me down for money. The fucker who abandoned her as a teen and she hasn’t seen since.
“Get the fuck out of my sight,” I say through clenched teeth. “Because these guys aren’t going to be able to hold me forever, and I really don’t give a shit about repercussions if I pummel you into a pulp.”
Rye’s grip on my arm eases. “We might even help him,” he says in a cold voice.
Stella’s so-called dad shrugs again. “Beating me up won’t change the truth. I’m not asking for much. Ten grand should do it. If you change your mind, call me at this number.” He tosses a battered card at my feet. “You’ll thank me later.”
I stare at the card like it’s a bomb, the sick feeling in me growing.
“Fucking hell,” Rye mutters, glaring at the little weasel walking away. “That really Stella’s dad?”
“They have the same smile,” I say dully. Though Stella’s never looked that … soulless. But the shape and movements are the same—down to the small, oddly placed dimple that appears just below the left corner of their mouths. My heart kicks hard in my chest. “That asshole tried to shake me down.”
Bruce shakes his head. “I’ll keep an eye out for him.”
Rye lets out a hard breath. “What are you going to do?”
None of us have picked up the card. I don’t want to. But I feel I should at least hold onto it. I run a hand through my hair. “Fuck. I don’t know.” How do I tell Stella that the dad who abandoned her only showed up because he saw a meal ticket in me?
“Do you think he was telling the truth?” Rye asks quietly.
I glare at him. “He’s a fucking con man. I think he’d sell her out on a lie without breaking stride.” I squeeze the back of my neck. “He’s probably talking about her job as a professional friend and wants to twist it into something wrong.”
A small voice whispers that he might be talking about something else and shouldn’t I at least try to find out what it is? Gritting my teeth, I pick up the card. It’s a little bit of nothing, just a small rectangle of paper, yet somehow, it feels like poison against my skin.
It isn’t even a legit business card. The name and info of an attorney has been crossed out. In blue ink, the name Garret Grey and a local phone number has been scrawled. On the other side of the card is another number: $10,000. It’s underlined twice. Sleazy asshole. My fingers shake with rage as I shove the card in my jeans pocket.
I’ve got to tell Stella about this, but how and when is another matter.
“I’m going to see if Scottie can find out something about this snake first.”
A pall has fallen over the day. I ache for Stella; I want to hold her and tell her I’ll take care of her from now on. But I barely know how to take care of myself. I don’t know what I’ll say when I see her tomorrow, but I know it won’t be about this. I’m not going to let this deadbeat clown come between us before we’ve even had a chance to start.
Chapter Twenty
Stella
I’m nervous, which is rare and slightly ironic given what I have planned for John. But facts are facts, and my tummy flips and flutters as I exit our building and head into the sun. It’s probably a bit too warm for my leather jacket, but I’m not about to take it off. And then I stop thinking about anything really.
Because John stands, hands resting low on his lean hips, in front of a gleaming motorcycle, and all I can do is stare. He’s wearing a leather jacket too, battered and form-fitting. Paired with worn jeans and heavy biker boots, he’s something straight out of my fevered teen dreams. My youthful fantasies, however, were pure compared to the sheer potency of John Blackwood.
The way he stands, the tilt of his head, even the dark gleam in his green eyes— pure sex. He has an innate sensuality about him that urges you to touch, to linger. I don’t even think he’s aware of his appeal; it’s simply there, imbued in every inch of him.
He’s looking up at me, and I feel like candy. That’s what John does to me, turns plain and practical Stella Grey into something rich and decadent. I’m no longer wholly myself, but somehow entirely his. Our gazes connect and he smiles, that firm mouth pulling wide. It’s as if his smile is directly attached to a spo
t low in my belly. The tug is sharp and sweet. It goes straight to my head and makes my steps buoyant.
He straightens and meets me halfway. “Look at you, Ms. Stella Button.”
I glance down at myself. “Is this okay?”
“Okay?” He smiles softly, his eyes hot. “You’re gorgeous. Perfect.”
“Flatterer.” I’m probably beet red.
“Truth teller,” he counters, bending down and kissing me with a melting tenderness that makes my knees weak. Damn it, I’m going to dissolve like sugar into hot butter if he keeps this up. I clutch his forearm just to remain standing.
His expression is justifiably smug but also a little dazed when he lifts his head. “You ready?”
“I’d rather you kiss me some more,” I say truthfully, and his smile tilts.
“Would you, then?” His voice is husky in the morning air.
“Mmm.” I smooth a hand across his chest where the leather is warm and soft. “You’re pretty good at it.”
John peers at me through lowered lids. “Pretty good?”
“Very good?”
“Hmm …” He’s close enough to feel the heat of his body and catch the scent of his skin. Slowly he reaches out and touches a strand of my hair that’s dancing in the breeze. “Tell me, beautiful, are you trying to stall getting on my bike? Or are you feeling particularly saucy today?”
The damn man reads me too well. I let out a small laugh of resignation. “I might be stalling. But you really are tempting.”
His grin is quick and pleased.
Kiss me again. Kiss me forever.
I take a deep breath. Then another, because one isn’t enough to clear my head. “Lead on.”
He chuckles, seeing right through my bravado. “It’ll be fun. But if you hate it, tell me, and we’ll go right home.”
I follow him to the motorcycle. “I’m not going to hate it. I might scream a lot, though.”
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