Pure sweetness shines in his smile as he picks up a helmet and checks the straps. The helmet is midnight blue with stars painted over it, and when he turns it in his hands, I see my name painted in glittery silver across the side.
“You had a helmet made for me?” I ask, gaping at him. It’s cheesy and flashy and utterly perfect.
“Of course I did.” He ducks his head, peering at my face as he helps me put the helmet on. “You need the proper equipment.”
I stand still and let him adjust the straps. Little flutters of pleasure race over me every time his fingers brush my skin.
Satisfied, John straightens. “Now, there’s a mic in the helmet so we can talk to each other. But I’m going to concentrate on getting us out of the city first.”
“How very high tech,” I say, the flutters shifting to raw nerves. Given the fact that I love speed, I shouldn’t be nervous at all. And maybe it’s more that I want to enjoy this with John. I want him to love what I have planned for my part of the day too.
I let all of that go and follow John to the motorcycle. He gives me a wide grin and then puts on his helmet. And I burst out laughing. His helmet is sleek and black, and on the side of it, in glittering gold, are the words “Stella’s Ride.”
“Your chariot,” he says, still grinning and holding out his hand.
“Impressive.” The bike looks like a cross between vintage and new, almost steampunk. The paint is matte black with bronze accents. At this point, I’m more interested in the nicely padded seat.
John runs a hand over the edge of it. “This is a limited-edition Ducati Italia Scrambler. I have a number of different bikes, dual sport, touring, a few racers.” His lips twitch wryly. “I used to drive an awesome Harley Fat Boy, but I loaned it to Killian, and the asshat drove it into Libby’s lawn. Poor baby hasn’t been the same since.”
“Isn’t that how they met?” I vaguely recall reading about Killian and Libby’s love affair and how he’d crashed on her lawn.
“Yeah.” John shakes his head, but he’s clearly amused. “Since, he’s been a smitten kitten, so I can’t begrudge him too much. Ah, well, live and learn.” John pats the seat. “Let’s put this honey to the test, eh?”
What I didn’t realize about riding a motorcycle is that it vibrates, a lot. Right against my crotch. Combine that with pressing up against John’s lean, hard body, my arms wrapped around his waist, and I’m more than a little distracted by the time we finally escape Manhattan and head for Long Island.
As soon as we’re in the clear, John lets the Ducati loose. I squeal and laugh. It’s like flying. Only with the benefit of being able to hold onto John’s warmth.
Over the helmet speakers, I hear his voice. “Let me know if you’re scared or want to pull over. Okay, Button?”
“Punch it, rocker boy.”
He laughs, going faster. I squeeze him for the sheer joy of it.
The Ducati eats up the road. John plays music through the helmets, his taste eclectic but all of it fast-paced for the ride. When Prince’s “Raspberry Beret” comes on, I throw up my hands to feel the air.
“How you holding up?” John asks when we stop at a burger joint a while later.
I swallow down a bite of melty cheeseburger before answering. “Okay. But I’m beginning to suspect I’ll be sore later.” His motorcycle might be fast and powerful, but I feel every bump on the road—intimately.
John turns his barstool to face me, then grabs a few fries. “Not to worry, ma’am. Here at John’s Bitchin’ Rides, we offer a full-service treatment that includes massage in any area you require.”
It’s clear he know exactly where I’ll be hurting and is currently picturing those tender areas.
“Hmm …” I steal one of his fries. “How convenient.”
“We aim to please.” He waggles his brows at me. There’s a lightness to him now, his clear green eyes bright, his expression open and relaxed. With his easy grin and soft, brown hair matted and a little sweaty from the helmet, he’s almost boyish and oh so pretty. My brain is crying out, “Can we keep him? Please?”
Which is more than a little scary. Life doesn’t always work the way we want it to. People leave. People don’t love back with the same intensity. Doesn’t matter how hard you hold on; if someone wants to go, they’ll find a way. And it hurts every time. But with John? I’m afraid he’ll eventually go and take the sun with him.
“Hey,” he says softly, cutting into my racing thoughts. When I meet his gaze, he cups my cheeks and leans in. His kiss is slow and easy but tinged with heat, as though he’s pacing himself and enjoying the twist of anticipation.
We’ve been eating burgers and fries, but I don’t taste that; I taste him, like honey on my tongue. He’s the best damn kisser I’ve ever met—a little greedy, a little dirty, and all of it sweet. He cups my cheeks like I’m utterly breakable. He moves his mouth over mine like I’m the best thing he’s ever felt.
When he pulls away, I’m light-headed with want. “What was that for?”
“Because I can.” A kiss. “Because your mouth drives me mad.” Another kiss. “Because you’re so damn pretty, I can’t stop myself.” He pulls back to meet my eyes. The rough edge of his thumb glides along the curve of my jaw. “Take your pick. They’re all true.”
“You’re really good at this wooing thing, you know that?”
He touches the corner of my mouth like he can’t help himself. “I didn’t. But it’s good to hear.”
We’re facing each other, my knees tucked between the V of his thighs. And he hasn’t stopped touching me. Little caresses along my neck and shoulders, a gentle tug of my hair. Such simple touches. I feel each one in my heart, between my thighs. It’s never been like this for me. I don’t get giddy. I don’t get attached. I don’t fall.
I’m doing all of those things with alarming speed. Over a guy who is just as ignorant of love as I am. John leans in and nips my earlobe, sending shivers down my spine. All my silent worries fly out the door. It feels too good being here with him to protest.
“Are you going to tell me where we’re going?” he asks, his brows rising in expectation.
“Nope. Not until it’s obvious.”
He pouts a little but then moves to pay the check. “The anticipation is surprisingly fun.”
“Yes.”
John does a double take as he realizes how his words could be interpreted and a cheeky grin spreads over his mouth. He’s about to answer me when a young guy walks up to him, gait hesitant but shoulders set.
“Hey …” The guy halts, clears his throat, and tries again. “You’re … ah … You’re Jax Blackwood, aren’t you?”
John sits up straighter on his stool but adopts an easy expression. “I am.”
The guy’s shoulders relax, then tense again. His gaze darts between me and John. “I … ah … wanted to thank you …” A violent blush hits his cheeks, and he glances at me.
I slip from my stool. “Excuse me, boys, but nature calls.”
I don’t know if John is grateful for my exit or if he’ll be annoyed when I get back. But I know he can handle himself and anyone can see that the guy desperately wants to talk to him alone.
I take as much time as I can without it appearing that I’m having some sort of issue. When I get back, they’re still talking, John leaning in to tell the guy something. He sets a hand on the guy’s shoulder and gives it a squeeze as the younger man nods, his expression tight with emotion.
I order a couple of brownies to go and return in time to take their picture with the guy’s phone.
“Take care, man,” John tells him with a final clasp to his shoulder.
The guy gives me a shy smile before ambling off, his step lighter. As for John, his mood is quiet as he takes my hand and leads me out of the diner and to his bike.
“You okay?” I ask when he doesn’t say anything.
“Yeah. I’m fine.” But he simply holds my helmet in his hands, his expression distant.
“You can
talk to me, you know,” I say softly.
He takes a breath. When he meets my eyes, his are overly bright. “He was going to do it. You know?”
My insides swoop and everything goes very still. “Yes.”
John bites his bottom lip and looks off. “But then I tried. And he didn’t.”
The faint hum of the highway cuts the silence between us. I lick my dry lips. “What do you mean?”
John runs a hand through his hair and squeezes the back of his neck. “He plays guitar. I’m his idol. And when I tried, it gutted him. But he said it also comforted him.” John gives me a wry, almost confused look. “The great Jax Blackwood felt the same way he did, and he no longer felt alone. He got help.”
John swallows hard and grips the helmet. When he says no more, I step closer and rest my hand on his arm. His voice is a thread. “I never thought …” He shakes his head, and his eyes go dark with emotion. “I never considered them. The fans. That I could help them.”
My fingers tighten around his stiff arm. “You can. You’ve been doing it your whole career.” He frowns in confusion, and I press on, even though I hate talking about myself. “When my dad left me, I was in a bad place for a while.”
“Babe …” He steps closer, green eyes worried. “I’m sorry.”
I shrug then lean back so I can meet his gaze. “What got me through a lot of dark days was listening to the Apathy album.” A start of surprise runs through him and it’s my turn to hold on tighter. “I listened to your voice, with all that unleashed rage, defiance, and power, and I felt powerful too.”
For a moment, he just stares at me, his lips parted, clearly at a loss for words, but then his lids lower in a sweep of his long lashes. “I wish I was there for you.”
“Then you haven’t been listening. You were. You’re there for so many who need you. You’re …” I grapple for words. “Marvelous.”
John laughs then, self-deprecating and husky. “You’re killing me, you know that?”
I can see the unease creeping over his shoulders. For being a famous rock star, John isn’t entirely comfortable with praise. He’s constantly pushing it off or putting it onto someone else. I get it; I often do the same, and I know I need to back off.
I give his jacket a tug. “Right. Your part of the day is done. Now it’s my turn.”
John visibly eases and gives me a wide grin. “Bring it, Stella Button.”
“No backing out?”
He scoffs. “Please. I never back down.”
“I’m counting on that.” Before he can say anything else, I rise to my toes and kiss him. It’s nothing more than a melding of mouths, a little nip and suck of his firm lower lip. But he chases me with his mouth when I move away.
“What was that for?” he asks, smiling against my mouth, nuzzling.
“Because I can,” I say. “Because your mouth drives me mad. Because you’re so damn pretty, I can’t stop myself.”
“Stealing my lines, Button?”
“As if. Now, stop stalling.” God, I’m nervous now. I’ve never shown anyone this side of me. It’s what I’m best at, but until now, it’s been a personal escape.
John believes he’s the only one who doesn’t know anything about relationships, but I don’t either. Not romantic ones. But if we’re going to work, I have to trust in something more than myself. I have to trust in him.
* * *
John
The heady combination of true anticipation and uncertain nerves is something I haven’t felt in a long time. It used to be my emotional drug of choice in the early days of Kill John. I lived for that sweet spot of feeling, teetering on the edge of greatness and ruin. Back then there was a chance we’d crash and burn onstage. Or we’d rock the house down. I loved the thrill of not knowing. And yet I did know. I knew I’d go out there and feel alive in a way few people experience—every nerve humming, blood coursing, balls tight, and cock hard.
Those moments became my everything. But they started growing far and few between.
Then came Stella. What I feel for her isn’t exactly the same. It’s more grounded. A weird mix of that teetering excitement tempered by unexpected comfort. But today is different. I’m practically jumping in my skin as I follow her instructions to this mystery experience she has set up for me. The land is flat and stretching along the Atlantic. It’s a clear day. Overhead a few small, private planes take off from a nearby airport.
In my ear, Stella’s tinny voice directs me to turn into the airport. Well, that’s a surprise. Is she taking me somewhere? Even though I know she’ll kick my ass if I protest, I don’t like the idea of her paying for a flight. Stella isn’t flush with cash, and she shouldn’t have to spend her hard-earned dollars on me. But I hold my tongue. This is her part of the day, and I’m going to behave and enjoy the fuck out of it.
The airport isn’t big—one runway and a couple of low buildings and hangars. A sign advertising skydiving points the way to one building, and I wonder if that’s her game, but Stella points me toward another building and then asks me to stop.
“Okay,” she says, pulling off her helmet, “let’s do this.”
“This” being Stella walking into an office to log a flight plan and chat with the guys who work there and clearly know her well, all while I stand there gaping in total silence. I’m still gaping as I follow her over to a small—seriously, the thing looks fucking tiny—white plane with one propeller on the nose.
I’ve owned SUVs that were bigger.
“You’re a pilot.” My voice sounds embarrassingly shocked.
Her cheeks flush as she smooths a hand over the edge of a wing. “Yep.”
“And you own this plane?”
“I’m one-tenth owner,” she says with a self-effacing smile. “The rest is Hank’s. He let me buy in so I don’t feel like a total mooch when I want to fly it.” There’s a fondness in her voice when she speaks of Hank that makes me, well, not jealous exactly, but …
“Who is Hank?”
“He’s an instructor and owner of the flight school. Back when I was sixteen, my dad spent the summer here as a mechanic. I was hanging around and Hank offered to teach me. In exchange, I worked at his wife’s bakery down by the shore. It was an easy decision for me.” A frown works over her smooth brow. “Then my dad cut out as he does when he’s tired of something, but Hank kept to our agreement, even though Dad owed him money.”
That rat bastard cut out on Stella too. I clear my throat, pushing away the fantasy of hunting down her derelict father and kicking his sorry ass. “Hank sounds like a good guy.”
“He’s golden,” she says. “I’ve taken lessons from him for years.”
“You must be close to him.”
She shrugs and runs a finger over a smudge on the plane’s smooth, white paint. “Hank isn’t exactly the type. He’s more of the cantankerous get off my lawn old man with a soft spot for awkward teens with idle hands. We get along fine but we don’t exchange Christmas cards or anything.”
Yet another person in her life who’s kept her at arm’s length. “If you could see your dad again, would you want to?”
Her mouth twists like she’s tasting something off. “Why would you ask?”
Shit. Tell her. But I can’t. Not when she’s making a face as if she’s seeing a foul ghost because I mentioned her dad. Not when everything about her posture shouts pain and defensiveness.
I try to shrug, but my shoulders are too tight. “We’re talking about Hank who kind of seems like a father figure.”
There’s a bitter sound to her laugh. “Father figures are overrated. I don’t need one in Hank.” She moves to the tail of the plane. “As for my dad? No, I don’t want to see him again. It would hurt too much, I think. That, or I’d kill him and have to face jail time.”
A small frown pulls at her soft mouth. And like that, I want to kiss her. So I do.
She hums against my mouth, then steps away, her cheeks nicely flushed. “You distract me like that and we’ll never fly
.”
“Do your thing, captain.” I shove my hands in my pockets. “I’ll be good.”
“Debatable.” Stella has a clipboard and goes over the plane with the same intense inspection I give my guitars before a show. Yeah, I have a roadie take care of them during, and put them away after, but I tune my own equipment and it has to be exact.
Seeing Stella put the same care into something is a surprising turn-on. I never thought I’d want to jump a woman just from watching her check the flaps on a plane wing, but there you go; I’m hard and shifting my feet as she pulls out a small glass tube and fills it with gas from the wing.
“I had them fill the plane up before we came,” she tells me. “But you still have to check for sediments and make sure it’s the right type of gas.”
“Right type?”
“Yeah.” She moves closer to me, holding up the vial to the light. “There are different mixes. Kind of like the type of gas you pick at the station. We’re looking for a pale blue color. Not red or clear.”
Goddamn, she’s sexy. I barely resist pressing my nose into her hair and breathing her in.
By the time she finishes her exterior preflight inspection, which includes checking out the engine and asking me how much I weigh so she can factor the payload, I’m hard as oak and hot under my collar. But I don’t say a word. This is her show, and I’m going to let it play out the way she wants. No distractions.
Stella opens the door to the plane and tucks the clipboard away before facing me. “Okay, a few things. You might be wondering how a person who has issues with numbers can be a pilot.”
“It hadn’t occurred to me, actually.” A tiny flicker of self-preservation runs through me, and I glance at the plane. “I’m guessing you have it covered.”
She squints in the sunlight. “I’ve passed medical and have been certified. To counteract any possible mishaps, I write certain things down. I am hypervigilant. And I will never, ever put myself or my passengers in danger. If there’s even a hint I’m not feeling it, I land. Pride has no business being up there.”
Fall Page 26
