kcf2

I snort. “Like I said, I know you.”

Hot color washes over her cheeks. “Damn, already predictable.”

“Like hell. You surprise me all the time. It gets me hot.”

She blushes a deeper shade of pink but then shakes o my sad attempt at distraction and tugs at my sleeve with renewed determination. “These kids are here every weekend and never get any money.”

“Because they stink.” When she glares, I hold up a hand.

“Come on, you have ears. They’re horrible. No use sugarcoating it.”

“I know they’re horrible. But you aren’t.”

“And, what? I’m supposed to go over there and say, hey, can I borrow your gear and upstage you with my professional licks?” I make a face. “I’ll come o as a complete wanker.”

Stella’s grip on my wrist is firm, as if she thinks I’m going to turn and run. I might. I just might. But it’s kind of cute that she thinks she can hold me back; I’ll just put her over my shoulder and take her with me.

“Okay,” she says, “maybe it’s a stupid idea—don’t agree yet. Hear me out.”

“Wasn’t going to say a thing,” I lie.

“If you go over there and o er to play with them, maybe sing a few songs, you have no idea how it will go.”

“I have ideas,” I mutter. “None of them are good.”

“But you don’t know,” she says emphatically. “It isn’t planned like your gigs. It isn’t safe. You go over there and you’re on your own without a net.”

I study the teens playing. They’re attempting a Lincoln Park song. It’s painful to hear. They know how to play, just

not in a cohesive way. They need guidance. And about two years of practice.

“I have no idea what it’s like to be a rock legend,” she says in a soft voice. “I don’t personally understand the pressures you’re under. But I do know that some of the best experiences in life happen when you’re not playing it safe.”

“When have you not played it safe?” I ask, truly curious.

She stares at me like I’m dense. “With you, John.”

I swallow hard, and then nod, not knowing what to say.

She’s struck me dumb. I’m not playing it safe with her either, but I feel like a bit of a shit because part of me knows that, at the very least, she’s into me the same way I’m into her. Being with Stella might not be exactly safe ground for me, but it doesn’t seem like a risk. Is that how she sees it? Is she terrified?

She’s waiting to see what I’m going to do, her hand still holding my wrist. The tips of her fingers press against my pulse point, surely feeling the agitated beating of my heart.

The potential for embarrassment is high, but then that’s the point, isn’t it? I’m doing something with music that involves risk. When was the last time I even felt that when performing? Maybe at eighteen, and not even then really. I’d been an arrogant bastard, completely assured of my worth and my place in the world. Killian used to say I had enough balls and bravado to haul us all out of obscurity. Yet Killian wouldn’t hesitate to do this. He is the more reserved one out of the two of us, but he’s never been afraid to fail.

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 o . 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 o 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 o 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 o . “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.

“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

A S PART OF HIS “ WOO S TELLA ” 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 o . 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 fullon 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 kickass 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 sti

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 mutters “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.

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 tra c 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 di erent 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 sti .”

“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 hu s, a shadow of a laugh.

“God, that makes me sound seriously confused. I’m not saying I have two di erent 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.

J OHN

“S O 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 o 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 o , 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 o 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 sta , 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 everything 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 o er 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 sti en. 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 o , 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-o father.

Hell.

“Saw a picture in the tabloids of you with a girl.”

My back sti ens. “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 o 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 e ective 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 o . 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 spot 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.”

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 limitededition Ducati Italia Scrambler. I have a number of di erent 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 a air 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 o er 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 o , 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 o . “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 sti 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 o or putting it onto someone else. I get it; I often do the same, and I know I need to back o .

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 sco s. “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.

J OHN

T HE 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 di erent. 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 o 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 o her helmet, “let’s do this.”

“This” being Stella walking into an o ce 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-e acing 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 o ered 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 o 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 o . “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 di erent 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 selfpreservation 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.”

Slowly, I nod. “I believe you.”

Her answering nod isn’t exactly easy, but her shoulders aren’t as sti . “That leads me to the second thing. I know I should have asked long ago, but it would have ruined the surprise. Are you comfortable with me taking you up?”

“Are you shitting me? I can’t wait to see you fly.”

Pleasure lights her blue eyes but she doesn’t smile. “This isn’t going to be like a commercial flight. It’s going to be a bumpy ride. Do you get airsick? Tell the truth, because barfing in a small plane won’t be fun. No judgment.”

I snort but look her straight in the eye. “Teflon stomach, babe. Cross my heart.”

She lets out a relieved breath. “Just let me know if you’re feeling sick.”

“Believe me, I’m not into getting sick either. I’ll tell you.”

With that, Stella reaches into the tiny back and pulls out two thin packs with four-point harnesses.

“Flight parachutes,” Stella explains. “Pretty comfortable, all things considered.”

“Parachutes?” I can’t deny that I’m a little shocked and a wee bit unnerved. Because it’s just us. I certainly don’t want to skydive alone. “Are you expecting me to jump out of this plane?”

Her laugh is bright. “No. No jumping. I promise.”

“Then why the parachute? ’Cos I gotta admit, I’ve been in a small aircraft before, and I’ve never been asked to wear one of these. I trust you not to crash. Honestly.”

Stella grins wide, her blue eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Well, thank you, John. I’m relieved. We’re putting them on because it’s the law if I take a passenger up. Now, will you put on the parachute and stop asking questions?”

I’ve never heard of this law, but okay, I’ll humor her.

Holding my tongue, I put the chute on, not even cracking a joke when she bends near my crotch to help me with the clasps.

Did I say Stella was sexy when she checked her plane over? That is nothing—nothing—compared to seeing her do her inside preflight check. Or when watching her taxi to the runway and talk to the tower to get the okay to take o . I swear I have stars in my eyes by the time she hits the throttle and we hurtle down the runway in this tiny-ass plane with a cockpit so small, my shoulder brushes hers.

And though I’ve been in a small plane before, the experience of lifting o with Stella, the ground simply

falling away as we swoop up into the blue sky, is breathtaking.

She turns and gives me a grin when I laugh. “All good?” she asks, her voice crackling over our headsets.

“Beautiful.” The Atlantic stretches out wide and dark blue to my right. Manhattan is behind us, while below is the pale strip of the Long Island beaches.

We gain altitude before Stella speaks. “Okay. About the parachutes—” “I swear to God, Stells, if you tell me we’re bailing, I will tie you down and find a way to fly this thing back myself.”

She laughs, the sound small in the headsets. “You never wanted to skydive?”

“Already done it.” She shoots me a surprised look, and I shrug. “It was during my thrill-seeking days.”

“Hmm … Well, at least I know you’re not going to freak out on me. But, no, that’s not what I’m talking about.” She turns the plane, the movement graceful and e cient.

“Here’s the thing. I do aerobatics.”

“Like stunts?” And I’m getting hard again. “Are you shitting me?”

Her expression is careful, almost worried about my reaction. “Yeah. You up for some?”

Holy hell. My girl has taken me flying and wants to do stunts for me. I grin so wide, the headphones practically fall o . “Oh, fuck yes.”

Her answering grin is filled with giddy glee. “We’ll start o with a hammerhead. Then do a couple of rolls and a loop.

Nothing too crazy.”

“Nothing too crazy, eh?”

The corners of her eyes crinkle. “I’m tempted to show you crazy but we’re not in the proper aircraft for advanced stu .

This plane is for the basics.”

I’ll take her word for it. No need to tell her I’m hard as a freaking plank, that I find her so fucking sexy right now, I’m having trouble concentrating. Why the hell did I tell her we’d take it slow?

A cool calm settles over Stella and it is a sight to see. With deft moves she takes us up into the sky; we’re totally vertical and climbing. It’s a strange sensation, gravity pressing me into the seat back, nothing but blue sky in my field of vision.

Up we go until it feels like we’re slowing. Everything seems to stop—a moment of eerie stillness. The engine is clearly running hard but it’s as if we’ve stalled.

It’s kind of terrifying. Yet Stella’s concentration is complete, and I feel safe as houses.

Then suddenly the plane pitches to the left, a total ninety-degree drop-o . And we’re falling, diving straight down. I can’t help it, I whoop like I’m on a roller coaster. The ground is rushing toward us, and then it isn’t. We’re going back up, rolling, ground and sky a blur. My insides are being rearranged, the muscles on my neck strain, and my head feels like a bowling ball. It is fucking brilliant.

Stella takes the plane back up toward sky. Up, up, up … and over. Her hair is on end. My stomach is in my throat as the plane does a loop. I’m yelling again, laughing, utterly alive in this moment.

She levels out, and it takes a minute to get my bearings.

My head spins and my blood is pumping but I’d happily stay up here with Stella and watch her do loop after loop.

“I take it you like this,” Stella says, her voice small and crackling in my headset.

“Like it? I love it.”

“Me too.” Her face glows with happiness as she flies us along the pale strip of beach that makes up Long Island. “I feel free up here, literally being away from the world. But competent too. I’m in complete control in my plane. Doing the maneuvers requires perfect precision. I don’t have time to focus on anything else. And that’s freeing too.”

“I get that. It’s how I feel about music. It pulls me into the moment and there’s nothing else. I don’t feel like a fuckup because I know I’m good at it.” I glance at her. “That probably sounds conceited, huh.”

“No. It sounds like the truth. You are good. False humility is way more annoying and conceited.” Her nose wrinkles.

“Nothing worse than someone pretending they think they aren’t any good just so you can gush about how good they are.”

“Most musicians I meet know they’re good but still want you to gush. We’re arrogant that way.”

“You want me to sing your praises, Blackwood?”

“Tempting. Depends on what you’re wearing while doing it, though.”

Stella snorts. “That will have to wait for later. There’s a storm moving in faster than the weather had predicted.”

Dark clouds are on the horizon and coming closer. “Let’s head back.”

I watch as Stella does her thing, talking to air tra c control, maneuvering the plane toward the runway. But

when we’re on final approach, and she gets clearance to land, she turns to me. “You want to take us in?”

“What? Me?” “Yeah. Take the yoke. Put your feet on the pedals.” She grins at my stunned face. “It’s okay. You’d be doing this your first time up if this were a lesson.”

I do what she says, slightly nervous I’m going to kill us, but trusting Stella knows her business.

“Pedals connect to the rudders, which turn the nose of the plane left and right. The yolk controls the pitch and roll.

Up and down, side to side. Pull the yoke back a bit. We want the nose up more. Good. Now, a little pressure on your left rudder to counteract the wind.”

Under my clumsy moves, the plane wobbles, then steadies. Stella messes with flaps and throttle, all the while giving me instruction with her smooth voice. My palms sweat, my heart beats faster.

“Steady. A little back on the yoke. Little more. Hold it.”

Although we’re slowing, it still looks as though the ground is rushing up to meet us. Then we’re floating for a second, suspended in time. The wheels hit with a small bump and jolt. Stella takes over, braking. And like that, we’re taxiing on the runway.

It’s surreal the way it feels to be on the ground again, like we’d been something else entirely up there and now we’re back, slightly changed. Or maybe I’m the one who is changed. I don’t feel like the same guy who started the day.

I’m altered—something within me has shifted or cracked. I don’t know which, but I know I’m not the same anymore.

I keep quiet at Stella parks her plane. I keep quiet as she does her postflight check and ties everything up. I keep quiet until she turns to me with a wide but slightly wobbly smile on her pretty face. “All done. You ready?”

Yes. Yes, I am.

That’s when I pounce.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

JOHN

S TELLA ’ S EYES WIDEN , her pink lips parting as I stalk up to her.

My legs feel like rubber, and I don’t know if it’s from being in the plane or because I’m so completely undone by Stella that I can’t contain myself. Either way, I’m practically shaking by the time I stand before her, my hands cupping her smooth cheeks, fingers sliding up into the silky strands of her hair.

My forehead rests against hers, and for a second, I just breathe her in. She carries the scent of her beloved plane, the leather of the jacket she wears, of sweat and sunshine and warm woman. It isn’t comforting, her scent. Not by a long shot. I can’t call it comforting when she makes my heart pound and my mind race with all the ways I want her. The scent of Stella doesn’t comfort; it kicks me into high gear.

“Stells,” I rasp, because my voice isn’t all there yet.

“You’re always surprising me. Always making me so fucking happy just to be with you.”

I want to tell her more, tell her how glad I am that I found her, and the thought of losing her scares the ever-loving shit out of me, but I can’t say any of that now. I have to taste her.

Her mouth is soft and plush, a sweet peach of a mouth. I groan like a man dying of thirst and finally tasting the rain as I slide my tongue in her warm, wet heat to get another taste. God, she’s delicious, addictive.

Kissing Stella is a full-body experience. She moves with me, her lips surging against mine, her little tongue a slick, sly tease. I feel it at the base of my cock, in heated flutters along my abs, raking up the backs of my thighs. I’m floating, and only she can ground me.

My hand finds the smooth satin of her back where she’s slightly damp and warm. The curve of her waist fits my palm perfectly, and I stroke here there, loving the way she shivers, the delicate little squeaks of want she makes in her throat.

I know, honey, I want it too.

I press closer, sliding my thigh between hers, when a loud voice cuts right through my haze of lust.

“We got kids here, Stella,” a man says gru y. “And they didn’t come for a show.”

Stella jerks as though pinched and steps back from my embrace. But she leaves a hand on my chest. It’s a simple, proprietary act that has me biting back a smile. Though it probably wouldn’t be a great idea to sport a shit-eating grin right now. An older, weathered man is glaring at me like he knows exactly where my mind was and he does not approve.

“Hank,” Stella says, a little breathlessly, “I didn’t see you there.”

“No doubt, as you were otherwise occupied,” Hank says drolly. He might be fifty or sixty. It’s hard to tell. Deep crinkles fan out from the corners of his eyes and run down the crests of his cheeks. A veritable paragraph of frown lines ripple along the dark-brown skin of his forehead. I don’t know if they’re always around or forming because of his scowl, but I’m betting the former.

Stella laughs, her cheeks going pink. “Yes, Hank. I was.”

He proves no less immune to her smile than I am, and his furrowed brow smooths a little. “Have a good flight?”

“An excellent one.” Her palm glides down my chest and centers over my heart. “This is my friend John.”

Hank’s eyes narrow. “Friend, eh?”

“Good friend,” Stella amends, completely unfazed and adorably happy.

Since Hank is just standing there, glaring a hole through my forehead, I step forward. “Good to meet you.”

He takes my hand and gives it a death squeeze. But I’ve played guitar since I was a kid, so my hand is too strong to crush. We end our stando with Hank letting go and giving me a nod before turning to Stella. “Saw you up there. Your pitch was o by a degree on the hammerhead.”

Stella’s nose wrinkles. “I know.”

“Stella could compete if she wanted to,” Hank says to me, and despite what Stella seems to think about Hank not being the fatherly type, the man is clearly proud of her. “Or be an instructor. Just a matter of getting a license.”

Stella blushes. “Then flying wouldn’t be just for me anymore. It would be tied to expectations and work.”

“If you love it, it isn’t work,” Hank states.

He’s right, and he’s wrong. I love making music, playing my guitar, and singing. I couldn’t wait to dive headlong into being a star. But it has become work. Expectations and the stress of fulfilling endless commitments take a toll. Suddenly the thing I love isn’t pure anymore. It has a life of its own, and it can drain me if I’m not careful. So I get why Stella doesn’t want to turn her passion into her work.

My hand cups the back of Stella’s neck in a silent show of support. But she doesn’t need it. Stella shakes her head softly and laughs a little. “That would be a great argument, Hank, if I hadn’t heard you complain about students on a daily basis for years.”

Hank laughs, a wheezy crackling sound, like he doesn’t do it very much. “True that, Stella girl.”

The wind kicks up, rushing along the ground and whipping at the tops of the low-lying trees surrounding the airport. It’s getting darker, the sky leaden with gray clouds.

Hank glances up, frowning. “You going back to the city?”

“That was the plan,” Stella says.

“We’re not going to make it.” Even as I speak, it begins to rain a light sprinkle. It’s going to be much worse any second now. I glance down at Stella. “We’re on a bike. Trust me, you don’t want to ride in a rainstorm.”

She studies the sky. “We’ll have to hunker down at a restaurant for a while. Do you mind?”

“I don’t have any place to be but with you.”

She pinks at that, but Hank clears his throat, sounding fairly disgusted. “Why don’t you come over for dinner?

Corinne would love to see you.”

“Oh … I …” Stella’s eyes dart to me, as if she’s worried about putting me out.

Honestly, I’m probably in for a night of getting the side eye from Hank, since he hasn’t stopped glaring at me since he showed up. But he clearly cares about Stella, and he’s obviously important to her.

“Sounds good to me,” I say, just as the skies open up for real.

S TELLA

“H OW far away is Hank’s house?” John asks over the pinging rain as we get on his bike.

Hank has jogged o toward his pickup, and we’re preparing to follow.

“About five miles. I don’t mind getting a little wet.” A boom of thunder has me jumping.

John grunts and hands me my helmet. “Riding in a thunderstorm isn’t something I want to risk with you. Rain like this isn’t going to feel good. Tuck your head against my back.”

John starts the bike, and we head out onto the highway behind Hank’s truck. Rain pelts us, and I rethink my carefree stance about getting wet. Rain hitting you at sixty miles an hour is not fun. I feel for John who is taking the brunt of it, and snuggle closer to his back.

It gets colder and wetter, and by the time John turns the bike onto Hank’s street, I’m shivering. The sight of Hank’s green-and-white ’50s split-level is a relief. Hank opens his garage and motions for John to park his bike next to the truck.

As soon as John turns o his bike, Corinne opens the kitchen door and waves us in. “Come in, come in. You must be freezing.” She beams at me as I walk up. “Hello, baby girl.

It’s been too long since I’ve seen you.”

“Hey, Corinne.” I kiss her smooth cheek and draw in the familiar scent of lilac soap. “I’ve missed you too.”

No matter the time or place, Corinne is always put together. Today her lips are glossy coral, her steel-gray hair cropped close to her head. Gold bangles jangle on her arm as pats my shoulder and then smiles over at John. “I see you brought a friend.”

John steps into the kitchen hall. “John Blackwood. Thank you for having me, ma’am.”

“Oh, pish on ma’am. Makes me feel old. Do I look old?” she teases.

John’s cheeks flush. “Not at all, ma’am—er—” “Call me Corinne,” she says, putting John out of his misery. She leads us into a big, cheery kitchen that they renovated last year with dark wood cabinets and green granite counters. And though I’d never say so to Corinne, a part of me misses the older kitchen with its ’80s laminate cabinets, butcher-block counters, and gray tile floors. Only because I’d spent so much time here as a teen.

The new kitchen is gorgeous, and completely Corinne’s style, but it doesn’t feel like home the way the other one did.

Even so, it smells the same, warm and inviting, the scent of pot roast making my mouth water.

John and I take o our jackets and Corinne tsks. “Both your pants are soaked. Let’s see what we can do about that.”

Despite our protests, Corinne marches us o , John being sent to the guest bath and me to their daughter Lucille’s room. Soon, I’m wearing a pair of hot-pink yoga pants she left behind when she went o to college. I meet John in the hall and grin. He’s wearing Hank’s old Air Force Academy sweatpants, and they are a wee bit tight.

“Sexy,” I say, glancing at his bony ankles exposed by the too-short pants.

“Wait till you see my ass,” he whispers, walking a little down the hall like he’s a runway model.

The sweats are indeed hugging his ass like a lecher. But he works it. I wolf whistle, and he glances over his shoulder to wink before coming back to me. Despite my fear that he’d hate visiting, he appears relaxed, happy even. But his eyes search mine, and the humor in his fades. “You told me you didn’t have any family.”

The comment hits me unaware, and I fight to keep my face from betraying me. “I don’t.”

My act is paper thin, and we both clearly know it. John leans in, a ecting a stage whisper. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Button.” He glances down the hall where the kitchen lights glow in welcome and Corinne and Hank’s muted conversation flows. “But I think you do.”

It’s dim in the hall, but I feel utterly exposed. “They have their own child.”

A weak argument at best, but how can I explain to him that, even though I love Corinne and Hank, I cannot emotionally beggar myself by asking to be part of their family. It will feel like pity or charity, because they were there to see me abandoned. I love them; but I can’t need them.

The silence grows stilted as I shift my feet and grasp for something to say. John watches me for a moment longer then pulls me into a hug. I stand sti y in his arms, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He places a light kiss on my head.

“Let yourself be loved, Stella Button. You deserve it.”

He doesn’t wait for me to answer but takes my hand and leads me back to the kitchen.

Dinner is served around the kitchen table, and I dig in, surprisingly hungry. Or maybe it’s just that it’s Corinne’s food.

“You fly today, Stella?” Corinne asks.

“I took John up for a ride,” I say between mouthfuls of pot roast and mashed potatoes. “Showed him a few tricks.”

Hank grunts. “Bring any air sickness bags?”

Across from me, John bites back a smile. He knows he’s being baited.

“Actually,” I say, “I think I might have created a convert.”

John nods. “You have. Shocked the shi—heck out of me, though. I had no idea Stella could do that,” he explains to Corinne mostly, since Hank still hasn’t stopped giving John the gimlet eye, as though he expects John to steal the silverware.

Logic tells me it’s because he saw John and I mauling each other, but he’s not exactly parental toward me, so I don’t know why he seems to dislike John.

“Stella’s a great pilot,” Hank says, all squinty-eyed.

“Precise, clear-headed, but able to think outside the box when needed.”

It’s the most Hank has ever complimented me, and I find myself wanting to sink under the table to hide my blush. “’Course, when she was sixteen, she just wanted to hurtle through ground school so she could get up there and do endless loops in the sky.” Hank snorts. “If she had her way, she would have looped herself across the Atlantic.”

I grin. “What a way to go, though.”

John chuckles. “What was Stella like as a teen?”

“Shorter.” Hank winks at me.

“Skinnier,” I say ruefully.

Corinne touches my shoulder. “She was skin and bones.”

A shadow passes over her eyes as her lips tighten a fraction, before her expression eases. “But we put some good meat back on those bones.”

I realize she’s thinking about my dad’s distinct lack of parenting, which included forgetting about providing meals, and how I often came here starving for whatever food she’d give me. My dinner sits heavy in my belly and everything tightens. Am I shoving food in my mouth now because I’m truly hungry, or out of habit?

Setting my fork down, I push a smile. “Corinne makes the best pies. Please tell me there’s pie for dessert.”

“Lemon meringue.” She laughs softly when I do a little fist pump.

John watches, clearly amused. “I can picture teen Stella now. You should come out here more often, Button.”

I know I should. I know this every time I visit. But when I leave, it’s easier to stay away and not be reminded that I don’t have a real family of my own. I shrug lightly. “It’s hard to do without a car. But I’ve been saving up for one.”

Hank helps himself to more of everything. “You should move out here. Save yourself time and money, instead of living in that noisy, overpriced city.”

“Hank,” Corinne says in her low way, “what young woman wants to leave the excitement of Manhattan to come out here?”

Hank grunts and shovels a forkful of roasted carrots into his mouth.

I sit back and rest my hands on my belly. “Actually, I’ve been thinking about it.”

John stills, his dark brows lowering in a frown, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“My apartment went condo, and I’m thinking of a career change.” I don’t know why I’m spilling this to Corinne and Hank. But it feels good to talk to people who know what that apartment meant to me. Maybe I view them as parental influences more than I’d realized. Either way, I’ve opened my mouth, and I have to continue. “I’m not saying I’ve decided anything, but moving closer to the airport has crossed my mind.”

“Good,” Hank says, setting down his fork. “You want a job at the school, you know it’s yours. As soon as you get an instructor certificate,” he adds, as if I didn’t know.

“Thanks, Hank.”

“You love the city,” John says quietly. There’s a look in his eyes, disappointed and a little bit pissed o , but he’s trying not to show it. “I thought you loved your job too.”

I poke at a carrot with my fork. “I think my time as a professional friend is coming to a close.”

“Ridiculous job,” Hank mutters under his breath.

“Hank,” Corinne chides, slapping at his arm.

Again, I fight the urge to slip under the table. Why, oh, why did I bring this up? Big mouth strikes again. I clear my throat. “The fact is, I’ll soon need a place to call home.

Killian isn’t going to be gone forever.”

John blinks like he forgot I’m not really his neighbor but just a pet sitter who will soon leave him. The groove between his brows grows, but he doesn’t say a word. A heavy silence descends over the table, and I don’t miss the look that passes between Hank and Corinne.

Corinne puts on a bright smile and turns to John. “Are you working on a new album?”

John starts, his fork halting halfway to his mouth. “You know who I am?”

“Jax Blackwood,” Corinne says in her matter-of-fact way.

“Hank here is a big fan.”

“Corinne!” Hank hisses. His expression is mortified. I snicker, which earns me a hard glare.

“Well, it’s true,” Corinne insists, completely unfazed.

“He has all your albums.”

I swear the table rattles as though kicked.

John, smartly, does not smile. “We’re between albums at the moment.” There isn’t an ounce of smugness in his tone, but I know he’s laughing on the inside. I can feel it humming

along his skin. “I’ve been working on a few songs, but they aren’t ready for recording.”

Hank stares at his plate for a long moment before straightening and meeting John’s eyes. “Saw you at Madison Square Garden last summer. I could have done without the gyrating, but your voice has improved.”

A glint lights John’s eyes. “Oh, has it?”

“Mmm.” Hank cuts a piece of roast. “More soulful now, less showy.”

John blinks, and I can’t help it—I finally lose it and laugh.

“Sorry,” I say between snorts, “but Hank’s a fan. I’m dying.”

“Shut it, you,” Hank says without much heat. His lips twitch. “I like all sorts of music.”

John’s lips twitch as well. “I cannot lie. That was pretty much the shock of my year.”

After that, Hank drops his grumpy curmudgeon act and starts grilling John on music, which he happily rambles on about. We eat, and Corinne serves up pie, and John is the perfect guest. But I don’t miss the way he glances at me when he thinks I’m not looking. He’s upset and trying not to show it.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

JOHN

I T ’ S three in the morning and the rain pelts the big picture window in Hank and Corinne’s den. I focus on this instead of the big-ass bar running under the mattress of the pull-out couch that’s digging into my back. I’ve slept on couches before—wasted and passed out, and sometimes waking up with a woman or two draped over me. This experience is so far removed from any of that, my old self would have never believed it. Old me would have left Stella with Hank and Corinne, and driven back to Manhattan in the rain.

Old me was a prat. Old me would have missed out on Stella entirely. I know I wouldn’t have bothered to notice all that she is.

No. Don’t think about Stella right now.

Better to watch water run in rivulets down the glass than imagine Stella all soft and tucked up in her bed somewhere upstairs.

I’m horny as hell. Even though it’s uncomfortable, I can get past horny. Horny can be dealt with by Mr. Helping Hand.

My hand hasn’t been taking care of business this much since my youth when it felt as though I walked around with a sti y all day long.

What I can’t shake is this push to seek Stella out just to be near her. Even though the rain hasn’t let up since we got here, I’d wanted to go back to the city so we could be alone.

But it soon became clear that wasn’t happing. Fucking motorcycle. I should have called a car service. Then there was Corinne and Hank, who asked us to stay over, concerned for their girl’s safety. What could I say to that? They obviously mean a lot to Stella. I’d be a total ass to say no.

Taking the long hallway to the den, in the opposite direction that Stella went tonight, physically hurt. My balls and lower abs actually hurt. I’m o -balance and this damn bed is growing less and less comfortable.

Cursing, I flop onto my back and stare up at the ceiling.

The only sound reaching my ears is the patter of rain and my own heart beating. Hell, she’s thinking about moving out here? When Stella had mentioned moving away from Manhattan, it cut the legs out from under me. I’ve deliberately pushed aside the fact that she’s a temporary neighbor who will be gone as soon as Killian and Libby return.

I don’t even know why I’m shitting over this; I’m hardly in New York for more than a few months at a time. I move around a lot.

So where does that leave me and Stella? Why hadn’t I thought about this before?

You were too busy having fun and wanting her.

“What the hell am I doing?”

My irritated whisper drifts through the darkness, highlighting the fact that I’m alone and talking to myself when I could be in Stella’s bed, talking to her, touching her.

Except I’m in Hank’s house. Hank, who will absolutely cut o my balls if I lay a hand on Stella here. Which I’m not going to do. No, I’m going to be a good boy and keep my dick in my pants, even if it kills me.

My hand is clammy when I run it over my face. I don’t recognize myself anymore. The guy I used to be would have been in Stella’s pants a week ago. Who am I kidding? Jax would have followed Stella right out of that store and seduced her on the spot. Why do I keep thinking about old me?

The fact that I even think of my old self as Jax and my current self as John is messed up. Somewhere along the way, I separated myself. I pushed Jax into the shadows with this mad idea that I could put all the blame on him and everything would be fine.

Yes, I was out of control and arrogant when I was Jax the rock star. Yes, I’d hit rock bottom when I was Jax. But there isn’t Jax and John. There’s just me. Stella is right, I’m both.

She thinks both sides of me are worthy. Fact is I felt more like myself—whoever the fuck that may be—today than I have in too long a time. Because I’d been with Stella. She makes me feel alive.

Then what the hell are you doing alone in here, mate?

You promised to take things slow, remember?

Slow is one thing. You promised you’d give her proper attention. Bad form, Blackwood.

You absolutely can’t do anything tonight, so shut it.

“And now I’m arguing with myself.” With a snort, I run my hands through my hair. I’m so irritably tense that the second the den door creaks open, my heart skips a beat.

Rising on my elbows, I peer into the shadows.

“Stells?” It had better be her. I really don’t want to consider anyone else creeping in here or why they would.

A slim form slips out of the gloom. Stella’s bright curls are the color of rust in the darkness as she comes up to the side of my bed. “Hey,” she whispers.

“What are you doing here?” I whisper back. “Do you want Hank to neuter me?”

Her snort is a ghost of sound. “He’s not going to neuter you.”

“Oh, yes he is. He distinctly said he’d rip my balls o and feed them to me if I laid an untoward hand on you.”

“Untoward?” She laughs at me. “Why, Mr. Darcy, how gallant of you to protect my honor.”

I narrow my eyes at her. “You know what I mean.”

Stella inches closer, and the floor creaks loudly. I swear, I jump out of my skin. I glace at the door. Thank God she at least had the sense to shut it.

In the gloom, her smile is a glint of white teeth. “Hank said no such thing. I saw him go straight to his room before you closed the door to the den for the night.”

“Oh, he said it all right,” I mutter. “He said it with that death glare he’s been giving me. Trust me, his message was received loud and clear, little miss detective.”

“Even if he did, that’s ridiculous. I’m a grown woman. Do you have any idea how archaic it is to put us in separate rooms?”

“Yes. And I agree one hundred percent about you being a woman grown, fully capable of making her own decisions.

But I’m a guest in his house, so out you go, love.” I make a shooing motion toward the door.

Her snort says I’m being ridiculous. Of course, it isn’t her ass in danger of being annihilated by an angry ex-combat pilot. I know this because Hank told me stories, being sure to include how he knows guys who can make people disappear.

I’m only half certain he was joking.

“He’s not even my father, for crying out loud.”

“Tell that to Hank.” I hold up a quick hand. “In the morning.”

Her thighs press against the mattress, gleaming white and bare, and, oh fuck me, I can smell the perfume of her skin. She’s so close, all I have to do is reach out and slip my hand between her legs.

I squeeze my eyes shut. “Have a heart, Stells. I’m trying to be good.”

“I know. It’s really annoying.”

I husk out a quiet laugh. “Go back to bed, you brat.”

She grins, leaning in a little, her face a pale moon hovering above me. “I can’t sleep.”

I have something to make you sleep better. No, wait, that’s a horrible quip; women don’t want to be put to sleep while you’re fucking them, you moron.

I run a hand over my eyes and try to clear my thoughts.

“Why can’t you sleep? You feeling okay?”

“No. I’m lonely. Can I sleep next to you?”

Next to me, on top of me, under me. As long as you’re with me.

Clearing my throat, I find my voice. “Stella, we’re not having sex.”

“Did I o er?”

I stare up at her because we both know if she gets into this bed, we aren’t keeping our hands o each other. She stares back for a few beats but then relents with a waggle of her brows that makes me laugh. I don’t want her to leave.

She’ll take all the joy out of the room.

“Can I get in, or what?” She’s all tumbled curls, big pleading eyes, and pouty lips. How am I supposed to resist?

I’m not sure why I’m even trying. I can worry about dying tomorrow.

Grumbling, I scoot over and lift the covers. Stella scrambles in. Instantly, my bed is a better place, filled with her soft, warm, wiggling body. And I do mean wiggling. She reminds me of a puppy as she burrows under the covers and claims a spot as close to me as she can get. I laugh softly and slide an arm under her neck, bringing her head onto my shoulder.

Stella rests her hand on my chest and sighs. “That’s better.”

Understatement. Smiling, I press my lips to the top of her head. “Comfortable?”

“Yes.” She wiggles again, and the pullout couch screeches in protest.

“Shhh!” I swear, I’m freaking sweating. “Quiet.”

Stella rolls her eyes. “My God, you’re acting like an agitated cat.”

I glare down my nose at her. “Did you not notice the actual swords hanging over our heads right now?” Hank has

a collection of them. Along with a fair number of hunting knives. He made sure to show them to me.

Her cheeks plump. “They’re only for decoration.”

“Uh-huh. Sure, they are. Tell me, Button, you ever bring a guy over here? Are their bodies buried in the garden?”

“You’re the first. But I’ll be sure to tell your story if you don’t make it out.”

“Your concern is touching. Really.”

Stella softly laughs, a breath of sound that makes my heart trip. Yes, my freaking heart is fluttering over a laugh. I seriously don’t recognize myself. And I don’t care.

“You’re really going to end the friend service?” The words are out of my mouth without forethought.

Her fingers tense and press into my chest before relaxing.

“I love helping people, making them feel less lonely.” A light breath gusts across my skin. “But it’s getting to the point where my job makes me feel lonely. I’m starting to resent it, and that’s never good.”

“What, then? You’ll be a flight instructor instead?”

“I don’t know.” Her fingers trace an idle pattern on my chest. “I’d have to become certified. The job doesn’t pay very well, and it isn’t easy getting here from the train station, so I’d definitely have to move out of the city.”

I will myself not to tense, but I can feel my muscles sti ening anyway. Stella clearly feels it too. Her palm smooths over my skin. “I don’t want to leave the city. It’s my home.” She glances up at me. “Is it ridiculous to cling to an area I can’t a ord just because it’s familiar?”

“Button, you said it yourself—it’s your home. More than anyone I know. Why would it be ridiculous to want to stay?”

“I’m thirty years old, and I haven’t got a clue. I just wish I knew what to do with myself. I was always so focused on having fun in the now that I never planned for the ‘what now?’”

In that way, Stella and I are alike. The future is a dark, nebulous place that I’ve never wanted to contemplate.

Mostly because when I think of it, I see myself alone, irrelevant, and adrift. I tell myself I don’t mind being alone.

At this point, I’ve been on my own more than half my life.

But after the music stops and the friends are o doing their own thing, all I feel is empty. I’ve tried to fill that hole with constant partying, hookups, traveling from place to place.

But it’s still there.

I don’t want that for Stella either. She’s too full of joy and life to feel adrift. “If you could have anything you wanted, anything and money is no object, what would it be?”

She’s silent for a while, clearly thinking the question over.

Then she speaks, hesitant, as if the admission costs her. “A home. Something permanent. Something that’s mine.”

I ache for her. “What would it look like?”

She shifts a little, settling in more comfortably. “In the city. A house on a little street, where it’s private but close to everything. An older house with character and charm, and a rooftop garden to plant tomatoes and flowers, and I can soak in the sun.”

I can practically see it. “And a woodburning fireplace,” I add. “You have to have that so you can curl up and read on cold nights.”

“Sounds like heaven,” she says with a sigh.

I picture her there, in that cozy home, filled with books and flowers and music. Filled with the light of Stella. “Yes, it does.”

“I envy you,” she says before I can speak again.

“Why?” I hope she doesn’t mean the fame because that is a double-edged sword.

“Are you kidding me? You have this incredible talent and are at the top of your profession. Do you know how rare that is?”

I do. Or I thought I did. Funny thing is, it takes Stella’s quiet awe to really hammer that home. Even so, I have to be honest with her. “It seems to me that you can have one aspect of your life in perfect order and the rest can be going up in flames.”

“You’re right,” she says in a small voice. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think—” “I didn’t mean my issues.” I husk out a short laugh.

“Though I admit, I have my share. But that’s the thing. All the people I know in my profession have shit they need to work on. One form of success doesn’t guarantee other forms, you know?”

She turns her face into the crook of my shoulder. “Yes. Because this part of my life? Right now? Freaking awesome.”

“I’m feeling pretty good right now,” I agree. Especially when Stella slides her bare thigh over mine. A thought races into my deviant mind: what if she isn’t wearing panties? Like that, my hand starts drifting south, sliding down the gentle slope of her back, seeking the soft curve of her ass. Because I have to know. I have to know.

Stella moves into my touch, delicately arching that sweet arse of hers toward my hand. Good girl, Stella is. The best girl. She’s a juicy handful, and I give her a soft, appreciative squeeze as my fingertip traces the line of her panties.

Damn.

Her panties are soft cotton, which somehow turns me on more than if I’d found her bare or in silk. I can’t see them, but in my mind those little panties are pale pink with a big red heart front and center. It gets me so hot, my entire body clenches tight.

She feels it. I know she does because she’s turning further toward me, her breasts pushing against my ribs. “You’re copping a feel, mister.”

“Can’t help it. If you’re within touching distance, I will get handsy.” Tight with anticipation, I turn onto my side, sliding down a little until we’re face to face. And the fucking sofa-bed from hell screeches in protest. This time, we both freeze, staring at each other with wide eyes as the seconds eek by.

An impish smile plays over her lips. “I never snuck around with a boy as a teen, but I kind of feel like I’m doing that right now.”

Truth is, while I don’t relish the idea of getting caught by Hank, it wouldn’t be the end of the world. But pretending it would be, sneaking around with Stella like we’re a pair of naughty teens, is surprisingly fun. I’ve never had to fear getting caught. I had no idea how it could make every touch, every breath, mean more. How fucking hot it could get me.

With the tip of my finger, I ease back a lock of hair that’s fallen over her cheek. “I think we were missing out.”

Her eyes light up, and I know she wants to play. That gets me even hotter.

“We’ll have to make up for that.” She strokes the line of my neck, light and drifting like she doesn’t have a destination in mind but just wants to touch. “I mean, this isn’t my parents’ house. But it could be. If Hank walked in and found me here—” My mouth is on hers, relearning the plush, sweet swell of her bottom lip, taking a little sip of her upper lip. I don’t remember moving, or even deciding to kiss her. But I don’t stop. I kiss her softly, loving the way it makes her shiver. I kiss her cheek, the curve of her jaw. My hand cups the back of her head as I kiss her neck and then find her mouth again.

Her fingers comb through my hair, massaging my scalp.

It feels so good, so damn good. I rest my forehead against hers as I toy with the collar of her shirt. “Will you be grounded if we’re caught, Button?”

“Maybe,” she whispers, arching her back just enough to lift her tits up.

She’s wearing an old Knicks T-shirt. Slowly, I trace the “K” and graze the sti tip of her nipple. Stella’s breath catches. I run my finger back up, teasing. But it teases me too, and I have to bite my lip to keep from groaning, from dropping the game and just taking her.

“You’re so pretty here.” My knuckles caress the curve of her breast. “Can I see you bare, sweet Stells? Will you give me a peek?”

I’ve seen her breasts before. I’ve had my hands on them, my mouth on them. Fucking heaven. But here in the dark, in this house that isn’t mine or hers, it’s di erent. It’s a simple

thrill that gets to me more than any full-on sex I’ve ever had.

I don’t know what it does for Stella, but she makes a little noise, her body shifting on the bed like she’s struggling to keep herself still. Her voice is breathy and innocent as if she’s unsure. “Just a peek?”

Damn, she knows how to play. My dick is so hard, it hurts.

“I won’t put a hand on you, I swear.” And I won’t. If I touch her now, it’ll be game over. “Give me a little look at those pretty tits, honey.”

In the dark room, she’s illuminated by the greenish streetlight spilling through the window, so I can’t tell if she’s flushing. But her lids lower as her lips part, and the swells of her breasts lift in an agitated breath. Her hands are clumsy as she reaches down and grabs the hem of her shirt.

My balls tighten in anticipation.

God, she’s sexy, wiggling her hips to get the shirt clear of her ass. Then it’s sliding up over those curves. Her panties don’t have a heart on them. They’re covered in tiny polka dots. I want to touch each one with my tongue. I hold myself still as the soft swell of her little belly and the quarter moon of her navel are exposed. She’s a peach, lush and ripe.

Stella goes slowly, drawing it out. By the time the plump curves of her lower breasts are exposed, I’m sweating. She pauses there, her eyes meeting mine. The moment holds, expands until I can feel it pressing against my skin.

“Show me,” I rasp, not recognizing my own voice.

Stella bites her lower lip, glancing at me from under lowered lids. She’s killing me, and she knows it. I love that.

With a small sound, she eases the top over her breasts.

And there she is, full, round tits capped with tawny nipples that point upward. Freckles dust the expanse of her chest, I know, but they’re hidden in the shadows. I want to turn on a light just to see them, but I don’t move. My fingers curl tight to keep from reaching out. “You’re beautiful. You know that? Absolutely gorgeous.”

Stella stretches as if luxuriating in the feel of her body being on display, like she’s as tight and hot as I am. Hands still clutching her shirt, she gazes back at me, her breasts lifting and falling with each shallow breath she takes.

“You like me looking at you, sweet Stella?”

She licks her lower lip. “Yeah.”

Before my eyes, her nipples pucker and harden to rosy buds.

My fingers grip the sheet. “Look at those pretty nipples getting so sti . Are they aching, baby?”

I know she’s blushing. I can feel the heat coming o her.

When she speaks, it’s a crackle of sound. “Yes.” “Give those honey tips a pinch,” I whisper thickly.

I love her strangled moan like I’ve shocked the hell out of her.

She hesitates, and I wonder if I’ve gone too far, but then her hands ease down over her breasts. I bite back a groan, refusing to even blink. Delicately, she grasps her nipples and squeezes, her head falling back on a gasp.

My reaction is visceral, a punch of white-hot heat straight down my dick, and I have to press my hard-on into the bed to ease the ache. “God. God, do that again.”

She does. Her lashes flutter as she tugs on her tits.

“So beautiful. You’re perfect.” My voice gravel in the dark. Her thighs shift against each other, impatient, needy. I watch the action. “Are you wet, honey?”

“Mmm.” She bites her bottom lip.

“Put your hand in your panties and feel how wet you are.”

Stella exhales in a rush, her body jerking. “Oh, God.” She doesn’t look at me as she reaches down. Her eyes close, a knot forming between her brows like she’s in pain. When her hand slips under the front of her cotton panties, she gives a little mew of distress. “So wet. John, I’m so wet.”

I nearly lose it right there. For a second, we both just breathe, Stella with her eyes closed and her hand cupped around herself, me watching on, knowing she’s the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen. “Will you let me watch you?” I ask her. “I want to see you get yourself o .”

“You … you don’t want to touch me?” she whispers back, her body trembling.

“I want to touch you so badly it hurts.” I swallow hard.

“But I promised I would keep my hands to myself.”

“John.” She’s half laughing, half glaring at me. “You’re evil.”

I grin, but it quickly slides away, and my voice turns urgent. “Show me. Show me how you like it. Show me so I’ll know exactly what to do to you when we get home.” Because the second I have her alone in my house, all bets are o .

“Okay,” she says, “but you have to show me too.”

Heat licks down my spine. “You want me to come for you?”

Rain patters against the windows as Stella’s wide eyes stare back at me. “You ever do that before? Jerk o in front

of someone?”

I’ve had a lot of sex. Done a lot of crazy shit, some of it fun, some of it that left me feeling seedy and questioning my choices. But I can answer her honestly. “No one has ever asked me to.”

Usually, women want to do that for me. They’d jerk me o or suck me dry while telling me repeatedly that they can’t believe they’re touching Jax Blackwood’s dick. That got old real fast, and I learned to mentally detach myself from my partners. I’m not detached now. If anything, I’m so part of the moment, it’s almost too much.

Before, I’d have said jerking o , or seeing a woman masturbate, was just another sex act. Contemplating doing it with Stella, I realize it’s not. It takes trust to really open yourself up, lay yourself bare. Suddenly, I feel exactly like the teen I’m pretending to be, because I know fuck-all about true intimacy.

The back of my neck draws tight. “We don’t have to,” I whisper, “if you’re uncomfortable.”

“I’m nervous.” She gives me a wobbly smile that makes me want to kiss her. “I’ve never done this before. But I want to with you.”

So much braver that I am. Before I can confess that, she drags her panties down her hips. I stare for too long, my mouth likely hanging open like a panting dog. But then I snap out of it and fumble with my boxer briefs. I’m so hard that my dick snags on the fabric and slaps into my stomach when I free it.

Stella giggles.

That sound. It bubbles over my skin, trips my heart. I love that sound. I’m smiling back, chuckling low in my chest until I catch sight of her. Panties around her knees, shirt bunched up at her collar, and every glorious, lush inch in between on display. For me.

I want to know if her little patch of hair is red-gold too.

I’m desperate to find out. Desperate to know all her colors, her flavors, the scent and texture of her skin. I almost ask— beg—to turn on the light, but my voice gets lost, my brain scrambling, when she parts her thighs and slides her hand between them.

“I like it soft at first.” The tips of her fingers glide along the swollen bud of her sex as her other hand trails over her nipple. “A barely there tease that makes me want more.”

She shifts her hips, chasing her own finger, and I swear to all that’s holy, I whimper.

“Usually,” she murmurs, “I do this until I feel slick. But I’m so wet now—” “Jesus,” I exhale in a rush. “I can hear it. I hear your fingers sliding over that wet pussy.”

Stella’s breath hitches. Her gaze collides with mine, all heat and dazed lust. “You’re supposed to be doing this with me.”

Frankly, I’m afraid if I touch my dick now it will explode, but I did promise. My hand freaking shakes as I lift it to my mouth. Hell, I love the way her eyes go wide when I give my palm a slow lick before I take myself in hand. I’m hot to the touch and so hard my dick is sore. I give myself a squeeze to ease the pressure before I rasp, “I start slow and firm, like I’m pushing into a woman.”

Stella nods, watching with an avid interest that lights me up. Her thighs part just a fraction, as if she isn’t really aware of doing it, and I almost roll over and sink into her. It would be so easy, so good. But I don’t. Because she wants this experience, and as worked up as I am, I want it too.

“What do you think about?” she asks in the dark. “When you do it?”

“You.” I’m stroking faster now, getting into a rhythm.

“Since that first night, it’s only been you.”

She moans, her head lolling on the pillow. She’s working herself faster too, moving her fingers in harsh, sloppy circles, abusing her little kitty. The urge to kiss it all better has me leaning closer. Our breaths mingle as we pant. I’m jacking my dick hard now, the tension in me building.

“Tell me,” she says. “Tell me what you imagine.”

For a second, I blank out. I’m going to disappoint her.

She’ll have expectations. But her eyes are full of desire and trust. She looks at me like I’m the best thing she’s ever seen.

Me, not the shell or the name. It flays me open and raw. It heightens my awareness of everything, the rumpled sheets around my legs, the sweat trickling down my back, the friction of my hand along my dick and the sound it makes.

My breath saws in and out, drying my mouth.

I lick my lips. “Truth?”

Her answer is a husk of sound. “Always.”

“I think of watching myself slide into you. Imagine sinking into your heat.” My voice goes rougher, my balls drawing up tight and sweet. “That first push when I take you, knowing that you’re letting me. That’s is. I think of

having you. Finally, fucking having you. That’s the moment I dream about.”

She moans, her lips parting weakly.

“Oh, fuck, Stells, please come. Come for me, honey.”

She does. And she’s so damn beautiful, I can’t speak. Her lip is caught between her teeth, her thighs clenched around her hand, a silent scream pinching her features. She arches her back, thrusting her tits high, those gorgeous tits. I can’t help myself. I swoop down and capture a nipple with my mouth, sucking hard.

Stella jolts with a small cry and pushes against me, silently demanding more. I suck her like a man starved. I don’t even realize I’m coming until I feel it hot and wet on my hand, hitting my stomach. For a long moment, I slump on her, my mouth open and panting against her trembling breast. I give her a lingering lick that makes her whimper before I roll away, landing on my back with a heavy exhale.

We lay there, both of us breathing hard in the silent dark.

Rain taps at the windows, the room still as if nothing happened, as though my world didn’t turn over on its head.

Stella moves, righting her clothes with clumsy fumbles. I grab a tissue from the box sitting on the side table and wipe myself o , aware that she’s watching me do it. Weird how I find that sexy too.

“Wow,” she says softly, and I know she isn’t talking about my cleaning up.

I toss the tissue into the trash can, pull up my boxers, and roll onto my side to face her. She’s staring up at the ceiling, her hair mussed. As if feeling my gaze, she turns her head

and a small smile quirks her lips. She doesn’t say anything, just looks.

“Stells.” My fingers trace the curve of her jaw. Her skin is warm and damp, and I cup her cheek before resting my head on a pillow.

She moves my way, cuddling close. She smells of sex and sweat and something freshly sweet. I draw it in, closing my eyes. Why does this feel so good? Just this.

I need to find a way to hold onto this feeling, to keep it safe. I have no idea how to do that. It feels essential that I learn.

“John?”

“Yeah?” I toy with her satiny hair, twisting a strand around my finger.

“If we don’t fuck each other’s brains out when we get home, I’m going to have to kill you.”

I sti en for a second, then burst out laughing, trying to keep it low. She squeezes my side, and I lean further into her.

“Fuck yeah, we are, Button.”

Like that, I’m counting down the minutes.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

STELLA

“I HOPE YOU SLEPT WELL , J AX .” Corinne sets a mug of co ee on the table for him.

At my side, Hank grunts and cuts a glare at John. I bite the inside of my mouth. Last night, we’d fallen asleep wrapped up in each other, only to wake with Hank standing over John, giving him the stink eye. “I don’t know why I bothered.”

“Yes, ma’am, I did.” John shovels a huge bite of buttery pancake into his mouth, smartly keeping his eyes on his plate, but there’s a tiny smile playing on the edges of his lips. Beneath the table, his knee bounces an agitated rhythm.

Since we’re sitting close, his thigh lightly rubs against mine.

That small contact zings along my skin.

Memories of what we did drift through my head, making it hard to concentrate on anything. I keep seeing his rippled torso clenching, ropy muscles on his forearm shifting and flexing as he worked his hard cock. God, he has a nice cock.

Rounded head, a thick shaft that curves just a little to the right.

Heat washes over my skin. Stop thinking about his dick at the table. That is so wrong. Twisted, Stells. Twisted.

And foolish. All I can think about now is John pleasuring himself, his plump balls bouncing against his fist with each downstroke, his face tight with concentration, and his lips soft with panting. It had been the most glorious thing I’d ever seen. I want to see it again. In full daylight. Maybe in slow motion. On repeat.

Good God, does Corinne have the heat on or something?

I take a hasty sip of co ee and it burns the back of my throat.

John’s green eyes narrow at the sound of my small gurgle.

“You okay, Button?”

No. I’m so horny my lower belly hurts, and I’m fantasizing about making movies featuring your dick.

Weakly, I smile and pick up a piece of perfectly cooked bacon. “Great.”

John’s eyes hold mine, and his small smile grows a little devious. I doubt he’s having movie-making fantasies, but he’s definitely thinking about last night. The pink tip of his tongue sneaks out to catch an errant dot of syrup on his lower lip. It’s all I can do not to lick him too.

We need to get out of here.

His knee keeps bouncing, a frenetic jostle that’s beginning to rattle the table. I set my hand on his thigh, and he instantly stills. His hand covers mine and squeezes.

Corinne is still talking, idle chatter. “I swear we had so much rain last night. Hank, you better check the basement.

You know how that back stairwell tends to flood.”

“Mmm,” Hank says. Translation: I checked it. Everything is fine, but I want to eat without you pestering me.

Corinne’s answering “hmmm” basically means she’s on to him and will check the basement herself once breakfast is over.

I smile around a mouthful of bacon. A nudge of John’s shoulder against mine has me glancing over. He quirks a brow, his eyes darting between Hank and Corinne. He’s noticed their interplay, and like me, he finds it sweet. I have the overwhelming urge to laugh, not at Corinne and Hank, but out of this weird, dizzying sense of levity. Of quiet happiness.

I duck my head, letting my hair slide over my warm cheeks to hide my face.

John’s thumb strokes my palm, the blunt tip slowly circling a certain spot that makes my thighs clench. Just from that. We really need to get out of here.

“I hate to eat and run …” A snort from Hank cuts me o . I purse my lips. “But Stevens, the cat I’m looking after, will need to eat.”

I send a silent apology out to Brenna—who I know John asked to feed the pets this morning—and then flick John’s knee when he makes a small gurgle at the back of his throat, trying to swallow down a laugh.

Corinne smiles wide. “Of course, honey. I’m so glad we could spend a little time together.”

I feel like crap now. But when she pulls me into a hug at the door, she murmurs in my ear. “If I were young and free and had access to a tall glass of milk like your man there, I’d be twitching in my seat too.”

A startled laugh escapes me. “Love you, Corinne.”

“And you are loved, baby girl. Remember that.”

Despite his grumpiness, Hank gives John a hearty handshake and an open invitation to visit again. Then we are free. I nearly run to the motorcycle. Not at all dignified. But since John is at my heels, ushering me along with a hand to my lower back, I’m guessing we’re in the same horny boat.

His expression is almost grim as he clicks the clasp on my helmet. “Quick warning.” He gives me a pained smile. “I might cry if there’s a lot of tra c.”

“Just get us home,” I say, grasping his wrist.

He nods, grim again.

It’s impressive the way he handles the bike. I never feel unsafe as he weaves through tra c at an e cient rate. Even so, it seems to take forever to get home. If I thought an easy ride through the country was di cult, it pales to clinging onto his lean body now with this energy humming between us, when clenching my thighs around his simply brings attention to what we left undone.

You’d think a massive, mind-blowing, late-night orgasm would take the edge o , but sex doesn’t work that way. A little bit of sex is a whole lot of tease. It’s like getting only a spoonful of mint chocolate chip and being unable to reach the rest in the bowl right in front of you.

I want it all. Now. Damn it all, does the bike have to vibrate so damn much?

Freaking torture device from hell.

When John finally pulls up in front of our building—and forget all the bad things I said about the bike because it fits in a tiny space—we’re both scrambling o , uncoordinated

and unsteady on our feet. John tears o his gloves and helmet as I deal with mine. Then he’s grabbing my hand and hustling us up the front stairs.

“Inside,” he says under his breath. “Make it inside.” I don’t know whether he’s talking to me or himself, but I’m not wasting time to ask.

When we get inside, however, we keep calm. Except for holding hands, we don’t touch while we wait for the elevator.

Standing perfectly still, not saying a word, I listen to the slow grind of the elevator moving down the shaft. Each muted ding announcing a floor plucks along my skin. His hand squeezes mine, our fingers threaded so tightly, I can feel his pulse.

Just a little longer. Just a little …

I bite my lip as the doors finally open. Inside the elevator, John hits the button for our floor, then his hands find my hips, and he shifts me in front of him. The move is firm, proprietary, but also tender, as though touching me is something that should be done with care. It is that combination of greedy yet patient that hitches my breath.

His cheek brushes my temple as he leans down. “I’m shaking inside,” he says with a helpless laugh. “Shaking like a fucking leaf in the breeze.”

I know exactly how he feels. The elevator is rising, but I’m the one floating, my head light. My hands snake under his shirt to hook the waistband of his jeans, tug his hips against mine. John grunts low in his throat. He’s already hard. For a moment, we simply grind against each other, then his hand eases between us. He finds the button of my jeans and gives it a tug. My inner thighs clench when he

slowly lowers my zipper, the buzz of sound overloud in the little elevator.

“I can’t wait,” he says. Explanation or statement, I don’t know. His hand slides over my belly, under my panties. My thighs part to give him room. He finds my clit with unerring precision. The calloused tip of his talented finger gently circles that slick swell, and I go weak at the knees. My forehead rests on his shoulder as I whimper.

His finger slides down just a little to caress my opening.

“I want in here so badly, Stells.” He doesn’t push in, but simply strokes, a light torture that has me rocking my hips in desperation.

“John …” I want it to be a demand, but it comes out a thready plea.

The elevator stops with a thud. John’s hand leaves me, and I’m all too aware of how wet I am, cold now without his touch. He tugs me into the hall, all jerky movements and uncoordinated steps. John punches in the code to his door like he’s trying to break through the panel. It clicks, and then we’re practically falling into the cool quiet of his front hall.

There is no more talking, no more waiting. We’re kissing each other, and it isn’t demanding or frantic; it’s consuming, a fall right into the deep end of the ocean. John comes after my mouth like it’s his right, his pleasure. I’ve never been kissed this way. I am the banquet and he is the hunger.

I know we’re moving—kissing, soaking each other in, clothes quietly coming o and left where they lie—but my senses are solely on him, the feel of his lips, the tart taste of

his tongue. He is soft skin and hard muscle, his grip firm as he guides me along, claiming my mouth, drawing me into his room.

It’s a dark cave—black walls, heavy drapes, the only light coming in through the massive grid windows at the far wall.

He pulls me right into that light. The heat of it on my skin is almost too much.

I’m burning now, inside and out, incandescent with lust for this man standing before me. This beautiful man. He’s built in perfect proportions: wide shoulders, strong arms, hard abs. Unbuttoned jeans hang low on his trim hips, revealing the edge of his boxers and a wispy trail of dark hair.

Never in my life have I wanted someone this way. I want to do things to him, bite the tawny nubs of his nipples, suck the sensitive skin on his neck. But I’m rendered immobile by his gaze, absorbed and intense, tender and covetous.

With the backs of his fingers, he traces a path along my spine. When he hits the clasp of my bra, he pauses. “I want to see you.”

See me, he does. I’m utterly exposed, standing in my bra and panties, the rest of my clothes lost somewhere along the way. I’m not embarrassed; I want to be naked with him.

Naked and sweaty. But I know what he’s used to, and I’m not made that way.

“It’s nothing special,” I whisper. I’m just me, a girl like any other.

Under lowered lids, he looks at me, his expression solemn. “You’re extraordinary.”

In that moment, I’d believe anything from him. I lean into his touch, where he’s toying with the hooks of my bra.

Please. Please. Just take it o me. I’d tell him, but my voice has fled. He understands the gesture. The bra goes slack, sliding away. Blissful freedom.

“There you are,” he says, like he’s been missing me. One big, warm hand cups my aching breast. His lips press into the sensitive crook of my neck, and he inhales deeply.

“I had plans,” he says, kissing his way down my chest.

Soft pecks, suckling explorations. “I’d get you home, get you wet, then fuck you.” More slow kisses, mapping my freckles, lowering himself to his knees. “Fuck away all this desperation, hard and fast.”

Lust washes over me, and I sway into him. He grips my waist, steadying me.

“So many plans.” The kiss on the tip of my nipple is so light, I chase his mouth for more, moaning when he complies and suckles. “You’re destroying all my plans,” he murmurs against my skin, tongue flicking.

My hand smooths over his thick hair. “Sorry.”

But I’m not and he knows it. His laugh is warm over my damp nipple. “Liar.”

“The worst,” I agree, my voice weak. I want to touch him everywhere, the broad expanse of his shoulders, the taut sweep of his back. In the sunlight, his skin is warm gold, fine and smooth. But he’s moving lower, out of my reach.

“Now, all I want to do is take my time, savor this.” Big hands frame my hips, his lips skimming along the slope of my belly. With deliberate care, he grasps the edge of my panties and slides them down. They pool at my feet, and I’m

bare to him. John just stares, and then sighs contently.

“Red.” God, he’s right there, nuzzling my sex, breathing me in.

My legs tremble. “John … You don’t have to—” I bite my lip hard. Why did I say anything? I’m not even sure, only that I never want to be an obligation.

He stills, his grip tightening a fraction, and I swallow thickly, wishing the floor would swallow me up. I brought his past into this, when it’s the last thing I want to do. This moment has no space for anything other than the two of us.

He has every right to be pissed, get up and call this o .

But he doesn’t let me go. Instead, he spreads his fingers wide, his palms pressing hotly to my skin.

Green eyes, dark with desire, stare up at me. “I want new memories of this act. I want them with you.” His thumb rubs a red line my panties left. “That okay, Button?”

In a haze, I nod. The corners of his eyes crinkle, an illicit gleam entering them. “Good. Now, be my girl and part those pretty thighs for me.” Polite and patient John melts away, leaving rough edges and thick demands. “A little wider.

Show me that sweet kitty. She needs a proper kiss, poor neglected love.”

With one firm hand, he grips my ass. Soft lips graze my inner thigh. “Wider, honey. Let me have a proper look.” He easily lifts my leg and rests it on his shoulder. “That’s it.”

“God,” I whisper, held up by him. I’m panting now, intensely aware of how slick I am, how swollen. And he hasn’t even touched me there.

“So pretty.” He gives me a kiss, languid and open, lips and tongue moving with perfect decadence. I groan, my body

clenching, trying to hold in the feeling, the hot, wet glide of his mouth. My fingers thread through his hair, gripping so I don’t fall to the floor.

John makes a noise in the back of his throat. “God, Stells, you taste so … so fucking …” He trails o with a shuddering breath that I feel against my skin. There is no finesse, no practiced touches. It is carnal heat, lips and tongue shaping, licking, suckling.

It feels so good. I want this every day. Every day.

“John … please.” I don’t even know what I’m begging for.

More. Less. Harder. Softer. I can’t think. My hips rock against his mouth, chasing the sensation, running from it.

I’m going to break apart, melt right on his tongue.

God, the way he goes at me, pulling back every so often to look at his handiwork. Attack from a new angle. He’s reveling in this. The utter absorption of his expression, the way his tongue flicks out to lick my opening has me shivering.

A gentle suck of my clit and I come, a low, hot rush of pleasure that leaves me boneless. But it’s only an appetizer.

My insides pulse, needing something to fill it. I push against him, silently begging.

I need it. Need it so badly.

“Please,” I say. “Please.”

The blunt tip of his finger teases me. “I know, honey. But the first time I get to be inside you, it’s going to be with my dick.” He looks up at me, innocent angel, unrepentant devil.

“Hold on.”

“Wha—” I squeal and clutch his head as he wraps his arms around my hips and simply stands. Just freaking stands

up with me on his shoulders, lifting me as easily as one of his guitars.

He laughs against my sex, the sound mu ed and warm, as he strides to the bed.

“Crazy man,” I chide with a laugh.

Grinning, he tumbles me back onto a cloud of pillows. I lie there, a wanton sprawl of limbs, and watch with growing hunger as he pulls a strip of condoms from his pocket and tosses them on the bed beside me. They don’t make a sound when they land, but I feel the impact in my bones, a mental thud that sends a shiver of anticipation over my skin.

Holding my gaze, he shucks his jeans and boxers with one, impatient push.

Jesus, he’s gorgeous, all lean grace and hard, hard cock.

And he’s mine. I’m a lucky girl.

“That looks painful,” I rasp, glancing at the thick erection he’s giving a stroke.

John’s smile is predatory. “It hurts something fierce, Button. You gonna give me some relief?”

It’s so easy to spread my legs, arch my back, and display myself for him. To give him a soft smile and say, “Come here, then.”

His eyes narrow, and he crawls up the bed and over me.

Muscles bunch as he hovers, his arms bracketing my body.

High color runs along his cheeks and the tops of his broad shoulders. “Anything you don’t like, anything you want more of, you tell me, Button.” His lips quirk. “I want this to be good for you.”

My hands glide over his shoulders to cup the back of his neck where his skin is hot and damp. “Same goes for you.”

Surprise flashes over his face, and he lets out a short laugh. “Oh, angel, everything leading up to this has already been better than anything I’ve ever experienced. You could do your worst and it would still be my best.”

I’m grinning like a loon when I pull him down to me. We exhale as our lips meet, our kiss a bit fumbling. It soon turns feverish, greedy, messy. “Oh, shit,” I rasp. “Don’t wait. I need it. I need it.”

It sets him o . Gone are the careful touches, the slow moves. His big hand grabs my ass, kneading it as he grinds his hard dick against my sex. Our kiss goes deeper, forcing my mouth wide. I clutch his shoulders, my nails digging in as he gropes around for the condom package.

As soon as he gets hold of it, he sits back on his heels and tears a condom packet free from the strip. The sight of him kneeling before me, torso tight and twitching, his dick so hard he has to ease it back from where it slaps against his abs—it’s so hot, I don’t think. I sit up, my hands sliding over his strong thighs. Before he can utter a word, I take his dick in my mouth, sucking him down deep.

“Oh, fuck.” John’s body shakes as he jerks in my mouth.

“Oh, fucking hell.”

His hand comes down on my head, fingers tangling in my hair. He’s big and hot in my mouth. Enough that I feel the stretch in my jaw. Enough he’ll have to work to get himself inside me.

I love the way he tastes, the thick glide of him along my tongue and the way he trembles, thrusts his hips just a little like he can’t help himself.

“Stells …” He sounds pained, weak. I love that too.

I don’t recognize this mindless, needy thing I’ve become where every touch is a matter of now and more and again. I don’t recognize this messy, hot emotion swelling, or the way I lose all sense of myself. I’m not mine anymore; I’m his.

John’s hand in my hair tightens and then eases. I let him lift me up. Our eyes meet, his wide and dazed. I grab the condom from his hand and work it over his length. In a blink, I’m on my back, the breath whooshing from me. John grabs my hips and hauls them up over his thighs. My tits lift high, my back arching as I press my shoulders into the bed to brace myself.

The wide crown of his cock notches against my slick opening. It draws all my attention. John leans forward, and that fat head slips just inside, stretching me. His eyes close, a look of near pain flitting across his features. His lips go slack, the space between his brows knitting.

Somehow, I know—I know he’s thinking about all those times he jacked o imagining this moment. My body clenches at the thought, and he feels it. His eyes snap open, brilliant green and intense. I spread my thighs wider. His eyes narrow with determination, and he pushes in.

He makes me feel every inch, going slow and steady. He pushes until he bottoms out and holds himself there, moving his hips in a slow circle, just enough to make me moan.

“I’m yours,” I say, a bit mindless. “Yours.”

John grips tight to my hips. “I know.” Then he begins.

And I lose my damn mind altogether.

J OHN

S HE ’ S LAID out over me like a bu et. I want to eat every delicious inch. But right now, I can only fuck her—watch my dick move in and out of her slick, pink clasp with a sense of absolute wonder. She feels so damn good, my heart pounds so damn hard, I can’t catch my breath. All I can do is thrust and retreat and thrust, pound into her like a madman.

Need is an animal clawing within me, demanding harder, deeper, more. Just fucking more.

Sweat slicks my skin, runs down my spine. My ass clenches with each thrust. I feel the tightness in my muscles, the hot burn of exertion. My dick is so swollen, so hard, it’s taken over all thought.

Stella moans, her head tilted to the side, her lips parted and her eyes closed like she needs to concentrate on each touch. But that won’t do. I need her eyes. Need those dark blue eyes looking into mine so I can see a little more of her soul.

My hands slide up her sweaty back and grasp hold of her shoulders. Red-gold hair tumbles and swirls around her face as I haul her into my lap, have her straddle me as I fuck into her sweet little pussy. Her expression is hot and dazed, but she wraps her arms around my shoulders, pressing her tits into my chest, and moves with me, snapping her hips, meeting each thrust.

She’s so damn sexy, completely carnal in the way she looks at me from under lowered lids, in the way she captures my lips and eats at my mouth as though all this fucking has

her starving. I’ve never had sex like this before—the give and take. We’re communicating here. Earlier, every touch was tempered with tenderness. Now, it’s hard need. I want to get under her skin, push into her heart.

She told me she was mine. She has to know I’m hers too.

She fucking owns me now.

Stella’s fingers tangle in my hair, the grip bringing a bite of pain that spurs me on.

“So good,” she pants into my mouth. “So good.”

I kiss the damp curve of her neck, suckle the soft skin where her scent is the strongest. With a grunt, I tumble her back onto the bed and come down on top of her. Stella wraps her legs around my waist. When I grip her thigh and lift it higher, she moans and wiggles closer.

“Tell me,” I say, slowly fucking her into the bed. “Tell me what gets you o .”

Her eyes lock onto me. I see the surprise in them, like she’s never been asked. Truth is, I’ve never bothered asking either. Selfish. Not with her. Never with her.

I want to learn Stella, turn her world inside out and upside down.

“My tits,” she blurts out, panting and flushed. “Suck my tits and … oh, God. Do that again. That move …” She groans deeply and pushes up into me. “Again.”

“What?” My lips wobble on a smile, because I’m going to lose it soon. “This?” I thrust, tilting up at the last second.

She mewls. Like a horny kitten. Damn, I like that sound. I love that sound.

“Yes,” she says. “Yes. More.”

Yes, ma’am.

I’m taller than Stella. We don’t line up eye to eye. It isn’t easy keeping my rhythm, moving my ass the exact way she likes while finding a way to suck her swaying tit. But I am a man determined, and the sweet sounds she makes, the way she tenses and clutches me is so fucking worth it. Her pleasure increases mine.

I live there, in her world of pleasure and need, in that hot, sweaty place of skin moving against skin, her body gripping mine. Every move feels like heaven, yet not quite enough. I never want to leave here.

When she begins to come, her tight clasp milking my dick in rhythmic pulls, it’s the biggest high I’ve ever experienced.

I work her through it, revel in the way she arches against me, digs her heels into the bed as her orgasm rolls over her.

Flushed, sweaty, grunting, and totally uninhibited, she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

“John,” she says, blinking up at me, wild-eyed.

The first time anyone has ever said my real name during sex. And it’s Stella calling out to me. I don’t know why, but it slices me open on an emotional level I never knew I had. My throat closes up, the air pulling into my lungs burning.

I don’t know if what I’m feeling can even be called pleasure; it hurts too much. I’m pulled too tight, my skin stretched too thin. But damn if I don’t want to plunge right into it. So I do, thrusting mindlessly, reaching, reaching.

Stella is all around me, warm skin, rich curves, her hands on my ass, her pussy slick and so damn tight.

I meet her blue eyes and call out—God knows what.

Sound tears from my throat, but I don’t hear it past my pounding ears. I look at Stella and fall into the abyss.

I. Am. Wrecked.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

STELLA

“O H , HOW THE MIGHTY HAVE FALLEN .” Rye pops a piece of dragon roll into his mouth and gives John a smug grin as he chews. “Look at you, all calf-eyed and fawning.”

John snorts. “Make up your mind. Am I a calf or a fawn?”

“Both.”

John shoots me a glance, makes a face at Rye. We’re snuggled up in a corner of a massive, private booth, eating dinner with his friends. A large, cream velvet curtain blocks us o from the rest of the restaurant, and I’m surprisingly grateful.

When three-fourths of Kill John decides to go out on the town en masse, people follow. Cameras follow.

I’ve attended red-carpet events. One year, I was even been lucky enough to go to the Met Gala; I wore a black, o the-rack sheath and gratefully blended into the background to dress watch. But in all those instances, I was working as a hired companion. My attention had focused on soothing my nervous client, stepping in to engage in small talk when

someone got tongue-tied, making a running commentary to entertain. I enjoyed myself, but it was still work.

Going out with John as his date while cameras flash and people gawk is entirely di erent. I find myself feeling territorial, protective. I don’t like the idea of people watching and speculating over him.

John getting shit from his friends, however, is another matter. They constantly tease each other, but there is a closeness I love to watch and want to be a part of. I don’t yet feel like I’m one of them—maybe I never truly will be. But I’m good at faking it until I’m actually there.

I nudge him with my shoulder before reaching out to snag a slice of salmon sashimi with my chopsticks. “Feel free to defend yourself at will. Tell him about the awesome sex.”

This isn’t an exaggeration. Sex with John is feasting after a famine. I’m insatiable.

We’ve been together for three weeks now. Three weeks of being unable to keep our hands o each other for more than a few hours at a time. So much sex that, frankly, I am sore in places I’ve never thought about before. And yet, leaning up against the warmth of his arm, just touching the hard swell of his thigh, has me all twitchy and wanting to lure him into a storage closet to have my way with him.

I’m faintly flushed and light-headed with lust as he grins wide and evilly. “You are the best girlfriend ever.”

Girlfriend. The word, so easily uttered, lands like a dart on my tender heart. Which is just silly. It’s only a term, but it feels momentous—it feels like acceptance, safety.

I don’t know what John sees in my expression, but he gives me a big, wet kiss on my cheek, teasing and bolstering

me all at once. He steals the last piece of dragon roll out from under Rye. “The thing is, Stells,” he says over Rye’s squawk of protest, “I know where all the bodies are buried.

So Rye here really doesn’t want to mess with me.”

Rye blows a raspberry. “I’m so scared. Besides, I know where your skeleton closet is too.”

“You think I won’t show Stella?” John retorts with a smug grin. “Hell, I’m giving her a key.”

This surprises me for all of two seconds; then I realize John has never truly tried to hide his flaws from me. He’s pushed them in my face, almost daring me to run away. I might find that insulting except, in my own bumbling way, I’ve been daring him to do the same. Except it’s not because I want him to go, but to stay.

“Fair warning,” John says to me with mock seriousness.

“It’s kind of dusty in there. I haven’t put anything in it for a while and I’m not one for cleaning.”

“Ah, and me with my dust allergies.” I give a dramatic sigh. “I guess I’ll have to take your word for who you are.”

John plants another sloppy, laughing kiss on my lips. Rye makes a gagging noise.

“I think they’re adorable,” Sophie announces to the table.

She’s sitting on my other side, a massive Mai Tai in front of her that she’s been drinking with the enthusiasm of a mom enjoying a rare baby-free night out.

“Of course you do,” Rye says with a snort. “You think Scottie is adorable.”

Scottie lifts a thick brow. “I am adorable.”

No one can keep a straight face at that. Sophie’s nose wrinkles happily. “He really is,” she tells me. “You should

see him when he’s watching Bu y. He wears the cutest Spike T-shirt—” “Darling,” Scottie cuts in. His thick brows are now lowered over narrowed, icy eyes. And I’m guessing that’s his zip your lips or su er the consequences look. Sophie simply blows him a kiss.

“I, for one, am an open book,” Whip states, leaning back to rest his arms along the sides of the booth.

At his side is Scottie’s assistant, Jules, who rolls her hazel eyes. “More like a porno mag.”

Like me, Jules has a scattering of freckles over her cheeks, but they seem contained to that spot. The rest of her skin appears to be a smooth, freckle-free expanse of sandy brown. I might have been envious of that before, but earlier, John made it his mission to lick all my freckles with slow, lingering strokes, and I’ve come to appreciate that I have them everywhere.

Whip smirks at Jules. “Ah, now, we all know that’s not true anymore. I’m all about self-love these days.” He reaches out and tugs one of the tightly coiled, lavender-colored locks that spray around her pretty face.

Jules swats his hand away and gives him a cool look. “Let me spell this out in simple terms so you’ll understand: do not touch my hair or you will lose a finger.” She sni s in clear disgust. “Especially since you’ve gone and declared your hand-job habits.”

“Hey! I wash.”

“William,” Scottie deadpans, “Jules is the best assistant I have managed to keep. Do not drive her away by sharing your personal proclivities.”

“She’s the only assistant you’ve managed to keep,” Whip grumps. “Everyone else runs o crying.”

“This is true.” Brenna waves her chopsticks at Scottie. “If anyone is to blame for scaring employees, it’s Mr. Perfect Pants here.”

“I don’t scare easily,” Jules adds, but I don’t think anyone else is listening.

“I make no apologies for owning perfect pants. Or suits, for that matter.”

“He had a baby-barf stain on his lapel the other day,” John stage-whispers in my ear. “Very unseemly.”

Scottie’s eyes narrow on him. “Quiet, you.”

Whip scowls at Scottie. “And what’s all this proclivities nonsense? Since when did beating the meat or rubbing the bean become a deviant activity?”

“Beating the meat.” John snickers into his beer.

“Got a better one,” Whip counters with a brow waggle.

“Wanking the willy?”

“Charming the snake,” Sophie o ers.

“Polishing the pearl,” Jules says.

“Tickling my treat,” Brenna adds.

“I’m becoming uncomfortably aroused,” Rye grumbles, which makes Brenna flush bright pink and hide her face behind the rim of her martini glass.

Scottie throws up his hands. “You all are pigs. Might we, just once, have a conversation about something normal, such as the unchecked state of our city’s potholes or, I don’t know, perhaps the stock market?”

The guys look at him as though he’s suggested they put on medieval garb and pillage local villages, but then Rye rubs

the stubble on his chin thoughtfully. “I hear beans are down a quarter.”

“Blue beans?” Whip asks solemnly.

Rye grins wide. “You know it.”

They high-five each other, and Scottie makes a noise of disgust.

“Oh, step o your pedestal, Scottie,” Whip protests, laughing lightly. “Everyone does the five-knuckle chuckle.”

He looks around the table, his vivid blue eyes imploring.

“Anyone going to deny it?”

It’s clear everyone here does indeed enjoy alone time, but no one says anything, leaving Whip to hang in the wind. And though I’m now completely on the Team John train, Whip’s exasperation is adorable.

I lean toward him. “I do it. All the time. Canoodle my kitty, I mean.”

There’s a beat of intense silence where the background noise of the restaurant swells to the fore, and all eyes are on me.

Then John bursts out with a short, happy laugh. “Oh God, you are perfect.” He cups my cheek and gives me a swift but softly melting kiss, his lips smiling as he pulls away. “Don’t ever change.”

I’m leaning into him, ready to climb onto his lap right here in front of his friends. My fingertips press into the firm muscle on his chest. “Keep kissing me like that and you have a deal.”

The glint in John’s eyes tells me we’re about five minutes from calling for the check and heading out. Soreness be damned; he can ice my boo-boos.

“Are you sure you’re settled on Jax?” Whip asks, breaking into our little bubble. “Clearly you and I are both fans of the one-hand band, not to mention I’m hotter and way more talented than this guy.”

John flips him o . “In your dreams. And from now on, keep your hands where we can see them, dude.”

“Amen to that,” Jules says.

Laughing with them, a warm glow of pure happiness flows through me. Happiness and contentment. I’ve never experienced it this way. I almost don’t know what to do with it. Maybe that’s why fate chose this moment to topple me.

A man slips into the space, somehow evading the guard outside. No one else seems to notice, but I do, and my entire world slows to a crawl. I know this man. I’ve dreamed about him, held conversations with him in my mind, waited for so long to have just one word of acknowledgment that my inner child fears he’s a mirage. Hardened and grown up me hopes he is.

Aside from being older, with a full beard instead of cleanshaven, he appears just the same. Wiry, hardened, faded red hair and cold blue eyes. He looks right at me, without remorse or hesitation, like it’s been a few minutes instead of years. It’s that cocksure attitude that kicks me right in the chest and has me sucking in a sharp gasp.

At my side, John turns to see what’s upset me. I feel him jerk.

“Shit,” he utters under his breath.

Across from us, Rye swivels and goes pale. “Ah, hell.”

Their words slowly sink through my numbness. Do they think a fan has broken in?

But then I’m rising, pushing past Brenna who sits at the end of the booth. My head throbs as I walk toward him.

My dad grins and opens his arms wide. “Stella, my darling.”

I’m one big pulse of pain, and I flinch away, wrapping my arms around myself. My back collides with something hard and warm. John. His hand settles on my shoulder and grips tight.

Dad slows, his smile in a tight holding pattern.

Vaguely, I’m aware of security hustling over, everyone looking on, and of John holding up a hand to warn them o .

They stand down but don’t leave. And the whole time, I stare at my dad, stuck in this nightmare. Because other thoughts start filtering in. He’s here—where the band is, which means he knows exactly who I am with.

The truth falls like an anvil: he’s here for money, not me.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

STELLA

M Y DAD IS HERE . My dad. I can’t believe it. Years and years, I’ve tried to come up with the perfect thing to say to him, the exact way I’d react. The scenarios have varied; sometimes I scream at him, sometimes I cry. During a needy and emotional phase in my life, I’d imagined hugging him and begging him not to leave me again.

Now that he’s actually here, all I can do is sit in numb silence in the back of John’s massive SUV. How we got here is a haze. I know John ushered me and my dad right out of the restaurant. I know I went along, my ears ringing so loudly, I couldn’t hear a thing anyone said.

Now I’m in this car, John sitting in the middle, literally putting a physical block between me and my father. A nice thought, but it doesn’t work.

Dad leans forward. “So—” “Not one word,” I cut in sharply. “Don’t you say one word to me until we get …” Fuck, where are we even going?

“To my place,” John says for me. His voice is hard, tension riding along his thigh as tight as my own. It comforts me that he’s upset on my behalf, but I still feel disoriented and sick.

“Fair enough,” Dad says with a shrug, like all of this is no big deal.

A tremor works through me, and John leans into my shoulder. He doesn’t move to hold my hand, and I appreciate that he isn’t giving my dad anything to make note of. It’s a nice gesture, but Dear Old Dad will have already sni ed out my weaknesses, and John’s, within the first few seconds of seeing us together.

I remain in my fog until we enter John’s apartment. The cool space holds his scent and comforts me on a visceral level. Not bothering to look at my dad, I march to the fridge and pull out a bottle of iced tea. I can feel him watching me as I turn the cap with a snick and gulp down long pulls of cold, biting tea.

“Nice place you have here,” Dad says.

John’s jaw bunches but doesn’t respond.

“Seems to me,” Dad drawls, “you were being a bit cheap by ignoring my initial o er.”

“Shut up,” John snarls. “Shut your fucking mouth.”

Cold washes over me. “John?”

He glances my way and instantly cringes, guilt stamped all over his face.

My hands begin to shake. “You … He …”

“It was only a bit of insurance, Stella girl,” Dad says, almost sweetly.

John’s nostrils flare, and he looks a second away from exploding. “Leave it be.”

“Why don’t you want her to hear?” Dad asks, glancing at me in sympathy. Does he really think this is all somehow brought on by John? That I would fall for his little act?

I can only stare back, my eyes smarting.

“She is your daughter. Why do you want to hurt her?”

John grinds out before looking at me with wide, pained eyes.

“Stella …”

“He tried to get money from you,” I cut in, my throat hurting so badly, I can barely get the words out. “Didn’t he?”

John ducks his head, then rolls his shoulders and faces me. “Yeah. And I didn’t tell you. I’m sorry.”

Dully, I nod.

“It was only business, ducks.” The sound of my father’s voice has me hunching. I’ve wanted to hear it for so long, and now it grates against my skin.

“Sure it was,” I say, still dull, still hurting. I can’t quite meet his eyes. “It’s always business. How much did you try to get?”

“A mere ten grand.” He lifts his hands. “A drop in the bucket for the likes of your mark.”

I laugh but there’s no humor in it. “My mark. That’s what you think he is? Of course, you do. Everyone is a mark to you.” Even me.

John takes a step in my direction, his expression twisted with regret. But I hold him o with a glare. If he touches me now, I’ll shatter.

“What was the shakedown?” I ask my dad.

“It was for your protection, really. Thought he should know about your time as an escort.”

At this, John pales, his whole body vibrating like a struck tuning fork. His eyes meet mine, and I see his need to defend me, his absolute outrage.

“You’ve been seen with him enough,” Dad says. “It’s only a matter of time before someone talks. Better if he’s prepared.”

“You miserable fuck.” John stalks toward my dad. “You sleazy shit …”

“John,” I snap loud enough to cut through his fury. He halts and looks at me from over his shoulder. “Please don’t.

Hitting him is exactly what he wants you to do.”

“So let me oblige,” John grits out. “I can take the fallout.”

“But I can’t.” I take a deep breath. Then another. “Can you, ah, give us a minute?” I gesture to my dad.

John shifts his stance, his fingers opening and closing, clearly fighting his instincts. It isn’t a normal thing for him to hold back. Whether he acknowledges it or not, he is a protector. “Stella.” It’s a low plea. “Let me—” “Please,” I whisper, at the end of my strength.

He gives a short nod. “I’ll be in the other room.” He levels my dad with a hard glare. “If you’ve done your homework, you already know who my family is. From the cradle on, I’ve learned how to play dirty. I can end you as easily as snapping my fingers. Hurt her, and I will.”

Shocked, I watch John turn heel and stalk into his media room.

“I like him,” Dad says in the silence. When I shoot him a look, he quirks a brow. “He’s right, you know. His family are

the worst kind of crooks—rich and powerful enough to get away with anything.”

“So maybe you should heed his warning and back o .”

Dad strolls over to the marble mantle and examines the pastoral oil painting above it. “He won’t hurt me. He’s too afraid it will hurt you if he does.”

“Unlike you.” I slam down the bottle I’ve been holding with a death grip. “Years you’ve been gone. Years I’ve searched for one word of your existence, and nothing!”

He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t react at all. Just stands there, fingering the onyx obelisk that stands on the mantle, and I know he’s thinking about stealing it.

I move toward him in halting, uncoordinated steps.

“Years of being alone, having no family, only to have you return, not because of me, but because of him.” I fling my arm in the direction John left. “For money.”

“I did you a favor,” Dad says without inflection. “You don’t need me. Truth is, you thrived once I left.”

“Not one ounce of remorse,” I go on, “not even now.”

He shakes his head. “Never felt remorse. Never felt much of anything, if I’m honest.”

His eyes are the exact shape and color of mine, but they’re flat. It hits me that I’ve always thought of them as mirrors, reflecting, never showing any depth.

He rubs a finger over his beard. “No, that’s not entirely true. I’ve always been proud of the way you learned so quickly to take care of yourself.”

I snort. “I had to. You certainly didn’t.”

“As I said, you were better o without me.”

“And yet here you are. For money.” My insides shake so hard, I have to wrap my arms around myself and hold on tight. It’s an uncomfortably familiar process. I’m always holding myself up.

“Just a drop. I’m in a pinch.” Dad moves his attention to a silver box on John’s antique co ee table. “It isn’t like this guy will miss it.”

“You’d risk destroying the closest thing I’ve had to true happiness for a ‘drop’ of money?” An ugly sound gurgles in my throat, and I swallow hard to keep from being sick.

“Come on, Stella girl. I taught you to read people better than this. There is no risk. That guy looks at you as if the sun rises and sets by your smile. You were never in danger of losing him. Made certain of that before I approached him.”

Sweet Jesus, he actually believes he’d been doing right by me. I stare at the man responsible for my existence. I’ve been wanting to find him for so long, I’d forgotten how it truly felt to be near him. He is an illusion, always was.

Nothing of my dad feels like love or security. I’m hurt and angry, but I have no more love for this man. There is nothing between us. Only the pain of finally knowing that I have no family left. I am all alone in this world.

“I want you to leave,” I say through numb lips.

He stares at me, assessing all the outcomes and possible responses. “If that’s what you want.”

“Stay away from John and anyone connected to him, or I will call the police. Understood?”

My dad’s weathered features draw tight, but he nods.

“Understood.”

We stand there in silence, neither of us moving. This is the last time I will lay eyes on him, and I find myself relieved. Hurt for what I never had, but it’s all tied up in my own feelings of abandonment. When I try to think of missing him, or wanting him back, I feel nothing.

With a small dip of his chin in acknowledgment, he sets the silver box back on the table—Jesus, when did he pick it up? Straightening, he inclines his head again. “Right. Then I’ll be o . Remember what I’ve taught you. You were alone when you were born and you’ll be alone you die.”

In other words, the only person important in this world is yourself. I’d heard that so many times from him, I’d lost count. Bitterness washes over my tongue and down my throat.

“Good-bye.” I want him gone. He has to go before I lose it.

There’s no final hug, no apology. He simply turns and walks out. As easily as he did the last time.

J OHN

I’ VE FUCKED UP . Badly. I forgot to tell Stella about her dad. I forgot. Why do I forget so many things? Important things.

Things that will be deeply hurtful to other people when I forget. Why do I do this to people?

I run a hand through my hair and pace, cursing myself.

But this isn’t about me. It’s about Stella. She’s out there with

that fucking piece-of-shit excuse for a father. I thought my parents were cold. This guy is arctic. A functioning sociopath if I had to guess.

It’s clear he has little to no empathy or thought for others. But he can turn on the charm like a switch—all flash, zero substance. I’ve met people like him all through my career. They chill me to the bone. The worst thing is they usually get away with destroying everything in their path, only keeping around people they can successfully use.

That Stella had him to rely on growing up and still glows with such life and light is a bloody miracle. I know all about being alone in a loveless household. But I’ve had my mates by my side. I might not have always fully appreciated that, but I do now. True, Stella had Hank and Corinne, but it’s clear she never fully leaned on them.

God, she’s out there hurting. Helplessness plucks at my gut. I glare at the door, wanting to slam it open and throw her dad out on his ass. Stella’s voice was rising and falling, indecipherable but clearly angry. From her dad, I’d heard nothing. Now it’s silent.

Why is it so silent?

I’m about to say fuck it and go find out when the door opens. Stella stands in the shadow of the hall, her face pale, her blue eyes glassy. “He’s gone.”

“Are you okay?” She has to be. She will be.

“I’m fine.” She doesn’t sound fine; she sounds hollow. All the light has been drained out of her pretty face.

“Baby …” I walk slowly. She’s holding herself so sti y, I’m afraid I’ll break her if I move too fast. With each step closer, she gets twitchier.

Stella licks her lips and blinks rapidly. “I want to say something first.”

“Okay.” She can say or do anything she wants; I’ll take it.

“When I was eighteen, my dad came to me with a job. He said it was easy money. All I had to do is hang on the arm of a guy he was working with and make the guy look good.”

My insides flip, sick dread filling me up.

Her eyes shine and a tear slips free, but she ignores it and stares at me unblinking. “I should have known, you know?

But I was so …” She sucks in a shaky breath. “I wanted his approval.”

“Button,” I whisper. “I know. Believe me, I know.” I’d lost count of how many times I’d hoped my parents would show any glimmer of interest in my life. Eventually, disappointment wore me down and it was easier not to care too deeply—about anything.

A humorless laugh escapes her, and she looks up at the ceiling, blinking to contain her tears. “It soon became painfully clear the guy expected me to put out. Hell, he told me my dad promised him I would.”

Sick, fucking fuck. I suck in a sharp breath and blow it out to keep from turning around and hunting him down.

“Anyway,” she says, trying to sound lighter, “I got out of there. When I came home, Dad was gone. He left me a couple thousand dollars, an apology of sorts, I guess. I never saw him again. Until now.”

It takes two steps to reach her. She’s cold and sti when I wrap my arms around her, but she doesn’t resist when I nestle her against my chest. “I’m so sorry,” I say into her silky hair. “I’m so sorry, Stella.”

She trembles and then sags into my hug, her arms slipping around my waist. “When you asked me if I was an escort, I reacted with more anger than I would have because, in a way, for one night, I had been.”

“Shit. Stella, I was a dumb ass.” I squeeze her tight. “We both know that. You think I’d shame you over sex? My pestering was never about the sex; it was just my lame way of wanting to know all about you.” Dipping my head, I find the shell of her ear with my lips. “I know you now, Stells.

You’re wonderful, perfect, exactly as you are.”

Her mu ed snort sounds dubious. “If only everyone felt that way.”

I hug her with all the tenderness and love I can, curling my body as far as I can over her smaller form as though I can somehow cover up all her hurts and take them away. I hold her until she becomes warm and soft, her breath slowing. I’ll hold her forever if that’s what she wants.

My eyes close, and I’m sinking into the feel of her when her grip on my waist tightens. “When did he first show up?”

Hell. “Right before we went flying.”

Stella jerks in my arms but doesn’t try to leave me.

I swallow a hard knot of remorse. “At first, I couldn’t believe that your dad would actually …”

“Be such a thoughtless dick?” She says it so bluntly, like he didn’t just punch a hole through her heart.

“Do that to you,” I say, pained. “I should have told you immediately. I know that. But I didn’t want to upset you and we were going out … Shit.” I hold onto her, not sure if I’m doing it for her or for myself. “It was completely selfish of

me. I should have told you. I was going to tell you afterward, but I forgot.”

She doesn’t say a word, which feels somehow worse. She should be yelling at me, but instead she’s still leaning against my chest, her fingers tracing idle patterns on my back. I swallow convulsively.

“I swear to God, Stells, I didn’t mean to forget.” Licking my dry lips, I force myself to finish. “I saw him walk toward and it all came tumbling back. I can’t believe I did that to you.”

Stella takes a step back and stares up at me without expression. With my thumb, I wipe a silvery trail of tears from her cheek, and she leans into my hand.

“You have a problem with remembering things,” she says.

“Yeah.” It’s worse when my mind is cloudy with other things. “But that doesn’t make it okay.”

Those clear, lake-blue eyes, full of hurt and regret, hold mine. “I’m guessing you beat yourself up pretty badly for it.”

When my hand goes sti and I try to draw away, she wraps her fingers around my wrist, keeping me there against her cheek. “You have a good heart, John. That counts for a lot.

Maybe I should be angry, but I can’t find it in myself to care.

Not when he …” She bites her lip hard. “He only came back for money.”

A sob breaks free, and then she crumples in my arms. I gather her up again and hold on as she cries. Stella doesn’t weep silently. She is loud, her entire body quaking. This is rage and hurt and despair. I’ve heard this sound inside my

own head, felt this type of pain many times, and it never gets easier.

She’s struggling to keep it contained, swallowing her cries down in great gulps. “I’m so angry, John. It’s stuck inside me, and I can’t get rid of it.”

I run my fingers through her sweat-dampened hair. “Use me, honey. Take it out on me.”

This stops her cold. Her face is red and swollen from tears. “No. I will never use you. That’s not the way it is between us.”

Her ferocity makes me smile. “It’s okay. I can handle it.

Besides, I want to do this for you.”

With a sigh, Stella presses her lips to the center of my chest, and her hands slide down my back as if she’s taking comfort in touching me. “I don’t know how to let go.”

But I do. I grab her hand and squeeze it. “Come with me.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

JOHN

“W HAT IS THIS PLACE ?” Stella asks as I let her into the massive loft in SoHo. She walks around, taking in the open space, the few scattered deep couches, and then sees the stage toward the back.

“Practice space.” I shut the door and the sound of silence envelops me. The loft has been designed for optimum acoustics. “There’s a couple of recording booths over there.”

I point to the glassed-in rooms where our producers will come and work now and then.

“Cool.” She glances up at me with wide, blue eyes. “What are we doing here?”

“Come on and see.” Taking her hand in mine, I lead her to the stage where all Kill John’s equipment is set up.

“You’re going to sing some songs?” An excited light illuminates her face and she kind of jumps in place. “Yes!” I give her a quick smile. “No. We’re going to do them together.”

Her happy expression falls. “What? We? No …” Laughing, she shakes her head. “I don’t know how to play any instruments. And believe me now—I can’t sing. Not even a little.”

With a hand on the small of her back, I guide her up the stage stairs. “Doesn’t matter, babe. It’s just us.”

“No, really. I can’t. As in, I sound like a cat is having sex with a cow. It’s scary.”

I laugh while turning on the mic. “That’s something I’ll never get out of my head. But I’m willing to risk worse. Now, stop making excuses.”

Stella hu s, setting her hands on her hips. “How is this supposed to make me feel better? I should be getting a bubble bath, not humiliation on a stage.”

“You’re arguing,” I deadpan, going for my Strat. “That’s a good start on the road back to Stella normal.”

A smile tugs at her lips but she’s fighting it. “God, you know how to push my buttons.”

“You are my button.” I blow her a quick kiss.

Stella laughs and flips me o . But she comes over to where I’m tuning my guitar. “I think you should just play me a song.”

“I’ll do that too.” I kiss the tip of her freckled nose. “If you’re good.”

Sticking her tongue out at me, she wanders o and flicks a cymbal on Whip’s drum kit. A tiny hiss rings out over the room.

“Go ahead and try them out,” I say.

She startles like a kid who’s been sneaking around and just got caught, and tucks her hand behind her back.

“Seriously, Stells. Whip won’t mind.”

Shooting a shy glance, she eases onto the low stool and picks up a set of sticks. Whip has stores. She gives the snare a soft tap.

I blow a raspberry. “Weak. Whale on it, babe. That’s what it wants.”

Stella makes a face but then rolls her shoulders.

“Give it your rage,” I tell her.

She starts o slow, barely making contact, but something in her snaps, and she goes at it with all the wild vigor of Animal from the Muppets. I grin at the spectacle. When she’s finished, her hair is mussed and she’s panting, but there’s a gleam in her eyes. “That was fucking awesome.”

“You weren’t half bad,” I tell her, clapping.

“I was awful.” She brushes a lock of hair back with the tip of a drumstick and smiles. “But it was fun to bang the hell out these drums. I totally get Whip now.”

“He’ll be glad to hear that.” I wave her over. “Now, get in my wheelhouse. We’re going to sing.”

Muttering about cat-cow sex, Stella stomps over, recalcitrant and leery. I nudge her with my shoulder. “Come on, it’ll be fun.”

“Or you’ll run away screaming,” she says darkly.

“Have I told you how much it turns me on when you’re grumpy?”

“No. But you’re a twisted individual, so I’m not surprised.” She rests her head on my biceps and looks up at me through long, red lashes. “What are we singing?”

“Whenever I want to feel safe or melancholy, I do a Beatles song. If I want to tell the world to fuck o , I go with

Nirvana.”

Stella watches me. “Why those two?”

“My mum barely listed to music, but she loved the Beatles. It reminds me of being a child and seeing her smile.”

Stella moves closer, lending me her heat. “You never talk much about your mom.”

I shrug. “There isn’t much to say anymore. I grew up, and she didn’t like the man I became. Thing is, I realized I didn’t much like the woman she was either, so …” I shrug again.

“My family now is one of my choosing. And I’m all right with that.”

Slowly, she nods. “And Nirvana?”

My smile is easy. “Kurt is my idol. He was gone by the time I discovered Nirvana, but I still felt close to him.”

“You have a lot in common,” she says softly.

Except I survived and he didn’t. My hand grips the neck of the Strat hard enough to bite into my skin.

Stella kisses the curve of my biceps. “I meant the way you both love music and don’t seem to care about the establishment.”

“Well …” I quirk my lips, “there is that too.”

She sets her shoulders straight and a look of determination fills her eyes. “Nirvana, then.”

It hurts to know she needs to scream at the world right now. I still want to hunt down that asshat of a father and pound him into the pavement. But Stella needs me more.

I practice a few chords. The guitar is tuned perfectly now.

“You know ‘Heart-Shaped Box’?”

“Yeah, but not enough to get all the lyrics right.”

“How about the refrain?”

Her nose wrinkles in concentration. “You mean the, ‘Hey, Wayne, I got a new complaint’ part? Sure.”

“It’s, ‘Hey, wait’ but, close enough.” I play the opening, and she jumps a little when the sound of my guitar rolls rich and strong around the loft. “I’ll sing the main verses, and we’ll both do the refrain. Good?”

Looking nervous but excited, she nods. I feel myself growing lighter, surer of every move. That’s what music does to me; I’m hoping it does something pure for her too.

“Really bring it. Yell into the mic. It’s just for us here.”

I begin to sing, and Stella squeals, tugging the bottom of my shirt in happiness. Her antics have me laughing through part of the lyrics, which only makes her laugh along too.

Nearing the refrain, I smile down at her and wag my brows in encouragement. She takes a deep breath and then lets loose.

She wasn’t exaggerating—she can’t sing. At all. Oh, but the way she gives into the song, her curvy body shaking with energy, is a beautiful sight. I love singing with her, watching her get into it. When I get to the power solo, Stella jumps o the stage and dances around, her arms wide, body spinning.

Her joy flows into me and feeds the music. I’ve had this heady rush many times, performing for thousands and hearing them scream for me. But this is something more. I didn’t know those people; they were faceless masses. Stella is my everything. To perform for her is a gift I never knew I wanted or needed.

The song ends and blends into another. For the first time, I play her my songs, sing my lyrics, sticking to the fast-

paced ones so she can keep dancing. When I get to “Apathy,” she whirls around, singing along o -key and with her entire heart. She’s still wearing the blue dress she put on for dinner and the skirt flows around her thighs, flipping up here and there to show teasing glimpses of her pink panties.

I’ve had bras thrown my way, women flash me at concerts. None of that motivated me as much as hoping to catch another peek of Stella’s sweet butt.

She sways her hips—those rounded hips I fell for the moment she stole a kiss and changed my world—when our eyes meet. My fingers trip over the strings, my voice fading.

Somehow, we both stop at the same time. Stella’s breasts rise and fall with each panting breath.

My body hums, sweat slick on my skin. She’s flushed pink, dampness making her hair darker along her temples.

The tip of her tongue flicks out to lick her lower lip. That’s all it takes to make me hard. Not breaking eye contact, I slip the guitar strap over my head and slowly lower my Strat to its stand.

Stella’s gaze goes hot and hazy. “Take the shirt o .”

My abs clench with sweet pain, as I reach behind my head and grab a handful of shirt before pulling it o . She sways as if I’ve made her weak-kneed and agitated. Heat flares over my skin, my breath growing faster.

It halts altogether when Stella slips her dress o her shoulders and shimmies it to the floor. Her bra flies free next. I groan low and deep at the sight of those rosy nipples all tight and needy.

Her voice is thick with demand. “Get over here, Jax Blackwood.”

In this moment, I am Jax, and he wants to play. Hopping o the stage, I come for her. The satin of her skin slides against my bare chest as I grab hold of her peachy ass and haul her up in my arms. Her mouth is hot and open, her strong thighs clenched around my waist. I feel her kiss behind my knees, around the tip of my cock, which wants in.

Everything gets a bit frenzied. We find the sofa, falling back onto the cool leather, Stella’s soft body on top of mine. I need her. Skin to skin, mouth to mouth. She is air and water and life. I wrap my arms around her slim back and tug her closer even as she’s sliding her tongue deeper, tasting me with impatient licks.

Her little silk panties tear under my grip, and I groan at the wet slide of her sex on my lower abs. Stella reaches between us and yanks at the button of my jeans, then I’m lifting my hips, both of us wriggling to get me free. Her mouth, though, I can’t leave her juicy mouth. Pure lust shoots hot and wild down my spine as she finally, finally, grips my cock.

And then she’s sinking down, gripping me so hot, wet, and tight with her little cunny. I thrust up, bouncing her on my hips, and she undulates, working me how she wants, using me for her pleasure. I love it, love the way her sweet tips jiggle and sway, the plump firmness of her ass in my hands.

She works me faster and faster, her hips snapping. She arches her back, tilting her head to the side, her eyes closed as she concentrates. I’ve never seen anything more beautiful.

As though she can hear my thoughts, her eyes open and meet mine. Soft lips part as she leans down, wrapping

herself around me. I capture those lips and kiss her like I’m dying. We’re moving with disjointed jerks and thrusts, all sensation and no finesse. She feels so good, so slick and hot.

I’m not going to last.

“Are you close?” I pant into her mouth. “Tell me what you need.”

But she only moans, her brows furrowing as she grinds on my cock. With a hand that shakes, I fumble in between us and press my thumb on her swollen clit—hard, just the way she likes it—and she detonates, wailing, her body going loose and helpless. Stella falls into her orgasm, letting it take her, leaving me to handle her body with perfect trust.

The sight of her undone, the rhythmic pulse of her clenching around my cock, has me coming so hard, I forget where I am, who I am. There is only pleasure, and Stella.

Always Stella.

I come back to myself in a daze. Stella lays on me, slick and panting, boneless with her release. It takes all my energy to lift my hand and run it through her hair. “If that’s what performing for you gets me,” I tell her on a rasp, “I’ll do it every damn day for the rest of our lives.”

She gives a thready chuckle. “Deal.”

Stella shifts a little and wetness spreads over my thighs.

We both sti en, and Stella lifts her head. I don’t know how to fully read her look. It isn’t horrified but definitely shocked.

“We forgot a condom,” I say quietly.

A guilty half laugh escapes her, even as she flushes deep pink. “I didn’t even think about it.”

My smile is wry, and I tuck a lock of hair back from her cheek. “I didn’t either. That’s … I’ve never done that.” Ever.

That protection didn’t even cross my mind is a definite first.

Stella rests her head against my shoulder. “Well, we know we’re clean. I’m on birth control, so …” She trails o .

I’m still inside her, my dick slowly going soft. Now that I know I’m not wearing a condom, my dick stirs with renewed interest. It wants to try that again, slowly, take some time to learn her anew. I tell my dick to shut up.

“Does this mean we can … ah … not use …” I trail o . Shit, I’m such a pig.

Stella looks up at me, hesitant but not pissed. At least not yet. “Do you want to?”

We’re both tiptoeing around the words, neither of us apparently knowing how to just say it. I’ve never had this conversation before. Never wanted to. It feels significant, though. It’s not about the condom—not really—but the fact that we’re discussing how we want to protect ourselves on a more permanent basis.

I press my lips to her head. Of course we’re permanent.

I’m totally gone for Stella. “Babe, whatever you want is what we’ll do.”

She wiggles her hip, just enough to make me grunt.

There’s a smile in her voice. “I like this. Not having to stop.”

Damn, I like it too. “Then I’ll fuck you without pause from now on,” I tease.

She laughs, and the sound lightens my world.

“Feel better now?” I ask, more seriously.

A sigh leaves her. It’s relaxed and slow. Her hands slide up my sides, leaving shivers in their wake. “Yes. Thank you,

John. For taking care of me.”

My throat thickens. “I didn’t do much.”

Blue eyes hold mine. “You did everything that matters.”

We stare at each other. She looks at me with such trust and tenderness that my heart starts to hurt. I want to pull her into me and hide her away from the world, from anything that could ever hurt her. But I know that won’t work. We can’t protect the ones we love; we can only let them know we’ll be there to pick them up when they fall.

The silence between us grows. It isn’t awkward, but filled with something fragile yet heavy. Another shift has rearranged our world, another wall crumbling. Maybe it’s too much for Stella. She turns her head and kisses the crook of my neck, her smile turning coy and teasing. “But maybe we should make sure …”

She doesn’t have to say any more. I roll her onto the couch and thrust. Stella’s laugher turns into another satisfied sigh. This round, I take my time.

S TELLA

J OHN TAKES ME HOME , gives me a bath—curling himself around me as he carefully washes my hair—then takes me to bed.

We stay there all the next day, lazing around, indulging in each other. It’s a strange thing, being naked all the time, moving through time in a haze of lust and sex. My body feels

di erent now, hypersensitive yet full and soft and languid.

I’m aware of every inch of myself, of him.

God, his body. It’s delicious, solid and tight and warm. I can’t stop touching him. I don’t need to try. The setting sunlight shafts over the bed in golden bands as he reaches for me again. With self-assured ease, he pulls me under him, his mouth finding mine. He hums in appreciation against my lips as he settles between my thighs.

He’s my addiction of choice, making me slowly lose all sense of everything else. There is only him. The press of his hard body against mine, the way he moves against me—a slow rock of his lean hips—is so good, so decadent, I shiver.

His erection feels almost heavy as it slides hot and hard over my sex. It will take so little for him to edge back and thrust in. We both know it.

But John studies my face, his eyes taking in every detail.

He’s so close, I see the faint scar under his eye, another at the lower corner of his lip. Old, faded marks that tell a story of his life. With a soft touch, he eases a lock of hair away from my cheek.

“John …” I wiggle just a bit, press my sore breasts against his hard chest. “Slide in.” I need it.

A small smile lifts the corners of his mouth. “No.” “What do you mean, no?” God, I’m so hot. I’m shaking with it now.

“You heard me.” He brushes his lips over mine, a tease.

“No.” The round head of his cock kisses my opening before drifting away, and I arch, tight and shivery. “You’re killing me.”

“Good.” All smugness and rocking hips.

“Good?” I glare up at him but can’t hold it, not when I’m panting, not when I’m so empty. “You’re glad that you are torturing me with sex?”

“Mmm …” He ducks his head and slowly licks my nipple.

“Proud, even.”

“Sicko. God, do that some more.”

“Shhh …” His teeth nip my breast. “Accept your torture like a good girl, will you?”

“I’m not sure I like you anymore.” My fingers slide through his soft hair, playing with the ends as he suckles just enough to let me feel the heat of his tongue.

I feel his evil smile. “Sure you do.” He kisses his way over to the other breast as his cock grinds against my clit. “Of course, if you really object, you could push me o and take care of business on your own.”

It would serve him right if I did. But he’s too good, and he knows it. Even so, I grab a handful of his hair and gently tug him up. Green eyes find mine. They’re slightly unfocused, slumberous. And I know he’s as a ected as I am.

“I’d rather you polish my pearl.” I wiggle my brows.

“Canoodle with my kitty.”

A laugh trips from his lips, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “I love you.”

He says it so simply, so easily, like it burst forth with utter purity. Yet his body jerks, his eyes going wide.

Everything halts, the words hanging between us, this living, breathing thing that takes hold of my heart and grips it tight.

He doesn’t speak, but looks at me, his gaze darting over my face as if to gauge my reaction. In truth, he appears slightly

horrified. We’re pressed so tightly together I feel every frantic thud of his heart.

“You didn’t mean to say that, did you?” I whisper.

“No.” The confession is a thread of sound.

But I wince as though he’d shouted and duck my head so I don’t have to face him. But he reaches out and cups my cheek, gently lifting my chin. Solemn green eyes hold mine.

“But I do.”

Heat prickles over my skin. I can’t breathe. “You love me?”

He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blink. “Yeah. For a while now.”

I try to believe it, but I’m afraid to. “You said you wouldn’t fall in love.”

John’s lips curl wryly as his thumb slowly caresses the corner of my mouth. “Stella Button, the moment you ripped that ice cream out of my hand, you knocked me o -balance.

All I could do was fall.”

Hope swells within me, surging up like a warm wave. I touch the crest of his cheek, the edge of his jaw, just to feel him. My throat threatens to close in on me. “I love you too.”

John sucks in a sharp breath through his nose, his exhale just as swift but shaking. “I was kind of hoping you did.” His smile is tremulous. “Never been in love.”

I see the uncertainty in his eyes, the fear. It matches my own. “Me either.”

His smile grows stronger. “I didn’t think it would feel this good.” A laugh trips out of him. “Or this terrifying.”

My answering grin is so wide I feel it in my cheeks. “I thought I was the only one.”

John hums deep within his throat and ducks his head to kiss his way down my neck. “I’m with you, Button. Whatever happens, I’m always with you.” He places a soft kiss on the tip of my nipple before leering up at me. “Now spread those thighs wider and let me fuck you right.”

“So romantic.” But I do as he asks, and he does me right.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

JOHN

“B ABY .” Stella nudges my arm that’s curled around her waist, pulling me out of a deep sleep. “The door.”

I’m spooned against her succulent little body so close that we’ve melded, and I don’t want to move. How did I ever sleep without her? My hand cups a full breast and the bead of her nipple hardens against my palm. “Mmm. You want more?” I give her a squeeze. “I can give you more.”

“Not more. Door.”

A grunt leaves me as she wiggles her ass, jostling my dick.

“You want back door, babe?” I nudge her with now horny and seriously interested dick. “I’m willing if you are.”

Her voice lightens with humor. “Someone is knocking on the front door, you perv.”

The sound of knocking finally registers, and I lift my head to scowl. We’ve been staying at Killian’s place to keep Stevens company, since the hellcat refuses to enter my apartment. Stella claims it’s because he doesn’t like me. I’m no longer buying that since the fur ball is currently perched

on my hip like he’s claimed himself king of the bed. His yellow eyes narrow with a look of disdain as another knock rings out. Apparently, he’s not amused at being disturbed either.

I run a hand over my morning scru . “Who the hell knocks on the door at …” A glance at the clock has my frown growing. “Nine in the morning? No one I know would visit this early and expect to live.”

She laughs, all warm and husky from sleep. Her hair is a wild nimbus around her face as she turns and smiles up at me from her spot on the pillow. “Hey, I’m just the pet sitter.

It’s probably someone looking for Killian?”

“Whoever it is, they aren’t going to like me.” Dislodging the cat, who yowls his annoyance, I reach for my sweats and haul them on. My dick tents out the front and, with a grimace, I tuck it against the waistband. “I was about to get some.”

Stella snorts with amusement. “Sure you were, big guy.”

I grab a shirt as I walk toward the bedroom door, but pause at the threshold to look back. Stella lies twisted in the gray sheet, not bothering to hide her breasts—those perfect, plump tits with nipples now perked up like ripe berries. My dick throbs in protest. I empathize. “Oh, babe, I’ll get some and give it back with interest, and you’ll love it.”

Her gaze lowers to my hard-on, and she hums low in her throat. Damn, it sounds like a purr. “If you get rid of whoever it is fast enough, we can talk about that whole back-door suggestion.”

Heat licks up my spine, and I almost crawl back into bed.

Gripping the doorframe to keep from doing just that, I give

her a long look. “Have I mentioned today how much I love you? Like really, really love you. Enough to get on my knees behind you and …”

She laughs and chucks a pillow my way. “Men. Hint at o ering up some ass and look how willing you are to get on your knees.”

Grinning, I pull on my shirt. “You already have me on my knees, Stella Button. Giving me some of that fine ass only sweetens the deal.” I blow her a kiss and head to the front door. Truth is, I don’t need anything more than what she’s given me to be completely content.

Then again, the thought of her peach ass … I shake my head and focus. A peek through the keyhole has me pausing.

I don’t know the guy standing on the other side, but he doesn’t look like a stalker fan. More like an accountant.

Shorter than me, with dark curly hair and wearing thin gold wire-rimmed glasses, he’s also dressed in a bland gray suit on a Sunday—and he’s clutching a small jewelry box.

Hell, maybe he’s one of Stella’s clients coming to profess his love for her.

I open the door with a little more force than necessary.

“Can I help you?”

The man blinks as though he’s forgotten why he’s here, and I notice his eyes are red and pu y.

“I’m looking for Jax Blackwood. I believe he lives in one of the penthouses but I wasn’t certain which one.”

The hell?

“I’m Jax,” I say, glancing at the box in his hand, then back to his face. This is getting weird, and the part of me who has been groomed to be leery of all strangers wants to

back away and shut the door. But there’s a sadness to the guy that makes me unsure. Behind me, I hear Stella coming down the stairs, and a feeling of protectiveness hits me so hard, I nearly jolt. My hackles rise, and I brace my feet, put my body between her and the stranger at the door.

The guy doesn’t seem to notice her, though, and pulls himself straighter. “Oh, good. I’m Leo, Madeline’s son.”

“Maddy?” I say, as Stella stops at my side. “Is she okay?”

Every pained line of Leo’s face tells me she’s not.

Leo swallows thickly. “Mom passed away last week.”

The room tilts. Stella grips my elbow.

“I’m …” I clear my throat. “I’m so sorry to hear that.” I step back and gesture for him to come in. Leo follows me into the living room and sits at the edge of a chair.

“Would you like some co ee?” Stella asks him. She’s pale and shaken, but her attention darts to me, assessing how upset I am.

“No, thank you.”

She perches on the arm of the couch, her body leaning into mine. Her hand settles at my nape, holding on lightly. I don’t know if the touch is for me or for her, but I appreciate it all the same.

Leo pushes his glasses back up the bridge of his nose.

“Mom spoke highly of you. She said you would make her dinner from time to time.”

“Yeah. Sometimes.” But not enough. Jesus, when had I last talked to Maddy? I cringe. It had been the night of the blizzard. Then I’d gotten Stella in my sights, and the last thing I thought of doing was visiting my neighbor. Guilt

lands in my gut with a resounding thud. “Your mom was something special.”

Leo smiles tightly. “Yes, she was.” He sets the box on the co ee table and slides it toward me. “Mom wanted you to have this.”

“She did?” I eye the box, hesitant to open it. That will mean she’s really gone.

But Leo is waiting. My fingers tremble as I lift the lid.

Inside is a vintage men’s Rolex wristwatch with a cream face and gold casing. The black leather band is worn thin on the sides from years of use, and I know it belonged to Maddy’s husband, Leo’s father. With a heavy breath, I set the box back down. “Thank you, but I can’t take this. It’s too … It belongs in your family.”

Leo shakes his head, suddenly adamant. “If Mom wanted you to have this, then it belongs with you.” His expression turns fond. “You knew my mother. What she wanted, she got.”

I laugh, but it’s weak and pained. “She terrified me half the time.”

All that determined vitality is gone. Just like that.

“That was Mom for you.” He straightens. “Please take it with my blessing.”

“How do you know she wanted me to have this?” My hands fist on my thighs. “Did she speak of me before …?”

Shit, I’m going to lose it. Maddy was a friend. More importantly, she was there for me in a way few were. I felt safe confiding in her because she was apart from all other aspects of my life. And now she’s gone.

“No,” Leo says. “She left a note—”

“A note,” I cut in sharply, something horrible and cold slashing through me. “Did she … Tell me she didn’t …” Jesus, no. She can’t … I stand abruptly, moving away from the table.

Leo’s confused expression suddenly clears. “No, no. It was a heart attack. She went in her sleep while at our vacation house in Boca.”

I stop short, relief flooding over me like cool water. “You said a note …”

“I’m sorry, I’m not explaining well,” he says with a sad smile in Stella’s direction, probably because I look like a madman right now. He straightens in his seat. “Mom was all about lists. She has—had—books filled with them, from house accounts to future plans. Last year, she had a minor heart attack. After that, she started lists, cataloguing what she wanted to leave to whom and why.”

He digs in his suit pocket and pulls out a folded paper. “I copied this down.” He adjusts his glasses and reads, “Jax gets the ’69 Rolex. He’ll like that number, and he needs to know that the one thing we can’t hold back is time.”

I flush hard, then a laugh breaks free, bittersweet and aching in my chest. “Oh, hell, I’m going to miss her.”

“I am too.” Leo’s eyes gloss over before he blinks rapidly and stands. “I have to get going.”

A weird sense of panic skitters over my skin and creeps into my insides. I want him gone. I want to be alone in the quiet of my bed. The level of pain I feel for the loss of a friend I barely saw staggers me. What if this had been Scottie coming to tell me Killian was gone? Or Stella?

Undiluted terror sucks at my soul so hard, my head reels.

Unless I go first, that day will eventually come. I’ll lose them all. Maddy was right about time—eventually everyone’s time is up. Sweat trickles down my back as my throat closes. I frown, trying to focus. Leo is talking to me, his voice mu ed through the buzzing in my ears.

“If I could trouble you for one more thing—do you know of a Stella who lives in the building? Mom didn’t have a last name or apartment number.”

Stella jumps in her seat as if pinched. “I’m Stella.”

“Oh!” He actually blushes, which doesn’t fit his buttoned-up look at all. But how can he not fall under Stella’s spell? She’s a glowing light in the darkest of nights.

He reaches out to shake her hand. “How do you do? Mom left something for you as well.”

“What?” Shock has her clutching my arm, her eyes round.

“But we only had lunch together once.”

“Well,” Leo says with a wry note, “you must have made a big impression. I actually have it in the hall.” He gets up, and we follow him to the door. Leo returns with a big red handbag that makes Stella gasp. “I thought it might be odd for me to ring the bell while wearing a purse, so …”

He shrugs with a small laugh and hands the bag to Stella.

She takes it with reverence, her hand smoothing over the nubby leather surface.

“Oh, wow. The Birkin.” Stella licks her lips, her eyes tearing up. “Just wow.”

“Mom’s notation for this one said every woman should have a fabulous handbag, and that this would clash wonderfully with your hair.” Leo eyes Stella bright curls with

something close to confusion. “I’m not sure what she meant by that.”

Stella smiles, clearly not o ended. “But I do. And she was right.” She leans in and gives Leo a hug, which he accepts after faltering for a second. A sigh shudders out of him, as though a simple hug is something he’s been needing, before he pulls himself together and steps back.

“When is the funeral?” I ask. I don’t want to go. I don’t want to look death in the face and know it’s waiting for everyone I love. But I’ll do it for Maddy.

Leo’s expression falls and he rubs the back of his and shoots a glance at the door. “By Jewish law, we try to bury our dead within twenty-four hours of death.”

Right. It’s been a week. A week she’s been dead and buried and I hadn’t a clue or thought for her in all that time.

Swallowing back the nausea, I say good-bye to Maddy’s son.

I’m not really following the conversation, though, but simply going through the motions until I can be alone.

As soon as Leo is gone, Stella turns to me and hugs me close.

“I’m so sad,” she says. “I really liked Mrs. Goldman.”

Staring into the distance, I rub slow circles over Stella’s back. “I did too.”

She nods and a little shudder works over her frame. “I’ll miss her so much. But I can’t help thinking that she’s finally with her Jerry.”

My absent-minded petting halts. “Maddy told you about Jerry?”

“At that lunch. She loved him so much. I think it really tore her up that he’d gone where she couldn’t follow.”

Without a doubt, I know Stella is saying this to comfort both me and herself. It is a comfort imagining Maddy with Jerry. Or it would be if my mind stuck on that, but it twists and turns with cold fear. I think of Maddy’s pain. So many years of su ering alone because she lost the one she loved the most. Every time I visited Maddy, I saw the wistfulness in her eyes, noticed the way she turned every conversation back to her beloved husband. How did she do it? How did she go on after her other half had died?

I feel sick down to my brittle bones and terrified heart.

Everything ends. Love dies. In the end, I’ll be alone, and there isn’t a thing I can do to stop it.

Stella lifts her head to meet my eyes. “You okay?”

“Yeah. I’m fine.”

It’s a lie, though. The walls are closing in on me, shadows swarming on the edges of my mind. I know those shadows, this feeling. For years, I’ve tried to repress this fear when it arrives, but I’ve never been able to fully holster it. And for the first time in a long while, I’m scared. Because nothing good ever comes when I lose control.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

JOHN

I’ M FREEZING . There’s a nasty beast sitting on my chest, digging its claws in deep. Ripping, pushing, relentless. Sweat slides down my skin. Can’t stop shivering. Everything is black and spinning. I want to shout out, but I can’t speak. I can barely breathe. It’s too heavy. Too much.

I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. The words circle around the drain, swirling and falling. I can’t get them out.

I don’t want this. I never wanted this.

Acid burns my throat, coats the back of my tongue with bitter regret.

I never really wanted this. Not this.

Loneliness is agony. Sobs well up but there’s no strength in me to set them free.

And a hand, warm and big on my shoulder. Human.

Familiar.

“Jax! Oh, shit. Jax.” The hand shakes me, arms pull me close. “Fuck, no. John. John!”

Killian. He’s screaming for me. Screaming at me. I can’t let him down. I can’t hurt him. But it’s so hard to open my eyes. I’m tired of everything being so hard. I’m slipping …

My eyes snap open with my gasp. Naked and bathed in sweat, I’m in my bed. I suck in several deep breaths, trying to get hold of my panic. Beside me, Stella is warm and soft and sleeping. She looks like peace and happiness. Everything within me yearns to fall back and wrap myself around her.

Hold on tight and never let go.

She’ll know you’re scared and panicking again. What woman wants that in a man? You should be strong for her. She’ll be your new crutch. She can’t fix you.

Clutching the sides of my head, I try to squeeze the thoughts out. But they keep circling that drain. Always circling. Always there.

Can’t breathe.

Maddy is dead.

One day, Stella will be dead too.

Bile surges up my throat. Scrambling, I rush to the bathroom and barely make it on time. And it feels as though everything I am is being purged. I’m losing myself again. All that’s left is an empty hole.

I hate this. I hate finding myself on the floor, a shell of what I was. Or maybe that’s what I really am—a shell that I’m desperately trying to fill up with something good and pure. But it doesn’t work. Not for long. And I’m back to being that empty vessel.

I haven’t been here, huddled on the bathroom floor, for a while. Not since that dark day. Now I’m back, and I know what caused it.

Stella.

Loving Stella.

I’ll fuck it up eventually. One way or another, she’ll leave.

And there will be no coming back from it. She’ll argue that.

She’ll want to fix me. But she can’t. I don’t want her to. I don’t want her seeing me as broken.

God, I need to get away. Go back to how things were.

Numb. I need to be numb again.

S TELLA

S OMETHING IS WRONG . Something is very wrong. Strange how I know that before I’m fully awake. I feel it in my bones, in the heavy dread that weighs down my insides. Blinking the sleep out of my eyes, I find myself alone in bed, John’s side rumpled and empty.

In a weird fog, I pull on his discarded T-shirt and my lounge pants. The room is dim, the drapes still drawn, but the clock says it’s almost noon.

“John?”

He isn’t in the bathroom.

“Babe?” My steps shu e as I head out of the bedroom and into the hall. The loft is quiet. Too quiet.

I won’t panic; it won’t help and it feels disloyal to worry. I find him in the music room, huddled between a row of guitars. Wearing a pair of sweats and nothing else, he’s

curled in on himself, his back pressed against the wall. He doesn’t look up when I draw near.

“Baby?” I kneel next to him. “What’s going on?”

His arm is cold and clammy, and he flinches at my touch.

He looks right at me, but his focus is o , like his thoughts have fled elsewhere.

“John.” I rest my hand on his arm. “Baby, look at me.”

His eyes finally meet mine. There’s so much pain reflected back at me. Pain and panic.

“Take a deep breath,” I tell him. John simply stares, panting and wide-eyed, and I stroke his arm. “For me?”

Slowly, he draws in a breath, then lets it out. He keeps doing it, slowly in and out, as I hold onto his hand.

“Is there anyone you want me to call?” I ask when his color returns a little.

“No.” His fingers clench and unclench. “There is no one.”

God, his hair is damp with sweat. He shivers a little before tensing. There’s a throw on the armchair, and I grab it to wrap around John’s shoulders. He lets me. Then again, he doesn’t seem to notice what I’m doing.

“I don’t like this.” The tone of his voice is so hollow, he doesn’t sound like himself.

“What don’t you like?” I ask softly.

His gaze slides away.

“This,” he says through clenched teeth. “I don’t like this … feeling.”

“What are you feeling?”

“No,” he shakes his head. “I don’t like feeling.”

“John.” I stroke his arm. “You’re not making sense. Let me call your doctor—”

“Don’t touch me.” With a snarl, he shakes o my hand. I can only gape, my heart pounding hard and fast as he glares.

“Don’t. Patronize. Me.” “I’m not.” My butt hits the ground as he stands and stalks away. “I’m just trying to help.”

“I don’t need help,” he snaps, pacing. “I’m not a project.”

I stand too. “I never said you were. But something is obviously upsetting you, and I want to …”

“Help?” he cuts in dryly.

Heat swamps my chest and runs over my cheeks. “What’s wrong with helping? What would you do if you found me curled up on the floor? Ignore it?”

“But I wouldn’t find you like that.” He runs a hand through his damp hair and then flings his arm wide. “You wouldn’t have a panic attack after having a dream.”

“I might. Depends on the dream.”

John doesn’t reply but folds in on himself, his body so tense he trembles.

“Have you gone to see Dr. Allen lately?”

He snorts. For a second, I don’t recognize him; he’s too full of anger and disdain—for me.

“You know damn well I haven’t,” he bites out. “When I’ve spent every minute I have with you.”

My back snaps straight. “Don’t you dare imply that not going to therapy is somehow my fault. I would never get in the way of that. Ever.”

John’s shoulders sag, and he grips the ends of his hair. “I know that. I didn’t mean … No, all right? I forgot. But I really don’t need to be reminded about how I fucked that up too.”

“I’m not …” I take a breath. Calm. Don’t push. “Are you okay now?” I want to hold him but don’t dare when he’s like this.

He looks away. “I’m fine.”

“John—” “Fuck it,” he shouts, turning on me with wild eyes. “I’m not fine. I’m fucked up. And there’s not a thing you can do about it.”

I don’t know what to say or do. Horribly, I want to cry, but I can’t. Pride won’t let me. But he sees right through me.

His jaw bunches and he runs a hand over his face. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done this.”

He’s glaring a hole through the floorboards and rolling his shoulders like he’s mentally trying to shrug something o . I’m starting to fear that I’m what he wants gone.

“Done what?” I ask, not wanting to hear the answer but needing it.

John lifts his head then. “This.” He waves a hand between us. “Trying for an us.”

Us. Like we’re something toxic and wrong. It hits me with the force of a swung bat.

I clutch my middle, recoiling. “John, don’t …”

He doesn’t listen. “I made a mistake. I should have known better.”

The room becomes a blur as I blink rapidly, hearing him talk through a haze of rejection.

“Do you understand?” he asks, past the buzzing in my ears. “Being with you leaves me wide open. Everything feels like more. I have so much more to lose.”

“You think I don’t understand that?” I rasp. “You think it wasn’t hard for me to let you in? Well, it was. It still is. But I feel more joy too.”

He winces. “I do too. But I can’t handle the pain, the fear.

The thought of losing you, the possibility of answering a knock on the door and finding out it’s you who is dead …

No.” He blows out a breath, running his hand through his sweaty hair. “I just got to a point where I can cope with dayto-day life. It might not have been all that fun, but I could deal.”

A pulse throbs at the base of my throat and pounds in my temples. My fingers shake when I touch that erratic beat along my neck. Oddly, I half expected to find it slick with blood because John’s words keep slicing me open.

“Don’t do this to us. Don’t push me away.” I wonder if he’s truly listening. He keeps pacing with agitated movement. I know he’s not in the right headspace, but it doesn’t stop the pain. Because, regardless of what he’s feeling, his first instinct is to run from me.

“I cannot chase you,” I say woodenly. God, the pain keeps growing. The hurt. “I’ve chased down people who were supposed to love me all my life. I can’t do that anymore.” A fist of feeling lodges itself behind my breastbone, and I swallow hard. “I shouldn’t have to.”

He stops then and looks at me, looks through me. His expression is set and distant. “That’s my point. You shouldn’t have to deal with this, with me.”

“I don’t know how to make you see how wrong you are,” I whisper.

“Because I’m not wrong.” He presses the tips of his fingers against his eyes and takes a deep breath that lifts his chest. I can only watch as he settles down into his conviction and holds on tight. When he looks at me again, all traces of the man who said he loved me is gone. “It’s better this way.

You deserve someone who can take care of you, and I need to be alone.”

Alone. Seems we’re both destined to be.

“So you think it’s safer to cut me loose now?” Anger rises, thrusting my words out. “Then you can just go back to dealing? Is that it?” I won’t cry. No. I won’t cry.

John turns his back to me. “I’m sorry, Stella. In time, you’ll thank me.”

I snort, bitter and so hurt, it’s choking me. But I don’t say anything. There’s nothing to say to a man who has made up his mind and can’t see a better way.

I want to fight him, though. Even now, when he’s kicked my feet out from under me and left me bleeding on the inside, I want to fight for him, for us. But I can’t be the only person in the ring. And it doesn’t matter, because he’s already gone.

The door quietly shutting is a lash over my skin. I flinch and sink to my knees as the silence settles in.

Breathe. Just breathe.

But I can’t. My chest has collapsed into my heart.

Everything hurts.

Breathe!

My chest hitches, as a sob breaks free. No. I won’t let it go. I won’t cry.

Pressing my fist into my sternum, I rise. It takes work, but I pull in one breath, then another. Slowly, so very slowly, the pain turns into numbness. I can feel it spreading through my body, heavy and solid.

Stevens lets out a plaintive meow, his silky body sliding around my shins. I don’t have the strength to lean down and pet him. Not yet.

The apartment is so silent, my ears ring. I should move, do … something. But what? I don’t know how to begin again.

Dully, I look around, trying to find something that might give me a hint on how to start. Every inch of this place is beautiful, perfect. Not a single piece of it is mine. I don’t belong here.

John doesn’t want me.

Another sob bursts to the surface, and I thump hard on my chest. Enough.

But I can’t stop thinking about him. Despite all my pain, there had been agony in his eyes. The fact that I can no longer comfort him kills me. He might not want me, but I can’t turn my love for him o so easily. He is hurting and he needs someone.

My hand shakes as I pour myself a glass of water and gulp it down. Then I pick up my phone and make the call.

When I hear the deep “Hello?” on the other end of the line, I almost hang up. But I grit my teeth and talk.

“Hey, this is Stella. Your pet sitter.”

There’s a beat of silence, then Killian James talks. “Hey, Stella. Is everything all right?”

Tears prickle behind my lids, and I blink them back.

“Your pets are fine. This is about John—Jax.”

“Jax? Did something happen?” The strain in his voice is clear. “Is he hurt?”

“No. I’m sorry I scared you.” I clear my throat. “No, I’m calling because I want to talk to you about John.”

I can practically feel him recoiling through the line.

“I’ve heard you two have been hanging out,” he says, slightly strained, and definitely guarded. “I don’t know what you have to say, but I’m not comfortable talking about—” “And I’m not comfortable calling you,” I cut in. “But that’s just too bad, because this isn’t about your feelings or mine. As far as I can tell, you are the closest thing John has to a brother.”

“I am,” Killian says tightly.

“Then get your ass home and be here for him.”

Killian makes a strangled noise in his throat. “What the fuck is going on?”

“We broke up,” I blurt out, then wince. Because that’s not what I want to say.

From the way Killian sounds, he clearly thinks I’m calling to whine. “Er … Okay, I think I should stop you right there —” “This isn’t about me. I’m not trying to gain any points here. It’s over. But John needs a friend now. No,” I amend, “he needs you. Out of all the guys, he needs you here.”

Killian is silent for a beat. “You two broke up but you’re worried about him?”

My smile is bitter, but he can’t see it. “I realize I probably sound slightly crazed right now.”

Killian grunts.

“John has been walking on eggshells around you guys.

For two years. And that’s not okay. So, please, just come home.” I take a ragged breath. “Come home so I can leave knowing he’s … okay.”

I can feel the building pressure behind my eyes. Another few minutes and I won’t be able to hold it all in.

When Killian finally speaks, his voice is unbearably soft.

“Why did you guys break up?”

The room before me blurs. I bite the inside of my lip so hard it hurts. “Because I wasn’t what he needed.”

“Somehow,” Killian says, “I doubt that, Stella.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

STELLA

I WANT TO GO FLYING . I want to go so badly, a small, childlike whine leaks from my lips. In the cozy cockpit of my plane that smells of metal and heat and AV gas, I will be safe, free.

I am competent up there in the thin blue sky and wispy clouds. No one can hurt me up there. Only myself. Because flying while this emotional is just asking to die. Besides, Hank would take one look at me and know I’m done in. He’s want to know why, and my pride cannot manage anymore battering.

So I’m instead I’m waiting for the cab I called, dying a little inside with each passing minute. A massive white SUV with tinted windows pulls up in front of me. I recognize Bruce driving, and for a painful, tight moment, I think it must be John in the back of the car. He’s come to apologize, to tell me he was wrong. But even as the thought begins to crystallize, I shatter it. I’m not going to hope.

The back door opens, and the tiny shards of hope I hadn’t crushed turn to dust. Brenna smiles at me, the expression a

bit strained but obviously trying not to be.

“Come on. Get in,” she says, waving me over.

“Is this an abduction?” I’m surprised I can even talk past the lump in my throat.

“Yes,” Brenna says, “of the friendly kind.”

Since I can’t very well take o down the road and keep my floundering dignity, I walk over to the SUV. “I can’t leave my stu .”

“Bruce is taking care of it.”

“What—” I glance back to see Bruce picking up my bags and striding over to the trunk. “You don’t have to do that. I have a cab coming.”

“Already done,” Bruce says with a wink and closes the back.

“Get in the car, Stella.” Brenna grins at me. “Don’t make me drag you in here.”

“Okay. But, fair warning, I bite.”

Brenna laughs. “A little mean. I like it.”

She scoots back and I get in, shutting the door behind me.

Once inside, I find Sophie there as well, sans baby Felix. She gives me a cheery smile as the car pulls out into tra c.

“So,” I say with false bravado, “is this some sort of cult indoctrination?”

“Oh, for sure.” Sophie reaches over to the built-in bar in front of us. “The cult of caring about super-hot but boneheaded and sometimes clueless men. It’s a blessing and a curse.”

I snort, but secretly, I want to cry. I won’t, though. I refuse to.

“You want an iced tea? Or maybe fruit juice?”

Honestly, I’d expected her to pull out some champagne, diva style. Then again, Sophie is breastfeeding and nowhere close to being a diva. I sigh and try to let go of the cagey feeling tightening my chest. “An iced tea would be good.”

She hands me a bottle of cold tea, then grabs a pink lemonade. Brenna, on the other hand, reaches over and pulls out a beer. I laugh at the side eye she gives Sophie.

“Or we have beer,” Sophie says with a sheepish smile. “I kind of have my alcohol blinders on these days.”

“Tea is fine,” I assure her, taking a long sip. “So, what’s up with the curbside abduction?”

“I’m taking you home with me,” Brenna says.

God, a pity pickup. I should have known. Even though my insides are shaking, I force a light tone. “You’re hot and all, but unfortunately, I don’t swing that way.”

Sophie snorts.

But Brenna simply eyes me. “That’s too bad. You’ve got the whole good girl just waiting to be corrupted vibe going on.”

“It’s a front. I was always corrupted.” And then John broke me by making me believe in forever.

Brenna laughs, but I have the feeling she knows very well that I’m just trying to make it through each minute. “You asked Killian to come home, and now you’re out of one.

Where are you staying now?”

Initially, I’d considered going to Hank and Corinne. I’d quickly squashed the idea. I can’t do it. Not again. Call it stupid pride; I don’t care. The idea of telling them that John left me and I have no place to go makes me sick to my stomach. If I’m going to be alone in this world, I have to keep walking on my own two feet.

My fingers tremble as I trace through the condensation beading over the tea bottle, I turn my attention to the tra c we’re crawling through. “Short-term rental. It’s all good.”

Sophie blows a half-hearted raspberry. “A black-light, Pollock-inspired jizz fest? Stella, no.”

Brenna half turns in her seat. “I’m not going to force you, but I have a great place with a lot of room. And I want you to stay with me.”

“Why?” It comes out way too warbled. “You’re John’s friend, his family, really. You don’t need me hanging around like a pall.”

“Jax is my friend,” she agrees. “And I love him like a brother. But that doesn’t mean I can’t be your friend too.”

“I was kind of hoping I’d just go somewhere and lick my wounds in private.”

Sophie touches my knee, her brown eyes wide and pained.

“I know what it’s like to feel alone and heartbroken. It blows.

But the worst part is not having a shoulder to cry on. Please let us do that. Brenna is right—we like you. It doesn’t have to be about Jax.” Except it will be. Right now, he’s all I can think about, and it blows. “It would be better for both of us if I just got out of his life completely.”

They’re both silent for a moment, and the sounds of car horns and the general buzz of the city seeps in. I turn away from the window and stare blindly down at my hands. I can’t even enjoy my city; I see him everywhere in it now.

“Do you really believe that?” Brenna asks softly.

My laugh is bitter. “Why shouldn’t I?”

She licks her lips and leans closer. “Jax is going through a rough spot right now. I’m not going to make excuses or try to figure out what he’s thinking. What I do know is that he’s never gotten attached to a woman. He’s never tried before you.”

“I know that.” My fingers clench around the slippery bottle. “I know he tried with me. And it didn’t work …” My voice cracks, and I look away. “Some things don’t work out, no matter how much you want them to.”

Neither of them says anything, and I’m grateful. We’re heading uptown, turning onto Park Avenue, where pretty strips of green grass divide the streets and nannies stroll their charges along sunny sidewalks.

“Stay with me,” Brenna finally says in a gently coaxing voice. “We’ll hang out. We’ll never mention He Who Also Must Not Be Named. We’ll just relax and you can regroup, figure out what you want to do.”

“I don’t know …” I trail o because it does sound nice.

I’ve never had true girlfriends. I’ve wanted them, wanted someone to just talk to and let o steam. I filled that void with clients and casual acquaintances. Talking to Mrs. Goldman had been easier; she wasn’t my age, wasn’t looking for close friendship. But now that two nice, funny women are o ering something real, I find it hard to give in.

I’ve held myself back for so long, I don’t know how to trust. The only person I truly gave that trust to was John, and look where that ended up? A lump rises in my throat. I don’t want to be broken and afraid to let go anymore. I don’t want to feel alone.

Sophie eyes me with caution, clearly worrying I’ll bolt.

“Don’t worry about running into Jax. He’s planning to leave the country anyway …” Her words die an awkward death when Brenna outright hisses at her.

I want to laugh. Laugh until I cry. Because of course he’s leaving. He has that luxury. But my shoulders slump as I rest my head against the seat back. I can’t hate him. John is who he is. He needs his space to get his shit together. And, frankly, so do I. My smile is probably bitter, but I don’t really care. “All right,” I say to Brenna. “I’ll stay with you.”

CHAPTER THIRTY

JOHN

“M R . B LACKWOOD , I can’t tell you how much this means to have you speak today.” Beverly, the woman in charge of the suicide prevention outreach program, gives me a warm smile that I both welcome and shy away from.

I’ve just hosted a casual hour-long talk with fellow survivors, and I am worn out but good, unbelievably good. I did the talk to help erase the stigma of silence, and to show people that they aren’t alone, that even a guy like me, supposedly sitting on the top of the world, has the same hopes and fears. I did it to help others, but in a weird way found that it helped me too. I’m tired, but lighter.

“Please call me Jax. And it was my pleasure.”

Jules accompanied me today, and she arranges another similar meeting for next month while I sign autographs and pose for pictures. I do those things gladly, because it’s clear it gives people joy to be around me. Weird for me personally, but I’ve learned to embrace it.

That was something she taught me.

Truth is, I’m not certain I’d even be here if it weren’t for the way she pushed me outside of my box and showed me another way to view the world, to get my head out of my ass and let go.

Like that, the pain returns. The pain of depression is one thing. Depression is inertia, self-doubt. This is another torture; it is loss and regret. I’m o -kilter, cold along the edges of my arms and back. This is a twitchy need to keep moving, to do something—anything—or I’ll start to scream.

I bottle that up too and get into the back of the Town Car that will take me home.

The band used to have a motto: no regrets. We’d channel Edith Piaf and regret nothing. We were also kids who had nothing to lose by trying. Funny how the more you care about things, the harder it is to shrug o regrets.

I’m living in a sea of that heavy emotion right now. Dove right in the minute I finished flipping out on Stella and heard the door shut as I left her.

I pushed that regret down, because, you know, I’m supposed to live in the moment and never look back. I let her go, made plans to get the hell out town. My bags are packed; my London home is being aired for my arrival. The perfect escape, and I feel like I’m dying.

This is what true regret feels like, a death of something you never fully understood but desperately want to take back.

I miss her face, the way her red-gold hair bounces when she moves her head, the little freckles that sit on her lips like a dare. I miss the sound of her voice, and the bite of her snark.

The Town Car seems to get smaller, go slower. After a few blocks, I ask Bruce to pull over.

“You dropped me o at my apartment,” I tell him, both of us knowing full well that Dad—aka, Scottie—will shit if he finds out I’m walking on my own after an event. His reasoning is a crazy could follow me. Having a bodyguard take me, or any of the guys, back to a secure location after being seen in public is one of his things.

Bruce wavers for a moment, but then nods. “Sure thing.”

He’ll probably follow me at a discreet distance. I don’t care, as long as I’m out of this car and walking.

Unfortunately, it isn’t until after I get out that I realize I’m in Union Square. I ignore the spot where I kissed Stella over bagels, but I see her smiling face, hear her laughter over the din of the city. My fingers feel the ghost of her silky, penny-bright hair sliding over them.

I shove my hands deep into the pockets of my jeans and walk faster. But I can’t outpace the ghost of her—of us. And when her face suddenly materializes right under my feet, I almost shout in shock. As it is, I come to a freaked-out halt. I must be hallucinating. But there she is, gazing up at me with those wide, lake-blue eyes I know so well.

It hits me that I’m looking at a chalk portrait of her. She’s larger than life, the whorls and spirals of her red-gold hair set with shining stars upon an indigo background. There is a sadness to her expression, a distance, like she doesn’t belong in this world.

It guts me.

“Beautiful, isn’t she?” An older Hispanic man stands by my side, looking down at the pavement. Chalk stains his

fingers in smudges of colors that have turned a greenish orange.

I search for his name. Ramon, the guy Stella bought co ee.

I clear my throat. “Yeah, she is.”

Ramon stares down without expression. “Star Girl isn’t for this place.”

“This place?”

His bloodshot eyes meet mine. “She doesn’t belong here with the rest of us. She’s a Star Girl.”

Stella stares up at me, distant and alone. The idea of her alone breaks my heart.

“You’re wrong,” I blurt out. “She belongs.”

Ramon shrugs. “You don’t belong either.”

A humorless laugh breaks free. “Yeah?”

“Stars belong in the sky.” His voice is vague, and he doesn’t look my way again as he shu es o .

The hiss of water hitting the pavement has me jumping. It shoots over Stella’s face and she begins to blur.

“Stop!” I don’t know why I say it—Stella’s already melting, colors swirling into a muddy soup—but the sight unsettles me.

Ramon looks at me as though I’m o my nut. “Why?” “It’s too pretty to ruin.” Lame reason. It’s not like I can say I’d wanted to stare at her for a little longer.

He shrugs again. “It’s just chalk.”

“How can you say that? You’re an artist.” Frankly, I’m o ended on his behalf. If anyone called my music just noise, I’d be pissed.

He glances at me from the corner of his eye. For a second, I don’t think he’ll answer. He rubs a spot on the back of his head, making the graying strands stick up wildly. “Used to paint on canvas. I’d stare at my work and see the imperfections. Bothered me a lot. Got to where I couldn’t paint anymore. I’d fear what could go wrong, where I’d fail.”

He turns back to hosing down the ground, cleaning Stella away from the concrete. “Better this way. I don’t hold on. I know what is real now.”

“I don’t know what is real anymore,” I find myself confessing.

Ramon reaches out and gives me a hard pinch, laughing when I glare at him. “Now you know.”

I’m guessing he means the here and now. But I’ve never been good with focusing on the moment for very long. I’m always looking back or forward. Always fucking worrying.

Stella helped me focus, but she’s gone now.

Rubbing the throbbing spot on my arm, I’m torn between laughing and getting the hell home. “Thanks. You want a co ee?” Because Stella would get him one. She’d make sure he’d eaten too.

He shakes his head, visibly retreating into his own world.

“Got things to do.” And then he’s kneeling over his box of chalk. I say good-bye, but he doesn’t respond.

All the way home, that spot on my arm burns. It would be easy to dismiss Ramon’s words as ramblings. But I can’t shake them. What is real? It sure as shit isn’t fear. That’s an illusion. How many times am I going to let fear take me before I learn?

The only time I’ve ever felt whole, in all my glory and imperfections, was with Stella. But what did I do for her? Did I make her world more real? Better?

You took that lonely look out of her eyes and replaced it with light, you ass.

But is it enough?

Hours later, the question still won’t go away. Is it enough? Am I?

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

STELLA

“W E ’ RE GOING TO THE BEACH ,” Brenna states with a glare that says resistance is futile.

Since I’m huddled up in bed with the covers around my ears, I’m guessing I make a pretty pathetic picture right about now. Sighing, I fling back the quilt and stretch. “Fine.”

“Really?” She brightens. “I was prepared to drag you out of that bed.”

“Is that why you have your sneakers on already? Good traction?”

Brenna grins wide. “That’s exactly why.”

I smile as I stare up at the ceiling. “I need to get out. I hate moping.”

But moping feels so good right now. I could lie here all week if I let myself. So I haul my butt up and head for the shower. “When are we going?” I ask over my shoulder.

“As soon as you’re ready. Sophie and Libby are coming with us.”

I have not met Libby. I’m not ashamed to admit I have her album and think she’s a fantastic singer. Hopefully, I won’t embarrass myself with fangirl fawning.

True to Brenna fashion, she’s ordered a limo to take us.

Laughing at the ostentatious display of luxury, I scramble in and find Sophie and Libby waiting. Libby looks just as she does in pictures—slim, flowing, golden-brown hair, wideopen expression, and smiling gray eyes. Apple pie with a Bourbon chaser.

Her voice is honey thick and laced with a Southern drawl.

“At last we meet.”

“How are Stevens and Hawn?” I ask after we shake hands.

Her smile widens. “Stevens is holding a grudge. Especially against Killian. We’ve seen nothing but his tail in the air, ass in our faces since we came back.”

I laugh at that. “He seems the type to make you su er.”

“I told Killian to check his pillowcase for revenge pee.

Hawn probably feels the same, but I’m not a fish gal so I wouldn’t know how to spot it.”

There’s something soothing about her manner, and she’s soon digging into a hamper she brought along and handing out fried chicken sliders to go with the champagne Sophie is passing around.

“You sure you’re okay with leaving Felix for the weekend?” Brenna asks her.

“Not gonna lie,” Sophie says. “Momma me is weeping for her baby. But the sleep-deprived, frazzled I-gotta-be-free is weeping with relief.” She shrugs. “Gabriel urged me to go and have a break. God, I do love that man.”

Libby gleams with glee. “I remember when I first met Scottie. He scared the shit out of me. Total ice man.

Watching him become a big ol’ marshmallow is highly entertaining.”

Sophie laughs. “Our baby boy broke him good.”

Brenna leans in. “Before we left, I programmed his ring tone to play the Paw Patrol theme song.”

Sophie squeals with laughter.

“Paw Patrol?” I ask, half laughing at their glee.

“A kids’ show.” Brenna waggles her brows.

We all snicker. The ride out to the Hamptons speeds by as Libby tells us about her time in Australia. I hadn’t bothered to ask where we’re staying but the car takes a turn down a smaller lane near the sea and then stops at a gate. The tires crunch over a gravel drive, and a house comes into view. It’s a huge gray shingle-style house, complete with flu y clouds of hydrangeas fronting the porch.

“Wow,” I say as we come to a stop.

“Pretty great, isn’t it?” Libby follows me out of the limo.

“Who owns it?”

Brenna starts up the wide center staircase. “The boys. It’s one of the few properties they bought together as a band.”

The boys. John. I don’t want to stay at his house. It hurts to think of him here, that he’ll spend time in this house when I’m out of his life and long gone. But I can hardly say that now or ask to be taken home.

Brenna leads us inside and into the living room. I stand there, gaping around at the creamy white paneled walls and big, comfy cream-colored sofas. Everything is soft and restful, the type of place you can dream the day away.

“You like?” Sophie asks, standing at my side.

“You ever see that movie Something’s Gotta Give with Diane Keaton? Where she reluctantly falls for smarmy Jack Nicholson while he’s convalescing at her spectacular Hamptons house?”

Libby’s mouth falls open. “I can’t believe I didn’t make the connection before. This looks exactly like her house.”

In other words, my dream beach house.

“You want to hear the scary bit?” Brenna says, wide-eyed herself. “Jax was in charge of design.”

“What?” Sophie gapes. “Mr. English Manor did this?”

It hurts to hear his name. But I have to face it sooner or later. I speak past the lump in my throat. “John has a good eye. Anyone who can successfully blend antiques with a modern loft would have to.”

Awkward silence swells, and it’s clear they’re all unsure how to answer. I force a tight laugh. “I’m not afraid to say his name, you know. He isn’t Beetlejuice or anything.”

“You’re right.” Sophie links her arm with mine. “I still feel bad about cramming him in your face. I didn’t think.”

Brenna cringes. “I didn’t either. We should have gone to a resort.”

Warmth spreads through me as the other girls nod. Every day I’m around them, I feel a little more normal, a little less alone. The absence of John is still a gaping wound in my chest. But at least I can walk without hunching over.

“If it weren’t for you guys, I’d be curled up alone on a hard bed feeling sorry for myself.” I can’t quite look anyone in the eye, but I push on. “This means the world to me.”

They’re all staring. God, hide me now. But then Libby hugs me tight.

“It’s hard opening up, isn’t it?” she whispers in my ear with a tone that tells me she knows exactly how di cult it is.

I give a quick nod as she lets me go. And then it’s like the whole exchange never happened. They’re all happy chatter and showing me to my room. I feel almost normal when we finally end up around the pool.

Because it’s hot as hell, I take a floating lounger and drift along in the cold water, idly sipping the Mai Tai Brenna fixed for me. Libby floats along at my side.

“So, you’re a professional friend?” she asks me.

“I am.” I smile wryly. “You know, aside from pet sitting.”

She laughs softly. “How does that work? I mean, are there really that many people looking for a hired friend?”

“The world is filled with lonely people. Most of us forge our friendships in childhood or college. Maybe you make a core group of friends at your first job. But if you miss those friendship milestones?” I glance around at them. “Or a permanent change in your lifestyle has you drifting apart from your old friends, what then?”

“It happened to me,” Libby says. “The drifting apart. I spent over a year alone, not talking to anyone, before Killian ended up on my lawn.”

“And what do you do if no one drifts into your life?” I say.

“How do you make new friends? It isn’t that easy. When you’re older, you’re less able to trust new people or let yourself go.”

“I hate making friends,” Brenna grumbles, her nose wrinkling. “Actively hate it. Most people I meet end up

asking for concert tickets or want to meet the guys.”

Sophie hums in agreement. “It feels di erent with you guys. Safer, I guess. Because we aren’t looking to get anything from the other—just companionship.”

I watch them from my spot at the edge of the pool. “I didn’t want to get in the car with you because I don’t know how to do real friendship. It’s like an ill-fitting dress that I’m always trying to tug into place.”

Brenna’s eyes grow soft. “But you did.”

“Because you’re in, just as we are,” Sophie says.

In? I shake my head sadly. “I’m not, though. I’m completely out.”

Sophie sco s. “Even if you never speak to Jax again, you’ll still be in. You’re one of us now. We don’t abandon our friends because our other friend is being a dillweed.”

I laugh softly, appreciating the sentiment. But I don’t want to talk about John. “Anyway, I had more customers than you might imagine. But I’m quitting.” I trail my fingers through the cold water. “It started to take too much out of me. And, really, it was never a permanent gig.”

Libby pushes o from the corner and skims across the pool, her eyes squinting in the sunlight. “What are you planning to do now?”

Panic. Cry. Wall myself up so tight, no one gets in again. How long is this going to hurt?

I stu those wild thoughts away with a long sip of fruity cocktail. “I honestly don’t know. It was stupid of me not to start a career. Here I am at thirty, and I might as well be fresh out of college for all the planning I’ve prepared. ”

“I never had a clue either. Killian got me into singing.

Even then, I resisted because I was scared.”

“I love to fly planes,” I tell them. “But I don’t want to do it as a career. If I’m honest, the kind of flying I want to do won’t pay for a place in the city.”

Libby’s eyes go wide. “What kind of fly do you do?”

“Aerobatics.”

“That’s so cool! Will you take me up some day?”

“Sure. I can take anyone who wants to go later this week, if you want.”

Instantly, all of them jump on the chance, with Libby doing a little happy dance in her pool float. Laughing, I make mental notes on how I can organize the flights. “I’m surprised John didn’t tell you guys about my flying,” I say when I’m done planning.

Brenna’s tone is tentative, knowing full well that the subject of John is a potential minefield. “For all his bravado, he’s weirdly private. The more he cares about something or someone, the less he talks about it.”

It isn’t exactly a truth bomb; I’ve known this about him for a while. But she definitely tore open a wound. Everyone looks elsewhere. Until Sophie hops into the pool, creating a nice splash over us. She reemerges, her blue hair slicked down over her shoulders. “I enjoyed photography,” she says, pretending we never veered o topic. “But I never settled into something I loved until I started taking pictures of the band.”

“I’m a planner,” Brenna says from the bar where she’s fixing up another batch of cocktails. “That doesn’t mean I feel settled or particularly happy all the time.”

I was happy with John. So damn happy, all the rest of my worries seemed lighter. Now, my world is heavy and dark.

And, damn it all, I shouldn’t be letting a man make me sink this low.

Brenna takes a sip from the pitcher, then adds a little more rum. “I figure none of us are ever going to feel that every aspect of our life is perfect all at once.”

John had said much the same. God, he’s spread all through my life. I can’t produce a thought that doesn’t have him in it somehow. I flick the water in irritation and focus on the conversation. “I love working with people. I like helping them. I just don’t know what to do with that. I want something more concrete. Healthcare and benefits sounds really nice these days.”

“Hmm …” Brenna comes over and gives us all a refill. At this rate, the weekend is going to pass in a drunken blur. Not that I’m complaining.

She sits at the edge of the pool and dips her legs in. “Kill John sponsors a bunch of charities. So far, Scottie has had interns managing them, but they’re more interested in the music side of the business, and too many things have fallen through the cracks. We’ve been talking about finding someone to organize the promotion. Basically, we need an events coordinator. They’d also be responsible for developing new projects.” Her amber eyes meet mine. “You could do that.”

“Me?” I squeak. “I don’t have any experience with that.”

She shrugs. “And I didn’t have any PR experience when I started. We need someone who will know how to make these functions fun and stress-free for the charities involved.

We’re not talking stu y galas but lifetime experiences, finding ways to raise money while spreading happiness. I know you could do that.”

The lump in my throat grows. “Brenna … That’s …It would be …” Wonderful. Horrible. “But I can’t. I can’t take a job where I’d eventually be in contact with … him.”

By the way Sophie glares at Brenna and Libby is suddenly way too interested in her drink, I’m guessing they agree. But Brenna holds my gaze. “I’m not a total asshole. I know it would be hard and awkward as fuck. But, damn it, don’t let him rule your life. You want this job, it’s yours. Or I’ll help you find another one.”

My smile wobbles as I blink rapidly. “You’re pretty awesome, Brenna.”

She grins. “Yeah, I am. But seriously, Stella, think about it, okay? You deserve to put yourself first.”

I can’t take the job. I’m not that strong. But she’s right; I need to figure out how to make a life without John. He was only in it for a short while, anyway. It shouldn’t be too hard to go back to how I used to live when Jax Blackwood was just a voice I heard on Pandora every now and then.

But I know that’s a lie. Regret and sorrow pull me down until I feel like I’m drowning. I’ll hide behind smiles and pretend I’m happy like I always do. But this is a death, and I don’t know how to get past it.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

JOHN

B ACK TO RUNNING . Running is good, the painful burn in my lungs and legs pure, uncomplicated. If I run long enough, my mind goes perfectly blank. I love those times. I live for empty thoughts. The second something unwanted tries to push its way to the surface, I run harder, faster. I can do this; I excel at diversion.

But eventually, I have to return home from my run. The sight of that stone staircase leading up to those damn ornately carved-wood doors hurts my chest. Entering my code on the number pad hurts my chest. Even the damn sanitized smell of the elevator hurts my chest. She is everywhere, and I can’t hide at home. So I stay out running as long as I can.

Facts are facts: I can dither no longer. I have to move on. I need out of New York. Out of the U.S. I’ll go to England. No, fuck that. I’ll go visit Killian in Australia. He’s staying in Scottie’s house; there’s room for me.

The Raconteurs’ “Steady, as She Goes” starts thumping through my earbuds. Usually, I love this song, but music makes my skin crawl right now. I yank the earbuds out as I turn down the street to home. There’s a massive stone pressing down on my chest. I’d worry I’m having a heart attack but that heinous stone has been there since … Well, I’m not going there.

Exhaustion makes my pace wobble, and I nearly stumble by the time I get to the stairs. There’s a guy lounging on the stoop, his long legs sprawled in my way. For a weird, hazy second, I think he might be a hallucination; I’m certainly weak enough to be seeing things, but then he looks up and gives me that supercilious smirk I’ve seen more than half my life, and I know I’m not dreaming.

“You look like shit,” Killian says. To the point as always.

I take the bottle of lemonade he holds out for me and guzzle it down. It’s cold and sweet and gives me a chance to get my brain working again. Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I take a breath and then another.

“You’re back.” Obviously.

“Aw …” He smiles. “You noticed.”

“Asshole.” I toss the empty bottle his way and he catches, clearly anticipating the move. Killian and I have always known each other on a level that goes deeper than words or action. He is part of me. Or he was. When I tried, it fractured something between us that did not heal well but thickened and twisted like a keloid scar.

Scarred or not, I’ve missed the guy and have the weird urge to break down right here. The burn behind my lids is so

unexpected, I can’t look him in the eye. “I’m going to take a shower.”

“Yeah, you do.” Killian stands and dusts his ass o .

“You’re ripe.”

It hits me again that Killian is here. And that means Stella is gone. My hand grips the stone balustrade as my knees go weak and pain punches into me. Maybe I am having a heart attack; it hurts badly enough. “When did you get back?”

When did she leave? Why do you care? You told her to go.

“Late last night.” Killian stares at me, deliberating.

“Stella called me.”

“What?” It comes out as a croak.

“She said I should be home.”

I jog up the stairs. Killian follows in silence. When we get to our floor, he walks into my apartment.

“Good God, Jax.” He gapes around. “Did you add more antiques since I’ve been gone? How the hell did you manage to turn this modern loft into a stu y English manor?”

“Talent. Piss o back to your cold, soulless loft if you don’t like it.”

He laughs low and easy. “I’m going to get you a satin smoking jacket to wear around the house.”

“I don’t smoke, but I kind of like the idea of that jacket.” I head toward my room. “Taking a shower now.”

Killian is still in my living room when I return. He doesn’t look pleased, and I’m guessing he’s going to give me a lecture about Stella. God knows I deserve one. But frankly, having Killian on my case right now might make me snap.

I eye him warily. “It’s good to have you back, man, but I’m not in the mood for company right now.”

He nods but then plops his ass down next to me on the couch. “It will only take a minute.”

A dull pounding starts at my temples. “Kills, I can’t talk about her.”

Silence follows, and I find myself glancing his way. Worst of it is, he looks sad.

“I’m not here to talk about her,” he says, thankfully knowing me well enough not to use her name. Killian leans back against the couch and pinches the bridge of his nose before facing me again. “Jax … Man, I’m so sorry.”

“What?” Sorry? What the hell is he talking about? Sorry for leaving? I wouldn’t have met Stella if he hadn’t.

You’re not supposed to think about her.

Fuck, I miss her like air.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, his voice as raw as it gets when we’ve been singing all night. “I let you down so fucking badly.”

I can only stare, my pulse pounding, the urge to get the hell out of the room making me twitch.

Killian’s bloodshot eyes hold mine. “When you tried, I was so … It scared the shit out of me.”

I wince, looking away. “I know. I understand. I really do. I just can’t apologize anymore. I—” “I’m not asking you to. I’m trying to explain.” He swallows convulsively. “I was so fucking angry. You didn’t confide in me. You didn’t tell me what was going on in your head.”

Goddamn, I don’t want to cry. I don’t want to break down, but my sinuses are burning and my throat keeps convulsing.

“I couldn’t,” I rasp.

“I know,” he says. “I know, man. And the truth is, I was pissed at myself for missing the signs. For leaving you out there alone.”

Fuck. I’m going to… I press my fingers to my eyes and take a breath. “I’m good at hiding it. Don’t be sorry.”

“But I am,” he cuts in. “I reacted like an asshole. I packed up and ran away with my tail between my legs, feeling sorry for myself when I should have been there for you.”

He did that. He did that.

Rage bubbles up so swiftly, I can’t hold it in. “You left me behind!” The shout echoes in the rafters. “I tried to take my own life, and you left. Like I was a disease you were afraid you might catch.”

Tears well in Killian’s eyes, and the sight is so foreign to me, it turns my stomach. But the rage, the hurt, won’t settle down. “I needed you. I needed my best friend. And you fucking left—” Killian hauls me into a hug so tight my air cuts o . The hold hurts, and until he’d hugged me, I hadn’t known I needed that too. A deep sob hitches his chest. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

He keeps saying it, barely a whisper, as we huddle together crying. He says it until our shaking dies down. I feel exposed, rubbed raw and open. At least on the surface.

Inside, I begin to calm. I’m drained, but it doesn’t leave me hollow. It leaves me lighter.

Killian’s big, sweaty hand is on my head, clutching me as he shudders. “Shit, man, the first day I faced you again I hit you…” He trails o with a ragged breath. “Fuck, that was not okay.”

My memory of that day is crystal clear. I hadn’t seen Killian for a year after my attempt, and suddenly there he was—seething, hurt, afraid, and awkward as hell. I’d understood him perfectly in that moment because I felt the same.

Truth is, I’d goaded him to hit me. I wanted it. For both of us. Because a good hit was simple. A good hit was something we both needed.

Despite myself, a smile wobbles over my lips. “You want to know the crazy thing? I preferred that response to silence.

It felt like the real us, the way we used to be when one of us would piss the other o , and we’d settle it with a punch on the mouth before getting back to business.”

A broken laugh leaves Killian, and he leans back to scrub at his wet cheeks with the heel of his hand. “Nobody can piss me o quite like you.”

Snorting, I wipe my eyes. “The feeling is more than mutual.”

We sit in silence, each of us trying to get it together.

“You are my brother,” he says after a minute. “Life without you doesn’t … It doesn’t fucking work.”

Guilt washes over me, fresh and burning. “I fucked things up—” “No!” His stern shout snaps between us, and we both flinch.

Killian sucks in a breath. “No, John, you didn’t. Not with this. That’s what I’m trying to say. You did nothing wrong.

You are the strongest person I know. Don’t you ever fucking say this was your fault.”

He stares at me like he’s trying to slice through my skin.

“I fucked up. The guys fucked up. We are the ones who let you down. It’s no di erent if you had a broken leg and we let you limp along.”

A short, humorless laugh escapes me. “It’s a little di erent. You can see the broken leg. You can’t see what’s going on inside my head.”

Killian shakes his head. “Maybe so. But when you tried, it was pretty freaking apparent that you needed help. I’m not going to let you down again.”

The determination in his voice has me turning to face him, and he stares back unflinching. “Whatever you need, John. Whenever you need it.”

“Thing is,” I tell him, “if it had been you who tried, I would have reacted the same way. I would have been pissed as hell that you didn’t come to me.”

His brows wing up in shock, and I give him a bitter smile.

“No one reacts perfectly. Don’t try to. I’m just over being the elephant in the room. Let it go, man. Treat me like before.” I glance his way and smirk. “Be the dickhead you used to be instead of the dickhead holding this shit between us.”

Killian rubs a hand over his face. “I can do that.” He sits straighter. “I will do that.”

“Good.” I clear my throat. “And thank you.”

He knows I’m not only talking about his agreeing to my request. His shoulder presses more firmly into mine. “Any time.”

We sit like that, propping each other up, not saying a word. And though it’s hard for me to admit it, even to

myself, the physical connection and the familiarity of my oldest friend sinks into my bones like a balm.

Stella was right; I did need to hear this from Killian. I’ve been holding so much shit in—again—and never realizing it.

Stella knew exactly what I needed and got it for me. Even though I stomped on her heart and cast her aside, she helped me.

The pain in my chest becomes bright and ice cold. All the miles I’ve run are a wasted e ort. I can’t keep her out of my head or my heart. She comes crashing back in, so hard that I flinch.

Where is she? Does she hurt the way I do?

Stop thinking about her.

Killian eyes me sidelong. “My pet sitter called to tell me I’d better get my ass home and be there for my best friend.

Now, you’re wearing a look I am way too familiar with because I wore it myself when I cut Libby loose. Talk to me, man.”

“Stella,” I croak. “I fell in love, freaked out, ended it.”

“Bonehead.” He slaps my head for emphasis.

I rub the spot absently, but it’s my heart that hurts, not my head. “She’s better o with someone who isn’t messed up. She needs someone dependable.”

Killian frowns as though smelling something rotten.

“You’re seriously trying to peddle that bullshit?”

“It isn’t bullshit. I am unreliable. I’m a fucking mess.”

“And yet she loves you anyway.” He levels a hard stare.

“Don’t give me that look. She called me right after you stomped on her heart. She loves you.”

Damn it, I am freezing. I rub at my shaking chest. “I doubt she does anymore.”

“Because it’s so easy to turn those feelings o .” He snorts. “How’s it working for you?”

“Not so great.” Understatement of my life.

“Stop running, John. Figuratively and literally. It won’t work.”

With a sigh, I rest my arm over my aching eyes. “I know you think I’m talking shit, but I’m serious. I can’t go back to Stella and say I’m sorry, only to turn around and do it again when I’m feeling unstable. It isn’t fair to her.”

“So that’s it? You’re just going to let her go?”

There’s a greasy feeling in my throat, and I swallow convulsively. “I already did.”

Killian makes a noise of protest but he doesn’t argue, and I sit there on the couch wishing it would swallow me up.

Finally, he sighs and rises to his feet. “If I fall asleep, I’ll have jet lag from hell, and Libby is in the Hamptons with …

Brenna. You’re coming out with me and getting some pizza.”

I don’t want to eat. I’ll probably choke on it. “You’re going to nag me if I say no, aren’t you?”

His smile is genuine and kind of evil. “I’ll just call Whip and Rye. Whip has been talking about playing charades.”

“You’re fucking with me.”

“You want to take that risk?”

No, I really don’t. And since I can’t get away from him, I stand. “Fine, I’ll go.”

Neither of us says another word about Stella. It’s as though she never existed. I can see the well-worn road of my

old life stretching out before me once more. It isn’t happy but it’s a path I know.

By the time the night is over, I’m so numb, I’m almost able to ignore hole in my chest where Stella ought to fill.

Almost.

Almost isn’t going to cut it. I need my life back. Fear tells me one path to walk on; my heart insists on another. I’m going to listen to my heart.

It doesn’t take me long to call her. As soon as we return from pizza, I pull out my phone. It’s a kick in the gut when a mechanical voice tells me her number is no longer in service.

“Fuck.” I disconnect.

Killian, who’s still hanging out and trying to distract me with video games, grabs two beers out of the fridge and walks into the living room and watches me pace. “What’s your problem?”

I plop down on the sofa next to him but ignore my beer.

“She cut o her phone.” Tossing my phone onto the co ee table, I pinch the tense spot between my eyes. “Or got a new one.”

Killian shrugs. “Did you expect anything less? You kicked her to the curb.”

“Don’t sugarcoat it or anything.”

He smiles wide. “No more patronizing you, remember?”

Asshole.

“I don’t know where she is or how she’s getting along.” I run a hand through my hair. “If she’s all right.”

“Stella is a capable woman. She’s been taking care of herself for years.”

I cut him a look. He’s not being sarcastic but it irritates me just the same. “I know that. I just …” The tightness in my chest increases. “I want to be the one taking care of her. Not because she can’t, but because I can.”

That doesn’t make any sense. But I don’t know how else to explain it.

Killian sits next to me, silent and sipping his beer. We’ve been friends for so long, I know how he sits when he’s agitated, ignoring me, or when he’s simply waiting for me to figure my shit out. He’s going to have a long wait.

I blow out a hard breath. “Kills, man, how did you do it?

With Libby, I mean.”

He turns his head to meet my eyes. “You mean, how did I let her in and keep her there?”

“Yeah,” I croak. “That.”

Slowly, he nods, his beer bottle dangling between his fingertips. The bottle swings as he gives a dry laugh. “Thing is, I didn’t let her in. She just ended up there. I met her, and she became a part of me.” His dark eyes pin me. “It wasn’t a matter of letting her in. It was accepting that she was already there and going with it.”

My hands curl into fists. “Stella was in. She was all the way in, and I was so fucking happy. No, not just happy, I felt peace.”

“I know,” Killian says in a low voice. “Believe me, I know.”

I snort, but it’s directed at myself. “And I still cast her out.”

His smile is tight and wry. “Yeah, well, no one said it was easy accepting that you’re all in.”

A groan leaves me, and I slump into the couch. “I did a Cowardly Lion sprint out the window, and I killed the best thing I’ve ever had.”

“Pretty much.”

Killian ducks when I chuck a couch pillow at his head.

“Seriously, you can shut it with the tough love.”

He snickers, then grows serious. “You fucked up.

Everyone does at some point. You want her back?”

“Yes.” Just saying the word dislodges something in my chest, and I take what feels like the first real breath I’ve had since she left. So I say it again, because it’s the only true thing in my world now. “Yes, I want her.”

“Then nut up and fix the problem.”

The reality of what I face isn’t pretty. “I’m not sure I can fix it. Stella doesn’t trust easily. Less than we do. And I’ve gone and stomped all over that trust.”

He gives my shoulder an encouraging slap. “You love her.

She loves you. The rest is logistics. Now, go get your girl.”

G ETTING my girl is easier said than done. First o , I don’t know where the hell she is. Stella learned from her dad how to stay o the grid. If he managed to stay hidden for years, Stella is certainly capable of doing the same. The idea that I might not be able to find her fills me with panic. Imagining a long life ahead of me without knowing where Stella is or never saying another word to her makes me ill.

Since I’m clueless, I go the fount of knowledge in my personal universe.

Scottie answers the door on the fifth knock. His hair is sticking up on one side and his tie is askew—being clutched in the merciless grip on a chubby baby fist. Felix gives me a toothy smile as if to say look who I made my bitch. My admiration for his game is strong.

“Thought you might turn up. Here, take this.” Scottie thrusts Felix into my arms. “I’ve got to piss something awful. Sophie just came back from the Hamptons and is napping o a hangover, and …” He stops at that, turns heel, and takes the stairs two at a time to the upper floor.

“You know, you could just put him in his crib,” I call after Scottie.

His disembodied voice rings out. “Try it, mate. I dare you.”

A door slams, and I’m left alone with twenty pounds of drooling baby who has decided that my eyebrows would be better o detached from my face.

“Okay, little dude.” I ease his fingers away from my abused flesh. “Let’s find you something better to play with.”

Scottie’s Upper West Side brownstone is wide enough that there is a central staircase and rooms on either side. They have a family room set up in the back with a wall of windows overlooking a small garden.

Before baby, the place was immaculate—cream couches, pale silk Aubusson rugs, and glass tables. The couches are now charcoal, the rug is still silk but a crimson Persian, and the tables are all sturdy dark woods. Still nice, but way more spot friendly. And messy. Toys litter the floor. Four mugs with various amounts of cold co ee in them are on the table.

A few baby blankets are spread out, and there’s some weird-

looking jungle-gym thing that seems to be made out of padded plastic with stu ed bugs hanging from it. Bizarre.

“Here, bud. Let’s play with this.” I set Felix down in front of the dangly bugs.

He looks at the sappy bugs, then at me, then back at the bugs. His little chin prunes up. I hear an internal warning alarm blaring, “Danger! Danger! Abort mission! Abort!!”

I jiggle one of the toy bugs. “Fun, yeah?”

No, no it is not. Tears well in Felix’s eyes, and he sucks in a deep breath. It is the scary calm before the storm. His temper breaks with an ungodly wail, his little arms flailing, face bright red. It is horrifying.

“Okay, okay.” I pick him up and start walking around.

“It’s okay. Those bugs are creepy anyway.”

Felix does his best to blow my eardrums out. Considering I’ve made a career of dialing the sound up to eleven, his vocals are impressive.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” I try to jiggle him like Sophie does but it’s a no-go. Little Dude is not having it. His back arches as he screams his fury, and I have to clutch him closer for fear of dropping him. “Jesus, I thought I was emotional.

What about this little …” I look at the gray stu ed thing I’ve picked up. I have no fucking idea what it is. “Monkey? You want your monkey?”

Gray lumpy monkey goes flying with one indignant swat.

“Right. Monkeys suck. Noted.”

Felix has murder in his eyes and the freaking lungs of Robert Plant.

Scottie strides into the room with a harried expression.

“You put him down, didn’t you?”

“I thought he might want to play! I mean, what the fuck, dude?”

Scottie takes his son, grabs a pacifier, and holds it up to Felix’s mouth. “Here’s your dummy, love.”

The little stinker immediately sucks it in and then rests his head on Scottie’s shoulder with a shuddering sigh like he’s just been through a long, hard battle. Clearly, one I lost.

“Plug up the hole.” I slap my forehead. “I should have known.”

Scottie and Felix shoot me twin glares.

My nerves are o cially shot, and I swear I need a drink or to run this adrenaline out. “Holy hell, mate, how do you even know what to do?”

“Trial by fire.” Scottie smiles thinly. “Only the strong survive.”

I take back every dad joke I’ve made about Scottie. He deserves a medal.

“Put me down as a ‘thank you but no’ when it comes to babysitting duty.”

Scottie snorts. “Mate, none of you clowns are getting anywhere near my progeny. He’d end up in leather pants and likely develop an unfortunate attachment to drums.”

I can’t help but smile. “That would be kind of cool. I’m going to look into leather baby pants. Maybe have some made. You’ll have to ask Whip for the drums.”

Sophie strolls in looking tired but amused. “Someone set the baby down.”

I turn and give her a kiss on the cheek. “You two have a tiny dictator in your midst. Throw down some tough love and say no once in a while.”

Sophie and Scottie burst out laughing. They keep laughing until Felix smiles around the edges of his dummy, and Sophie wipes a tear from her eye. “Oh, that was good. I needed that.”

“Har.” But I’m smiling too.

“Can you say it again?” Scottie pulls out his phone. “I want to record it for future use on the o chance you decide to have kids.”

That sobers me right up. My future happiness is why I’m here. “Maybe later.” I grimace. “Look, I need to find Stella.”

The temperature in the room seems to drop a few degrees.

Scottie adopts his business face, which is basically a wall of “I know nothing.” Sophie’s eyes narrow like she’s considering pulling Felix’s dummy free and siccing him on me.

“Sorry,” Scottie says, “but she isn’t here.”

Nice evasion. I step closer. “That isn’t what I asked.”

“Actually, you didn’t ask anything.”

He’s going to play it like that? I smile thinly. “Scottie, old boy, would you happen to know the whereabouts of Ms. Stella Grey?”

He glances at Sophie, who glances at me, then back to Scottie. It’s like some bad reenactment of The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly stando .

“Hey,” I cut in, “I’m just trying to find my girl.”

“Your girl?” Sophie snorts. “You lost the right to call her that when you kicked her out.”

“Sophie,” Scottie says softly.

She glares at him. “He hurt her.”

God, that gets me. I know it’s true. But it still slices through the gut. “I need to apologize and try to make it better, Soph. But I can’t if I can’t find her.”

Stubborn as hell, Sophie lifts her chin and refuses to talk.

I sigh and turn to Scottie. There was a point in my life where I’d laughed at the idea of laying my heart on the line. He was there to witness it. We both know this well, but I’m not afraid to beg now.

I know Scottie sees this in my expression. I don’t have to say a word before his shoulders slump and he sighs. His eyes cut to Sophie, who glares.

“You are not telling him.”

“Darling,” he begins.

Sophie crosses her arms under her breasts in a hu . “So it’s bros before hoes, huh?”

Scottie’s lips twitch. “I would never call a woman a ho.

And it isn’t our place to intervene.”

“Just think,” I say, “if Scottie’s bros hadn’t stepped in when we found him unshaven, surrounded by an utter mess, and pitifully moaning over your loss, you’d still in Australia.”

Her eyes go wide and a small smile blooms over her face.

“You were moaning?” she asks a disgruntled Scottie.

He makes a face. “I was not moaning.”

“Whimpering,” I correct, earning a glare. But really, I’m doing the guy a favor—Sophie’s already across the room and giving him a kiss on the cheek.

“That’s so sweet, Sunshine.”

“Glad you think so.” Scottie kisses the tip of her nose before telling me, “Stella is staying with Brenna.”

“Shit.”

“Mmm,” he agrees. “I don’t know how you’ll get past her. Brenna has become extremely protective of Stella.”

Still clinging to Scottie, Sophie smirks. “You think I’m a hard-ass? Good luck with all that.”

Strangely, the fact that the other women in my life are looking out for Stella makes me happy and grateful. Stella has always wanted friends, a family. I can give her that. I glance at little Felix who is drooling all over Scottie’s shirt and giving me the stink eye, and I shudder. Well, maybe not the full-on family thing just yet. One hurdle at a time.

I need to get my act together, and I need to plan this carefully. But I’m willing to do whatever it takes to win back her trust. And it doesn’t scare me.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

STELLA

I’ M NOT sure what I expected of John. Maybe a text, a phone call, or maybe nothing. But I sure as hell didn’t expect a delivery. It comes three weeks after our implosion.

“What the hell?” Brenna asks, seeing me lug a big square box into her kitchen after signing for it.

“I don’t know,” I say, grabbing scissors out of the catchall drawer. “It’s for me, but that’s all it says.”

Her ponytail sways as she hurries over to help. “It’s gotta be Jax.” I suppress a grimace. “We don’t know that. How would he even know I’m here?”

Her brow furrows with a frown. “Scottie must have ratted you out. He’s the only one of the guys who knows you’re here, and he’s a total closet romantic.”

“Really?” I can’t imagine stone-faced Scottie being sentimental.

“Believe it. Now that he has a family, he wants us all happily settled.”

“And that’s a bad thing?” I ask, amused at her sour expression.

“It’s an annoying thing.” Brenna quirks a brow. “Enough about matchmaker Scottie. Do you know anyone else who would have something hand delivered? Besides, the courier was Darren. He works for us. My money is on Jax sending this.”

I stare at the box, hesitant to open it. Whatever John sent isn’t small. The box is about twenty inches square.

“If he sent a human head,” Brenna says darkly, “I’m going to be really upset.”

A laugh bursts out of me. “What the hell, Brenn? You are sick.”

She shrugs. “Got you to smile, didn’t I? Stop looking at the box like it’s a bomb and open it already.”

“Sneaky cheeks.” A couple of slices from the scissor blade to open it, and we both peer in.

“Well,” she says, “it’s not a head.”

“Nope.” Bottles rattle as I pull a six-pack of beer free from the box.

“Jax is so fucking weird.”

A smile threatens, and my lips wobble before I force them flat. “It’s one of his best qualities.” God, I’m going to cry.

Over this strange-ass gift of beer.

Brenna roots through the box, but it’s empty. “What the hell does it mean?”

“I honestly have no idea. It’s not like I’m a huge beer enthusiast.”

“How could he not leave a note?” Brenna scowls at the beer. “His first contact and it’s to send random beer?”

Suppressing a sigh, I put the beer in the fridge. “I’m done trying to figure him out.”

Words are shallow, though; the beer haunts me as I walk away. What the hell is John trying to say? Hey, let’s have a few beers and laugh this all away? Sorry, I broke your heart, have a drink on me? Whatever it is, I find myself getting more and more pissed.

It builds as I try to lounge in Brenna’s living room, and I end up tossing the copy of Vogue back onto the co ee table with so much force, it slides right o and lands with a thump on the floor.

“You know,” Brenna says, not looking up from her magazine, “only Rye could annoy someone more than Jax. Be grateful you didn’t fall for him.”

“Tell me,” I murmur. “How much of a pain is it to fall for Rye?” She opens her mouth, then pauses to glare at me, clearly expecting a di erent question from me and caught o guard.

Her brows lower. “Har. You think I’m into Rye?” My lips twitch. “Everyone thinks you are into each other.”

Brenna snorts, her attention suddenly on her ice-blue nails. “Please. He’s an asshole.”

I get up and go to the fridge for some of John’s damn beer. If we’re going to talk men, I need a drink. It’s cold enough, and Brenna accepts a bottle with a wry look before taking a long sip.

“Is he, though?” I ask, curling back up on the couch.

“Admittedly, he has a pretty juvenile sense of humor, and he’s blunt, but he seems like a nice man. He clearly cares about all of you guys.”

A disgruntled sound escapes her, then she sighs and rests her head against the soft couch back. “He does care. And he is a good guy. He’s only an asshole to me.”

“He seems more like he’s pulling your ponytail for attention.”

She slides me a sidelong look.

“Not to condone such behavior,” I amend. “Bullyboy tactics should die a swift death.”

Her mouth twists with a smile. “Admittedly, I’m just as bad. I know this. It’s our personalities, I guess. We’re always rubbing each other the wrong way.”

“I wondered if it was some bad blood that never healed.”

“Oh, it’s that too,” she says with a scowl. “Incidents here and there. Nothing I want to talk about now. I’ll be in a mood all day if I do.”

“Fair enough.” I pull at the damp label on my beer. “I’m brooding enough for both of us.”

Brenna and the girls pulled me through the worst of it.

For the first time in my life, I was the one who had friends force me out of the house, take me to salons for massages and facials. We’d gone to the movies, stayed in and watched movies, indulged in cocktails and ice cream—not mint chocolate chip. That was banned from the house. We’d done every clichéd thing we could think of.

And it was fun. Well, as fun as something can be while I’m walking around with what feels like a massive hole in chest. I press my hand to that spot now, surprised my skin isn’t ice cold. I’m cold all the time now. Another new and unfortunate development. If this is what love does to a person, love can go suck it.

Brenna grabs her phone and answers a few emails before tossing it down and giving me an overly bright smile. “We should order pizza to go with this random beer your man sent us.”

“He’s not my man anymore,” I mumble.

The door buzzer stops Brenna from responding. She gives me an excited look that has me flinching inside. Yep, love and hope can definitely suck it. I don’t bother turning my head to watch her open the door.

“Another delivery,” she calls from the hall.

“Seriously?” I get up. “If he sent me more beer, I’m going over there and dumping it on his fat head.”

“Maybe that’s the idea.” She frowns at the box. “But, no, this one is lighter and longer.”

Together, we open it, Brenna muttering about heads under her breath. Inside, there’s another box, this one much nicer. I lift the lid and root through the perfectly folded tissue paper and find a length of pale pink fabric. I take it out and it unfurls.

“It’s a dress,” I say, stating the obvious.

“Hot damn.” Brenna runs a reverent finger along the satin. “It’s Stella McCartney couture.”

It’s a knee-length sheath with a sort of box ’40s-style neckline and a cutout back.

“He bought me a dress? What the ever-loving hell?”

“Maybe it’s a message?” She doesn’t look convinced.

“Maybe, let’s have a beer out on the town?”

With a noise of annoyance, I toss the dress back into the box.

“Hey,” Brenna protests, “don’t take it out on the dress.

She’s innocent in all this.”

“She?” I laugh.

“Well, I’m not referring to dresses as ‘he.’” She sni s, lifting her chin. “They deserve better than that indignity.”

I’m still smiling when the door buzzes again. Brenna makes a little squeeing noise, but I hold up a hand. “I’m getting this.” Irritation has me stomping to the door and flinging it open.

Poor Darren, holding a smaller box, gapes at me in all my glaring wrath. “Ah, delivery for you, Ms. Grey.”

“This is ridiculous. Take it back and tell him I’m not interested in games.”

Darren’s mouth opens wider as he struggles for words.

“Thing is, I’ll get in trouble if I don’t deliver it.”

“Oh, hell.” I take the box from him. “I’m sorry for yelling. It’s Jax who’s the pest, not you.”

The tips of Darren’s ears pink. “Right. Well, have a good day!”

“Right.” I tear into the box.

“What is it this time?” Brenna asks. “A necklace?”

“No.” I shoot her a bemused glance. “A DVD. A Streetcar Named Desire.”

She frowns. “So … Is he trying to ask for a date?”

My finger runs over the plastic edge of the DVD case.

Young Marlon Brando, muscle-bound and handsome, his shirt dirty and torn, screams up at me from a small insert picture. A smile tugs at my mouth. “Oh, for crying out loud.”

“What?” Brenna’s eyes dart from the case to my face, her expression eager. “What did he do?”

Putting the DVD down, I stride over to the living room and grab my beer and hold it aloft. “The beer is Stella Artois.”

Her frown smooths out. “And the dress is a Stella McCartney. He’s sending you Stella things?”

A snort escapes me as I look at Marlon Brando again.

“Worse. I think he’s calling out to me. You know … ‘Stella!

Hey, Stella!’”

She snickers. “God, he’s so weird. Cute, but weird.”

My vision blurs and I blink rapidly. “Yeah.” He is weird and wonderful and damaged. And I love him. I do. But loving someone isn’t enough. Clearly, he’s trying to reach out and make some sort of amends in his own bumbling fashion. But I don’t feel any better. In truth, I feel worse.

When the buzzer rings yet again, I just sigh and trudge to the door. “Look, this has gone—” “Hey, Stella,” John says softly. He stands there, his hair mussed, a white T-shirt stretching over his chest, the short sleeves rolled up over his hard biceps, and slouchy worker’s pants hanging o his narrow hips. After two weeks of not seeing him, he takes my breath away, and I can only gape, drink him in. God, he is pretty. He will always be my ideal for sheer sex appeal.

And it will always hurt just a little too much to look at him.

“Were you out here the whole time?” I snap, because I can’t think of anything else to say.

He gives me his crooked smile, the one that crinkles around his eyes and wings up one corner of his expressive mouth. I hate that smile. “Only since Darren delivered the DVD.”

“Poor Darren.”

His smile fades. “Yeah, you seemed a little … irritated.”

“You think?” I grip the doorknob like a lifeline. “Not a word for weeks, then a series of bizarre gifts without a note will do that.”

John shifts on his feet and eyes me from under his lashes.

“You figured it out, though?”

I will not smile. Nope. Not going to do it. I bite the corner of my lip. “Yes. You’ve watched that movie, right?”

“Ah …” He scratches the back of his neck, biting the bottom corner of his lip. “I mean, I’ve seen the classic Stella shouting bit. Very emotional.”

Despite my best e ort, a smile struggles to break free.

“He’s shouting for her because he’d hit her in a drunken rage the night before. Later on, he rapes her sister.”

Color drains out of John’s face. “Fuck. Really?”

“Not the greatest guy to pretend to be.”

He sighs and slumps against the door frame. “Fucking hell. Why does pop culture try to make that bit look romantic?” He runs a hand through his hair, mussing it even more. Brown ends stick up wildly as he looks at me with wide, green eyes. “I really suck at this.”

The soft contrition in his voice weakens me, and it’s hard to sti en my back. But he’s finally addressed the sad gorilla in the room, and it rubs against all the raw and weepy parts of me. “At what, John?”

“I was trying to make you laugh, distract you enough that you’d open the door for me.”

“Well,” I admit, “I did laugh, though it was more from incredulity. And the door is open. So technically you

accomplished what you set out to do.”

“I did. But it isn’t enough.”

“No.” My hand is slick and clammy against the cold steel of the doorknob. “What do you want?”

His gaze moves over my face, taking in every line of pain and wariness. “To talk to you.”

It occurs to me that Brenna is somewhere behind me, but a glance back finds the living room empty. I don’t want to bring this into her space.

“Let’s go for a walk,” I tell John. He gives a tense nod and then waits as I find my shoes and keys.

My hands are shaking as I slip on a pair of sunglasses. It’s probably a coward’s move, but I need to protect myself as much as I can, and John is too good at reading me. He gives me a pained but understanding smile as we head out, both of us silent and staying far enough away from each other so there’s no inadvertent contact. All of the ease and the way we’d naturally gravitate closer is gone now. It hurts worse than when I hadn’t heard from him at all.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

JOHN

I CAN ’ T STOP LOOKING at Stella. She’s rich, hot cocoa after trudging through a blizzard. She’s ice-cold beer after a sweltering performance. Every inch of her enthralls me, from the wispy whirls of her glorious sunset hair to the scattered constellation of her freckles. I’ve spent hours mapping those tiny cinnamon dots, nights curled up on the sofa sliding my fingers through her silky hair, happy to simply pet her as she told me things that made me laugh.

Her jaunty walk has me fighting a smile; only Stella walks with a stride that is both a determined march and a sensual sway of hips and ass. But she’s tense and pinch-lipped, and I know I’m responsible for that. God, I want to see her smile again. I was a jackass for ever thinking my life would be better, safer without her in it.

We walk in silence for a while. It’s awkward, but I don’t mind; I’m simply soaking her in.

I guide her to Central Park. We pass a couple sharing a large shake. Memories of seeing her on a friendship date at

the Shake Shack fill my head. I should have known I was a goner back then—the very sight of her smiling at another guy had caused my heart to flip within my chest and a knot of pure, base envy to surge through my veins. I’d wanted to be that guy sitting across from her. I’d wanted to be the one to earn her happiness.

She stops on the Bow Bridge and rests her arms on the balustrade to stare down at the glassy lake. “So.” I’ve gone over what I want to say in my head, practiced it on the walk over to Brenna’s apartment. Except what comes out of my mouth is not what I’d planned. “I don’t need you.”

Stella recoils as if slapped, and I take a step closer. “Wait.

That came out wrong.”

She snorts out a laugh, and then pulls o her sunglasses.

Hurt tightens the corners of her eyes. “I don’t think there’s a way to say it that would sound good.”

“I know. Shit.” I rake my fingers along my head. “I would have been here sooner, because God knows I’ve missed you, Stells. I’ve missed you so much, it’s like I’ve lost my hands or my voice. But I had to do something first.

“I’ve been going to see Dr. Allen, talking things out and doing a lot of thinking. I came to the conclusion that you can’t fix me.”

Stella stares at me with hard eyes, but she doesn’t say a word. I know she’s about ten seconds away from walking. My words rush out, desperate to keep her here. “No one can. But for so long, I thought of myself as broken, and I hated that.”

Licking my dry lips, I force myself to tell her the bare truth.

“But what I hated more was the idea that others wanted to fix me too.”

Her expression softens. “I never thought you were broken, John.”

“I know,” I whisper. “Pride is a funny thing, though.

Sometimes it refuses to listen to logic. I’d see the cracks in my existence and feel weak. I wanted to be your rock, the one who you could rely on.”

With a shuddering breath, she turns her head, no longer willing to face me. “You were.”

Until I wasn’t. My fists clench to keep from pulling her close. Not yet. “I freaked out and pushed you away.”

The gentle sweep of her jaw tightens. “I know.”

“You told me that’s what I was doing, and I didn’t listen.”

“I know this too.”

God, she sounds so distant, so done with me.

My cold hands tremble so hard I have to shove them in my pockets. “I know it’s not enough, but I’m so sorry.”

Blinking rapidly, she gazes up at the sky, and the wind tosses strands of hair into her eyes. “I know.”

“Jesus, Stells.” I move closer, ducking my head to get her in my line of sight. “Stop saying ‘I know’ and—” “And what?” she snaps, glaring. “What am I supposed to say to make you feel better?”

I blanch, horrified that she’s right. My shoulders slump.

“I deserve that. That and more.” Slowly, I reach out and gently tuck back a lock of her hair that’s been dangling over her eyes. I need to see those eyes; they hold my world. “I love you.”

The impact of my words makes her visibly flinch, and she looks away, giving me her profile. She seems so small just now, delicate as fine crystal. Which is weird, because Stella

has always seemed unstoppable to me. Her strength, her light—she can take on the world and own it. She owns me.

I can’t stop myself from touching her—the tips of her penny hair, the sweet edge of her jaw. “But that isn’t enough, is it?”

“No.” The word drops like a stone.

I’ve never faced rejection. Stella has only been rejected.

I shove my hands back in my pockets and keep talking.

“The second the words were out of my mouth, I regretted them, wanted to take them back. But I didn’t, couldn’t. It’s hard sometimes, getting out of my own head.”

“John …” She takes a deep, unsteady breath like she’s going to speak but then abruptly stops. Pearly white teeth dig into her bottom lip. When she speaks again, her tone is wary. “Why am I here?”

A lifetime of evasion tells me to charm her. A smile tries to grow on my lips, but I’m don’t let it bloom. I’m nervous as hell and worried I won’t be able to take away her hurt, or get her to understand, but she deserves straight honesty.

“I don’t need you to fix me, Stella. I need you for everything else. I need your smiles, your laughter. I need you to be my best friend, my lover, my all. I need to take care of you, touch your skin, make you dinner, give you pleasure whenever you’re in need.”

I lean in, emotion clogging my throat. “You are the best thing that has ever happened to me, and I’d happily spend the rest of my life trying to be the best thing that has ever happened to you too.”

My speech ends with the sound of kids laughing in the background and a distant horn blaring. Stella blinks at me,

her eyes glassy, her lower lip caught in the snare of her teeth.

“John …” Her voice breaks for a second. “That’s all I ever wanted. I wanted to take care of you too, not because I thought you are weak or messed up, but because I loved you and wanted to spoil you that way.”

My heart turns over in my chest, threatens to jump the fuck out of my body. “Button …” I reach for her but she takes a step back, holding up her hand.

“It’s hard for me to trust,” she says. “I’ve never been able to do that before you. And then you go and …” A tear slips free, and she inhales sharply like she’s pissed she showed any vulnerability. “What’s to say you won’t do it again?”

“I won’t,” I say swiftly.

Another tear escapes. “But how do you know? You panicked, and your first instinct was to cast me aside. How can I take that risk?”

God. I have no answer; I just know I won’t. I might mess up in other ways, but I won’t leave her. I can’t. But that won’t work for Stella. Pressure builds along the backs of my eyes and in the hollow of my chest. I dig my fists deeper into my pockets. “I don’t know what to say to make you stay.”

She nods, tears running freely down her smooth cheeks.

“I don’t know if there is anything you can say.”

We stare at each other, and I feel the space between us growing. Had I hurt before? This is worse. This slices through my skin and crushes my hope. I won’t get over the loss of Stella.

With another nod, she turns and leaves. Throat closed tight, I watch her walk away. My heart shouts “no, no, no”

with every step she takes, but I can’t move. I don’t know if I’m supposed to let her go, give her space, or fight for her, plead …

She halts, and my breath stops with her. Slowly she turns around. Face red and blotchy from crying, she looks at me with eyes wide and pained. “You know,” she says brokenly, “Maddy told me a story about her husband. She’d rejected him, you see.”

I shake my head, because I don’t see. But she keeps talking.

“She said he’d call her every night. He’d ask her one question. Was it worth it? Being without him,” Stella explains. “Was it worth it?”

She’s not talking about Maddy anymore.

I clear my throat, but my voice is still a thick rasp. “Was it?”

“I know how to be alone,” she says. “I’ve done it more than half my life. I can do it again.”

The burning behind my lids grows hot and itchy. I grind my teeth together, trying to hold it all in. “I know you can.

You’re … you’re so strong.”

Her expression crumples. “I’m not.” And then she’s striding toward me, almost a jog. Before I can say a word, she’s knocking into me, stealing my breath. Her arms wrap around my neck. A choked sound escapes me before I clutch her close and bury my face in the silky tumble of her hair.

I’m trembling. Tears burn down my cheeks. I can’t stop them. Stella holds me up, holds on tight.

“He asked the wrong question,” she says, her voice mu ed in the hollow of my chest.

“What was the right question?” I ask into her hair, because I’m not willing to let her go.

Stella presses her lips to my chest. “Is being with you worth living with the fear of eventually losing you?”

“You won’t lose me. You won’t.” I kiss the damp corner of her eye, just once because I can’t help myself, and taste her tears. “I can’t promise you perfection. I’m a moody bastard sometimes. I’ll have down days. But I tried living without you, and it was the worst feeling of my life. You’re part of me, Stella.” My fist thumps against my chest where it still feels hollow and incomplete. “You live here. Always.”

She leans back then and her hands cup my jaw, wiping at my cheeks with her thumbs as I wipe at hers. “Perfection is a myth. I’m not remotely perfect. If you love someone, you have to be willing to accept the flaws as well. I was walking away when it hit me that you don’t know how to trust either.

Yet here you are, wanting to try again.”

“I do.” My forehead rests on hers. “Is it worth it, then?”

Her smile is tremulous. “Hear me well, John Blackwood, because I know how hard it is for you to take a compliment.

You talk of my strength? You are the strongest person I’ve ever known. You are a survivor. Every day you fight for a better life. I am in awe of you. I adore you. I have since the beginning. Fear isn’t an easy thing to shake. But for you? I will be right there fighting by your side and never regret a day.”

I can’t speak. I can only haul her close and hold onto her.

She hums softly beneath her breath, smoothing circles on my trembling back until I calm. “Thank you,” I say when I

can find my voice. “For trusting me. For falling for me. I promise, Stella, I’ll always be there to catch you.”

Her voice washes over me like a song. “You already caught me. You did the second you stole my mint chip.”

A grin breaks out as I sling an arm over her shoulders and we walk o the bridge. “Come on now, Button, we both know you were the thief.”

“I was not! You knew I was going for The Mint.”

“And the kiss?”

She pinks. “Ah, well. But, I mean, have you seen you?

How was I supposed to resist?”

My laugher rings out over the park, and I pick Stella up, carrying her the way I once did over a puddle. “I love you, Stella Grey.”

She rests her head on my shoulder. “I love you too, JohnJax Blackwood.”

EPILOGUE

STELLA

I T ’ S AUTUMN NOW , my favorite time in New York. It’s crisp and cool, the air carrying the occasional scent of roasted chestnuts in the sti breezes that rush down the avenues.

Leaves are burnished orange and gold but the expansive lawns carpeting Central Park are still emerald green. Not that you can see much of that lawn now. People cover it, an undulating mass of humanity, all facing the stage set up under the fading sky.

That crowd starts to chant, calling for Kill John. The chant grows into a roar as John, Killian, Whip, and Rye jog out onto the stage and give them a wave.

John slips a guitar over his head and steps up to the mic.

God, my man is sexy onstage, all swaggering hip and impish smiles. The olive green T-shirt he wears hugs his lean muscles, and when he grips the mic, his biceps bunch. I swear, half the audience goes wild over that sight—made larger than life on the huge screen set up behind the stage. In that moment, he becomes Jax Blackwood.

Jax’s smile grows, and someone in the audience screeches her undying love for him. His rich voice echoes over the park.

“Hello, New York City!” More screaming. He pauses until it dies down a little. “Tonight is special. Tonight is for the beautiful ones we have lost, and for all the beautiful ones who su er in silence.”

A few people whistle, but it’s gone so quiet that you can hear the rough emotion in Jax’s voice now. “We’re raising our voice tonight to let the world know that it no longer has to be silent when it comes to mental health. To let them know that they will be loved.”

Tears blur my vision, and I press a hand to my chest.

Months in the making, my first project with Kill John was to help put this concert together. Dozens of artists have donated their time to perform to raise awareness for mental health and suicide prevention. Kill John will go first, mostly singing songs by idols we’ve all lost.

A heavy guitar ri slices through the air as Killian starts to play; Whip and Rye join in. The crowd goes wild. Jax begins to sing Nirvana’s “Drain You.” It isn’t sentimental or sweet, but Jax said it was one of Cobain’s favorites, so that’s what Kill John picked.

They don’t sound like Nirvana, though. They sound like themselves, perfect in their own way. I dance along, watching my man lean into the mic, all at once tight with power yet loose with confidence. As soon as the song ends, Killian and Jax start a duet of Soundgarden’s “Fell On Black Days.”

I love watching them together, the way they feed o each other, and how they’ll fall back and give it to Rye or Whip.

These guys are a seamless machine, and yet they still have a raw enthusiasm. I know they feel total joy up there, and it’s contagious.

When they play “Apathy” and “Rush Love” a newer song of theirs, their energy lights up the night. Then Jax, sweaty and now gloriously shirtless, sets down his guitar and adjusts his mic. “You’re going to hear a lot of classics tonight. This one is a bit di erent. It’s for someone special to me.” Somehow, his eyes meet mine and he gives me a smile, that secret smile that belongs to no one else but me. “For Stella, ‘The resolution of all my fruitless searches.’”

My heart turns over in my chest, and I blow him a kiss.

Killian, though, leans in and laughingly asks, “Are you sure you want to do this? It doesn’t always go as expected, man.”

Whip drums out a campy, “da-dum-dum” on his drums.

The audience laughs. Every Kill John fan knows that Killian once infamously dedicated Prince’s “Darling Nikki” to Libby, not realizing the context of the song wasn’t exactly the message he’d wanted to send.

Jax smirks at Killian. “Unlike you, I pay attention to the lyrics.” He glances back at me, his heart in his eyes, then turns his attention to the crowd. “I’m hoping you know this song enough to help me out and sing along.”

Despite their banter, the band has clearly planned this.

Rye moves to a keyboard, and they start as one. It takes a few notes for me to get the song, but when I do, I smile wide, tears welling in my eyes. At my side, Brenna leans close, nudging my shoulder with a happy grin.

Jax sings Peter Gabriel’s “In Your Eyes.” His voice is rough with emotion, his gaze mostly on me. The crowd sings with him, thousands of voices lifting up as one. Shivers break out over my skin, and I know in that moment what it means for Jax to be on that stage, how it feeds his soul and how he gives it back to the world. I sing too, return the words, meaning them with all I am.

As soon as they’re done, Jax jogs o the stage, waving his thanks to the cheering fans as he goes. He heads straight to me without falter, like he knew exactly where I’d been the whole time. Covered in sweat and glowing with vitality, he smiles, and I fling myself into his arms. “I love you.”

He lifts me o my feet, hugging tight before setting me down. “I love you too, Stella Button.”

“I’m so proud of you,” I say, kissing his cheek, his lips, his chin.

He chuckles and holds me close. “That turned you on, didn’t it?”

“Totally,” I whisper in his ear, unashamed, loving the way he tenses, then moves his hand down to cup my butt.

“When can we go?”

“Not for hours,” he says with a small groan. But I can wait. For him, I’ll wait as long as it takes, for however long he needs—because he is always worth it.

T HE NEXT DAY , John ushers me out of the house. He’s taking me someplace but won’t tell me where.

“Not even a little hint?” I ask as we ride the elevator down from his loft. I still live with Brenna, but I spend most of my time at John’s. Neither of us has talked about moving into together, but it seems to hover in the air, this final, silent barrier between us.

I don’t even know what’s holding me back, only that some small part of me still has a protective wall around it. I think John realizes it, but he never says anything about it; he simply gives all of himself every day. And it makes me feel worse because I love him more with every day.

On the street, John flags a cab and gives him an address in Murray Hill, an area of massive old brownstones with treelined streets and clunky brick high-rises looming on the perimeter. I’m not really paying attention, though. All of my being is focused on the man next to me.

I feel the warmth of his body and his smooth skin along the whole of my exposed side. His familiar spicy scent teases my nose every-so-often, making me yearn to lean in and press my face into the crook of his neck. I love that spot on him. I love that I know when I kiss him there, he’ll shiver, then grunt low in his chest and pull me closer.

The cab stops in front of a big, lacy, wrought-iron gate tucked between two brick townhouses. John gives me a small smile and produces a key. Beyond the gate is a long alleyway lined with trees and potted plants.

“It’s an old mews,” John tells me, opening the gate and stepping back to let me enter. It’s a bit like stepping back in time to the nineteenth century. The sunlit space has an almost hushed air about it. Red brick townhouses with

massive arched windows that run along two floors make up each side.

“It’s totally private.” John stops at an inky black door that has ivy climbing up along the side. “Another world tucked inside the city.”

Gaslights flank the door, flickering and hissing in the silence.

“It’s beautiful.” I have no idea why we’re here, but John has a key for this place as well. He takes a deep breath before opening the door, like he has to brace himself, and I have the urge to hold his hand.

Inside is filled with light, the walls creamy white plaster with huge onyx-framed windows. The worn wood floors give a slight creak when we walk over them, giving the space a sense of history. The place is empty, and our steps sound hollow beneath the high ceilings.

“There are four floors,” John says, leading me through a big living room with a black marble fireplace. “A library is over here.”

He’s pointing out features with the e ciency of a realtor, and I smile.

“What’s with the tour? Are you thinking of buying this place?”

John stops beside the big arched window and sunlight pours over his tall frame. “Not exactly. Come on. There’s more.”

He shows me a smaller room, lined with walnut wood bookshelves and a big window with diamond panes. As if he can’t help himself, he takes my hand. His is warm but slightly damp, and I know he’s actually nervous. I give his

fingers a gentle squeeze as he leads me to a wide circular staircase made of mellow wood honed to a gentle sheen.

Upstairs is another living area and a kitchen. There’s a half roof of slanted windows that let in more light. Here, someone has left an old brown-leather chesterfield sofa and a battered wood co ee table. I’m shown a small bedroom tucked toward the back, and then we’re going up again to another level that houses three big bedrooms and three baths. There is a rooftop terrace with a trellis but the rest is fairly bare.

John shoves his hand into his jeans pockets and walks around. “A couple of potted plants and maybe some bougainvillea or wisteria on the trellis, and you’d have your own oasis.”

“It’s more than most people get in the city,” I say neutrally. He’s not buying this place, so why is he showing it to me?

“True.” He casts a critical eye at the one of the pavers, and kicks a lose pebble to the side. “But I always thought the character of a place is more important.”

“Well, of course it.” Honestly, he’s acting so oddly, I’m getting unnerved.

Taking my hand again, he guides me back down to the living area, and then lets me go, only to take up pacing the floorboards. I watch him for a minute, confusion growing within me.

“You don’t like it? Or did you want a second opinion?” I glance around. The townhouse is cozy but bright, and not so big that a person would feel lost in it. There’s a sense of permanence about it. “It’s beautiful. Homey.”

He eyes me carefully. “I’m glad you think so.”

“So you are buying it,” I counter, not understanding that soft, almost hopeful look in his green eyes. “You should. It’s perfect. All the privacy you’ll ever need but it feels like a home.”

John steps away from the window. “I did buy it. But not for me. I bought it for you.”

“Me?” I stare at him. I must have heard that incorrectly.

“I don’t … You bought it for me?”

“Yeah, you.” The corners of his lips curve slightly. “This house is yours, Button. If you like it, that is.”

“I … You …” I blow out a breath. “You can’t buy me a house, John!”

He lifts his chin, his expression set, determined. It’s the same look he wore on that long-ago day when I bumped into him on the stoop and insisted that he was stalking me. The same day I started to fall for him. “But I did. It’s yours.”

“I can’t accept a house from you.” My voice echoes o the empty walls, sounding slightly panicked and completely shocked. “It’s too much. It’s a freaking house, for Pete’s sake.” Not just any house. A freaking townhouse in New York City. On a private street. I don’t have to be a realtor to know this place probably cost upward of ten million dollars.

Ten million. My head feels light. I flop down on the leather sofa and practice deep breathing.

John shrugs as he slowly walks closer. “Stella, I’m a rock star. We’re kind of known for our impulsive buys and grand gestures.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t want this gesture.” I laugh shortly.

“And I thought the couture dress you sent me was too

much.”

He smiles then, wide and unrepentant. “You look sexy as hell in that dress.”

“Well, I can’t wear a house.” My head is spinning. “My god, John. A house? I don’t need you to buy me presents. I just want you. You’re all I need.”

His smile falls, and he kneels by my side. “Hey, don’t freak out.”

“Kind of hard when you’re giving me gifts I can never repay in my lifetime.”

Gently, he rests his big hand over mine. “The point of a gift is that you don’t have to repay it.”

“John … A house?”

His lips quirk, and I know he’s fighting to keep a straight face. “I understand that, to normal people, it’s an outlandish thing to get someone. But we both know I’m not normal. Not anywhere within the area code of normal.” He squeezes my hand. “I know you don’t want me for my money. This isn’t about that. I want you to have this house.”

“But why?”

For a second, he searches my face as though he’s trying to see if I’m kidding or just plain clueless. “Because you have always wanted a home. That’s what you told me. Remember?

‘A house on a little street, where it’s private but close to everything. An older house with character and charm, and a rooftop garden to plant tomatoes and flowers, and I can soak in the sun’.”

Oh, God. I did say that.

“This …,” he stretches an arm out in the direction of the room, “can be your home. You never have to worry about

losing it because it’s yours outright. I’ve added all tax payments into the mortgage, which goes directly to me.

You’re safe now, Stells. Always.”

Oh. Hell.

His hair refuses to lie straight, instead sticking up in wild angles along the top of his head. I smooth my palm over one, and he closes his eyes, blinking slowly, his whole body leaning into the touch.

“So,” I say, none too steadily, “does this house come with you in it?”

He goes completely still. Jade-green eyes hold mine, giving nothing away. “No. It’s yours. No strings attached.”

“And if I want you in it?”

Did I think he was still before? He’s frozen now, tense and staring. He licks his lips before speaking. “Then I’ll be here with you for as long as you will have me.”

“I mean, it’s a pretty big house.” My fingers comb through his hair just for the pleasure of touching him. “I couldn’t possibly use all this space alone.”

His body slowly relaxes, leaning toward mine. “I could probably convert one of the rooms into a practice space.”

Both of us are speaking lightly, like this is all idle conversation. It’s anything but.

“You could.” I trace the shell of his ear, loving the way he shivers. “But what if I wanted babies?”

A light comes into his eyes that I haven’t seen before. It is free and bright and beautiful. “Then, Stella Button, it would be an honor to try and help you make those babies.”

I can’t stop my grin. “You’d really want that? Children?

Family life?”

I’m not even sure I want that right now. But I have to know what he’s thinking about us, about the future. He doesn’t seem daunted. He looks happy, hopeful.

John runs his hands up my thighs and holds my hips. “I want everything with you, Stells. Everything and anything.

You want kids, we’ll have kids. If you don’t, then we’ll have each other alone. That we are together is what matters.” His grip tightens. “That is my dream. You and me. It’s what gives me peace.”

Hot tears well in my eyes, and John thumbs them away as they roll down my cheeks. I’m a mess with him.

“I want that too,” I say. “Buying me a house is a beautiful, if somewhat shocking gesture.”

He laughs low and soft, only now appearing the slightest bit chagrined.

I lean in closer, touching his jaw. “But it’s not a home if you aren’t with me.”

John presses his forehead against mine. “I love you, Stella. I don’t want to go through this life without you.

Please believe that. Please believe that I’ll try to do better. I’ll try to—” I kiss him quiet. It’s a soft kiss, a press of lips to lips, but John groans deep in his throat and takes over, grasping the back of my neck to hold me in place as his mouth opens over mine. I don’t think I’ll ever get over how good it is to kiss him. The visceral punch I feel through my body still takes my breath.

With one last kiss, John cups my cheeks and meets my gaze, his eyes tender and wide. “We’re going to be okay.”

It isn’t a question, but I answer anyway. “Of course we are. We’re going to be forever.”

THANK YOU!

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I like to hang out in these places: Callihan's VIP Lounge, The Locker Room, Kristen Callihan FB author page, and Twitter Would you like to receive sneak peaks before anyone else? Or know when my next book is available? Sign up HERE for my newsletter and receive exclusive excerpts, news, and release information.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Many thanks to Jennifer Sommersby Young for edits/copy edits, Sahara Hoshi for sensitivity-beta reading, Melinda Utendorf for sensitivity and proofreading. Their e orts and feedback absolutely made this book better.

Huge thank you as always to Danielle Sanchez for her awesome PR coordination and skills.

Most of all, every fan who waited for what I know felt like forever for this book. I do not deserve you, but I love you all so much.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kristen Callihan is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author. She has won a RITA award, and two RT Reviewer’s Choice awards. Her novels have garnered starred reviews from Publisher’s Weekly and the Library Journal, as well as being awarded top picks by many reviewers. Her debut book FIRELIGHT received RT Magazine’s Seal of Excellence, was named a best book of the year by Library Journal, best book of Spring 2012 by Publisher’s Weekly, and was named the best romance book of 2012 by ALA RUSA. When she is not writing, she is reading.

To get to know Kristen www.kristencallihan.com Kristen.Callihan@aol.com