Fall Page 17

  “Honey.” I turn into him, and just cling, my fingers digging into his side. “I’m so freaking glad you’re here.”

  He lets out a harsh breath. “So am I, Button. Right. Fucking. Here.”

  I hadn’t meant it literally, but I don’t disagree. John and I have had our moments. We bicker and bounce around each other like opposing magnetic forces. But right now, it’s perfect.

  It falls quiet, then John starts to sing “Something” by the Beatles. I am struck silent. Emotion swoops in strong and thick, and all I can do is lie there and take it, close my eyes and hold him to me. I’m sick as hell, my body aches, and yet I feel like I’ve been granted the best gift in the world.

  Chapter Thirteen

  John

  “Someone talked.” Scottie sounds grim but resigned.

  Holding onto my phone, I sink into the couch and run a hand over my face. It’s been two days since I’ve seen Stella. I didn’t have an excuse to hang around when she was clearly on the mend. Plus, I wasn’t entirely certain she’d want me there when she was healthy. A sick Stella was needy. Healthy Stella will be back to being independent and not liking me very much.

  That’s all bullshit. Truth is, I didn’t want to stick around to see when she finally got well enough to ask questions—such as why I was freaking out over STDs. Why I’d insisted Stern ask Stella if she’d be willing to be tested, even though I’d been told the chances were nil.

  Hell, she’ll have gotten her results back by now. Dr. Stern thought Stella had strep and had started her on antibiotics. Logically, I understand that Dr. Stern had been telling me the truth, that a kiss wouldn’t have infected Stella. But I can’t relax until I know for sure.

  Even if Stella hasn’t heard back from Stern, she’ll know all about it now. It’s a shitshow all over the news. Just as I’d predicted. Jax Blackwood, fuckup royale. Can’t keep his shit together. Man-slut who screwed his way into STD Land. Innocent girls tainted.

  I snort. Clearly the press had never actually met the women I’ve hooked up with. Not a single one was innocent or coerced. But that doesn’t exactly make for good press.

  God, how will Stella look at me? My guts turn to ice.

  “Jax? You there, mate?”

  I stir out of my haze and switch to speakerphone. “Yeah. Someone talked. We knew it would happen eventually.”

  My mind drifts back to Stella. Should I text? Crawl over the wall and go see her?

  Scottie clears his throat. “You have any idea who it could be?”

  “Does it matter? It’s out now. Nothing will change that.”

  “Damn it, Jax, are you even paying attention? You never take anything seriously—”

  “Bullshit,” I snap, having enough. “I make jokes or downplay a situation because that’s how I deal. And, yeah, I’m forgetful to the point of irritation. It irritates me too that I can’t keep my mind focused. I’m supposed to write lists to keep track of my shit, but that means fuck all when I can’t remember to make a list in the first place. But all of that doesn’t mean I don’t care, Scottie. It just means I don’t do a good job of showing it.”

  He’s silent, and I know he’s trying to figure out how best to manage me. Ah, Scottie. He is nothing if not predictable.

  “You’re right,” he says finally. “I apologize.”

  Well, he finally got me. I didn’t see that coming. I should feel vindicated, but I’m uncomfortable instead. “Forget it, man.”

  “I was being a wanker, Jax. We both know it.”

  I fight a smile. “Fine. You’re a wanker. I’m glad we can finally acknowledge the gorilla in the room.”

  He grumbles, then clears his throat. “How’s Ms. Grey? I heard she was ill.”

  Of course he’s heard and is putting things together. Wrong again, though.

  “It wasn’t Stella.”

  “How do you know?” He sounds more curious than accusatory.

  “Because I know her.” I glance toward the terrace. Sunlight shines bright against the glass and hurts my eyes. I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Stella doesn’t talk. She gets even.”

  Scottie’s laugh is short. “You sound bizarrely thrilled over the prospect.”

  He has no idea.

  “I haven’t gone out yet,” I tell him. “But I don’t think anyone knows where I am at the moment.” I’ve never brought anyone outside my circle to this condo. And I could be in any city in the world.

  “Regardless, I have Bruce camped outside your place.”

  We have a couple of bodyguards on staff who work our public events. But we rarely use them during our day-to-day life. Who wants to live like that? Besides, I can defend myself just fine. Something I remind Scottie of now.

  “Of course you can.” He doesn’t sound as sincere as he should, the asshole. “However, someone needs to keep an eye out in case there’s a mob situation. Bruce was available. Don’t worry, he’ll blend.”

  I snort. “Scottie, he’s a bodyguard named Bruce Lee who looks a lot like the master Bruce Lee. He attracts attention just by being him.”

  “To be fair, it isn’t his name that garners attention from strangers,” Scottie deadpans. “It isn’t as though he wears a shirt that says, ‘Hello, my name is Bruce Lee.’”

  I laugh. “I should have one made for him.”

  “I’m sure he’d love that,” Scottie drawls.

  “Putting it on my to-do list.” My grin fades. “Seriously, I don’t like the idea of him sitting outside, twiddling his thumbs. It’s unnecessary and ridiculous.”

  Actually, Bruce is one of my favorites. He’s funny as hell and is the one who taught me mixed martial arts. Killian and I took classes from him for years before Scottie hired him as a part-time guard.

  “He’s staying. Expect to be shadowed for a while.”

  “No fucking way.” I sit straighter now. “I mean it. I see one of the guys following me around, I’m sending him home. And don’t even try that manager shit with me on this.”

  I’m met with silence. I don’t bother trying to fill it. I’ve played chicken with Gabriel Scott before.

  Finally, I hear a long-suffering sigh. “Do me this small thing, Jax. Keep a low profile. I don’t know how much you’ve seen—”

  “I’ve seen enough,” I cut in. Enough to make my stomach heave. Enough to tempt me back into bed where I can close the world out entirely.

  “Then you know to keep quiet until we can issue a statement.”

  I laugh without humor. “There is no good way to spin this shit.”

  “No, there isn’t.”

  His flat response makes me cringe.

  “Then we’ll let it ride,” I tell him, fighting the urge to vomit.

  “Assure me that you’ll stay away from your usual haunts.”

  “Jesus, Gabriel. Has lack of sleep addled your brain? You don’t need to lecture me. I don’t have haunts anymore. I’m a damn hermit these days.”

  “Right,” he says after an awkward pause. “Well, my work here is done then.”

  Despite myself, I smile with true amusement. “Yeah … It’s been fun.”

  “You’re a terrible liar, John.”

  “Don’t John me.”

  “Did you or did you not just pull a Gabriel on me?” he retorts.

  “You were being a wanker again.”

  “Speaking of people who call you John—”

  “Excellent segue,” I cut in.

  Scottie expels a protracted sigh before he speaks. “Have you explained the situation to Ms. Grey?”

  I resist the urge to squirm. “Are we gossiping now?”

  “Yes.”

  “God help me.” I rub my tired eyes and close them.

  “Have you?”

  “No,” I grit out. “I was too busy taking care of her while she was sick.” And, you know, chickening out.

  “You poor smitten kitten. You’re in deep, mate.” He sounds so smug, I’m sorely tempted to hang up on him.

  “What was your first clue
, Fred?”

  “Fred?” The confusion in his voice makes me laugh.

  “Out of all the gang, you’d definitely be the one to wear an ascot, so yeah, Fred.”

  Scottie scoffs. “I’m tempted to say you’d be Shaggy but you’re more the Daphne of the group.”

  “Fred had the hots for Daphne,” I point out.

  “This conversation has taken a strange turn and is making my head hurt.”

  “And my work here is done,” I say proudly.

  I can visualize him rolling his eyes.

  “Speaking from personal experience,” he says, getting back on point. “I can only advise that you be honest with Ms. Grey. Likely, she’ll have questions—”

  “Scottie, man, I’m not involved with Stella. We’re just … I don’t even know what we are. But I’m not trying to get in her pants.”

  “Lying makes my headache worse,” he mutters. “I don’t know why you bother with me.”

  “I’m a walking cautionary tale,” I say, annoyed now. “Not exactly prime boyfriend material.”

  “The fact that you used the word ‘boyfriend’ tells me all I need to know,” Scottie says. “Get your head out of your ass and talk to the girl. Oh, and we’re all coming over tonight for dinner.”

  At that, Scottie hangs up. Since he often hangs up on me when he’s done with a conversation, I don’t take it personally. Only now I’m alone with silence. Talk to Stella? I feel like a kid again, about to face the headmaster and really wanting to run the other way. That kid wants to go downstairs and hang out with Bruce instead.

  “Shit.” I run my hand through my hair and squeeze the back of my neck. I know what I have to do; I have to talk to Stella, warn her off while I still have the strength to let her go. Because there’s one thing I understand quite well: I always manage to disappoint the people I care about, and I don’t want to be yet another person in Stella’s life who fails her.

  * * *

  Stella

  When you’re sick, you kind of go with the flow. It’s not like you can protest. Your whole world narrows down to how bad you feel and how can you feel better. In that hazy reality, I hadn’t truly thought about the fact that John was there with me. But I’m well now, and I’m thinking about it. A lot.

  He took care of me. Better than anyone has since my mother died. The knowledge leaves me all tender and squishy inside. I owe him. I miss him.

  I might have been physically miserable when he was here, but I’d been completely comfortable around him. Happy, even. Which is bizarre, given the amount of pain I’d been in.

  But he’s gone now. He’s been gone for days, and I haven’t heard a peep out of my friendly neighborhood rock star. It’s unsettling. How can he go from being utterly attentive to completely gone? Did I offend him somehow? Was it a pity thing?

  I almost don’t want to know. Pity would kill me. But I find myself sending him texts anyway.

  He doesn’t answer them. And, because I’ve apparently become a total masochist, I call him too. It goes straight to voicemail.

  “I guess that’s that,” I mutter, tossing my phone onto the kitchen counter. Hurt invades my chest. It’s an ugly, sticky lump that I can’t dislodge. It follows me all day.

  I’m halfway to being pissed all over again, but then I remember how he held me, changed my sheets, sang me songs. He was all in. John is many things—he is by no means perfect—but he’s never cruel. He would answer my texts and calls.

  Suddenly, I’m ice cold. Something isn’t right, and I’ve spent days pouting when I should have been thinking objectively. It’s been days.

  Without another thought, I head for the terrace and hop right over the wall. When I pound on the glass door, no one answers. I should go back home, but I can’t. Not when my instincts are shouting at me to keep going.

  The door isn’t locked, and I really should talk to him about proper security. But at least I’m inside.

  “John?” I creep through the living room, my heart pounding too hard for comfort. I don’t want to be afraid or think dark thoughts. I don’t want to worry about him like this. But I do.

  There is an air of disuse here, as if he is gone. Maybe he went somewhere. He’s under no obligation to inform me of his comings and goings. But I’d heard music earlier, so I know someone has been here.

  Another swell of cold fear prickles over my skin.

  “John?” I call, louder now.

  From somewhere upstairs, I hear a creak and then John’s voice, rough and grumbly and confused. “Stella?”

  I should be polite, wait for him to come to me. After all, I’ve invaded his house. Again. But I find myself hurrying up the stairs. I just need to see him, know that he’s okay. “Are you decent?” I shout as I near his bedroom.

  Another creak sounds, as though he’s moving around on his bed. “Jesus. I’m not naked, if that’s what you’re asking.” There’s a protracted pause, then he adds, “But I can be.”

  Relief floods my body at the sound of his voice and the familiar way he teases.

  “I was just trying to give you warning that I was coming up,” I call back, and I swear I hear him mutter “pest.”

  In a louder voice, he calls back. “You don’t need to give me a warning.”

  He’s bantering just as always, but it lacks its usual vigor. His bedroom door is half open, and I push inside.

  It’s dim, the curtains drawn against the daylight. John is sprawled on a big bed, staring at the ceiling, though he clearly knows I’m here. I slow my steps and look around because this is not what I expected John’s room to look like.

  Velvety black walls, heavy matching drapes, polished wood furniture, and oil paintings in gilded frames—it’s as if I’ve stepped out of New York and straight into the English countryside, but a bit edgier.

  “Well,” I say, running a finger over a tobacco leather wing chair positioned in front of a black marble hearth. “This is cozy.”

  John snorts but continues to gaze upward. “Killian calls it old-lady decor.”

  It is. But in a nice, I come from old money sort of way. “It’s very Downton Abbey. With a bit of Addams Family twisted in.”

  John looks at me then, tracking my movements. He’s wearing gray lounge pants and a ratty olive green T-shirt. Thick stubble covers his jaw, but he appears clean enough. We haven’t seen each other in a few days, and I’ve missed him. Even with the strange, detached look he’s giving me, I’ve missed him.

  I could lie to myself and say I didn’t realize how much I’ve missed him, but I know better. I missed him the second he left my bedside. I’d wanted to beg him to stay. Hang out with me, not because he felt some obligation to take care of me, but because he wanted to be near me.

  “Most of this stuff was my Gran’s,” he says. “I don’t know, it reminds me of childhood.”

  My childhood home was cluttered with battered IKEA furniture and street finds. There was nothing homey about it, and I’d never try to replicate it. I’d rather live in John’s gilded nostalgia. I have a brief fantasy that includes scones with tea and John playing the part of randy duke.

  “You hate it.” John’s voice has me glancing at him.

  His expression is neutral, like he simply stated a well-known fact and doesn’t expect a reply. But he’s too still, and I know he wants my opinion.

  “Honestly? I want to curl up and read and hope another freak blizzard hits just so we can light the fire.”

  His answering smile is wan. Not what I expected. Ordinarily, he glows with an internal light so brilliant, it’s sometimes hard to face full on. But now that it’s dimmed, I want that light back.

  I near the edge of his bed. It’s high enough that I have to hitch myself onto it. The cashmere duvet cover is dark gray and blue plaid. Not my style, but soft and sumptuous beneath my fingertips. “What’s wrong?” I ask him. “Are you sick?”

  He glances away. “No. Just tired. Thought I’d take a nap.”

  I’m all for a good nap, but John loo
ks as though he’s been here a while. A few dirty bowls and glasses clutter his night table, and there’s a lived-in quality about the room that’s in direct opposition to the empty feeling downstairs. If I didn’t already know that John has dealt with depression, I might have thought little of the scene. But now, my hackles are up.

  “How long have you been napping?”

  He scowls at me. “What is this? Why are you even here?”

  I ignore the punch of hurt because I know defensive evasiveness when I see it. “I wanted to thank you for taking care of me. But you haven’t returned any of my calls or texts.”

  “No need to thank me. It was my pleasure.” There is nothing but sincerity in his expression, but that horrible, flat, lifeless tone remains.

  “I was worried about you,” I confess.

  Oh, he really doesn’t like that. “I’m a grown man, Stella Button. You don’t have to worry. I am fine.”

  “If you’re fine, maybe you should get up? Have a shower.”

  The corner of his mouth twitches. “Are you saying I stink?”

  He doesn’t, actually. Not that I can tell from where I stand, anyway. But his general listlessness bothers me. I’m at his bedside and he hasn’t even tried to sit up. He simply lies there entrenched.

  “It’ll get your blood going,” I tell him, nudging his knee.

  John blinks up at the ceiling. “I’ll get up soon.”

  When I simply stare at him, he lifts his head and looks down the elegant length of his nose at me. “I am okay, Stella. As you can see, I haven’t hurt myself, or whatever it was you feared.”

  He sounds irritated, but I can hear the embarrassment he’s trying to hide. I get why it irks him that people assume the worst when he doesn’t reply to their calls. But I don’t feel remotely guilty. He is too important, and I refuse to tiptoe around his feelings if it means his safety is in jeopardy.

  I keep my voice light. “Was I this pissy when you found me sick? I can’t remember.”