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  God, that hair. No matter how much of a crazy pill the woman clearly is, her hair is gorgeous. I’d noticed her hair when she first entered the store. A redhead. Crazy Girl’s hair is brilliant red-gold, like a brand-new penny. A lush tumble of shiny, loose curls, spiraling like a starburst around her plain little face.

  It had been almost a shock when she’d first turned my way and I caught full sight of her. Hair like that makes a man expect sex and sin. Not wide eyes and freckles. Cute as a button. A sexy Goth girl with a Mary Ann face. Girl next door meets Wednesday Adams.

  I shake my head slightly, trying to get it together. Doesn’t matter what she looks like, the girl is an angry bunny out for the kill. Why did she kiss me? What were we arguing about again?

  I glance at my freezing, empty hand. Right. “The Mint.”

  A grin pulls at my cold cheeks. Point to Button.

  Letting the freezer door slam, I take off after my ice cream.

  She’s already at the checkout line, trying to tuck a wayward strand of brilliant hair behind one ear. The curve of her cheek sports a nice pink flush, one that grows deeper as I approach. White teeth nibble on a plush bottom lip that I remember all too well.

  Seeing her now, I also remember that flash of shock in her eyes when she’d kissed me, like she couldn’t believe what she’d done. I have never met a more easily readable person. I can almost see those crazy little wheels and cogs spinning in her mind when I saunter up behind her and set my basket down on the end of the belt with a thud.

  She’s totally expecting a fight. And it clearly freaks her out. Interesting, considering she did not back down before. Earlier, I’d started to wonder if she’d been following me, which is a definite turnoff. I don’t need a stalker on my hands. Except she’d sent me a warning glare in the produce section that had made me reevaluate that theory. No, this girl clearly wants nothing to do with me.

  Her nose lifts as if smelling something off. Yet she doesn’t acknowledge me. Oh no, Button gives me her shoulder, her pale hand resting on my mint chocolate chip ice cream like she thinks I might snatch it away. Ha.

  My grin returns, and I crowd her space, staring down the back of her neck, at the creamy swath of skin just visible above her battered dark-blue leather bomber jacket. Her eyes are dark blue too. I have the sudden desire to see them again, glaring up at me in challenge.

  Come on, Button, give me those defiant eyes. I’ve been so fucking bored. So numb.

  I move in closer. Close enough that if she breathes wrong, her pert ass will brush against my crotch. The idea sends all sorts of less pure but much better ideas into my head. Odd that this strange girl even affects me. That hair certainly does. I took one look at that hair and imagined it sliding over my hard dick. But she’s way too baby-cute for me. Not to mention the fact that she’d be more likely to bite my dick than suck it.

  With that horrific thought in mind, I shift my weight back a little and glance at the items she’s unloading with sharp, snappish movements. Aside from the feminine products, almost everything she’s picked is identical to mine. Down to the eight Honeycrisp apples, two containers of vanilla Icelandic yogurt, organic granola—with the cranberries—buffalo mozzarella, cherry tomatoes, Italian bread, and smoked center-cut bacon. Exactly the same shit. She’d gone for Oreos. I wanted Oreos. And let’s not forget “The Mint.”

  What the hell is that all about? If she’s not stalking me, and I can admit, I’d usually been one step behind her, how did we both happen to get the same stuff?

  Bloody weird.

  I study her again, annoyed, and admittedly baffled by this hyperawareness of her. Is it attraction? I’m not sure. I’m drawn to confident women. The ones who command a room. Okay, I usually go for sex kittens who eye me like candy. I’m shallow when it comes to sex. Sue me.

  This woman creeps through a space like she’s trying to blend into it. Until the moment she squared off against me. And then she changed. All her attention had zeroed in on me like a one-two punch. It had been stunning. Electrifying. I haven’t felt that in so long, I almost didn’t recognize the sensation at first.

  Strange. And she clearly has no idea who I am. Which I like. A lot. While not everyone recognizes me, most people around my age do. Not Ms. Mint Thief.

  I let my gaze slide over her, knowing she feels it, a bonus because it makes her bristle.

  Her features are quirky, a nose a bit too big, square chin pared with round cheeks. And then there are the freckles. Freckles sprinkled like cinnamon sugar over her nose and cheeks. They are just dark enough to catch the eye and make you want to count them, maybe trace their patterns. I’ve never liked freckles. Too distracting.

  She even has two on her lips. A definite distraction.

  It’s her eyes I want to see again. The guilt in them. Because she is guilty. She stands there fidgeting and maintaining her vigilant watch over her food. Completely ignoring me. Cute.

  I loom, hovering like a conscience. Her round cheeks flush hot pink, clashing with those cinnamon freckles. I like ruffling her, even though I shouldn’t. Why that is, I can’t really say, but since I’ve always gone on instinct, I follow it now.

  The cashier gives me a dirty look. Rightly so. I am a big man breathing down a single girl’s collar.

  I smile at the cashier. “We know each other.”

  “No, we don’t,” says the little ice cream thief, not bothering to turn around.

  I lean in, the scent of girly shampoo and flustered woman filling my lungs. “Ah, now how can you say that, Button? It’s not every day I kiss a woman and give her my cream.”

  Button’s whole body seems to vibrate, vacillating between fight-or-flight mode. I’m betting on flight since she’s bolted before. But then that dark-blue glare turns on me. “I kissed you. And it was my ice cream.”

  Hers? I lift a brow as she pinks. Try again, you little sneaky thief.

  Her brow lifts in retaliation. Who is holding The Mint, chump?

  It’s kind of impressive the way she communicates “chump” so clearly with one look. The cashier hands Button her change, and she turns to go. The knowledge that she is about to walk out of my life leaves me unnervingly bereft.

  “What’s your name?” I ask, needing to know. It’s probably something cute and perky.

  She pauses. “I’m sorry, I don’t talk to strangers.”

  I bark out a laugh. “Right, you only kiss them.”

  Kiss me again, I’ll get us nice and acquainted.

  No. I don’t want to kiss this chick. She’s a cagey Muppet, the type who probably closes her eyes during sex and composes her shopping list—dreaming of another mint chip run. Little thief. An evil goodie thief who has left me with nothing to snack on during the blizzard. Shit, I should go back and get the damn Neapolitan ice cream. But I hate the strawberry part. Why do they even bother with that shit?

  I shake my head and focus on Ms. Mint. She’s smirking at me now, knowing full well that I am without any sugary goodness, and I have the sudden childish urge to pull her hair or pinch her ass. It’s a toss-up.

  Kinky and weird, Jax.

  “You’re really not going to tell me your name, thief?”

  “What’s your name?” she lobs back, as if I don’t have one.

  “John.” It’s both the truth and a lie. I smile with teeth. “And yours? I’ll need something to put down on the police report.”

  Head held high, she grabs her bags but then stops, whips out the Oreos—the last package that she’d managed to snap up before I could get to them—and slaps them on the conveyor belt.

  “Feed the cops some cookies. They’ll probably be hungry after hearing you whine on and on.” With that, she stalks off. No sway now, just a militant march that has me wanting to laugh again.

  “‘Leave the gun—take the cannoli.’ Is that it?” I call out to her.

  The cashier looks at me as though I’m crazy. I have to agree. Because for one thoughtless moment, I consider running after Button and seeing if
I can ruffle her some more—despite my suspicions about her being uptight in bed, or maybe it’s because of them. I do like a challenge.

  But I can never forget who I am. It’s as unchangeable as the color of my eyes. For better or worse, I’m Jax Blackwood: famous for being the lead singer, and sometimes guitarist, for Kill John, infamous for trying to kill myself two years ago. Any woman I interact with will always know those things about me, and the knowledge will affect everything between us from then on. Fame and infamy are brilliant at keeping relationships on a surface level. I prefer it that way. Sex is sex, fun, easy, mutual pleasure.

  Ms. Mint Thief clearly isn’t the quick-hookup type. That much I know. Though bickering with her has been more fun than I’ve had in months, I’d rather this moment stay fresh and pure than sully it by fucking her and rolling out of bed as soon as I’m done.

  I watch her go and rub the familiar hollow spot in my chest. Some things aren’t meant to be.

  Chapter Two

  Stella

  For some irritating reason, my grocery bags feel incredibly heavy. The cold, hard lump of that damn mint chip slams into my thigh with every step. I smother thoughts of irate green eyes and taunting smirks as I walk into my building. The lobby is dank and always smells of moldy pipes, but the cracked black-and-white checkerboard floors and dusty brass fixtures are a familiar comfort.

  I’m damn lucky to have an affordable place to live in the city. I remind myself of this as I haul my food up five flights, my feet echoing on the iron stair treads. There’s an elevator if you want to live dangerously. Having once been trapped in that tiny box for three hours, I’m in no hurry to try my luck anytime soon.

  By the time I get to my floor, I don’t want to eat—I just want to curl up in bed and go to sleep. My apartment is at the end of the hall. Up here doesn’t smell of mold but of dust and old plaster. I was eleven when my dad brought me here. I was terrified and missing my mother so much I could barely breathe through the pain of it. But she was dead, and my father—a virtual stranger to me—was the only family I had left. I stuck by his side as he led me down the hall to the small efficiency that would be our home.

  Back then, my bed had been a small twin behind a curtain and Dad took the pull-out couch, when he was around. He’d leave for days and then show up again as if it were no big deal. As if it were perfectly normal to leave a kid to her own devices. He called it lessons in “toughening up.”

  Now he’s gone for good, and the small space feels positively palatial. I don’t miss my dad. There are days I downright hate him. But that doesn’t seem to stop me from wondering where he is, from wanting to see his face just once more, if only to damn him for abandoning me. So here I will wait, in the rent-controlled unit that’s under my late great aunt’s name, where the super looks the other way, just as he did for my dad—as long as I give him a couple hundred each month.

  Which is why the envelope tapped to my door, crisp and official-looking, has me halting in my tracks. My heart gives a protracted thud at the sight of it hanging there against the bumpy black paint. I don’t open the envelope once inside. Instead I concentrate on putting away my groceries, changing out of my clothes and into my PJs, brushing my hair, any-fucking-thing but looking at the envelope.

  It isn’t until I can’t take the tension squeezing at my neck that I finally tear it open. My fingers go cold and my world gets both a little bit smaller and a whole lot emptier. My building is turning condo. If I were actually my late great aunt Agnes, I would have the option of buying in. However, I am not Agnes, and I do not have the $650,000 required to purchase my little bit of Manhattan.

  “Location, location, location,” I mutter, crumbling the letter.

  All the innocent joy of flirting with a hot guy is gone. I am soon to be homeless. The last link to my dad will be severed. I don’t know why I care; he was a shitty dad. Yet all I can do is sit on the ratty futon he once called his bed, stare at the floor, and feel so damn lonely that my body shakes.

  The instinctual urge to get up and run to the familiar safety of Hank’s airport is strong. I need space. I want to see the ground far below me and the blue, blue sky soaring above my head. But the sky is leaden and gray with the impending blizzard, and you never fly while emotionally distracted.

  Grounded and alone, there is no escaping this new reality. I can give up, let life roll me over. Part of me wants to.

  Instead, I reach for my phone and make some calls.

  * * *

  John

  When you live the life of dreams, nothing feels real. That has always been my problem. I never had anything solid to hold onto. Yes, I have my music, the band, the fame, but they don’t ground me. They make me high on life. I live for those highs, the moments on stage when I feel invincible, that I can do anything. Nothing on earth beats that feeling. Music is my soul, and when I play, I am immortal.

  But you can’t live your entire life for one moment. And the crash from that impossible height hurts.

  How to go on when you’ve fallen as low as you can get? One tiny step at a time. At least that’s what my therapist says. Take one step every day. Some days will be mundane. And some will be a downright pain in the ass.

  Going to the doctor for a checkup falls somewhere between pain in the ass and mundane. But something about nearly dying makes you respect your health a bit more. Here I am, sitting in an uncomfortable chair in my private doctor’s living room—because I might be doing something as mundane as having a checkup, but I’m still me, and fame calls for complete anonymity when seeing a physician.

  Dr. Stern doesn’t keep me waiting. She enters the room with a blandly pleasant smile that they must teach doctors in medical school. “Hello, Jax. How have you been?”

  “All right. Bit of a sore throat, but my throat always hurts after a tour.” Singing night after night takes a toll. I’ve been drinking so much damn tea with honey and lemon, I swear the stuff is coming out of my pores.

  She purses her lips, which makes me weary. “Why don’t you sit on the couch and I’ll take a look?”

  I take a seat and let her peer and prod at my throat. “Any other issues? Pain or discomfort in any other areas?”

  “Other areas?” I frown, my heart rate kicking up a bit, though I don’t know why. Something about her careful expression bugs me. “No. Why?”

  She steps back and picks up a folder resting on a side table. “I have your lab work back.”

  Since I’ve taken up a new lease on being responsible, I also get regular STD checkups. I’m ashamed to admit it wasn’t something I did as much in my younger years, but I’d be damned if I am going to play fast and loose with my health now. Even so, I don’t like the look in Stern’s eyes.

  “Okay,” I say with caution.

  Dr. Stern stares at me for a long beat. “It appears you have chlamydia, Jax.”

  Blood rushes in my ears. “What? No. What?”

  She glances at my chart, then back at me.

  “But I use condoms,” I insist, a little frantic now, my skin starting to crawl. “Every. Time.” I am careful as hell about that. Never even trusted anyone’s condom but my own. Aside from the threat of disease, one sneaky pinhole and I have a baby mama. And that is not happening.

  “Unfortunately,” Dr. Stern says, “you can contract chlamydia through oral sex as well.”

  I stare at her.

  Dr. Stern’s tone is sympathetic. “It’s in your throat, Jax. Which would make sense, if you picked this up via oral sex. The soreness you’re feeling is a symptom. Luckily, we’ve discovered it early on.”

  Oral? I went down on a bird, and she gave me an STD? My stomach rolls. “Throat? I can get an STD in my fucking throat?”

  “It’s less common, but yes.”

  Where the fuck was I during that lesson? Probably ditching class. Talk about misspent youth. I pinch the bridge of my nose and try to calm down.

  Dr. Stern is still talking. “Do you experience any burning sensation during urina
tion? Pain or tenderness in your testicles?”

  “What? No.” I sit straighter. “No, nothing. My dick is fine.”

  She gives me a patient smile that annoys the hell out of me. “Even so, it would be best if I did a full examination.”

  “Full examination?” Alarm spikes up my back.

  She doesn’t even blink. “Of your penis and anus to—”

  “Oh, hell.” I run a cold hand through my hair. This cannot be happening.

  Dr. Stern puts a hand on my shoulder. “The good thing is that this is easily treated. Antibiotics should clear it up quickly.”

  Which is great, but she’s about to fondle my dick and put a light on my asshole. I cringe again and rub my face with a shaking hand. “Bloody hell.” Another thought goes through me, and I nearly hurl. “Oh, fuck, I’m going to have to contact my partners, aren’t I?”

  A black hole of humiliation opens before me as she nods. “It would be the responsible thing to do, Jax.”

  And a PR nightmare from hell. I’ve been under the public microscope for two years—the guy who tried. Will he again? What is he thinking now? Always with the questions. Always watching my every move. Now I’ll be the butt of sex jokes as well. Yes, I’m feeling sorry for myself. I really don’t care. Because I know I’ll have to tell Scottie and Brenna.

  “Bugger, bugger, bugger.”

  “It’s going to be all right, Jax.”

  Oh, the irony. Every time someone tells me that, something else comes along to slap me back down.

  She has that look on her face, you know, the one doctors give you to make you feel like shit about your life choices. “When is the last time you had sexual contact with someone?”

  “About a month ago.” Honestly, it hadn’t been that good for either me or my partner, and I’d finally woken up to the fact that maybe I should put the brakes on what had become mindless hookups.