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  “Mmm … Well, the incubation period ranges anywhere from a few days to a few months. However, symptoms usually show in about one to three weeks. I’d say you start with your last partner and work from there.”

  I’m not going to bother telling her the number of partners I had that last week. I run a hand over my face, then pause. A bolt of horror goes through me.

  “Doc, the other day some girl kissed me in a grocery store.” Ah, good times. The cute little mint thief’s saucy walk flashes through my mind before I blink it away.

  She visibly fights a smile. “Why am I not surprised?”

  Oddly, I still am. I get hit on all the time. But those propositions are a little more straightforward. Would I like to fuck? Yes, please, sure, great. The mint thief kissed me as a diversionary tactic. I still admire her for that.

  “Thing is, I don’t know who she was. What if …” Oh hell, I cannot face Mint Thief and tell her to get an STD check. “Could I have given her …”

  “No, Jax,” Dr. Stern cuts in. “You cannot spread chlamydia through kissing or even sharing drinks. Only sexual activities such as penetration or oral.”

  My shoulders slump in relief. “Well, that’s good.”

  Dr. Stern gives me another gentle pat. “I’ll give you a moment to change into a gown, and we’ll get started.”

  Right, the exam. Awesome. Just fucking awesome.

  * * *

  Stella

  Normally, when my phone rings and I’m sleeping, I don’t answer it. However, since my phone happens to be pressed under my cheek, and its shrill ring just scared the ever-loving stuffin’ out of me, I’m a bit more willing.

  Scrambling to make the damn thing shut up, I end up hitting myself in the face before finding the answer button.

  “Fuc—Hello?”

  There’s a protracted silence, the kind that makes it clear someone is on the line but is deliberating whether they should speak.

  Sighing, I roll over onto my back. “You heard me say fuck, didn’t you?”

  Not good since this is my client line and some potentials are nervous enough as it is.

  A throat clears and then a man with a voice like crisp sheets finally speaks. “Am I speaking with Ms. Grey?”

  Well, hello, James Bond. I rub my cheek and sit up. “Yes, this is Ms. Grey. Most people call me Stella. What can I do you for?” Shit, that was classy. Way to talk like Dad and sound like a doof, Stells.

  Bond guy clearly agrees. He makes a dubious noise. “My name is Mr. Scott. I received your contact information from Aaron Mullins.” The dubious tone is back and stronger now. “He said you were a reliable sort and might be interested in pet sitting.”

  Oh, crap. The plum job. Last night, Aaron, an old client, had talked it up as an easy solution to my current problem of being homeless when my sublet expires in three weeks.

  “Yes,” I blurt out. “Cat sitting, right? Aaron told me you were looking for someone to do a long-term thing? Two months, was it?”

  “Four, actually. My client will be on an extended trip and he doesn’t want to board the animal.”

  Dude is frosty, I’ll say that much. “Well, it would be much better for—I’m sorry, what is the cat’s name?”

  Another pause, and then he clears his throat. “Stevens.”

  “The cat’s name is Stevens?” Sounds like a butler’s name. Not surprising. Dude on the phone sounds like the type who would have a butler.

  He also sounds disgruntled. “Yes.”

  Something dances around the edges of my brain. And then I smile. “You mean like Cat Stevens? The singer-songwriter?” I bite back a snicker.

  “I’m surprised you’ve heard of the man,” Mr. Scott says dryly. “I’d assume he was far past your age group.”

  “I make it my business to know a lot of factoids, most of which are useless in today’s contemporary society.” Argh. Seriously, stop talking, Stells. You’re going to lose this guy.

  “And what precisely is your business, Ms. Grey?”

  “I’m a Jack—or Jill, rather—of all trades.” Some might say that made me an aimless layabout, but I’ve tried the nine-to-five life. It doesn’t work for me.

  “That should be useful. A housekeeper comes by once a week, so you won’t be expected to clean. However, there is the matter of the goldfish.”

  “Intriguing.” I slip out of bed and head to my bathroom to peer in the mirror. Good God, bedhead has reached epic proportions. “What’s its name?”

  “Hawn,” he says.

  “Like Han Solo?”

  “Not Han. Hawn. As in H-A-W-N.”

  I pause, hand in the middle of pushing my hair back from my face. “Goldie Hawn?”

  Mr. Scott sighs, as I laugh.

  “Holy hell,” I say though my laughter. “Who is your client?”

  Mr. Scott’s voice is like ice now, and I actually feel a chill. “The essential requirement of this position is that my client’s privacy is to be guarded at all costs.”

  “Er … okay. Then I’ll probably have to decline, Mr. Scott.” Which is depressing. Aaron had told me it included free room and board in a penthouse in Chelsea. Since I’m about to be without a home, it would have worked out nicely.

  There is another pause, and I get the feeling he was expecting total compliance. “Let me understand this. You have a problem with respecting my client’s privacy?”

  “No. I wouldn’t dream of invading it. But, as I said, I have a few side jobs. Sometimes, clients visit me.”

  Silence rings between us.

  “Clients?” The dubious tone is back.

  “Nothing illegal or seedy.” I tell Mr. Scott about my work while the silence on the other end of the phone grows weightier, and I feel more and more like a fool for explaining myself to this virtual stranger. “So, you see,” I finish up, “while I love pets and am happy to watch them for your client, I can’t let my other jobs go.”

  Mr. Scott hums, and then his voice is all starch and power once more. “Mr. Mullins is an old friend of my wife’s. He highly recommended you …”

  As well he should. He was one of my first clients, and I did him a true solid. But I keep my mouth shut. After all, I guard my clients’ privacy just as much.

  “My wife trusts his judgment, and I trust my wife’s. As long as you agree to keep your clients in the common rooms, I am willing to overlook visitors. In addition to room and board, financial compensation is included in the offer.” He states an amount that has me sinking to the cold bathroom floor.

  With that amount, and not having to worry about rent for months, I could save up a huge nest egg. I could finally buy the car I need and not have to rely on the train to get out to Long Island, always having to ask Hank to pick me up at the station. I wouldn’t have to hustle for every job that comes my way. I could breathe a little easier.

  Mr. Scott is still talking. “We’ll need you to take immediate occupancy as there is a storm coming and my client is already out of town.”

  Ah, yes, the blizzard. It will be here tonight.

  “I can do that. It won’t take me long to pack.” I can clean out my apartment next weekend.

  “Very good. An instruction packet will be couriered to your residence within the next hour.”

  Wow. Efficient has been taken to another level. “I’ll be waiting for it.”

  “One last thing. The penthouse shares a wall with another unit. My company owns both. Should you have an … issue with your neighbor, I would appreciate it if you contact me directly before engaging with the occupant.”

  Okay … that’s a whole lot of formal oddness.

  “You make it sound like there will be issues, Mr. Scott. Is there something I should know about this new neighbor of mine?” Like is he or she a knife-wielding psycho? And, what the hell? Issues? What kind of issues? Starts fires when irritated? Watches porn on full volume? Who are these people?

  “He tends to travel frequently. In all likelihood, you’ll never even know he’s there
, Ms. Grey,” Scott says smoothly. “It is merely a precaution. You have your clients, I have mine. Mine require a great deal of privacy, that is all.”

  I’m beginning to wonder if his clients aren’t international criminals. But someone who names his pets after celebrities and does it with puns can’t be all bad. As for the neighbor—He Who Must Not Be Disturbed—I’ll have to take Mr. Scott’s word.

  Besides, I have better things to dwell on, such as penthouse living and a cat named Stevens.

  Chapter Three

  John

  I made a mistake staying in the city. At the first word of a blizzard coming, I should have hopped on a plane and left town. Gone to my place in London. Or, hell, gone south where it’s warm and sunny. A week or two on some beach, drinking beers and fucking a willing woman would have hit the spot.

  But no, I had to trap myself alone with nothing but silence as company. It is not a good thing for me to be alone for an extended period. Some might call it a weakness. For me, it’s simply a facet of my personality; if I’m alone for too long, my thoughts can easily take a dark turn.

  “Damn it.” I rub my eyes and pace over to the wall of windows. I can’t see anything other than a white blur and the snow mounding against the bottom pane. A sudden sensation of being completely lost has me resting a hand on the cold glass. Intellectually, I know where I am—New York City, in a thirty million dollar penthouse that I bought with pocket money. King of the world, right?

  A king who cannot stand rattling around in silence.

  With a grunt, I turn away from the window. I’m hungry and should eat something. Staring in my fridge doesn’t help. All I can think about it the mint chocolate chip that got away. A smile tugs at my mouth.

  That sweet, chaste kiss my mint thief planted on me lingers. Libby, Sophie, and Brenna are the only women in my life who don’t treat me like a revered god or some sad case who might blow up at any second. But they’re basically an unruly bunch of sisters who poke and prod and butt into my business. I’d almost forgotten what it feels like to interact with a woman who doesn’t know who I am.

  That oddball button of an ice cream thief fought for her ice cream like a warrior. Cute as hell, really. And this is where I am in my life—having more fun arguing with a crazy redhead in a grocery store than going to a club or party filled with famous people.

  I laugh a little, trying to picture how it would have gone if I’d asked her to come hang out. Not to fuck, but to have dinner, watch a movie, share that ice cream. Grammar school stuff.

  The concept is so far removed from my life, I can’t even fully imagine it. I’d never actually do something like that anyway. Not when the possible result would be tabloid fodder. I am who I am, and my life doesn’t include random friendships with strange women.

  Stick with those you know. It’s a lesson learned early on, and painfully.

  Slamming the fridge closed, I pull out my phone. There are at least fifty text messages waiting for me.

  Hey, babe, you in town. Love 2 c U again!

  I keep thinking about our nite. Need you bad.

  Jax, you rock my world.

  I stop scrolling and hit delete instead, my insides suddenly cold, my skin clammy. I don’t remember a single one of these women, and that seems tragic. I love women, I do. I love their softness, the way they smell, the sound of their laughter, how they feel when I’m sinking into them. I love sex. Fucking is an essential part of my life, a stress relief—a way to forget. And though I’ve slowed down lately, the opportunity for quick sex was always there if I needed it.

  Right now, it’s totally gone, stripped away with a few test results. I have never judged others based on their past sexual history. One of my mentors contracted HIV in the late ’80s. He survived, and I find that brave as hell. Then why can’t I stop from feeling as though I’m coated in sticky dirt? I’m ashamed. It’s there, on my skin, this dirty, wrong sensation of failure.

  The sense of loss is there as well. But it isn’t as strong. It‘s been getting harder to lose myself with sex lately. My brain keeps pushing its way into the equation.

  The last time I was with a girl, I’d barely started when I’d suffered a crisis of conscience. Did she have any hopes? Any dreams? Did she think I’d call her the next day? And when I didn’t, would it hurt? My dick had deflated with the speed of a dart to a balloon. I ended up going down on her just so she wouldn’t ask questions, and I left feeling dirty and cheap and pissed at myself.

  God, that had to have been the girl in question. I’d avoided sex and gotten chlamydia instead.

  A laugh huffs out of me, but there is no humor in it. I have to tell this woman, and I can’t remember her name. I can’t remember anything about her other than she had hot-pink hair and waxed downtown.

  “Shit.”

  So, no, I’m not going to go searching for a quick hookup anytime soon. Which leaves me here, alone. And that is never a good thing for me.

  Picking up the phone again, I call Killian. It rings and rings, and I have no idea what time it is on Killian’s end. Doesn’t make me hang up, though.

  He answers and sounds awake. “’Sup, J?”

  “Explain to me again why you and Libby had to move to Sydney for four months, because I’m not buying this whole we want to see the toilet flushing backward excuse.”

  Killian laughs. “Libby fell in love with the place when we visited Scottie.”

  “Visited being the key word. Hell, Scottie’s back in New York, and now you’re there.”

  I’m not trying to feel let down by this. But I am.

  “What can I say? Libby and I want to explore the Southern Hemisphere, and I’m trying to not have to take twenty-four-hour flights back and forth to do it. Makes more sense to just hang out here for a while.”

  Such is our life—the ability to run away for months and have fun without worries. Kill John just came off a long world tour, and we’re not writing anything new at the moment but “recharging,” as Whip would say. What this means is that the guys are all fucking around and having fun so we don’t kill each other when we finally settle down to do it all over again.

  It seems petty to brood. Yet here I am, brooding. “I’m just saying, you finally convince me to move out of my perfectly good apartment—”

  “Granny apartment,” he cuts in.

  “I inherited it from my Gran.”

  Killian snorts. “And you didn’t change a damn thing in that place. I swear, every time I walked in there, I got flashbacks of the watery tea and bland biscuits your gran forced on us when we paid her a visit.”

  “You loved those biscuits.”

  “Yeah. Good times.” He sighs happily. “Do you like the place?”

  I glance around as I walk to the couch. Killian will be horrified when he sees that a lot of my grandmother’s old furniture made its way here. He’s always giving me shit over my decorating style. What can I say? Gran’s stuff was comforting and familiar. “It’s really … light.”

  “Light?” He sounds confused.

  “Lot of windows. High ceilings.” I miss my old place with its dark walls and smaller windows. It was a nice, soothing cave instead of all this … openness.

  “John,” Killian drawls with a long sigh, “light and airy is a good thing.”

  Sure, if you like being exposed. Nothing here grounds me. “The acoustics are good,” I mutter, because I know he’s waiting for some praise.

  “They’re great,” he adds. “Try playing the Gretch. You won’t be disappointed.”

  I snort, half smiling. I can play my guitars all hours of the day. It won’t matter if I can’t come up with new material. Like the Beatles, Kill John has two front men, Killian and me. We both sing, we both play guitar. Some songs, Killian takes the lead. Some songs, I do. But we write them together.

  Whip and Rye usually come up with beats and the overall rhythm, but Kills and I are the cornerstones of the process. Since the Incident, as everyone calls it, Killian has been taking the brun
t of the job, writing songs with his wife, Libby. And that’s fine, but it isn’t our sound.

  I need to man up. Two years is more than a dry spell; it’s an empty well.

  “Maybe I’ll play tonight,” I tell Killian, and open the fridge again. “Go back to whatever you were doing.”

  “Who I was doing,” he corrects. “And I was doing my wife—ow, Libs. What’s with the pinching?”

  I hear Libby squawking in the background, and I laugh. “Maybe not put her business out there, brother.”

  “Yeah,” he mutters. “Got that loud and clear.”

  Smiling, I pull out a pot of stew I made yesterday. “I’m really fucking disappointed in you if that’s what you were doing when you answered the phone.”

  “Hey,” he protests, “I was being a good friend.”

  My smile disappears. He’s babysitting me again. What’s worse? That I felt the need to call him in the first place? I suppress a sigh. “Be a good husband and entertain your wife. I’m going now.”

  Hanging up, I stare at my stew. I can’t stay here. Outside, the blizzard blows harder. I’m alone, but I have food. A lot of it. And it’s good. Some others aren’t likely to be as lucky.

  Jogging into the laundry room, I grab a small hamper and then put the stew and other supplies into it. I carry it down two flights and knock on the door.

  Maddy answers and breaks into a wide smile. “Well, hello, handsome.”

  “Maddy, looking gorgeous as ever.”

  She laughs, and it comes out a bit wheezy. “Sweet talker. What are you doing here?”

  “Wanted to know if you’d like to have dinner with me. Might I interest you in some beef stew?”

  She beams as though I’ve made her week. Putting that look on her face makes me happy, but there’s also a sense of discomfort. All I’m doing is sharing my food—hardly heroic stuff here.

  “I would love to have dinner with you, Jax. Come on in.” She turns and heads back into her apartment.

  I slow my pace to match hers. Maddy’s place is smaller, the ceilings lower. It’s tastefully done, filled with antiques and fine furniture. In many ways, it’s like an English home plunked down in the middle of Manhattan. I don’t need a therapist to tell me it reminds me of my childhood, even if Maddy is pure New Yorker sass.