Fall Page 5

  I don’t know much about Jax Blackwood, but I do know he’s an infamous womanizer. Most of the pictures I’ve seen of him are with unearthly beautiful women at his side. Famous women. Actresses, models, singers. That much has never changed about him.

  But God, now that I really think about it, my guy looked exactly like Jax. Same smarmy, I’m going to rock your world and leave your panties wet before walking out on you smile. Same gorgeous, green bedroom eyes. I had a neighbor who used to declare that Jax was the star of her personal diddle dreams. Then again, she’d claimed every member of Kill John for that honor.

  The last picture I’d seen of Jax, his hair had been past his shoulders and he’d been sporting a beard. The guy in the store—John—had been clean-shaven with shorter hair, a shaggy mess.

  “He could have gotten a haircut,” I ponder aloud.

  Stevens mewls in agreement.

  Rattled, I stare at my ice cream, the memory of his lips against mine making my cheeks flush. Had I really kissed Jax Blackwood?

  “Maybe he just looks a lot like Jax,” I tell Stevens. But what about his voice? That hot fudge and cookies voice had been pure sex and sin. Just like Jax’s.

  He’d wanted to know my name. And I’d walked out on him.

  Pressing my hands to my hot cheeks, I laugh a little. “Holy hell. Leave it to me to kiss a rock legend and not even fully appreciate the fact until afterward.”

  Steven just meows.

  “Maybe,” I amend. “I think... No … He couldn’t have been Jax.”

  Chapter Four

  Stella

  The sole bonus of a blizzard in spring is that the weather turns warm sooner than later. I hole up in my Penthouse of Awesome with Stevens purring away on my lap for a week. If you’re going to be trapped inside for a week, being in a kickass penthouse is definitely the way to go. I’ve had enough long soaks in the tub that my skin has a pink tinge to it now. And whoever lives in this condo is a music junkie. The sound system is killer, and I’m pretty sure they have every song ever recorded stored on a computer that appears to be just for that use. The movie collection is fantastic as well.

  Between that, my e-reader, and my mint chip, I could have happily stayed in for longer. Okay, sure, eating the ice cream hadn’t lived up to its usual bliss. Certain … feelings had gotten in the way. But I ate those feelings right up, numbing everything with my ill-gotten gains.

  By the time the world thaws enough to go out, I’m in desperate need of some exercise. Bidding sweet Stevens and bubbly Hawn adieu, I grab my yoga mat and head for the great outdoors. I’m pretty sure I’m the worst yoga practitioner on the planet, my ability to hold a pose being somewhere between ten to thirty seconds before I either fall or something pops. But it beats running. I loathe running. Burning lungs and aching shins is a hell I’m not willing to endure.

  That said, I’ve always envied runners. They look so free. Plus, they’ll have the definite advantage during a zombie apocalypse. Unfortunately, I’ll have to resign my fate to being one of the bitten.

  One hour later, I’m sweating a river, have a face that would make a tomato proud, and am trudging back home. Why I decided to try hot yoga is a mystery for the ages. Heat and my pale ass do not mix. At all. I think I’d rather run, or be attacked by zombies.

  God, I stink. Like sweat and dank yoga mats. I pass a woman who gives me a wide berth, probably to save her nose. My smile is grim as I plod on.

  Rounding the corner, I finally reach my building. Back to my beloved bath I will go. I’m dreaming of it as I walk up the front stairs, and right into …

  “You have got to be kidding me,” I cry as John halts in his tracks, one foot on the first stair of my building. “I mean, come on, it was just ice cream!”

  That seals it; this guy can’t be Jax Blackwood. A rock star would not hunt down a woman just because she took his ice cream.

  No, don’t look guilty. Play it cool. Even if you are sweaty and stinky. Shit on a toothpick. Why now?

  He’s sweaty too, wearing athletic shorts and a long-sleeve T-shirt that clings to his broad chest and flat torso like a hug. It works for him. His body is tight and fit, that perfect ratio of wide, strong shoulders and lean, washboard abs. His skin isn’t blotchy red but smooth honey. Of course, his sweat smells like sunshine and sex. Typical. They should make it into a cologne: Hot Sweaty Guy.

  A zing of something purely anticipatory goes through me. Apparently, I’m cheap like that, happy to see a guy even though it appears he’s some sort of creepy stalker. My priorities are embarrassingly out of whack.

  Doesn’t help that daylight only improves his good looks, making his eyes dark jade. Lucky fucker. He has two deep lines that bracket his mouth when he grins. I hadn’t noticed that before. But I remember his dry laugh perfectly.

  “Oh, that guilt must be eating you up, Button. I bet there was a veritable telltale ice cream heart beating in your freezer all week.”

  “Hardly.” There totally had been. His damned, outraged face haunted me with every spoonful. “I ate the whole carton right up. And it was de-fucking-licious.”

  He moves up a step, bringing himself eye level with me, at my perch two steps higher. I stiffen, as he leans in close, his voice at my ear, mocking. “Thud, thud. Thud, thud.”

  “Shut up.” I won’t crack. Nuh-uh.

  But I do. I can feel the guilt twisting my features. Damn it.

  He laughs. “I knew it. Revenge is a dish best served cold, isn’t that what they say?”

  “You’re thinking way too much about me and my mint, guy.” I plunk a hand on my hip. “Do you have any idea how creepy and desperate it is to track down someone over ice cream?”

  He laughs again—a husky sound, as though he hasn’t done it for a while. “As much as I hate to burst your paranoid bubble, Button, I live here.”

  “Bull.”

  “I shit you not, sweets.”

  “It’s Stella, not ‘sweets’ or ‘Button’ or whatever inane name you insist on using.”

  “Stella, huh?” He seems closer now. Enough to spot that little scar under his eye again. My knees go a twee bit weak. They nearly buckle when his husky voice rolls over me. “And it’s John. Remember? Not ‘guy’ or ‘mister’ or whatever evil name you’re using in your head.” He peers at me, his grin cheeky. “Don’t bother denying it. I can practically see them popping up when you look at me.”

  He’s right. I have many names for him bubbling around in my head. John? Or Jax?

  God, I don’t know. And yet it’s killing me.

  I don’t want it to be Jax. Bad enough I have to face this guy right now, looking my worst. I won’t be able to bear it if this is the rock star I’ve sung along with while in the shower. “Look, whoever you are …” Don’t be Jax. “Hunting down a woman for ice cream is just sad. I’m pretty sure the stores have restocked by now.”

  He snorts. “Trust me, babe, I’m not that hard up for dessert.”

  “All evidence to the contrary.”

  “You’re right,” he says with a sarcastic smile that I’m beginning to associate with him. “I thought, hey, why don’t I go for a jog and hunt down the little kissing bandit who stole my mint chocolate chip. Why, in a city of ten million, I’m bound to run into her.”

  “Har. Really. Har.” I look around the street where sad lumps of blackened snow are melting away. “You’re telling me this is a coincidence?”

  That smile grows, curling at the corners like a snake’s. “Apparently so.” A set of keys jangled as he lifts them before my nose. “And I so do live here.”

  “Well, fuck me sideways,” I mutter without thinking.

  John grins wide, the look in his eyes positively evil. “Sideways, huh? Is that something you’re into?”

  “Trust me, that wasn’t a request.” Not really. Well, maybe. Gah, tap it down, Stells.

  He scans my body with a sort of lazy perusal that is clearly designed to fluster. “You sure? You look a little flushed and overheated.” />
  “I just came from hot yoga!”

  “Hot yoga? Is that like a class full of hot chicks doing yoga?” He strokes his chin like a creepy professor. “I’m intrigued. Tell me more.”

  Wait, did he call me hot? I pause, peering at him, but he simply blinks back with false innocence.

  “I’m going inside,” I tell him with a pleasant smile. “Doing downward dog has worn me out.”

  Humor flares in his eyes but then his expression turns downright dirty.

  I hold up a hand. “Whatever you’re thinking, just stop.”

  “But it’s so good,” he protests, that gleam brightening. “Oh, the wonderful possibilities.”

  “Pig.”

  “Oink. Oink.” He dips his head toward mine, and it is not fair how good he smells when sweaty. Not at all fair. Fuck-me pheromones at their finest. “How do I know you’re not stalking me? That is the more likely scenario.”

  Everything in me stills—my breath, my heart, my yoga-induced muscle twitches. I feel the pause between us. He clearly thinks he’s said too much. And now there is no more mystery. This guy is Jax Blackwood.

  His eyes widen slightly, as if silently asking me to ignore what he just let slip, go back to thinking he’s just a regular guy. But then they narrow, and I get the feeling he’s bracing for impact.

  Honestly, I wish I could let it go, but someone has to address the awkward elephant on the stairs. I clear my throat. “While I was eating my ice cream—”

  He snorts, but remains tense.

  “I thought about how you looked familiar to me.”

  “It was the guilt haunting you.”

  “Or … And I’m just throwing this out there. You’re Jax Blackwood.”

  He actually flinches. “Fuck. You recognized me.”

  “It was bound to happen. John? Really?”

  His chin tips in a pugnacious angle. “It’s my name. John is … me. Jax is who I am onstage.”

  I picture him performing, all electric energy and raw passion and sheer talent. It’s a sight to behold. Hell, a couple of really hot fantasies have been induced by that sight.

  While I’m lost in a teen fantasy, his eyes dart around like he’s expecting someone to pop out from behind a snow mound and take his picture. Then his gaze snags on me. My expression must be slightly punch drunk, because his entire body leans away from mine. Not exactly flattering to realize he’s afraid I’ll try to lick his face or something.

  I snap my gaping mouth closed. “Oh, calm down. It’s not like I’m going to start squealing and try to grab your junk.”

  His expression lightens a little. “I think if you grabbed my junk, I’d be the one squealing.”

  “True. I have surprisingly strong hands.” When he stares at me in horror, I hold them up and wiggle my fingers. “Yoga. It’s highly effective.”

  “My balls just flinched in terror.”

  “Consider yourself warned.”

  He snorts but then glances at our building. “You really live here?”

  “Do you really think I hunted you down?”

  John—because I can’t seem to think of him as Jax—runs his hand through his damp hair, which makes his biceps bunch and twitch. “Yeah … that does sound crazy.”

  Crazy. This whole situation is. One day, I’m offered a four-month home in a dream condo, the next I’m standing on my stoop talking to a rock star. The biggest legend of my generation. I honestly don’t know how I’m not stammering right now.

  “I can’t believe we’re neighbors,” I say without thinking.

  His green eyes glint in the afternoon light, but he pauses and looks at me more closely. “You know, not to sound conceited here, but you’re kind of leering at me right now.”

  My chin snaps up like I’ve been hit, even as my body flushes with embarrassment. Shit. I totally had been leering. No, not leering. But I had been staring at him in awe. Ugh. “Well, you do sound conceited. I was simply making polite eye contact.”

  Liar McLiar-Face.

  Even though his lips twist, he is kind enough not to point out my perfidy. “You must be new. I haven’t seen you around before. And this building isn’t that big.”

  “I moved in the night of the blizzard.”

  “You mean the night after the ice cream theft?”

  “You aren’t going to let that go, are you?”

  He gives me a long, level look, and I feel myself squirming. I don’t want to remember kissing him, but I do. And he knows it. His butter-soft lips stretch into a smug smile. When my cheeks reach maximum heat capacity, he finally talks. “Consider the ice cream a housewarming gift.”

  “Hey, I gave you my cookies. Where’s my thanks?”

  John runs the back of his finger along his bottom lip. “I know you’re being literal here, but I’m just hearing innuendo.”

  “Might want to get that hearing checked, detective.”

  He hums as if in agreement, but the look in his eyes is calculating. “If you really do live here, what’s your apartment number?”

  I almost don’t want to give it to him. It’s clear by the amusement in his expression that he’s having fun pestering me. But I don’t think for a second he’s flirting to get somewhere with me. This guy is a revolving sex-kitten door. Freckled redheads of average looks aren’t going to hold his attention for long.

  I don’t even mind. The idea of hooking up with him is unthinkable. Oh, I know he’d make it worth my time. The way he moves is pure sensual sex and utter confidence. But he lives in my building. There is no way I could look him in the eye day after day, knowing he’d had me and moved along. Because Jax Blackwood is infamous for that too.

  I shake my head and force my thoughts away from sex. “I’m in 5B.”

  John blinks, his expression going totally blank. “Fuck me, you’re my next-door neighbor.”

  “Five A?” I say faintly. God, that music I’d heard the other night—it had been him playing the guitar.

  He flashes a smile. “That’s me.”

  And then it hits me with a jolt. “You’re He Who Must Not Be Disturbed! I should have known.”

  “I’m sorry? Who?”

  It’s kind of endearing the way his forehead wrinkles with confusion.

  “My wall-neighbor on the penthouse floor. I’m supposed to stay clear of He Who Must Not Be Disturbed.”

  He blinks down at me, and then the corners of his mouth pinch. “I see Scottie’s been managing things again.”

  “Mr. Scott, you mean.”

  “Yeah, sure, whatever you want to call him.”

  “That’s his name. At least that’s the name of the man who hired me to pet sit.”

  Turning as one, we both climb the stairs to the front doors. John punches in his key code and opens the door for me.

  “The band calls him Scottie. He’s our manager.”

  “All the secrecy makes sense now.”

  “He’s like an overprotective and annoying dad.” John tosses his empty drink bottle in the recycle bin by the door. One quick lob and the bastard didn’t even look. “But he’s definitely our highest wall of protection.”

  I touch my forehead. “Wow, I get it now, you being famous and all. You probably don’t like coming in contact with the little people, unless they’re sorting your M&Ms or something.”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake. I don’t even like M&Ms.”

  “Skittles then. You don’t want to taste the whole rainbow, do you? Though, I can’t really talk. The purple ones are disgusting. I don’t know what the hell that flavor is, but it sure as shit isn’t grape.”

  Silence rings out as John gapes down at me like I have two heads. I guess he’s a purple lover, which explains a lot. He shakes himself out of it. “You know, they make medication to deal with people like you.”

  “Oh, really.”

  “Yeah. Antacid.”

  I can’t help it; I laugh.

  His pugnacious expression melts away, and then he’s laughing too. The sound is rich and warm,
and we stand there laughing like two lunatics. Until it occurs to us that we’re standing there laughing like two goofs, and our hilarity fades like a sad trombone.

  John clears his throat and straightens. “Scottie warned you off, didn’t he?”

  “Actually, he said that if any issues should arise in regard to you, I am to contact him immediately.”

  He scowls at this, but then huffs out a laugh. “Yep, sounds like the bastard.”

  “What did he mean, exactly, by issues?”

  John’s expression expands into a wide, slightly evil smile. “Oh, I’m sure you’ll figure them out, you know …” He slips into a proper British accent, perfectly mimicking Mr. Scott. “When said issues arise.”

  “Cute.” I look him over slowly. “I’m not going to have to go buy a bunch of fire extinguishers, am I?”

  Wide, innocent eyes of grass green stare back at me. “Of course not. The apartment already has plenty.” He winks. With that, he strolls past, heading toward the elevators.

  Unfortunately, I’m going upstairs too.

  John glances over his shoulder, and his brows lift. “You following me, Button?”

  “Only because you’re going to the elevator. And stop calling me that.”

  The elevator doors open, and we step into the space. I should have taken the next car. The space is too small, and John Blackwood takes up too much space with his enormous ego.

  He leans against the wall opposite me, casually crossing one long leg over the other. The stance has the unfortunate side effect of plumping up the thick bulge between his legs. I keep my eyes on his face as he gives me a lazy look. “Can’t help it. You’re cute as a button, with those round cheeks and all those little freckles. I swear, my first year crush used to have a doll that looked like you. I think she called it Chucky.”

  Must not kick rock star. His body is probably insured.

  “Wow, I’ve never heard the Chucky joke before.”

  He laughs. “I’ve been told I’m an original.”

  “Original what?” I mutter before giving him a benign smile. “You know how Chucky dealt with people he didn’t like, right?”

  John tilts his head, considering me. “Maybe I’m the one who should be worried about possible issues arising.”