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  I can feel Scottie at my side and the weight of his stare. It adds to the weight already on my shoulders, and I close my eyes. “I don’t even know their names, Scottie.”

  He doesn’t say anything. I don’t want him to. There’s nothing to be said. At some point, you can’t outrun your mistakes.

  Unexpectedly, his hand grips my shoulder and gives it a squeeze. “We’ll sort it out, mate.”

  I nod but it’s perfunctory. “I should be the one to tell them.”

  His grip goes hard. “Absolutely not.”

  I glance his way and find him glaring. “It’s my mistake. I need to own it.”

  Scottie’s nostrils flare in that bullish way of his. “And you will leave yourself wide open to those who will take advantage of this situation.”

  “If I infected a woman, she deserves to be pissed.”

  “Pissed, yes. Sue you or exploit the situation? No. You weren’t the only one making the decisions during sex.”

  “When did you become so cynical?”

  His smile is brief and humorless. “When you lot became famous.”

  I snort and look away. He isn’t wrong. The shit we’ve seen over the years has affected all of us in different ways. Scottie has become more protective, whereas I have become more isolated. Sex was my last significant contact with people outside of the band.

  “Brenna and I will handle it,” he says in a low voice. “Let us do our jobs.”

  What a job. I don’t answer, and Scottie wanders off to call Brenna.

  Wincing, I pace over to the back window. The snow is basically gone now, only little clumps left in the corners. I have a terrace garden I could sit in if I wanted to. But I don’t think I ever have.

  Rye comes to stand next to me and then Whip appears on my other side. We’re silent, staring out at the city as Scottie’s voices rises and falls with annoyance.

  “I can’t have sex anymore,” I mutter.

  Whip shoves his hands into his jeans pockets. “Well, not until your treatment is done.”

  “What’s that, like, a week?” Rye adds.

  I rub the back of my neck. “That’s not the point. I’m not risking this again.”

  Rye glances over at me. “You’re just done? With sex?”

  “I don’t know. Whip has it right; I can’t do casual. But I’m not looking for serious either.” The last thing I want is a girlfriend. I’m a fucking mess, and there is no way I’m giving someone that much power over me.

  Whip nods. “Like I said, you either become really well acquainted with your hand or you hire someone.”

  “Make a mental note not to touch Whip’s hand,” Rye says to me.

  Whip gives him the finger as I sigh.

  “None of those options appeal.” Double fuck.

  Rye’s heavy hand lands on my shoulder. “I guess you’re screwed, J.” He snorts. “Or not screwed, if you want to get technical.”

  Don’t I know it.

  Chapter Six

  Stella

  Despite having a new neighbor who refuses to get out of my damn head no matter what I do, living in Killian James’s house is a dream. I have a bad feeling it is going to be hard to give it up. How do I go back to those tiny, lightless closets that people in this city call apartments? I’m already getting attached to sweet Stevens, who follows me around the house like a fuzzy bodyguard.

  He watches as I set up my yoga mat on the terrace. An actual terrace. In New York City. I’m almost giddy. The sun shines bright on the flagstones. The wide space is modern with low-slung loungers and couches set up in groupings around a square-shaped, stone-and-steel fire pit/water fountain. Right now, the water is on and dances merrily of the din of the city below.

  As I start my sun salutation, I can’t help looking at the wall that divides my terrace from John’s. It’s lower than I expected it to be, about chest high. Lush potted trees and flowering vines are visible, and I have the overwhelming urge to peek at John’s terrace, because it looks like a verdant garden in comparison to Killian’s austere space. Not what I expected of my neighbor.

  But I don’t really know him at all. I haven’t seen him for a week. Not like I’m trying to see him. But it is odd that we never run into each other. I wonder if he’s avoiding me.

  “Ridiculous,” I mutter, moving into a plank pose.

  I hate plank poses. My body quivers, fire racing along my chest. I’m pretty sure my boobs are warning me that they’re about to jump ship and run away. I hold the pose for a scant five seconds before falling down with a loud “oof.” But I’m getting better. At least now I can do a plank. Before, my hips never left the ground, no matter how hard I tried to lift myself. Progress is good.

  Except now I’m supposed to straighten my arms and gracefully move up into a downward dog. I huff out a laugh, and get myself in alignment for a second before my upper body says, “Nope. Nope. NOPE.” I bobble the move and probably look like a drunken turtle doing it.

  Upward facing dog pose is a sweet relief, stretching out my poor arms. But my thighs and calves burn in protest. I breathe in and out, holding the position, soaking in the warm sunshine.

  The gentle tinkling of water soothes and a soft breeze rustles the treetops on John’s terrace. In the distance is the ever-present melody of New York: horns and sirens and random rattles. It comforts me as much as anything else, and I find myself sinking into that nice, chill headspace, only to be yanked out of it by the harsh riff of a guitar. The pavers beneath me vibrate.

  Damn rock star. Has he no respect for anyone else? He’s not even trying to keep it down. It just gets louder, angrier. It’s like I’ve landed in the middle of a concert, for fuck’s sake.

  Grumbling, I get to my feet and march over to the wall that separates our spaces. There’s a low stone bench on Killian’s side, and I stand on it to peer over the wall. The sliding glass doors on John’s side are wide open, but I don’t see him anywhere.

  The song plays on, aggressive and hard. It isn’t one of Kill John’s songs, which surprises me. I would have thought that he’d only play his stuff. But he’s playing and singing Pearl Jam’s “Alive.” His version doesn’t sound exactly like Eddie Vedder’s. There are subtle differences. The tone of his voice is slightly cleaner, the guitar playing tinged with melancholy beneath all the anger. I have no idea how this happens, but it makes it clear that, while musical notes may stay the same, each artist paints a different canvas.

  And there is no doubt about it; Jax Blackwood is an artist.

  Ordinarily, I might be dancing, but my chill has been decimated and has little chance of returning with this going on. I want my Zen back.

  “Oy!” I shout at the top of my lungs. “John! Blackwood!”

  Nothing. Not even a pause.

  He plays with effortless flow, his guitar singing.

  I cup my hands around my mouth and shout again. “Hellooo!”

  It’s useless. There is no way he’ll hear me. I take one of the pillows off a nearby lounger and chuck it in the direction of his sliding doors. It lands pitifully short of target. With a growl, I consider tossing my water bottle but he’s clearly not looking in the direction of his doors or he would have seen the pillow.

  Either that or he’s ignoring it. I could call Mr. Scott. After all, he told me to let him know if John was being a pain in the ass. But it feels like tattling. Besides, I’ve already met John. Why bother with a middleman when I can go to the source?

  This is what I tell myself. What I actually do, however, is dither and stare at John’s side of the terrace.

  As suspected, John’s garden is a lush paradise in the middle of the city. It’s very English, with colorful flowerbeds and orderly paths. He has a fountain too, but it features a sculpture of Pan playing his flute. I have no idea if John bought the condo with the terrace this way or if he had it created, but its beauty surprises me.

  John hits the reverb on his guitar and the defiant screech takes me right out of my fantasy of having tea and cakes unde
r the pretty loggia. Okay, enough is enough. I can do this. I can confront him. It’s just a small matter of breaking and entering. Well, I’m not technically “breaking” anything if I jump over his wall. Just a little illegal entering, then.

  John won’t mind. I’m sure he’d let me in if he could hear me. A cold sweat breaks out over my lip as I contemplate my crime.

  “Oh, buck up, buttercup,” I mutter to myself.

  Wiping my sweaty palms on my yoga pants, I then press them to the warm top of the wall and haul myself over. I’d pictured doing it with more grace, but after a few fumbles, I manage to get over and hop down on the mirroring bench running along John’s wall. Not giving myself time to chicken out, I stride straight inside.

  For a moment, I’m distracted by the fact that, unlike Killian’s urban-retro loft style, John’s place is decorated like something straight off the set of Pride and Prejudice. Massive Oriental rugs overlap each other. There are expensive antique furnishings, overstuffed chairs, and dozens of oil paintings in gilded frames. It’s so opposite to the rocker front John puts up that I gape, wondering if I’ve entered an alternate dimension.

  But no, the music is as loud as ever. And I’m trespassing in this Buckingham Palace of an apartment.

  To prove I’m not a total creepster, I call out as I slowly walk farther into his place. “John? Jax? Can you hear me?”

  No. No, he cannot.

  I know this because he’s standing on a faded red Persian rug, completely absorbed in the music, his fingers moving with crisp precision over the strings of his guitar.

  And he is completely naked.

  Jesus wept, I cannot look away. I. Cannot. Look. Away.

  He is stunning. Breathtaking.

  His is more of a long, lean body than big and bulky bruiser. Lovely square shoulders, trim hips, well-defined and surprisingly strong-looking thighs, and tight calves. Running clearly does a body good. And maybe guitar playing does as well, because the man’s forearms are pure poetry, ropy with definition.

  This all goes through my head in a flash, because really I’m just gaping like a dying fish.

  Holy hell, he moves his hips like he’s fucking, the guitar barely hiding his goodies. But then he lifts the neck and suddenly everything is on display. And all that … girth … swings. It fucking sways like a hypnotist’s pendulum. I swear I sway with it, utterly mesmerized.

  That is until he whips around and his green eyes lock onto mine. It snaps me out of my daze faster than a bullet, and I fully realize that I am standing in a room with naked Jax Blackwood.

  Naturally, I lose it.

  * * *

  John

  It’s her eyes I see first. Wide, deep blue mirrors, reflecting something like horror but not really—closer to shock and mortification, like I’ve slapped her with my dick or something. And “dick” is definitely the theme of the day because, even though eager Little John is well hidden behind the guitar now, she’s staring at my crotch as if the memory of him is burned into her retinas.

  “Oh my cock—god. My cock—godcockgod …” She flails her hands. “God. I meant God. God-cock. Argh!”

  Her flustered blather ends in a gurgle and a new tide of rapid hand flapping.

  Even though her sudden appearance scared the shit out of me—until I realized it was Stella and not some stalker who’d gotten in—a laugh escapes me. “My cock is godlike, so I can see the confusion.”

  Her face flames bright red. “Dick.”

  “It goes by that name too.” I wink at her because it’s fucking hilarious the way she’s practically hopping around but her eyes are glued to my guitar. “Although, you probably should get a proper look if you really want to be impressed.”

  I move to lift my guitar, and her hands thrust out.

  “Don’t you dare! You leave that guitar right where it is, mister.”

  “You sure?” I hesitate, hand gripping the neck. “You’re staring awfully hard for someone who doesn’t want to see the goodies.”

  Her eyes narrow on my face, her glare a death ray. “What the hell, Jax? Who goes around playing guitar naked?”

  “It’s John.” For some reason, it bugs the hell out of me when she calls me Jax. “And I do. When I’m in the privacy of my own home.” I grin. “Though there was that one time on stage.”

  “Well … put some clothes on,” she hisses.

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “It’s my house. I’m playing naked. Deal with it.”

  Stella huffs, which does fantastic things to her breasts. I’m momentarily distracted by the way they jiggle in that little top she’s wearing. Maybe I’ll keep the guitar in front of my junk after all. Because, now that I’ve got a good look at her, it’s hard to turn away.

  With that red hair and those pouty lips, she’s a total Wilma. Tiny waist, swelling hips, curvy legs. And her breasts? Great Gibson’s ghost, why the hell does she usually hide those sweet tits behind baggy tops? She has the Goldilocks of breasts—not too big, not too small, but just fucking right. They’re perfect, perky handfuls. And I have pretty big hands.

  “Are you staring at my boobs?” Stella snaps, grabbing my attention and making me flinch.

  I don’t look away, though. Holy hell, they’re gorgeous. “You stared at my junk,” I say to her tits. “Just returning the favor.”

  I have the pleasure of watching her nipples perk up and say hello. A grin spreads over my mouth. Damn, but they look perfect too, like little sugar candies. I want to see them. Now.

  “Oy.” She snaps her fingers. “You had your look. Now eyes up.”

  She’s right; there’s looking and then there is leering.

  “Speaking of having a look …” I clear my throat. “Why are you trespassing?”

  The flush reaches down to her chest. Lovely chest. Behave, John.

  The voice in my head sounds disturbingly like my mother’s. Disconcerting, since I haven’t heard her voice for years. It kills any arousal I have going on faster than a gunshot.

  “I tried to knock,” Stella says. “You didn’t hear me.”

  “Therefore, you simply barge right in? Good to know we’re at that level in our relationship.”

  “We don’t have a relationship. And yes, I barged in. You’re disrupting my yoga time with all the noise.”

  Seriously, this girl. She’s part excellent entertainment, part wet blanket. A complete dichotomy. “That wasn’t noise. That was music, Stella Button.”

  “Whatever it … Argh. I cannot talk to you this way. Put some damn pants on, at least.”

  Her agitation amuses me, and I’m tempted to refuse her request. But I’m starting to feel a bit ridiculous standing here bare arsed with only my Strat for protection. Plus, now that I’ve stopped playing, I’m getting cold.

  “Fine.” I whip the strap from around my neck and set my guitar down. Much squawking ensues, which makes me grin wide as I grab my jeans and haul them on.

  For all her protests, Stella watches with avid interest as I tuck myself into my jeans and pull up the zipper. I don’t bother buttoning. First of all, I know it will piss her off. Secondly, it will piss her off.

  Her eyes stay locked on that open button, and I place my hands low on my hips, flexing my abs for added fun.

  “You sure you want me to keep these on?” I ask, fighting a laugh.

  Her sexpot mouth purses. “You have no shame, do you?”

  I have tons of shame. Endless fucking shame. But about my body? “Nope.”

  She shakes her head and sighs. But she can’t hide her smile from me.

  “Then we’re agreed,” I tell her. “You won’t sneak up on me, and I’ll keep playing naked.”

  “What’s with playing naked anyway?” she asks.

  I shrug. “I got hot. Took my clothes off. No big deal.”

  I don’t mention that I’m horny but have no outlet to relieve my needs other than my hand. And my hand isn’t cutting it. Playing naked takes the edge off. Call it weird, but t
here’s a certain eroticism in the act, the cool press of the guitar against my dick, the taut resistance of the strings on my fingertips, and the music. Music and sex go hand in hand for a reason; they are both forms of expression, release, creation.

  She looks at me like I’m a nutter. But when she talks, her tone is placid. “You’re right. Whatever you do in your own house is your own business.”

  “Thank you—”

  “However,” she butts in, “your music isn’t remaining in your home. It’s invading mine.”

  “Music cannot be contained by mere walls, Stella Button.”

  “Well, try.”

  I raise my hands wide. “How am I supposed to do that?”

  Stella’s mouth falls open. “You can’t be this clueless.”

  I glare at her in annoyance. “I’m not turning down the volume. That’s bollocks.”

  “Plug headphones in your little amp.”

  “Headphones? Am I in my parents’ house? Not a chance.”

  “Oh, grow up. It’s not that bad.”

  “I am grown. That’s why I have my own place. To play my music however I want.”

  She blows a raspberry, the sound loud and obnoxious. I want to laugh. But I don’t because I’m still annoyed.

  “Stop acting like an entitled pest, John. You’re disturbing the peace, and you know it.”

  “No one else has complained.”

  “Well, I am. Don’t make me call Mr. Scott.”

  I feel my brows lift. “You’d tattle on me? Low, Stella. Fucking low.”

  She sniffs, crossing her arms under her tits. “He did say I should contact him if I had any issues with you.”

  “You know, Scottie has been after me to play for a while now. Never mind that, while he has ‘pompous asshole’ down to a science, technically he works for me.”

  Her mouth falls open then snaps shut. “I forgot that.”

  “Understandable. We let him play bossman when it suits us. But facts are facts, and I’m thinking I’ll win this round. Try again, Button.”