Fall Page 9

  Our steps slow as we reach the intersection. There’s a huge puddle, one of many that have appeared since the snow melt. This one is dark and deep, nasty bits of ice and city detritus floating on top. I halt and am glancing around for a way across when John catches hold of my wrist.

  His long fingers make my wrist feel small and fragile. When I halt and gape up at him, he grins at me, eyes bright with mischief.

  “What—” My words cut off with a squeak when he bends down and scoops me up in his arms.

  “Don’t wiggle,” he says as he steps straight into the icy puddle and walks us across the road. “You won’t like it if I drop you.”

  He’s warm and clearly strong as an ox, despite his lean frame. I wrap an arm around his neck, not because I think I’ll fall, but because I can’t help myself. “You’re insane.”

  Up close, his eyes have flecks of deep blue spiking through the green. “I’m being chivalrous,” he says in protest. “Seriously, mark the date because this is a first.”

  His breath smells faintly of the little melon candies they hand out at the end of the meal, and I have to brace myself against his chest to keep from leaning closer and stealing another kiss to discover if he tastes good too. Doesn’t stop me from feeling the imprint of his hand clasping my bare thigh or the way his other hand presses against my ribs just below the curve of my breast. It’s too much and far too close.

  He’s not looking where he’s going but studies my face as I study his. John Blackwood has an Old Hollywood look about him—features that are of strong character instead of pleasant perfection. His high-bridged nose is a bit too long, the thick line of his dark brows a bit too severe, and his chin is completely stubborn, a blunt punctuation at the end of his sharp jawline. But his mouth is softly sculpted and full.

  Those lips move slightly closer, and I realize I’m staring at them, that he’s watching me stare at them.

  My face goes hot, and I look away, pretend I’m inspecting the road. “We could have walked around the puddle.”

  I don’t think I fool him for a second.

  “It would have taken too long. And this way, I get to carry you.” He winks in that cheeky way of his.

  I have no idea why he’d want to, but I’m afraid to ask. Being held by him is strange enough as it is. But it feels good. Really freaking good. I have visions of him carrying me around from now on. John Blackwood: my new mode of transportation.

  “The last time someone carried me, I was ten,” I murmur.

  He steps seem to slow as he looks me over, his gaze like a hot stroke on my skin. The smile that pulls at the edges of his lips is gentle. “Ah, honey, with those big baby-doll eyes and little freckles, sometimes you do look like a kid.”

  A huff of irritation blows from my lips, and I start to wiggle. He grips me tighter as his glances down to at breasts. His smile grows wider. “But you’re all woman, aren’t you, Stella Button?”

  “Oh, let me down,” I snap, flushed and annoyed. “I don’t care if my feet get wet. I’m not listening to this hackneyed flirting—”

  He puts me down abruptly, and I utter an inelegant “Oof!”

  “There you are,” he says happily. “All safe and dry.”

  I straighten my shirt. “Ass.”

  He snickers, pleased with himself. “You really are easy to annoy.”

  “You’re the only person who annoys me.”

  Although it’s not completely true. He only annoys me some of the time. Mostly, he’s surprisingly charming.

  John runs the tip of his tongue along the edge of his teeth. “Aren’t I the lucky one?”

  He actually sounds like he believes that. A smile tugs at my lips. He’s soaked all the way up to his ankles, his once white Vans now a murky gray. That can’t be comfortable. And he did it for me. Not just charming, but kind too.

  We’re at the closest subway exit now. And I glance toward it. “I’m headed home.” I want to ask if he’s going there too but don’t.

  John glances in the other direction. “I’m going to that guitar shop over there.”

  If he hadn’t pointed it out, I would have missed it. The place doesn’t have a sign, and the plate glass window is grimy and almost completely covered by old concert posters.

  “Ah. Well … happy shopping.” That’s my cue to go. I don’t move.

  Neither does he.

  We stare at each other.

  He bites the corner of his bottom lip. “Want to come along?”

  A happy jolt goes through me. Down, girl. Resist. Don’t follow him like a puppy.

  My mouth doesn’t get the memo, because it’s open and speaking before I can shut it. “Okay, sure.”

  * * *

  John

  What am I doing here with Stella?

  I’m not sure. I mean, yeah, I know I invited her to come with me to my favorite guitar store in New York. I just don’t know why.

  Liar. You know why. You like her.

  Fuck. I do. She makes me laugh, and she’s just so strange. In a good way. Like an Escher drawing, surreal and a little disorienting but you want to keep looking because you know you’ll discover something new. Who the fuck is Bradley to her? Why do I have a bad feeling I won’t like the answer?

  I shake my head at myself as we walk toward the shop. Not my business. We’re not even friends, just neighbors who bicker and flirt. Even so, instinct has me placing my hand on Stella’s lower back. I feel the heat of her through her clothes.

  She’s wearing a long white blouse under a tight black sweater, paired with a flippy black skirt that makes her look like some sort of sexpot version of a schoolgirl. Totally works for me. Maybe too much. Stella might be short, but her legs are strong and curvy. God, she’s wearing pale gray knee-highs. Fucking knee-highs? Has she any clue what that does to a guy?

  It takes me right back to public school days in England where my number one objective was to find my way into a girl’s knickers. Without thought, I trace my fingers down the narrow curve of her back, and she shivers. My dick stirs, waking from a long sleep.

  Not good. Needy dick is under house arrest.

  I drop my hand.

  Sam is, as always, in his battered red leather recliner by window. Surrounded by guitars hanging on the walls, propped in stands, and tucked away in cases, he appears almost a shepherd tending his flock of instruments. He doesn’t look up from the latest edition of Guitarist, but calmly sips a mug of what I know is herbal tea.

  “Jax,” he says, flipping a page. “Was wondering when you’d show up.”

  “Looking well rested, Sam.” In truth, Sam looks a hell of a lot like the late, great BB King. His talent is pretty close to the master’s as well. But Sam plays for himself, not a crowd. “Got something for you.”

  He sets down his magazine. “Introduce me to your lovely friend first.”

  Something I’d been about to do, damn it. I hold a hand out toward Stella, who is hovering by the door, her big eyes taking in the organized chaos. “Stella Grey, this is Sam Absolom.”

  For this, Sam stands. “How do you do, Ms. Grey?”

  She shakes his hand. “Very well, Mr. Absolom.”

  “Pfft. I’m Sam. Don’t know why Jax felt the need to be so formal.”

  Stella smiles, and it hits me that she’s always smiling. Not because she’s forcing it but it’s simply her natural inclination to be sunny. For someone who slips into the dark far too often, her glowing warmth is a beacon. I ease closer. “I was being polite.”

  Sam pffts again. “Now show me what you got.”

  Demanding bugger. I love the guy. “Here.” I pull a small pack of guitar picks from my pocket. My thumbprint has been inked on the back of each. “As promised.”

  Sam gladly takes them and sets the pack behind the counter. “Have a lot of young ones asking for these.”

  Which is why I did it. I remember the first time I entered this store. Sam let me touch one of Kurt Cobain’s smashed guitars, nicely framed and waiting for a wealthy c
ustomer to pick it up. I’d felt like I was connected to a piece of immortality. I still feel that way sometimes; one day I’ll be bones and ashes, but my music will live on.

  Sam takes Stella’s elbow and guides her around the room, pointing out various guitars and telling her the pros and cons of each.

  Stella takes it in with wide eyes and pink lips softly parted. “They’re all beautiful.”

  “That they are.” Sam’s knobby fingers trail over the sweet curve of a Gibson Acoustic Hummingbird. “Which one is your favorite?”

  “Oh …” She spins in a circle, her arms spread wide. “All of them.”

  Sam laughs. And like that, he’s charmed. The sucker. “Have you ever played?”

  I want to know too.

  Stella flushes prettily. “I tried once. I’m ashamed to say the strings hurt my fingers too much to continue.”

  Now, if it were anyone else, I’m fairly certain she’d be getting a lecture on fortitude and working through the pain, but Sam—the old dog—merely nods in understanding. “Have to be bit by the bug or it doesn’t work.”

  Oddly, Stella appears to exactly what he’s talking about. “Some things are like that.”

  “What made you want to try, though?” I ask, unable to keep quiet. My voice seems to startle them both, as if they’d forgotten I was there.

  Stella straightens, her blunt nose wrinkling. She hesitates.

  “Was it a song?” I ask. “A certain player you admired?” Me? One can hope.

  “You’re going to laugh,” she says, eyeing me like I’m waiting to pounce.

  “I’m not going to laugh.” I scratch the stubble on my chin. “Well, maybe.”

  Stella glares, but Sam cuts in. “Nobody judges musical tastes here.”

  “Jax does,” she says somewhat petulantly. It’s weird hearing her say my stage name. I can’t really call it a stage name at this point either. Everyone calls me Jax. I only hear the name John if one of the guys or Brenna is pissed at me. I’ve been Jax so long, the name John is barely me anymore. But for reasons I don’t fully understand, I prefer to hear it from her lips.

  “Jax has to be a snob,” Sam says, cutting into my thoughts. “He’s English.”

  “It’s a badge of distinction,” I tease. “Now tell us your dark secrets, Stella Button.” I want them all. What the hell? Why? Why should I even care?

  Not seeing my frown of confusion, Stella sighs. “Okay. I was sixteen and went with some friends to see a re-showing of Pulp Fiction at one of those big theaters.” Already, I’m perking up, a grin pulling at my lips, because I know what she’s going to say. Her blush is freaking adorable. “And there was that guitar piece by—”

  “Dick Dale,” Sam and I say in unison.

  “‘Misirlou.’” I press a hand to my heart. “A brilliant classic.”

  Stella appears relieved that we approve. Though, honestly, if she’d thrown out some garbage song, I wouldn’t have said a word. Despite my teasing, Sam is right; there is no judging here. “It was just so fast and free,” she says. “I wanted to feel that free.”

  Why did she? Why are there shadows in her eyes when she says it? Absently, I scratch my chest where the skin has gone hot and tight. My interest in this girl is getting out of hand. I am cool and collected, an iceberg, remote and alone.

  Ah, hell, even I can’t swallow that tripe.

  “Are you okay?” Stella asks, peering at me as though she sees far too much.

  “I’m fine.” I glare back, hoping to throw her off. “Why?”

  She shrugs. “You kind of look like you had indigestion.” Sam snickers while Stella smiles, all Ms. Innocent Helper. “I was going to offer you an antacid.”

  “Cute,” I mutter. “My stomach is right as rain, Button. But the minute I feel a rumble, I’ll let you know.”

  Her lips press tight, and I can’t tell if she’s fighting a laugh or if she’s annoyed. Probably both.

  I break our silence by turning toward Sam. “You have the strings?” I’d almost forgotten why I was here in the first place.

  “Sure do.” He heads to the back of the store, leaving Stella and me alone.

  “Sam is awesome,” Stella says. “I’m going to ask him if he wants to be on my sandwich rotation.”

  “Sandwich rotation?”

  She studies a Whammy pedal sitting on the counter. “Some people don’t like leaving their shops for lunch. So I bring them a sandwich.”

  I know I’m staring. I can’t help it. I haven’t met anyone like this woman. Never met anyone so dedicated to making others feel better just by offering simple things. “Who are you?”

  She frowns as if I’m off my nut. I’m beginning to think I am with her.

  “I’m Stella Grey,” she says simply.

  Shaking my head, I give her a wry look. “You are a remarkable woman, you know that?”

  Her cheeks pink. “Aren’t all women?”

  “Not the way you are.” Not to me, at any rate. I love women and live in awe over their strength and cleverness, but none of them fascinate me the way Stella does. I could spend all day happily waiting to hear what she says next. A warning voice in the back of my mind says I should probably be concerned about this, but I ignore it in favor of watching her blush. Such a lovely clash of pinks and reds.

  Sam comes out from the back holding a black-and-white 1976 Fender Strat with a maple neck. “Got something for you. David said you’d asked about it.”

  “Holy shit,” I breathe. “Tell me we’re talking about the same David.”

  “You know it.” Sam hands me the guitar. “Signed the back.”

  Sure enough, there’s a signature on the back, made out to me.

  Stella watches us with wide eyes, clearly out of her element. “Who is David?”

  I heft the wide-body guitar in my hand before settling it on my lap. “You might know him as U2’s lead guitarist. We hung out a few times, talked about exchanging guitars.” I test the strings and make a small tuning adjustment. “Thought it was one of those things you say off the cuff, you know?” Looks like I’m going to have to pick out something nice to send to him. Totally fucking worth it.

  “Are you in love?” she asks with a soft smile.

  I return it. “Right now, it’s more like lust. I’ll have to get to know her to see if it turns into love.”

  Stella makes a noise of amusement, and I plug the Strat into an amp. The low-level hum kicks straight into my chest. Mostly, I’m known as the lead singer for Kill John. When the guys and I formed the band, someone had to take point on songs. I had the strongest voice—though Killian is no slouch and does his fair share of singing. More importantly though, I had the biggest ego. I’d lived for the limelight, while Killian preferred to hang back. But my love of music started with the guitar, and I will always consider myself a guitarist first.

  “You ready for me, honey?” I murmur to the guitar. She hums in my hand, waiting to come alive. I glance up at Stella. “What do you want me to play?”

  Her denim eyes go wide, her pink lips parting in surprise. I have the insane urge to bend close and kiss them. I imagine the taste of chocolate mint on her tongue. Stella nibbles on her lower lip, and I hold in a grunt. Get a guitar in my hand and my mind immediately goes to sex. The two are forever linked. Which sucks for me since I’m on bread and water when it comes to fucking.

  Iceberg, man. Be the iceberg.

  “One of yours,” she says, thankfully cutting into my straying thoughts.

  I shake my head. “Feels too pretentious.”

  Stella snorts. “You’re a gifted musician. It is not pretentious to play your music.”

  How can I explain that playing something of mine right now hurts too much? My music is my soul. Playing it to nameless thousands isn’t real to me. Playing for this woman who sees far too much already? I might as well open a vein.

  I shrug. “Even so, pick something else.”

  Her little nose wrinkles as she considers her options. “You’re saying
that used to be The Edge’s guitar?”

  I nod, not trusting myself to speak. Even though I can’t fully expose my soul, I want to play for Stella, show her what I can do. She’s heard me play before but that wasn’t for her. And she’d been annoyed. This will be pure. A gift, even though she won’t realize it.

  “I think you should play a U2 song, then,” she says.

  “Excellent decision. What song?”

  Her smile is the sun breaking through the clouds. “I leave that to you.”

  Even though I asked her to pick, the fact that she put the choice back in my hands and trusts me to give her something good, makes my chest go uncomfortably tight. I run my hand over the gentle curve along the edge of the Strat, the wood like silk against my palm.

  I’ve performed for movie stars. I’ve played for royalty, and artists, and for other musicians. There’s never been any hesitation or need to impress. To make music is like breathing. Yet I’m suddenly anxious. I want to do Stella right.

  She’s waiting, her cheeks flushed, her eyes shining, that gorgeous tumble of red-gold hair surrounding her round face. Did I once think she was plain? I’d been fucking blind.

  Shaken, I start to play the first song that comes to mind. I have no idea if she knows the song I’ve chosen, until I glance up and see her face. God, that awe. It’s too much.

  I look away, trying to concentrate on playing, when I really I’m hiding. But I don’t stop. I start to sing the lyrics to “All I Want Is You.” It’s one of the first songs I learned. It’s beautiful, haunting, and I’ve always loved it. But it’s never meant anything to me. I won’t let it mean anything now.

  I sing and I play, and I let everything else fade. Or I try. But in the back of my mind there is Stella. Stella watching me. Stella hearing my voice, the song of my guitar.

  And though I’d only wanted to show her how gorgeous this guitar is, I’d picked a song that’s all about the voice. I can’t hide in this song. Singing it well means letting emotion into the equation.

  The constant heaviness within me turns into something thicker, viscous and warm, then tight and thin. Yearning. That’s what this uncomfortable feeling is. Fucking yearning.