Fall (VIP #3)(109)

“You have a problem with remembering things,” she says.

“Yeah.” It’s worse when my mind is cloudy with other things. “But that doesn’t make it okay.”

Those clear, lake-blue eyes, full of hurt and regret, hold mine. “I’m guessing you beat yourself up pretty badly for it.” When my hand goes stiff and I try to draw away, she wraps her fingers around my wrist, keeping me there against her cheek. “You have a good heart, John. That counts for a lot. Maybe I should be angry, but I can’t find it in myself to care. Not when he …” She bites her lip hard. “He only came back for money.”

A sob breaks free, and then she crumples in my arms. I gather her up again and hold on as she cries. Stella doesn’t weep silently. She is loud, her entire body quaking. This is rage and hurt and despair. I’ve heard this sound inside my own head, felt this type of pain many times, and it never gets easier.

She’s struggling to keep it contained, swallowing her cries down in great gulps. “I’m so angry, John. It’s stuck inside me, and I can’t get rid of it.”

I run my fingers through her sweat-dampened hair. “Use me, honey. Take it out on me.”

This stops her cold. Her face is red and swollen from tears. “No. I will never use you. That’s not the way it is between us.”

Her ferocity makes me smile. “It’s okay. I can handle it. Besides, I want to do this for you.”

With a sigh, Stella presses her lips to the center of my chest, and her hands slide down my back as if she’s taking comfort in touching me. “I don’t know how to let go.”

But I do. I grab her hand and squeeze it. “Come with me.”





Chapter Twenty-Six





John



* * *



“What is this place?” Stella asks as I let her into the massive loft in SoHo.

She walks around, taking in the open space, the few scattered deep couches, and then sees the stage toward the back.

“Practice space.” I shut the door and the sound of silence envelops me. The loft has been designed for optimum acoustics. “There’s a couple of recording booths over there.” I point to the glassed-in rooms where our producers will come and work now and then.

“Cool.” She glances up at me with wide, blue eyes. “What are we doing here?”

“Come on and see.” Taking her hand in mine, I lead her to the stage where all Kill John’s equipment is set up.

“You’re going to sing some songs?” An excited light illuminates her face and she kind of jumps in place. “Yes!”

I give her a quick smile. “No. We’re going to do them together.”

Her happy expression falls. “What? We? No …” Laughing, she shakes her head. “I don’t know how to play any instruments. And believe me now—I can’t sing. Not even a little.”

With a hand on the small of her back, I guide her up the stage stairs. “Doesn’t matter, babe. It’s just us.”

“No, really. I can’t. As in, I sound like a cat is having sex with a cow. It’s scary.”

I laugh while turning on the mic. “That’s something I’ll never get out of my head. But I’m willing to risk worse. Now, stop making excuses.”

Stella huffs, setting her hands on her hips. “How is this supposed to make me feel better? I should be getting a bubble bath, not humiliation on a stage.”

“You’re arguing,” I deadpan, going for my Strat. “That’s a good start on the road back to Stella normal.”

A smile tugs at her lips but she’s fighting it. “God, you know how to push my buttons.”

“You are my button.” I blow her a quick kiss.

Stella laughs and flips me off. But she comes over to where I’m tuning my guitar. “I think you should just play me a song.”

“I’ll do that too.” I kiss the tip of her freckled nose. “If you’re good.”

Sticking her tongue out at me, she wanders off and flicks a cymbal on Whip’s drum kit. A tiny hiss rings out over the room.

“Go ahead and try them out,” I say.

She startles like a kid who’s been sneaking around and just got caught, and tucks her hand behind her back.

“Seriously, Stells. Whip won’t mind.”

Shooting a shy glance, she eases onto the low stool and picks up a set of sticks. Whip has stores. She gives the snare a soft tap.

I blow a raspberry. “Weak. Whale on it, babe. That’s what it wants.”

Stella makes a face but then rolls her shoulders.

“Give it your rage,” I tell her.

She starts off slow, barely making contact, but something in her snaps, and she goes at it with all the wild vigor of Animal from the Muppets. I grin at the spectacle. When she’s finished, her hair is mussed and she’s panting, but there’s a gleam in her eyes. “That was fucking awesome.”

“You weren’t half bad,” I tell her, clapping.

“I was awful.” She brushes a lock of hair back with the tip of a drumstick and smiles. “But it was fun to bang the hell out these drums. I totally get Whip now.”

“He’ll be glad to hear that.” I wave her over. “Now, get in my wheelhouse. We’re going to sing.”