Fall (VIP #3)(20)

“You lot are giving me heartburn,” Scottie murmurs, then pauses and frowns. “How does this affect your vocals?” He holds up a hand when I cut him a glare. “I had to ask.”

My shoulders slump. “The infection didn’t get out of hand because we caught it early. I’ll tell you how I feel when I try to sing.”

Nodding, he pulls out his phone, his thumb tapping at the screen.

“What are you doing?” I ask with some trepidation.

“Calling Brenna.”

“What? No!” I leap up, ready to tackle him for that phone. “Don’t tell her. I’ll never hear the end of it.”

He lifts a brow. “You think you’d keep it from her? She’s head of PR and this is going to be a bloody public relations nightmare. Your partners have to be informed.”

I halt. “Fuck. I know, all right. I just … Fuck.”

Whips smiles. “Fucking is what got you into this, son.”

“William?” Scottie looks at him. “Shut it.”

“Yes, boss. Shutting it right now, boss. Completely shutting it.”

Scottie doesn’t bother to acknowledge him. “Have you an idea of who the lady in question might be?”

“Yeah.” My stomach clenches. “I think I know who. Thing is, we didn’t exactly exchange names.”

“You mean there’s only one candidate?” Rye asks, as though the possibility of not having gone down on countless women is unheard of. If he’d asked me a few years ago, I’d have agreed.

Truth is, I used to love getting a woman off that way. Maybe it was my proper British childhood, but the idea of getting my mouth between a woman’s thighs has always felt slightly illicit and completely addictive. To bring a woman to the point where she’s quivering, fucking teetering at the precipice and all it takes is the simple touch of my tongue to make her lose her mind is a serious high.

Then it became too easy, too commonplace. When sex is easy to come by, offered multiple times on a daily basis, the thrill turns to something more pedestrian. Now, sex is more about me getting off as efficiently as possible. And isn’t that a sad thought.

I rub my jaw, wanting to touch my aching throat but refusing to do it. “One candidate who might have given me the STD. We were on tour. You know how it is. Maybe … shit … ten or fifteen women around the same time.” Everything inside me clenches and twists. I might have passed this on. I had protected sex every time, but I hadn’t worn a condom when a chick went down on me.

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.