Fall (VIP #3)(23)

“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 there’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.”

A flush grows over her cheeks. “You’re seriously not going to keep it down?”

I probably would if I she weren’t throwing threats of Scottie at me. Or suggesting headphones. I give her a lazy shrug.

She snarls, making all her round places jiggle—again. “If you don’t, I’ll …” She looks around wildly, then zeroes in on my beloved Strat. “I’ll knock you on the head with that ratty old guitar.”

A horrified gasp leaves me. “That, sweet Stella, is a 1964 Fender Stratocaster Sunburst, once owned and played by Jimi Hendrix. I’d rather you give me a swift kick in the balls and call it a day.”