Fall (VIP #3)(30)

“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.

I push it into the music, desperate to let it free, get it away from me.

Sweat trickles down my back. My throat burns as I sing about promises made, love that lasts to the grave, and the simple need to love and be loved.

I’m thinking too much, which is never a good thing. Emotion chokes me, clutching my throat and locking down tight. I’m going to be sick. My hand shakes. The next chord is weak, my voice slipping off-key.

I end the song with a garbled sound and face the silence, aware of Stella and Sam staring at me, expecting an explanation. Humiliation prickles along my back.

But then Stella claps. I’m so shocked by the happy sound that my chin jerks up.

She beams at me. “That was brilliant.”

She means it. I don’t know how she missed the utter shittery that was the end. Or maybe she’s ignoring it. Either way, the walls are pressing in on me. My iceberg is crumbling. I need out and away. I need to be alone. There’s a strange safety in solitude.

And maybe that’s why, once I’ve finished my business with Sam and arrange for the Strat to be delivered, I do my very damnedest to drive Stella as far away from me as I can by acting like the biggest douche bomb possible.





Chapter Eight