Fall (VIP #3)(33)

“Kinky. But it still doesn’t explain the dudes.”

“I could be teaching them yoga, or how to dance. Anything.” I glare up at John as I stride along. “Anything other than fucking them for money!”

His blush deepens. “Geesh. Okay. I get it. Fucking for money is a no-go.”

I snort and shove him away. Or try to; the oaf is too strong to budge. “Stop following me,” I hiss, headed for the subway.

“We live in the same building.”

I halt and he does too. He’s tall enough that he blocks out the hazy white sky as he looks down at me, perplexed.

“Listen, dickwad.” I punch his stomach for emphasis. It’s like hitting a warm wall, damn it. “When I say we’re done, I mean we. Are. Done.” I jab him with every word. “Don’t talk to me. Don’t look at me. Just forget you know me.”

His expression could only be described as a man pout, his full bottom lip jutting. I have the urge to bite it. Sadly, I can’t decide if I want to bite it in a sexy way or an evil, you will feel my wrath way. Maybe both.

When he talks, his voice is solemn and thoughtful. “I think we should revisit this when you don’t want to tear my dick off or stick knitting needles in odd places.”

“You’ll be waiting a long time, then.” With that, I raise my hand and hail the cab coming down the street. I rush to it and jump in. John watches me with a blank expression as I reach for the door to shut it. I glare. “Oh, and ‘Open Shelter’ is saccharine and sophomoric at best.”

His look of outrage over me bashing one of Kill John’s iconic songs is almost enough to make me smile. I slam the cab door just as John shouts out, “Low blow, Mint Thief!”





John



* * *



With sex off the menu, I have one last outlet left. Exercise. Lots of it. I can’t say that I enjoy it as much as sex. It would be pretty sad if I did. But working out gives me focus and a type of pain that is clean. There is a high with physical exertion that mimics sex or being on the stage. Unfortunately, it’s only a shadow of those things. But I chase it anyway.

Today, I’m running with Scottie. He got me into running a year ago, showing me the joys of this special type of torture. No doubt about it, the high is worth it.

My lungs have a good burn in them, my body warm and loose as we jog along the Hudson River Park path. When we first started jogging together, Scottie kicked my ass every time. I’d limp along like death on legs while he barely broke a sweat. Now the tables have turned. Scottie is the one lagging behind, his cheeks flushed, his usually irritable expression even more so.

Since he’s become a father—and I am still in shock over Mr. Ice becoming Mr. Mom—Scottie hasn’t had much time to do anything but take care of his baby, something he does with the same unwavering intensity that he gives to his job, to the band. The joy in his expression when he talks about his offspring is incandescent. I’ve never seen anything like it, and it makes me envy Scottie just a little bit, though not much because the guy has circles under his eyes that rival Saturn’s rings.

“Come on, Dad,” I joke, slowing down to match his pace. “You want to develop a gut?”

“Get stuffed,” he mutters.

I grin. Payback is a beautiful thing. “I can’t. That’s why we’re running.”

“That’s why you’re running,” he bites out between breaths. “I’m running because I’m a bloody masochist.”

“I thought you were a sadist.”

He glares, and I laugh, feeling lighter.

Scottie mutters a curse, before running his hand over his brow. “I’m curious—”

“When are you not?”

“You say you’re running because you can’t have sex,” he goes on. “Yet it has been two weeks since you began antibiotics. Surely, they’ve run their course.”

My feet pound a steady rhythm. “They have. In fact, I saw Dr. Stern today and have been given the all-clear.”

“Then why—”

“I was serious when I said I was done with casual sex. I can’t risk it. Frankly, I don’t want it like that anymore. The thought of getting down and dirty with a woman I don’t know …” I shudder. “Nope. Not happening. Which means Jax Jr. is on bread and water for the foreseeable future.”

Scottie grunts. “It isn’t all bad waiting. In truth, when you find someone you actually want, it’s so bloody fantastic, it makes up for all the torture.”

“Oh god, you aren’t giving me a ‘love will give you wings’ speech, are you?”

He cuts me a look. “Anyone who sneers at love hasn’t experienced true pleasure and is talking out of his arse.”

I make a face, but I’m not annoyed. Despite the fact that he acts like he’s my dad half the time, we’re the same age. And he’s one of my best friends. Out of all my friends, Scottie’s brand of chill with a side of fuck you has become the easiest for me to relax around. I can speak my mind, and he won’t let me get away with shit.

In a world where almost everyone lets me get away with whatever I want, his fortitude is a gift. Not that I’d tell him. Scottie would hate that.

We run in silence, his huffing loud but leveling out. I know Scottie will be content to stay as we are, not talking about a thing. Ordinarily, I would too. But I’ve been restless for days. An uncomfortable emotion that feels a lot like guilt is growing within me, and I can’t seem to get away from it.