Fall (VIP #3)(34)
Truth? I need to confess. Killian, Rye, or Whip will give me a free pass for my shit behavior. Mainly because they don’t want me “upset.” I fucking hate that. Even though I know I’d have an easier time talking to one of my bandmates, I go for gold and tell the one guy who won’t sugarcoat a damn thing.
“I asked Stella if she was an escort.”
Scottie stumbles a step. “You did what?”
His shout rings out over the path, and a few pigeons take flight.
“Keep your voice down,” I mutter, jogging along.
But Scottie has stopped. I turn my head and find him standing in the path, hands on his hips, his face like thunder. If I were Scooby, it would be the time for me to say, “Ruh-roh.”
On plodding feet, I jog back to him.
Scottie’s voice is all edges when he speaks again. “Am I imagining things or did you just tell me that you accused Stella Grey of being a prostitute?”
I rub the back of my sweaty neck. “In retrospect, it sounds a lot worse.”
Scottie’s brows wing up. “In retrospect? Mate, you couldn’t make it sound better if you tried. Women don’t respond well to being called whores.”
“Hey, I meant the type of escort who takes old dudes out, shows them a good time, and maybe agrees to have sex with them … Okay, fuck, that sounds sketchy too.”
God, I hate guilt. I have enough of it for too many things. That shit piles up inside and makes little camps in your brain. It invades your thoughts at inconvenient times, then slinks away, never going too far but lurking and waiting to rise again.
Having guilt over Stella just plain sucks. I like her. And now she thinks I’m scum. “Fuck.”
Scottie points an accusing finger my way. “This is why I warned Ms. Grey to keep well out of your path. You say asinine things to nice girls, and it’s left to me to clean up.”
“I don’t say asinine things.”
“Remember all the shite you gave Liberty when Killian brought her around?”
I wince a little, because, okay, I wasn’t the most welcoming. But then I straighten. “How about Sophie? If it weren’t for me, Sophie wouldn’t be in your life at all. Because you were the arse in that situation.”
As usual, mention of his wife makes Scottie’s scary expression turn less scary and way too sappy. “I’ll give you that one,” he mutters before getting scary again. “Is this about Stella’s job?”
I stalk closer. “You know about her job?”
“Are you suggesting I didn’t thoroughly vet every candidate before giving someone the codes to Killian and Liberty’s house?”
He makes it sound like the crime of the century. I wave a hand, swatting that ridiculousness away. “Which means you know.”
Scottie’s eyes narrow. “But you don’t.”
Damn. Fuck. Damn.
“Scottie …”
His smile is thin and evil. “Sorry, mate. None of my business.”
“You stick that big nose into everyone’s business. Spill, man.”
“No. If Ms. Grey doesn’t want you to know, I am not going to tell.”
“Gabriel Scott …”
He snorts. “The name thing doesn’t work with me, John.”
I swear I’ll strangle him. Then I’ll kill him. I can take him. I’ve been working out, whereas he’s been up endless nights dealing with a fussy baby. “Fine, be a prick, then.”
“Sounds like you’re the prick in this particular scenario.” With that, he starts to jog.
I easily keep up. “I didn’t mean to be. I have very good reasons for wanting to know.”
“Which are?”
Shit. I don’t want to tell him. I don’t even want to admit it to myself. “She … It’s dangerous meeting up with strange men. She could get hurt.”
He snorts even louder than before. “Try again.”
“I’m a nosy bastard?” It comes out like a question, and I wince.
Scottie slides me a sidelong look. “Yes, but I don’t think that’s why.”
“Fine. I’m a prat, okay?”
He doesn’t disagree.
“Fix it, Jax.” He scowls at the trail before us. “I’m utterly serious. Stella Grey is a sweet girl …”
I snort. Loudly.
“Who deserves respect.”
“Yeah, well, I can’t get anywhere near her at the moment. She’s determined to tear my dick off and give it to Stevens as a toy.”
Scottie’s mouth curls. “I’d pay good money to see that.”
Some friend.
Chapter Nine
Stella
* * *
Sometimes I wonder if there are people who truly enjoy parties. I know there must be; people wouldn’t throw them otherwise. But at some point in every party I’ve been to, a sense of misery always seems to settle over it. As if everyone is trying desperately to convince everyone else that they’re having fun, while on the inside, they’re counting down the minutes until they can leave.
Maybe it’s the parties I go to in New York. Often, it’s for work, and they are an exercise in active voyeurism. I swear, people are more interested in watching than conversing. Which is why I prefer dinner parties where I can eat good food and talk.