Fall (VIP #3)(72)

Rye is practically weeping with glee. “And the reporter is backing up, looking really regretful she bothered talking to this wingnut, but she asks him if he’s okay.” Rye wipes his eyes. “And Jax says …”

As one, my traitorous friends all shout out as one, “I … swallowed … a … bug.”

Everyone laughs. And I do too, grudgingly. It had sucked, but it was funny. “Fucking gnat had it out for me. It was stalking me the entire interview.”

Snickering, Stella rests a hand on my forearm, her smile bright even though it’s clear she’s fighting not to laugh. “Poor baby.”

Everything in me warms, my attention homing in on where she’s touching me. Two hours ago, I thought she wouldn’t want to see me again. I’d been sucked down in a vortex of dark, taunting thoughts. She’d yanked me right back into the light.

I want to bend down, fit her lips to mine. I want to haul her into the bedroom and learn the topography of her curvy body. I want my friends to get the hell out of here. I want a lot. Want, want, want.

Not that my loudmouth friends notice.

Rye is still talking. “The reporter looks at him like she thinks he’s trying to be funny and is failing miserably. But she clearly wants to give him a chance. And she says, ‘Was that an Overboard quote? It’s my favorite movie!’”

Stella bursts out laughing. “She did not.”

Rye nods. “Jax goes blank for a second and then nods, all solemn and serious, and tells her it’s his favorite movie as well. That’s all it took. Coolness restored.”

“Such is the power of Jax,” Brenna deadpans, rolling her eyes.

I lay a hand to my chest. “What can I say? My bullshit fu is strong.”

Thankfully, my friends don’t mention that I did hook up with the reporter. And the entire time, she kept asking me to do Overboard quotes. Which was really unfortunate since I never saw the movie. Awkward as hell.

I don’t regret my past. I don’t regret playing fast and loose with sex when I was younger. Overall, I’d enjoyed myself. A lot. I’m never going to be Saint John, but I now understand why Whip has said goodbye to casual sex. I’d never been myself. Never had anything real.

Unfortunately, therein lies the crux of my problem. I want sex with Stella. I want her and only her. But there are dangers with getting attached. Becoming dependent on someone is a big fucking no-no. I can’t rely on her to bring me out of my dark moods; I’ve got to do that for myself.

And it isn’t an even exchange. Stella can offer me so much. What can I offer in return? Orgasms? Sure, that’s great, but I’m realistic enough to know she can get that elsewhere—not that it wouldn’t kill me if she did. I have very little privacy, and any woman who takes up with me will have hers invaded just as badly. Maybe worse, since far too many shitheads enjoy tearing down the women famous men love.

Love. My throat goes dry and tight.

“Mate, you’re about to curdle the gravy,” Scottie points out at my elbow.

“Right.” I turn down the heat, add some more stock, and try to focus.

He gives me a sidelong look, his lips quirking, and I’m tempted to kick him. But I don’t. I finish up with a dogged determination. Despite my best effort, one ear remains attuned to Stella laughing with Sophie and Brenna as they set the table. While Rye and Whip talk my ear off about new beats, I watch her smile and flush with simple enjoyment. I drink my beer and pretend everything is business as usual.

But when we sit down for Sunday roast, I seek her out, picking the chair next to hers. My hand finds its way to the soft, smooth nape of her neck. I talk to my friends and play with the silky strands of her red-gold hair. Happily, Stella lets me, keeping very still, like she’s afraid I’ll stop.

Not bloody likely. Not when I finally get to touch her the way I’ve been dying to all along.

“Right then …” Scottie sets his silverware on his empty plate, “Brenna and I have been thinking.”

“Oh, hell,” Whip mutters.

Rye’s mouth twists in silent agreement. I don’t know if they’re bemoaning the horror that is Scottie and Brenna’s plotting in general. Or if it is something more specific. Because I’m the one Scottie is staring at.

“I thought we banned you two from using your Wonder Twin powers,” I say, resting my arm along the back of Stella’s chair.

Brenna’s little nose lifts with a sniff. “Only when used for evil.”

Rye snorts. “When you’re scheming, it’s all evil.”

“Quick, Scottie,” she says, while glaring at Rye, “I need to form into a giant water gun.”

Scottie lets out a long-suffering sigh before turning his laser eyes on me again. “I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings—”

“No, you don’t,” Whip says with cheek.

“But there’s a horde of press camped outside my office,” Scottie goes on.

“I think they should be called a murder,” Sophie says, as she bobs little Felix on her arm. “You know, like a murder of crows?”

Scottie’s lips twitch. “Apt comparison, Darling.” His expression settles back into sternness. “A murder of press has settled on Kill John’s proverbial doorstep. Brenna’s office is getting hammered with calls.”