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.

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.”