I let out a huff of laughter. “The world is sick and sad half the time. You’re just singing its songs, giving a voice to let all those feeling out.”

He toys with a lock of my hair.

“Do you ever,” I begin thoughtlessly, and then bite my lip to shut up.

His breath warms my hair. “Do I ever what?”

“Nothing.” I snuggle closer. “I don’t know what I was going to say.”

His voice is soft but slightly amused. “Yes, you do. Just ask, Stells. It’s okay.”

I find myself pressing into him, trying to ground myself, to ground him. “Do you ever think about that night?”

He knows exactly what night I’m talking about, and his body tenses.

“I’m sorry,” I blurt out. “I shouldn’t have—”

“Don’t be,” he cuts in. “I’d rather have you ask then tiptoe around me.”

Dully, I nod, my pulse picking up.

John adjusts, settling down in a more comfortable position. “Everyone tiptoes around it, myself included. It’s like it’s some dark secret, which is a joke because everyone knows.”

“I’m sorry,” I say again, because I don’t know what else to say.

But he seems to appreciate it. He gives me a little squeeze. “We live in a world where people greet each other with ‘How are you?’ But few of us actually want an answer. It’s kind of hilarious if you think about it. We don’t really want to know how someone else is doing, but we want to look as though we do.”

“I’m always tempted to answer that I have horrible period cramps and I can’t remember if I left the oven on, and can you still call it a grilled cheese sandwich if you add any meat other than bacon?”

He laughs short and light. “Definitely no on that last question.” He pauses, then goes on in a subdued tone. “I didn’t know I was in trouble back then. I’d always lived on highs and lows. I kind of thought everyone did. I’d be pumped about life, churn out song after song, stay up all hours just wanting to keep going. Then I’d hit this wall and everything would plummet. I wouldn’t want to get out of bed, preferred sleep over waking, had no interest in anything. But the band was always there. I was famous; I didn’t have time to ‘wallow’ as I used to call it.”

“What changed?” I whisper.

“I don’t know,” he says in a hollow, faraway voice. “The lows became longer, stronger. I started living in my head. I realized I didn’t have any dreams. They were all gone.”

“What do you mean?”

“Most people have a dream they’re trying to achieve, a goal in life that keeps them going. I’ve done what I wanted to do. I’ve reached my pinnacle. I had nothing left, nothing to strive for. The knowledge of that hit me and I was left staring into an abyss. And the darkness swallowed me up.

“And all I could think was, who the fuck am I? I felt like a lie, and then all this … ugliness started pouring in—telling me I was unlovable, unworthy, a fake—until I felt so dirty and trapped in my own skin that I couldn’t stand it. And there was no way out.”

I stroke his skin now. This beautiful man who has influenced and inspired countless people and didn’t seem to know it. This beautiful man who makes me feel more alive than anyone I’ve ever met. I want to cry because I’ve felt that way before too. Not to the extent that John did, but I understand that horrible feeling.

His body eases a little, but he continues in a rough voice. “But that’s not what I think about.” He swallows audibly. “What I hold onto, what I keep crystal clear, is that moment when I started to fade. I remember how fucking terrified and regretful I felt. I didn’t want to go. Not really. I just wanted to feel okay.”

“Honey.” I turn into him, and just cling, my fingers digging into his side. “I’m so freaking glad you’re here.”

He lets out a harsh breath. “So am I, Button. Right. Fucking. Here.”

I hadn’t meant it literally, but I don’t disagree. John and I have had our moments. We bicker and bounce around each other like opposing magnetic forces. But right now, it’s perfect.

It falls quiet, then John starts to sing “Something” by the Beatles. I am struck silent. Emotion swoops in strong and thick, and all I can do is lie there and take it, close my eyes and hold him to me. I’m sick as hell, my body aches, and yet I feel like I’ve been granted the best gift in the world.

Chapter Thirteen

John

* * *

“Someone talked.” Scottie sounds grim but resigned.

Holding onto my phone, I sink into the couch and run a hand over my face. It’s been two days since I’ve seen Stella. I didn’t have an excuse to hang around when she was clearly on the mend. Plus, I wasn’t entirely certain she’d want me there when she was healthy. A sick Stella was needy. Healthy Stella will be back to being independent and not liking me very much.

That’s all bullshit. Truth is, I didn’t want to stick around to see when she finally got well enough to ask questions—such as why I was freaking out over STDs. Why I’d insisted Stern ask Stella if she’d be willing to be tested, even though I’d been told the chances were nil.

Hell, she’ll have gotten her results back by now. Dr. Stern thought Stella had strep and had started her on antibiotics. Logically, I understand that Dr. Stern had been telling me the truth, that a kiss wouldn’t have infected Stella. But I can’t relax until I know for sure.

Even if Stella hasn’t heard back from Stern, she’ll know all about it now. It’s a shitshow all over the news. Just as I’d predicted. Jax Blackwood, fuckup royale. Can’t keep his shit together. Man-slut who screwed his way into STD Land. Innocent girls tainted.

I snort. Clearly the press had never actually met the women I’ve hooked up with. Not a single one was innocent or coerced. But that doesn’t exactly make for good press.

God, how will Stella look at me? My guts turn to ice.

“Jax? You there, mate?”

I stir out of my haze and switch to speakerphone. “Yeah. Someone talked. We knew it would happen eventually.”

My mind drifts back to Stella. Should I text? Crawl over the wall and go see her?

Scottie clears his throat. “You have any idea who it could be?”

“Does it matter? It’s out now. Nothing will change that.”

“Damn it, Jax, are you even paying attention? You never take anything seriously—”

“Bullshit,” I snap, having enough. “I make jokes or downplay a situation because that’s how I deal. And, yeah, I’m forgetful to the point of irritation. It irritates me too that I can’t keep my mind focused. I’m supposed to write lists to keep track of my shit, but that means fuck all when I can’t remember to make a list in the first place. But all of that doesn’t mean I don’t care, Scottie. It just means I don’t do a good job of showing it.”

He’s silent, and I know he’s trying to figure out how best to manage me. Ah, Scottie. He is nothing if not predictable.

“You’re right,” he says finally. “I apologize.”

Well, he finally got me. I didn’t see that coming. I should feel vindicated, but I’m uncomfortable instead. “Forget it, man.”

“I was being a wanker, Jax. We both know it.”