“I’m his neighbor,” I say absently.

A ripple goes through the group of girls.

“Lucky,” the girl who asked me says.

“Where does he live?” another asks.

I shake my head and bite back a smile. “Sorry. Classified.”

One of them mutters “bitch” under her breath. The others glare, but the girl beside me gives me an overly sweet smile. “I get it. I’d try to keep him to myself for as long as I could too.”

“Good luck with that,” someone stage whispers, and there are a few titters.

I don’t know what to say. I get their annoyance; I’m withholding information they desperately want. But being the outlet for their disappointment doesn’t make me want to linger. I want to get out of here. This is nothing like the happy spectators watching John play in the park. The crowd is stifling, and the urge to turn and walk away is high. But I won’t leave John.

“Guys,” one of the girls cuts in, “don’t be rude.” She gives me a weak smile. “Sorry, they’re just jealous.”

She earns some glares, but one of them shakes her head and demurs. “We totally are. I mean, it’s Jax Blackwood. He’s a god.”

“What’s he like? Is he a sweetheart? I bet he is.”

“A sexy sweetheart,” another adds. “That body … when it’s all sweaty and moving on stage. I can’t even.”

I cut in before I have to hear more about his body. Having been up close and personal with him on the couch, visions of a shirtless John might make me flush. “He’s the best man I know.”

The absolute truth of that statement sinks in among the little group surrounding me and we all go silent, watching him.

At first, I didn’t think he noticed where I’d gone, but I quickly realize how wrong I am. The whole time he works, he makes his way closer to me. His awareness is blade sharp. It’s clear he knows exactly where everyone is and his position within the crowd. In an impressive move, he turns to shake someone’s hand and suddenly he’s at my side again, making it look like casual happenstance. But the way he puts an arm around my waist says it’s not.

All I want to do is burrow into his solid warmth. I don’t, though. Everyone is looking. I toss the group of gaping girls a small wave goodbye, though I know their attention isn’t on me.

John’s palm presses into the small of my back as he moves us toward a glossy black SUV that pulls up. An Asian guy who looks vaguely familiar gets out and opens the back door. I slide right into the soft cocoon of black leather, and John follows me. The solid thud of the door shutting brings blessed silence.

The driver jogs around the front and gets into the SUV. Before I know it, we’re smoothly pulling out into traffic as people press forward for one last glimpse.

John sits back with a sigh, then turns his gaze on me. “You all right?”

He looks different now, covered in a patina of fame, and I can’t get past the rattled feeling that I’m with Jax Blackwood. Countless people would give anything to be in my place right now. The disdain of the girls lays hot and prickly on my skin, and a small voice in my head wonders what I’m doing here. Why me? I’m nothing particularly special. I tell that voice to shut up.

“I’m fine.”

He searches my face as if trying to read my thoughts. “You’ve gone all stiff.”

“I just wasn’t expecting to be bombarded. Or for you to be.” My smile is weak. “Sometimes I forget who you are.”

John’s warm hand settles over mine and squeezes. “You know exactly who I am, and it isn’t that guy back there.”

We’re facing each other now, our bodies turned on the backseat bench. “Is that why you don’t like me calling you Jax?”

A wrinkle forms between his brows, and he dips his head. “I’ve been Jax for a long time. After I crashed and burned, Jax felt more like … I don’t know, a stage name. John was the man beneath it all. Jax couldn’t breathe with all the fame pressing down on him. John was just the guy who liked to play guitar and make music.” He huffs, a shadow of a laugh. “God, that makes me sound seriously confused. I’m not saying I have two different personalities fighting for dominance in my brain or anything. Just that, when you call me John, I feel like you’re seeing me, not the rock star.”

“You’re both.” My thumb strokes his knuckles. “You’re both, and both are wonderful.”

His eyes close on a sigh. “As long as you don’t back away because of the fame. Though I wouldn’t blame you.”

“I won’t back away. But this life isn’t like anything I’m used to. I might get rattled at times. Or starstruck, as embarrassing as that sounds.”

A smile twitches on his lips. He peers at me through the veil of his lashes. “Starstruck, eh?”

My cheeks flame. “Shut up.”

John dimples, shaking his head slightly. “You’re too easy to tease. Which is true. When he speaks again, his voice is light and relaxed. “I forgot to introduce you to my sometimes bodyguard.” He’s still looking at me as he talks, but I glance at the driver who gives me a nod. “Meet Bruce Lee.”

I must have made a sound of surprise, because both John and Bruce are grinning. It isn’t hard to know why; Bruce Lee looks almost exactly like the kung fu legend. “Your parents do that to you on purpose?”

Bruce chuckles. “Total fans without repentance or worry over what their poor boy might endure.”

“I told him he should embrace The Bruce,” John says. “Wear some big sunglasses, get fitted shirts with huge collars, red bell-bottoms, go full on ’70s funk.”

“I wouldn’t want to outshine the rock stars,” Bruce quips.

“Please do. Sign some autographs and let me rest for a while.”

We laugh and joke all the way back to the apartment. But John and I are both clearly rattled and both clearly trying to hide that fact. I think John is embarrassed by his fame. My thoughts are a little more maudlin. I can’t help but think this isn’t real life. This is a fantasy. No one gets this lucky. Especially not me.

John

* * *

“So you have a girlfriend now, eh?” Rye nudges me with his big-ass arm.

Because he’s built like a tank, a nudge from Rye is more like being whacked by a tree branch. I rub the dull pain on my shoulder and glare at him. “Do you have to put a label on it?”

“I don’t,” he says easily, “but she will. Women want to label it, outline the particulars, chart its progress, then set a date. Be prepared for torture, man.”

We’re driving back from Brooklyn where Rye has hunted down a 1969 Moog synthesizer that he had to get his hands on, which prompted us to do a version of “People Are Strange” while testing it out. It makes me miss the hell out of Killian, because he does a great Jim Morrison impression. His version of “Roadhouse Blues” took down the house in London last time we toured. I haven’t talked to him in so long, it feels wrong, like I’m missing a part of me.

I shake it off and cut Rye a look. “You know, talk like that makes me think you’re afraid of women.”

He snorts loudly. “Please. I love women. I’m not afraid of them.”

I lean back against the seat and glance up at Bruce, who’s driving. “You hear that? Rye isn’t scared of women.”