John swallows hard and grips the helmet. When he says no more, I step closer and rest my hand on his arm. His voice is a thread. “I never thought …” He shakes his head, and his eyes go dark with emotion. “I never considered them. The fans. That I could help them.”

My fingers tighten around his stiff arm. “You can. You’ve been doing it your whole career.” He frowns in confusion, and I press on, even though I hate talking about myself. “When my dad left me, I was in a bad place for a while.”

“Babe …” He steps closer, green eyes worried. “I’m sorry.”

I shrug then lean back so I can meet his gaze. “What got me through a lot of dark days was listening to the Apathy album.” A start of surprise runs through him and it’s my turn to hold on tighter. “I listened to your voice, with all that unleashed rage, defiance, and power, and I felt powerful too.”

For a moment, he just stares at me, his lips parted, clearly at a loss for words, but then his lids lower in a sweep of his long lashes. “I wish I was there for you.”

“Then you haven’t been listening. You were. You’re there for so many who need you. You’re …” I grapple for words. “Marvelous.”

John laughs then, self-deprecating and husky. “You’re killing me, you know that?”

I can see the unease creeping over his shoulders. For being a famous rock star, John isn’t entirely comfortable with praise. He’s constantly pushing it off or putting it onto someone else. I get it; I often do the same, and I know I need to back off.

I give his jacket a tug. “Right. Your part of the day is done. Now it’s my turn.”

John visibly eases and gives me a wide grin. “Bring it, Stella Button.”

“No backing out?”

He scoffs. “Please. I never back down.”

“I’m counting on that.” Before he can say anything else, I rise to my toes and kiss him. It’s nothing more than a melding of mouths, a little nip and suck of his firm lower lip. But he chases me with his mouth when I move away.

“What was that for?” he asks, smiling against my mouth, nuzzling.

“Because I can,” I say. “Because your mouth drives me mad. Because you’re so damn pretty, I can’t stop myself.”

“Stealing my lines, Button?”

“As if. Now, stop stalling.” God, I’m nervous now. I’ve never shown anyone this side of me. It’s what I’m best at, but until now, it’s been a personal escape.

John believes he’s the only one who doesn’t know anything about relationships, but I don’t either. Not romantic ones. But if we’re going to work, I have to trust in something more than myself. I have to trust in him.

John

* * *

The heady combination of true anticipation and uncertain nerves is something I haven’t felt in a long time. It used to be my emotional drug of choice in the early days of Kill John. I lived for that sweet spot of feeling, teetering on the edge of greatness and ruin. Back then there was a chance we’d crash and burn onstage. Or we’d rock the house down. I loved the thrill of not knowing. And yet I did know. I knew I’d go out there and feel alive in a way few people experience—every nerve humming, blood coursing, balls tight, and cock hard.

Those moments became my everything. But they started growing far and few between.

Then came Stella. What I feel for her isn’t exactly the same. It’s more grounded. A weird mix of that teetering excitement tempered by unexpected comfort. But today is different. I’m practically jumping in my skin as I follow her instructions to this mystery experience she has set up for me. The land is flat and stretching along the Atlantic. It’s a clear day. Overhead a few small, private planes take off from a nearby airport.

In my ear, Stella’s tinny voice directs me to turn into the airport. Well, that’s a surprise. Is she taking me somewhere? Even though I know she’ll kick my ass if I protest, I don’t like the idea of her paying for a flight. Stella isn’t flush with cash, and she shouldn’t have to spend her hard-earned dollars on me. But I hold my tongue. This is her part of the day, and I’m going to behave and enjoy the fuck out of it.

The airport isn’t big—one runway and a couple of low buildings and hangars. A sign advertising skydiving points the way to one building, and I wonder if that’s her game, but Stella points me toward another building and then asks me to stop.

“Okay,” she says, pulling off her helmet, “let’s do this.”

“This” being Stella walking into an office to log a flight plan and chat with the guys who work there and clearly know her well, all while I stand there gaping in total silence. I’m still gaping as I follow her over to a small—seriously, the thing looks fucking tiny—white plane with one propeller on the nose.

I’ve owned SUVs that were bigger.

“You’re a pilot.” My voice sounds embarrassingly shocked.

Her cheeks flush as she smooths a hand over the edge of a wing. “Yep.”

“And you own this plane?”

“I’m one-tenth owner,” she says with a self-effacing smile. “The rest is Hank’s. He let me buy in so I don’t feel like a total mooch when I want to fly it.” There’s a fondness in her voice when she speaks of Hank that makes me, well, not jealous exactly, but …

“Who is Hank?”

“He’s an instructor and owner of the flight school. Back when I was sixteen, my dad spent the summer here as a mechanic. I was hanging around and Hank offered to teach me. In exchange, I worked at his wife’s bakery down by the shore. It was an easy decision for me.” A frown works over her smooth brow. “Then my dad cut out as he does when he’s tired of something, but Hank kept to our agreement, even though Dad owed him money.”

That rat bastard cut out on Stella too. I clear my throat, pushing away the fantasy of hunting down her derelict father and kicking his sorry ass. “Hank sounds like a good guy.”

“He’s golden,” she says. “I’ve taken lessons from him for years.”

“You must be close to him.”

She shrugs and runs a finger over a smudge on the plane’s smooth, white paint. “Hank isn’t exactly the type. He’s more of the cantankerous get off my lawn old man with a soft spot for awkward teens with idle hands. We get along fine but we don’t exchange Christmas cards or anything.”

Yet another person in her life who’s kept her at arm’s length. “If you could see your dad again, would you want to?”

Her mouth twists like she’s tasting something off. “Why would you ask?”

Shit. Tell her. But I can’t. Not when she’s making a face as if she’s seeing a foul ghost because I mentioned her dad. Not when everything about her posture shouts pain and defensiveness.

I try to shrug, but my shoulders are too tight. “We’re talking about Hank who kind of seems like a father figure.”

There’s a bitter sound to her laugh. “Father figures are overrated. I don’t need one in Hank.” She moves to the tail of the plane. “As for my dad? No, I don’t want to see him again. It would hurt too much, I think. That, or I’d kill him and have to face jail time.”

A small frown pulls at her soft mouth. And like that, I want to kiss her. So I do.