John

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I wake up with the lyrics to “Suddenly Stella” tripping around in my brain. Like most of my best work, the song isn’t planned, it simply pops up and takes residence in my mind. I write down several verses while I drink my morning tea, then I’m headed out to meet my muse.

She greets me with a smile, her hair glowing like a sunset around her pretty face. “Have you had breakfast?”

“Just a cup of tea.”

She hooks her arm through mine. “Come on then, Englishman in New York.”

“Where are we going?” Today, Stella is showing me a bit of her world. I admit, I’m curious as hell. Sure, we seem to bump into each other at an alarming rate, but I don’t know everything she does. I don’t know how she views life. I’ve only ever looked at the world through my own eyes. Never cared to do more … until Stella.

“Everywhere,” she says.

It quickly becomes apparent that Stella doesn’t simply live in Manhattan, she’s a part of it. I’ve lived on this island on and off my whole life, but I’ve never inhabited it the way Stella does. First off, everyone knows her. We step into a bagel shop, and two guys behind the counter immediately holler “Stella!” like a couple of lovelorn Marlon Brandos.

She greets them, cheeky as always. “Tony. Murray. Looking good, boys.”

Actually, they look like walking adverts for mustache wax or spokesmen for hipster craft beers, the type that tastes of chocolate and acacia berries or some fussy shit.

Tony, a muscle-bound Italian with a walrus mustache, serenades her with a truly awful rendition of “There She Goes” by The La’s, while Stella cringes and laughs. The place is packed, and while we wait our turn, people glance at Stella, clearly wondering who she is. I’m standing right next to her, and not one person looks my way. It’s fucking grand.

We get to the counter and the wiry, bushy-bearded Murray asks if she wants the usual.

Stella glances at me. “You have an order in mind?”

“What’s the usual?”

Her smile is coy. “You’ll just have to see if you pick that one.”

Worst-case scenario, I’ll hate it and find something else to eat later. But considering our eerie similarities in taste, I doubt that. “I’ll have what you’re having.”

“Two, Marco. And coffee.” Another glance at me, and I nod. “Make that three coffees.”

Murray shakes his head in resignation. “You’re too good, kid.”

“A regular saint,” she deadpans but doesn’t appear offended.

“Three?” I murmur as Murray goes off to get her order. “How thirsty are you?”

“The third isn’t for us,” she says before Tony comes over to talk her ear off. He tells her about his wife, Glory, who’s having their second kid any day now. He shakes my hand when Stella introduces me as her friend John. And then he’s back to asking her if she liked his recipe for minestrone.

“Bet it’s not as good as my apple cake recipe,” Murray says, handing over our order. While Stella grapples with the coffee, I take the bag of food and pay him. She shoots me a repressive look that I meet with a shrug. I was raised to pay for my date. I’m not sure if that’s sexist, since I’d do it if I were into dudes as well.

“They complemented each other,” she says diplomatically. “Soup for dinner. Cake for dessert.”

They’re too busy to chat anymore, and wave us goodbye.

“We can eat this at Union Square Park,” she says outside. “It’s two blocks away.”

“You going to tell me what your usual is?”

She grins wide. “An everything bagel with herb cream cheese and smoked sturgeon lox.”

My stride stutters. “Stells, our breath is going to scare people.”

A light laugh escapes her. “Good thing we’re not supposed to have sex.”

I give her the side eye. “Kissing, however, was an agreed-upon activity, Stella. Be prepared. I will brave the garlic.”

At the entrance to Union Square, she stops next to an old guy who’s busy covering the sidewalk with chalk art. The guy is good, his images lush with vivid color. There are some highly detailed reproductions of old masters—Leonardo, Michelangelo, and next to them, a rhinestone-wearing Elvis and a pouty James Dean.

The artist looks up and gives Stella a toothy grin. “Star Girl.”

“Ramon. Thought you might like a little caffeine.” She hands him a cup of coffee.

“You’re an angel,” he says before taking a sip.

“I thought I was Star Girl,” she says.

“All Star Girls are angels,” Ramon insists. “I’m gonna do your portrait now.”

“I’ll come back later and see,” she promises.

With a nod, we’re off again.

“That guy is good,” I tell her.

“He is.” A wrinkle gathers between her brows. “But he’s in his own world. Sometimes he’s lucid, sometimes he’s not. He forgets to take care of himself, so people around the neighborhood help him out when they can.”

Not just people—Stella.

“You really do look out for everyone, don’t you?” I admire the hell out of her for it.

But she clearly doesn’t like the attention. Her frown grows as her cheeks pink. “It’s not … I just … No one took care of me unless I asked for it, and I remember how that felt. If I see someone who needs help, I just … act.”

I sling my arm around her shoulders and press a kiss to the top of her head. “That’s what makes you Star Girl.”

We eat on a bench under the trees. Our bagels are still warm and soft. “This is ridiculously good,” I say around a mouthful. “Garlicky as hell, but good.”

Her eyes light up, her cheeks stuffed with food that makes her look like a chipmunk. “Told you.”

She swallows, licking an errant dab of cream cheese off her lip, and grins like a kid in summer. I lean over the mess of coffee cups and sandwiches and kiss her. A squeal of protest vibrates against my lips, and I smile, not moving away.

“John,” she protests again, her mouth on mine, “I stink.”

“I warned you.” I nip her bottom lip, then suckle it. “A little garlic isn’t going to put me off.”

She doesn’t stink, though. Maybe it’s that old adage that people eating the same thing don’t notice. Or maybe I just want to kiss her more than anything else. But she simply tastes of Stella, buttery sweet like toffee on my tongue. Her mouth softens, and she leans into me, her fingers gripping my shoulder, tracing the edge of my collar. I feel that touch at the base of my spine.

We kiss under the sun, our lips learning each other’s. Weirdly, we’re both sort of laughing little huffs of breath between kisses. I don’t even realize we’re swaying until we almost topple.

My arm shoots out to brace us, while the other wraps around Stella’s shoulder to haul her against me. She snickers, and I press my lips to her smiling mouth one last time. “You make me dizzy, Star Girl.”

Blue eyes shine up at me. “That’s Star Lord to you.”

“Don’t mess with my Marvel idols, Button. It would be all kinds of wrong to associate you with Peter Quill. Some things are sacred.”

Stella shakes her head with amusement, but then her attention snags on the surrounding park and she sits a little straighter. “You make me forget where I am.”

She doesn’t blush, but her shoulders hunch a little like she’s trying to make herself smaller, and it hits me that she’s embarrassed. Though I really want to, I don’t touch her again. “You not into public displays of affection?”

Her mouth quirks. “I’m not sure.” She shakes her head slightly, biting the corner of her lip. “I’ve never done it before. Have you?”

Public displays? Yeah. A lot of my sexual encounters were out in the open. Blow jobs in the after-party room, quickies in the hall, group sex in hotel suites. I shift in my seat, the hardwood bench suddenly really fucking uncomfortable. I’m not exactly ashamed of what I’ve done in the past. But to equate that to what I’m doing with Stella feels all sorts of wrong.

She’s watching me carefully, and her smile grows crooked. “By the expression on your face, I’m guessing you have.”

I clear my throat. “Actually, I’m haven’t.” When her brow quirks in disbelief, I hold her eyes with mine. “There’s never been any affection involved before.”

Funny how that makes it harder to bear. For both of us, apparently. Because we both look off, each of us suddenly way too interested in what’s going on in the park. I take a hasty sip of my coffee. It’s a flat white, creamy and too hot to drink fast. The tip of my tongue smarts in the ensuing silence.

Stella takes another bite of her sandwich, then eyes me thoughtfully. “I like kissing you. In private or public, it doesn’t matter.”

Warmth spreads over my chest in a slow-moving spill, and I smile.

“But I draw the line at copping a feel of my boobs. That’s private-time fun,” she finishes with a blunt practicality that has me laughing.

“Noted.”

We finish our food, and then Stella takes me walking down Broadway into SoHo. Again, I experience the strange phenomena of not being recognized, and I don’t think it’s due to me wearing a ball cap low over my brow. It’s Stella, who shines like a star. Shopgirls know her, guys selling watches on the corner know her. A man named Amin tosses her an icy bottle of water when we pass his bodega. He won’t take any cash for it. Stella, after all, helped him find his missing cat one day.

“Forget Star Girl, you’re the Queen of Manhattan,” I say after she takes a drink of her water.

Stella snorts. “You live someplace long enough, you get to know people.”

“I don’t think so.” I shake my head, taking in the cinnamon sprinkle of freckles across her nose, the way her penny-bright curls bounce with each step she takes. How can I not write a song about her? She is poetry made flesh and bone. “I’ve lived here on and off my whole life and I don’t know anyone the way you do.”

“You know Sam.”

“Who sells guitars. I don’t interact with anyone outside the music business.” I glance at her, not wanting to see pity in her eyes. But she simply walks along, her expression thoughtful, and I try to better explain myself.

“It’s not that I don’t like people. I meet hundreds of them in any given year. I’ve just never been particularly able to initiate a conversation.” It’s a bloody miracle that I couldn’t keep from teasing Stella all those times.

“You’re an introvert who’s also a rock star.” A grin flashes in her eyes. “That’s it. You come alive during the performance, but when it’s over, you want your alone time.”

I think about it for a second and snort. “It’s true. God, what a profession for an introvert to pick.”

“Would you choose something else if you could?” She sounds genuinely interested.

“No.” I don’t even hesitate. “I love it. Even with all the pitfalls, I love it with all I have.” Our hands find each other’s and I thread my fingers through hers. “I miss performing for the fun of it, though. The simple joy of making music. All the guys lost it when I …” I take a slow breath. “Anyway, it was like a skip in a record, knocking us all off track. But they got it back. Except for me.”

Her blue eyes cloud. “What do you mean?”

“I’m faking it these days, Stells. I go on that stage and it feels like an echo of me. I experience it as if from far away. Sometimes, I think about those early days, when we’d have to cajole a club owner to let us play and be damn thankful when one finally agreed.” My mouth quirks at old memories. “When we were really new, and really terrible, there were times we’d go and play on the sidewalk, just so someone other than our friends could hear us. I was hopeful back then. Music was my air, not the water rising over me.”

I don’t know why I’m unloading on her, only that it feels good to talk to someone outside the band, someone I’m not paying to listen to me. It occurs to me that Stella is the only true connection I’ve made with someone in my adult life who is solely for me. I don’t know whether that’s fucked up or we’re all living in these isolated social bubbles, but I like it. I look at her now, not finding any pity, just acknowledgment.

“I want to breathe freely again, Button. Does that make any sense?”

Her nose wrinkles as she stares off, contemplating. “I think at some point, we all start feeling that water closing in. We all want that air.”

“You choking too?” I ask softly.

Absently, she nods. “Some days.” A gust of wind blows down the avenue, tossing her air about her face, and I realize we’re standing still while people on the sidewalk rush past, flowing around us as though we are rocks in a river.

Stella tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. “When’s the last time you performed just for the music?”

“When I played for you at Sam’s shop.” That didn’t exactly end well, and we both know it.

She hums thoughtfully. “I think you need to do it again. Let’s go.”

“Wait, where?” There’s a light in her eyes; she’s plotting things. Stella kind of things.

She squeezes my hand. “You’ll see.”

“Last time I heard those words with that tone, Rye got us all drunk and convinced us that it was a great idea to shave our pubes.”

Stella misses a step, almost stumbling off the curb. I haul her against me, wrapping my arm around her waist. She laughs up at me, the sound short and shocked. “All off?”

“Yep. Itched like fuck growing back,” I grumble, fighting a smile. I’d blame that one on the ignorance of youth but it was only three years ago.

“Welcome to the world of women’s problems,” Stella deadpans. “Talk to me after you’ve tried a Brazilian wax.”

It’s my turn to nearly stumble.

“Stop gaping like a fish,” she says with another laugh. “Come on, we’ve got to get going.”

“Wait. Can we talk about your adventures in waxing? Or maybe give me the rundown on what you’re doing these days?”

Sadly, she keeps walking, leaving me to follow.

We end up in Battery Park, and when Stella stops near a group of young and ragtag musicians busking, I start to get the idea. And take a huge step back. “Nope. No way, Button.”

Her eyes are wide and innocent. An excellent farce. “You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”

“I know your evil little mind better than you think. You want me to busk with them, don’t you?”

She blinks, her lips parting in surprise. “Okay, you’re good.”

I snort. “Like I said, I know you.”

Hot color washes over her cheeks. “Damn, already predictable.”

“Like hell. You surprise me all the time. It gets me hot.”

She blushes a deeper shade of pink but then shakes off my sad attempt at distraction and tugs at my sleeve with renewed determination. “These kids are here every weekend and never get any money.”

“Because they stink.” When she glares, I hold up a hand. “Come on, you have ears. They’re horrible. No use sugarcoating it.”

“I know they’re horrible. But you aren’t.”

“And, what? I’m supposed to go over there and say, hey, can I borrow your gear and upstage you with my professional licks?” I make a face. “I’ll come off as a complete wanker.”

Stella’s grip on my wrist is firm, as if she thinks I’m going to turn and run. I might. I just might. But it’s kind of cute that she thinks she can hold me back; I’ll just put her over my shoulder and take her with me.

“Okay,” she says, “maybe it’s a stupid idea—don’t agree yet. Hear me out.”

“Wasn’t going to say a thing,” I lie.

“If you go over there and offer to play with them, maybe sing a few songs, you have no idea how it will go.”

“I have ideas,” I mutter. “None of them are good.”

“But you don’t know,” she says emphatically. “It isn’t planned like your gigs. It isn’t safe. You go over there and you’re on your own without a net.”

I study the teens playing. They’re attempting a Lincoln Park song. It’s painful to hear. They know how to play, just not in a cohesive way. They need guidance. And about two years of practice.

“I have no idea what it’s like to be a rock legend,” she says in a soft voice. “I don’t personally understand the pressures you’re under. But I do know that some of the best experiences in life happen when you’re not playing it safe.”

“When have you not played it safe?” I ask, truly curious.

She stares at me like I’m dense. “With you, John.”

I swallow hard, and then nod, not knowing what to say. She’s struck me dumb. I’m not playing it safe with her either, but I feel like a bit of a shit because part of me knows that, at the very least, she’s into me the same way I’m into her. Being with Stella might not be exactly safe ground for me, but it doesn’t seem like a risk. Is that how she sees it? Is she terrified?

She’s waiting to see what I’m going to do, her hand still holding my wrist. The tips of her fingers press against my pulse point, surely feeling the agitated beating of my heart.

The potential for embarrassment is high, but then that’s the point, isn’t it? I’m doing something with music that involves risk. When was the last time I even felt that when performing? Maybe at eighteen, and not even then really. I’d been an arrogant bastard, completely assured of my worth and my place in the world. Killian used to say I had enough balls and bravado to haul us all out of obscurity. Yet Killian wouldn’t hesitate to do this. He is the more reserved one out of the two of us, but he’s never been afraid to fail.

Even when at the top, I’d been afraid to fall.

For a moment, I can’t breathe. My head is hot and too heavy to hold up. Then I exhale, and I’m lighter. “Fuck me,” I mutter, rubbing the back of my neck where the tension has fled.

Stella stares up at me. “You gonna do it?”

“Yeah, babe, I am.” I give her a swift kiss, then head toward the group, nerves thrumming through my veins, heart kicking against my ribs. I don’t know if it’s nerves or the anticipation of doing something risky. Maybe both.

There are three of them, all guys. All wearing skinny jeans and tatty trainers. One is taller than me and rail thin, his brown hair falling in his eyes, his beard spotty in places. The other is fairly short, blond, and already sporting an impressive amount of tats along one arm. Though he’s dressed in the most ragged clothes, I know a kid who comes from wealth when I see one. The last kid, the one holding a bass in a death grip, is around my height and sporting an ink-black mohawk. I had the same cut when I was around his age. Was I ever that young? God, I feel old.

They all watch me with wide-eyed wonder as I walk up to them.

“Hey, I’m Jax.” Might as well use my known name; in a few minutes, it’ll be no use hiding who I am.

“We know who you are,” the blond one gets out in a rasp. “I mean, we can’t believe it, but we know.”

None of them has taken my outstretched hand, and I’m beginning to feel like an ass. But then the guy with the scraggly beard reaches out and clasps my hand. “Jamie. That’s Joe,” he says of the gaping blond. “And that’s Navid.”

The guy with the mohawk lifts a hand in hello.

“We’re huge fans,” Jamie says.

“I guess that’s a relief,” I joke. “It’d be a little awkward if you just thought I was some nutter.”

They all stare at me as if I am, in fact, a nutter. I clear my throat, forcing down an uncomfortable wash of heat. “I was wondering if you could help me out with something.”

“W-what’s up?” asks Navid. His hands are fairly shaking but he quickly slides them into his pockets, and I bite back a smile of approval. Fake it till you make it is a key component in this shitty business.

“My girl over there, the cute redhead pretending not to look? Well, she really wants me to play for her right now. I was wondering—”

“Here.” Joe thrusts his guitar in my hands. “Go for it.”

“Thanks.” I take a better hold of the neck. It’s a beat-up Ibanez that cost less than my boots but has a pretty good sound for close quarters and if you aren’t too worried about nuance. “But I kind of thought you guys might like to play with me. I could sing.”

“No, no,” Jamie insists. “Please play my guitar too. It will be epic.”

“I’ll play with you,” Navid says. He looks slightly gray under his bronze skin, but he hides it well.

“Me too.” Joe is pink in the face as he stands tall and determined, gripping his guitar—an old Strat.

“All right.” I pluck a few strings and wince. “This is out of tune. Just slightly, but it shows when you play.”

Jamie winces too. “Fuck.”

I give him a smile of encouragement. “It’s something a lot of people have to learn to hear. Until then, use a tuner.” I adjust the strings until the guitar is tuned to my liking. “When I first started, I was always off. Killian used to rip into me for it.”

At the mention of his name, the guys brighten.

“He’s fucking brilliant,” Jamie says.

“That he is,” I agree, missing my friend with an ache that shocks me. I haven’t called him in a while. Truth is, I don’t want to know when he’s coming home because that means Stella will move. I shrug the feeling off and pay attention to the teenagers watching me with dazed eyes. “Right, then. Follow my lead, and listen. Listen as you play. When you’re starting out, you try to play all on your own. You concentrate only on getting your bit right. But you’re in a band. You’re part of a team. Make music with me.”

They all nod, even Jamie, though he’ll be sitting out. I go over a few songs, find out what ones they know. I’m not willing to play any of mine. The gig—thinly veiled though it is—will be up immediately if we do. Thankfully, the guys get that and are happy with anything I want to do. We settle on a couple of classics; people know the songs and will be drawn to them.

At this point, no one has noticed us. Only Stella, who perches on the top rail of a bench and silently watches, a Mona Lisa smile on her pink lips.

I start the opening chords of Nirvana’s “About a Girl,” keeping it nice and slow. The guys join in, hesitant but holding their own. The second I begin to sing, people slow down. I’m purposely making my voice sound like Kurt’s. One, because I don’t want to sound exactly like myself right now, but also because he’s my idol and always will be.

I was a little kid when he died, yet his loss hurts as though I’d known him well. Awareness prickles over my skin with a fine chill. I too might have been gone, might have missed this moment, and I close my eyes for a second. My stomach twists sickly. I’m going to lose it right here and now. This is why I don’t enjoy performing the way I used to. This fucking sick, slip-sliding terror of what could have been plagues me every damn time I get in front of an audience.

But it didn’t happen. You’re here. The sun is shining on your shoulders. The air is filling your lungs. You are here.

I’m here. It’s just me and the music, the vibration of the strings against my fingers, the stretch of a song in my chest and throat. The song spreads itself out over me, getting comfortable, amping up. I play the solo and it shivers over me with joy.

When I open my eyes again, we’re surrounded by onlookers. I’m not sure if they realize who I am. I don’t really care. The song ends, and I address the crowd. “Hey there, I’m Jax. I’d like to introduce you to a few members of the band.”

That gets me a few chuckles. People whistle in appreciation. Jamie is filming everything on his phone. The guys give the people hesitant waves. And because I’ve done a Beatles joke, I start in on “Hey, Jude.”

I step back, turning toward the young guys playing with me. They look as though they’ve hit the lottery, grins wide, eyes slightly dazed. But they’re feeding off me, getting it together. I nod, and face the crowd. “You’re going to have to sing along for this.”

And they do. That’s why the song is brilliant. Everyone knows it. Everyone wants to sing it.

By the time we’re nearly finished, money is spilling out of the open guitar case on the ground, and two horse-mounted cops have ridden over to investigate. I’m guessing we’re done, but they simply watch, bobbing their heads to the music.

Joe gives Jamie a turn on his guitar. In turn, Joe continues filming our performance. We play songs until the audience becomes too big, and the cops start to get twitchy. I’m not pushing our luck, and end it. Some people ask for autographs, but most just take pictures. I thank the guys and give them Brenna’s PR number. “She’ll hook you up with some tickets to our next show,” I tell them.

“Thanks, man.” Jamie beams.

“I can’t believe we did that,” Joe says. He’s picking up the money, sorting it. He tries to hand it to me, but I wave him off. “No way. This was my pleasure. You guys keep that.”

Navid grabs my hand and pumps it. “Seriously, thanks. It was … fucking cool.”

We all laugh. “Yeah, it was,” I agree.

And then Stella walks toward me with a wide grin on her face. I might have lost sight of her a time or two, but she’d been with me all the way, a presence in the back of my mind, holding me steady. With two strides, I reach her, gathering her up. She whoops in surprise, her legs wrapping around my waist.

“Well, hello to you too,” she says with a smile. “You did great.”

I kiss her hard and quick, then haul her up higher, get her comfortable as I head out of the park.

“You gonna carry me all the way,” she asks.

“Yep. Or as far as the nearest cab.” There’s one rolling our way. I flag him with one hand while I hold Stella up with the other. “Then we’re going home and making out. A lot. Later, I’ll cook you dinner.”

Her lids lower as her arms wrap around my damp neck. “I can get with that plan.”

Goddamn, I like this girl. I like my life when she’s in it. I hold onto her a little tighter. “Thought you might.”