Stella

---

For some irritating reason, my grocery bags feel incredibly heavy. The cold, hard lump of that damn mint chip slams into my thigh with every step. I smother thoughts of irate green eyes and taunting smirks as I walk into my building. The lobby is dank and always smells of moldy pipes, but the cracked black-and-white checkerboard floors and dusty brass fixtures are a familiar comfort.

I’m damn lucky to have an affordable place to live in the city. I remind myself of this as I haul my food up five flights, my feet echoing on the iron stair treads. There’s an elevator if you want to live dangerously. Having once been trapped in that tiny box for three hours, I’m in no hurry to try my luck anytime soon.

By the time I get to my floor, I don’t want to eat—I just want to curl up in bed and go to sleep. My apartment is at the end of the hall. Up here doesn’t smell of mold but of dust and old plaster. I was eleven when my dad brought me here. I was terrified and missing my mother so much I could barely breathe through the pain of it. But she was dead, and my father—a virtual stranger to me—was the only family I had left. I stuck by his side as he led me down the hall to the small efficiency that would be our home.

Back then, my bed had been a small twin behind a curtain and Dad took the pull-out couch, when he was around. He’d leave for days and then show up again as if it were no big deal. As if it were perfectly normal to leave a kid to her own devices. He called it lessons in “toughening up.”

Now he’s gone for good, and the small space feels positively palatial. I don’t miss my dad. There are days I downright hate him. But that doesn’t seem to stop me from wondering where he is, from wanting to see his face just once more, if only to damn him for abandoning me. So here I will wait, in the rent-controlled unit that’s under my late great aunt’s name, where the super looks the other way, just as he did for my dad—as long as I give him a couple hundred each month.

Which is why the envelope tapped to my door, crisp and official-looking, has me halting in my tracks. My heart gives a protracted thud at the sight of it hanging there against the bumpy black paint. I don’t open the envelope once inside. Instead I concentrate on putting away my groceries, changing out of my clothes and into my PJs, brushing my hair, any-fucking-thing but looking at the envelope.

It isn’t until I can’t take the tension squeezing at my neck that I finally tear it open. My fingers go cold and my world gets both a little bit smaller and a whole lot emptier. My building is turning condo. If I were actually my late great aunt Agnes, I would have the option of buying in. However, I am not Agnes, and I do not have the $650,000 required to purchase my little bit of Manhattan.

“Location, location, location,” I mutter, crumbling the letter.

All the innocent joy of flirting with a hot guy is gone. I am soon to be homeless. The last link to my dad will be severed. I don’t know why I care; he was a shitty dad. Yet all I can do is sit on the ratty futon he once called his bed, stare at the floor, and feel so damn lonely that my body shakes.

The instinctual urge to get up and run to the familiar safety of Hank’s airport is strong. I need space. I want to see the ground far below me and the blue, blue sky soaring above my head. But the sky is leaden and gray with the impending blizzard, and you never fly while emotionally distracted.

Grounded and alone, there is no escaping this new reality. I can give up, let life roll me over. Part of me wants to.

Instead, I reach for my phone and make some calls.

John

---

When you live the life of dreams, nothing feels real. That has always been my problem. I never had anything solid to hold onto. Yes, I have my music, the band, the fame, but they don’t ground me. They make me high on life. I live for those highs, the moments on stage when I feel invincible, that I can do anything. Nothing on earth beats that feeling. Music is my soul, and when I play, I am immortal.

But you can’t live your entire life for one moment. And the crash from that impossible height hurts.

How to go on when you’ve fallen as low as you can get? One tiny step at a time. At least that’s what my therapist says. Take one step every day. Some days will be mundane. And some will be a downright pain in the ass.

Going to the doctor for a checkup falls somewhere between pain in the ass and mundane. But something about nearly dying makes you respect your health a bit more. Here I am, sitting in an uncomfortable chair in my private doctor’s living room—because I might be doing something as mundane as having a checkup, but I’m still me, and fame calls for complete anonymity when seeing a physician.

Dr. Stern doesn’t keep me waiting. She enters the room with a blandly pleasant smile that they must teach doctors in medical school. “Hello, Jax. How have you been?”

“All right. Bit of a sore throat, but my throat always hurts after a tour.” Singing night after night takes a toll. I’ve been drinking so much damn tea with honey and lemon, I swear the stuff is coming out of my pores.

She purses her lips, which makes me weary. “Why don’t you sit on the couch and I’ll take a look?”

I take a seat and let her peer and prod at my throat. “Any other issues? Pain or discomfort in any other areas?”

“Other areas?” I frown, my heart rate kicking up a bit, though I don’t know why. Something about her careful expression bugs me. “No. Why?”

She steps back and picks up a folder resting on a side table. “I have your lab work back.”

Since I’ve taken up a new lease on being responsible, I also get regular STD checkups. I’m ashamed to admit it wasn’t something I did as much in my younger years, but I’d be damned if I am going to play fast and loose with my health now. Even so, I don’t like the look in Stern’s eyes.

“Okay,” I say with caution.

Dr. Stern stares at me for a long beat. “It appears you have chlamydia, Jax.”

Blood rushes in my ears. “What? No. What?”

She glances at my chart, then back at me.

“But I use condoms,” I insist, a little frantic now, my skin starting to crawl. “Every. Time.” I am careful as hell about that. Never even trusted anyone’s condom but my own. Aside from the threat of disease, one sneaky pinhole and I have a baby mama. And that is not happening.

“Unfortunately,” Dr. Stern says, “you can contract chlamydia through oral sex as well.”

I stare at her.

Dr. Stern’s tone is sympathetic. “It’s in your throat, Jax. Which would make sense, if you picked this up via oral sex. The soreness you’re feeling is a symptom. Luckily, we’ve discovered it early on.”

Oral? I went down on a bird, and she gave me an STD? My stomach rolls. “Throat? I can get an STD in my fucking throat?”

“It’s less common, but yes.”

Where the fuck was I during that lesson? Probably ditching class. Talk about misspent youth. I pinch the bridge of my nose and try to calm down.

Dr. Stern is still talking. “Do you experience any burning sensation during urination? Pain or tenderness in your testicles?”

“What? No.” I sit straighter. “No, nothing. My dick is fine.”

She gives me a patient smile that annoys the hell out of me. “Even so, it would be best if I did a full examination.”

“Full examination?” Alarm spikes up my back.

She doesn’t even blink. “Of your penis and anus to—”

“Oh, hell.” I run a cold hand through my hair. This cannot be happening.

Dr. Stern puts a hand on my shoulder. “The good thing is that this is easily treated. Antibiotics should clear it up quickly.”

Which is great, but she’s about to fondle my dick and put a light on my asshole. I cringe again and rub my face with a shaking hand. “Bloody hell.” Another thought goes through me, and I nearly hurl. “Oh, fuck, I’m going to have to contact my partners, aren’t I?”

A black hole of humiliation opens before me as she nods. “It would be the responsible thing to do, Jax.”

And a PR nightmare from hell. I’ve been under the public microscope for two years—the guy who tried. Will he again? What is he thinking now? Always with the questions. Always watching my every move. Now I’ll be the butt of sex jokes as well. Yes, I’m feeling sorry for myself. I really don’t care. Because I know I’ll have to tell Scottie and Brenna.

“Bugger, bugger, bugger.”

“It’s going to be all right, Jax.”

Oh, the irony. Every time someone tells me that, something else comes along to slap me back down.

She has that look on her face, you know, the one doctors give you to make you feel like shit about your life choices. “When is the last time you had sexual contact with someone?”

“About a month ago.” Honestly, it hadn’t been that good for either me or my partner, and I’d finally woken up to the fact that maybe I should put the brakes on what had become mindless hookups.

“Mmm … Well, the incubation period ranges anywhere from a few days to a few months. However, symptoms usually show in about one to three weeks. I’d say you start with your last partner and work from there.”

I’m not going to bother telling her the number of partners I had that last week. I run a hand over my face, then pause. A bolt of horror goes through me.

“Doc, the other day some girl kissed me in a grocery store.” Ah, good times. The cute little mint thief’s saucy walk flashes through my mind before I blink it away.

She visibly fights a smile. “Why am I not surprised?”

Oddly, I still am. I get hit on all the time. But those propositions are a little more straightforward. Would I like to fuck? Yes, please, sure, great. The mint thief kissed me as a diversionary tactic. I still admire her for that.

“Thing is, I don’t know who she was. What if …” Oh hell, I cannot face Mint Thief and tell her to get an STD check. “Could I have given her …”

“No, Jax,” Dr. Stern cuts in. “You cannot spread chlamydia through kissing or even sharing drinks. Only sexual activities such as penetration or oral.”

My shoulders slump in relief. “Well, that’s good.”

Dr. Stern gives me another gentle pat. “I’ll give you a moment to change into a gown, and we’ll get started.”

Right, the exam. Awesome. Just fucking awesome.

Stella

---

Normally, when my phone rings and I’m sleeping, I don’t answer it. However, since my phone happens to be pressed under my cheek, and its shrill ring just scared the ever-loving stuffin’ out of me, I’m a bit more willing.

Scrambling to make the damn thing shut up, I end up hitting myself in the face before finding the answer button.

“Fuc—Hello?”

There’s a protracted silence, the kind that makes it clear someone is on the line but is deliberating whether they should speak.

Sighing, I roll over onto my back. “You heard me say fuck, didn’t you?”

Not good since this is my client line and some potentials are nervous enough as it is.

A throat clears and then a man with a voice like crisp sheets finally speaks. “Am I speaking with Ms. Grey?”

Well, hello, James Bond. I rub my cheek and sit up. “Yes, this is Ms. Grey. Most people call me Stella. What can I do you for?” Shit, that was classy. Way to talk like Dad and sound like a doof, Stells.

Bond guy clearly agrees. He makes a dubious noise. “My name is Mr. Scott. I received your contact information from Aaron Mullins.” The dubious tone is back and stronger now. “He said you were a reliable sort and might be interested in pet sitting.”

Oh, crap. The plum job. Last night, Aaron, an old client, had talked it up as an easy solution to my current problem of being homeless when my sublet expires in three weeks.

“Yes,” I blurt out. “Cat sitting, right? Aaron told me you were looking for someone to do a long-term thing? Two months, was it?”

“Four, actually. My client will be on an extended trip and he doesn’t want to board the animal.”

Dude is frosty, I’ll say that much. “Well, it would be much better for—I’m sorry, what is the cat’s name?”

Another pause, and then he clears his throat. “Stevens.”

“The cat’s name is Stevens?” Sounds like a butler’s name. Not surprising. Dude on the phone sounds like the type who would have a butler.

He also sounds disgruntled. “Yes.”

Something dances around the edges of my brain. And then I smile. “You mean like Cat Stevens? The singer-songwriter?” I bite back a snicker.

“I’m surprised you’ve heard of the man,” Mr. Scott says dryly. “I’d assume he was far past your age group.”

“I make it my business to know a lot of factoids, most of which are useless in today’s contemporary society.” Argh. Seriously, stop talking, Stells. You’re going to lose this guy.

“And what precisely is your business, Ms. Grey?”

“I’m a Jack—or Jill, rather—of all trades.” Some might say that made me an aimless layabout, but I’ve tried the nine-to-five life. It doesn’t work for me.

“That should be useful. A housekeeper comes by once a week, so you won’t be expected to clean. However, there is the matter of the goldfish.”

“Intriguing.” I slip out of bed and head to my bathroom to peer in the mirror. Good God, bedhead has reached epic proportions. “What’s its name?”

“Hawn,” he says.

“Like Han Solo?”

“Not Han. Hawn. As in H-A-W-N.”

I pause, hand in the middle of pushing my hair back from my face. “Goldie Hawn?”

Mr. Scott sighs, as I laugh.

“Holy hell,” I say though my laughter. “Who is your client?”

Mr. Scott’s voice is like ice now, and I actually feel a chill. “The essential requirement of this position is that my client’s privacy is to be guarded at all costs.”

“Er … okay. Then I’ll probably have to decline, Mr. Scott.” Which is depressing. Aaron had told me it included free room and board in a penthouse in Chelsea. Since I’m about to be without a home, it would have worked out nicely.

There is another pause, and I get the feeling he was expecting total compliance. “Let me understand this. You have a problem with respecting my client’s privacy?”

“No. I wouldn’t dream of invading it. But, as I said, I have a few side jobs. Sometimes, clients visit me.”

Silence rings between us.

“Clients?” The dubious tone is back.

“Nothing illegal or seedy.” I tell Mr. Scott about my work while the silence on the other end of the phone grows weightier, and I feel more and more like a fool for explaining myself to this virtual stranger. “So, you see,” I finish up, “while I love pets and am happy to watch them for your client, I can’t let my other jobs go.”

Mr. Scott hums, and then his voice is all starch and power once more. “Mr. Mullins is an old friend of my wife’s. He highly recommended you …”

As well he should. He was one of my first clients, and I did him a true solid. But I keep my mouth shut. After all, I guard my clients’ privacy just as much.

“My wife trusts his judgment, and I trust my wife’s. As long as you agree to keep your clients in the common rooms, I am willing to overlook visitors. In addition to room and board, financial compensation is included in the offer.” He states an amount that has me sinking to the cold bathroom floor.

With that amount, and not having to worry about rent for months, I could save up a huge nest egg. I could finally buy the car I need and not have to rely on the train to get out to Long Island, always having to ask Hank to pick me up at the station. I wouldn’t have to hustle for every job that comes my way. I could breathe a little easier.

Mr. Scott is still talking. “We’ll need you to take immediate occupancy as there is a storm coming and my client is already out of town.”

Ah, yes, the blizzard. It will be here tonight.

“I can do that. It won’t take me long to pack.” I can clean out my apartment next weekend.

“Very good. An instruction packet will be couriered to your residence within the next hour.”

Wow. Efficient has been taken to another level. “I’ll be waiting for it.”

“One last thing. The penthouse shares a wall with another unit. My company owns both. Should you have an … issue with your neighbor, I would appreciate it if you contact me directly before engaging with the occupant.”

Okay … that’s a whole lot of formal oddness.

“You make it sound like there will be issues, Mr. Scott. Is there something I should know about this new neighbor of mine?” Like is he or she a knife-wielding psycho? And, what the hell? Issues? What kind of issues? Starts fires when irritated? Watches porn on full volume? Who are these people?

“He tends to travel frequently. In all likelihood, you’ll never even know he’s there, Ms. Grey,” Scott says smoothly. “It is merely a precaution. You have your clients, I have mine. Mine require a great deal of privacy, that is all.”

I’m beginning to wonder if his clients aren’t international criminals. But someone who names his pets after celebrities and does it with puns can’t be all bad. As for the neighbor—He Who Must Not Be Disturbed—I’ll have to take Mr. Scott’s word.

Besides, I have better things to dwell on, such as penthouse living and a cat named Stevens.