Stella

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It’s autumn now, my favorite time in New York. It’s crisp and cool, the air carrying the occasional scent of roasted chestnuts in the stiff breezes that rush down the avenues. Leaves are burnished orange and gold but the expansive lawns carpeting Central Park are still emerald green. Not that you can see much of that lawn now. People cover it, an undulating mass of humanity, all facing the stage set up under the fading sky.

That crowd starts to chant, calling for Kill John. The chant grows into a roar as John, Killian, Whip, and Rye jog out onto the stage and give them a wave.

John slips a guitar over his head and steps up to the mic. God, my man is sexy onstage, all swaggering hip and impish smiles. The olive green T-shirt he wears hugs his lean muscles, and when he grips the mic, his biceps bunch. I swear, half the audience goes wild over that sight—made larger than life on the huge screen set up behind the stage. In that moment, he becomes Jax Blackwood.

Jax’s smile grows, and someone in the audience screeches her undying love for him. His rich voice echoes over the park. “Hello, New York City!” More screaming. He pauses until it dies down a little. “Tonight is special. Tonight is for the beautiful ones we have lost, and for all the beautiful ones who suffer in silence.”

A few people whistle, but it’s gone so quiet that you can hear the rough emotion in Jax’s voice now. “We’re raising our voice tonight to let the world know that it no longer has to be silent when it comes to mental health. To let them know that they will be loved.”

Tears blur my vision, and I press a hand to my chest. Months in the making, my first project with Kill John was to help put this concert together. Dozens of artists have donated their time to perform to raise awareness for mental health and suicide prevention. Kill John will go first, mostly singing songs by idols we’ve all lost.

A heavy guitar riff slices through the air as Killian starts to play; Whip and Rye join in. The crowd goes wild. Jax begins to sing Nirvana’s “Drain You.” It isn’t sentimental or sweet, but Jax said it was one of Cobain’s favorites, so that’s what Kill John picked.

They don’t sound like Nirvana, though. They sound like themselves, perfect in their own way. I dance along, watching my man lean into the mic, all at once tight with power yet loose with confidence. As soon as the song ends, Killian and Jax start a duet of Soundgarden’s “Fell On Black Days.”

I love watching them together, the way they feed off each other, and how they’ll fall back and give it to Rye or Whip. These guys are a seamless machine, and yet they still have a raw enthusiasm. I know they feel total joy up there, and it’s contagious.

When they play “Apathy” and “Rush Love” a newer song of theirs, their energy lights up the night. Then Jax, sweaty and now gloriously shirtless, sets down his guitar and adjusts his mic. “You’re going to hear a lot of classics tonight. This one is a bit different. It’s for someone special to me.” Somehow, his eyes meet mine and he gives me a smile, that secret smile that belongs to no one else but me. “For Stella, ‘The resolution of all my fruitless searches.’”

My heart turns over in my chest, and I blow him a kiss.

Killian, though, leans in and laughingly asks, “Are you sure you want to do this? It doesn’t always go as expected, man.”

Whip drums out a campy, “da-dum-dum” on his drums. The audience laughs. Every Kill John fan knows that Killian once infamously dedicated Prince’s “Darling Nikki” to Libby, not realizing the context of the song wasn’t exactly the message he’d wanted to send.

Jax smirks at Killian. “Unlike you, I pay attention to the lyrics.” He glances back at me, his heart in his eyes, then turns his attention to the crowd. “I’m hoping you know this song enough to help me out and sing along.”

Despite their banter, the band has clearly planned this. Rye moves to a keyboard, and they start as one. It takes a few notes for me to get the song, but when I do, I smile wide, tears welling in my eyes. At my side, Brenna leans close, nudging my shoulder with a happy grin.

Jax sings Peter Gabriel’s “In Your Eyes.” His voice is rough with emotion, his gaze mostly on me. The crowd sings with him, thousands of voices lifting up as one. Shivers break out over my skin, and I know in that moment what it means for Jax to be on that stage, how it feeds his soul and how he gives it back to the world. I sing too, return the words, meaning them with all I am.

As soon as they’re done, Jax jogs off the stage, waving his thanks to the cheering fans as he goes. He heads straight to me without falter, like he knew exactly where I’d been the whole time. Covered in sweat and glowing with vitality, he smiles, and I fling myself into his arms. “I love you.”

He lifts me off my feet, hugging tight before setting me down. “I love you too, Stella Button.”

“I’m so proud of you,” I say, kissing his cheek, his lips, his chin.

He chuckles and holds me close. “That turned you on, didn’t it?”

“Totally,” I whisper in his ear, unashamed, loving the way he tenses, then moves his hand down to cup my butt. “When can we go?”

“Not for hours,” he says with a small groan. But I can wait. For him, I’ll wait as long as it takes, for however long he needs—because he is always worth it.

The next day, John ushers me out of the house. He’s taking me someplace but won’t tell me where.

“Not even a little hint?” I ask as we ride the elevator down from his loft. I still live with Brenna, but I spend most of my time at John’s. Neither of us has talked about moving into together, but it seems to hover in the air, this final, silent barrier between us.

I don’t even know what’s holding me back, only that some small part of me still has a protective wall around it. I think John realizes it, but he never says anything about it; he simply gives all of himself every day. And it makes me feel worse because I love him more with every day.

On the street, John flags a cab and gives him an address in Murray Hill, an area of massive old brownstones with tree-lined streets and clunky brick high-rises looming on the perimeter. I’m not really paying attention, though. All of my being is focused on the man next to me.

I feel the warmth of his body and his smooth skin along the whole of my exposed side. His familiar spicy scent teases my nose every-so-often, making me yearn to lean in and press my face into the crook of his neck. I love that spot on him. I love that I know when I kiss him there, he’ll shiver, then grunt low in his chest and pull me closer.

The cab stops in front of a big, lacy, wrought-iron gate tucked between two brick townhouses. John gives me a small smile and produces a key. Beyond the gate is a long alleyway lined with trees and potted plants.

“It’s an old mews,” John tells me, opening the gate and stepping back to let me enter. It’s a bit like stepping back in time to the nineteenth century. The sunlit space has an almost hushed air about it. Red brick townhouses with massive arched windows that run along two floors make up each side.

“It’s totally private.” John stops at an inky black door that has ivy climbing up along the side. “Another world tucked inside the city.”

Gaslights flank the door, flickering and hissing in the silence.

“It’s beautiful.” I have no idea why we’re here, but John has a key for this place as well. He takes a deep breath before opening the door, like he has to brace himself, and I have the urge to hold his hand.

Inside is filled with light, the walls creamy white plaster with huge onyx-framed windows. The worn wood floors give a slight creak when we walk over them, giving the space a sense of history. The place is empty, and our steps sound hollow beneath the high ceilings.

“There are four floors,” John says, leading me through a big living room with a black marble fireplace. “A library is over here.”

He’s pointing out features with the efficiency of a realtor, and I smile.

“What’s with the tour? Are you thinking of buying this place?”

John stops beside the big arched window and sunlight pours over his tall frame. “Not exactly. Come on. There’s more.”

He shows me a smaller room, lined with walnut wood bookshelves and a big window with diamond panes. As if he can’t help himself, he takes my hand. His is warm but slightly damp, and I know he’s actually nervous. I give his fingers a gentle squeeze as he leads me to a wide circular staircase made of mellow wood honed to a gentle sheen.

Upstairs is another living area and a kitchen. There’s a half roof of slanted windows that let in more light. Here, someone has left an old brown-leather chesterfield sofa and a battered wood coffee table. I’m shown a small bedroom tucked toward the back, and then we’re going up again to another level that houses three big bedrooms and three baths. There is a rooftop terrace with a trellis but the rest is fairly bare.

John shoves his hand into his jeans pockets and walks around. “A couple of potted plants and maybe some bougainvillea or wisteria on the trellis, and you’d have your own oasis.”

“It’s more than most people get in the city,” I say neutrally. He’s not buying this place, so why is he showing it to me?

“True.” He casts a critical eye at the one of the pavers, and kicks a lose pebble to the side. “But I always thought the character of a place is more important.”

“Well, of course it.” Honestly, he’s acting so oddly, I’m getting unnerved.

Taking my hand again, he guides me back down to the living area, and then lets me go, only to take up pacing the floorboards. I watch him for a minute, confusion growing within me.

“You don’t like it? Or did you want a second opinion?” I glance around. The townhouse is cozy but bright, and not so big that a person would feel lost in it. There’s a sense of permanence about it. “It’s beautiful. Homey.”

He eyes me carefully. “I’m glad you think so.”

“So you are buying it,” I counter, not understanding that soft, almost hopeful look in his green eyes. “You should. It’s perfect. All the privacy you’ll ever need but it feels like a home.”

John steps away from the window. “I did buy it. But not for me. I bought it for you.”

“Me?” I stare at him. I must have heard that incorrectly. “I don’t … You bought it for me?”

“Yeah, you.” The corners of his lips curve slightly. “This house is yours, Button. If you like it, that is.”

“I … You …” I blow out a breath. “You can’t buy me a house, John!”

He lifts his chin, his expression set, determined. It’s the same look he wore on that long-ago day when I bumped into him on the stoop and insisted that he was stalking me. The same day I started to fall for him. “But I did. It’s yours.”

“I can’t accept a house from you.” My voice echoes off the empty walls, sounding slightly panicked and completely shocked. “It’s too much. It’s a freaking house, for Pete’s sake.” Not just any house. A freaking townhouse in New York City. On a private street. I don’t have to be a realtor to know this place probably cost upward of ten million dollars.

Ten million. My head feels light. I flop down on the leather sofa and practice deep breathing.

John shrugs as he slowly walks closer. “Stella, I’m a rock star. We’re kind of known for our impulsive buys and grand gestures.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t want this gesture.” I laugh shortly. “And I thought the couture dress you sent me was too much.”

He smiles then, wide and unrepentant. “You look sexy as hell in that dress.”

“Well, I can’t wear a house.” My head is spinning. “My god, John. A house? I don’t need you to buy me presents. I just want you. You’re all I need.”

His smile falls, and he kneels by my side. “Hey, don’t freak out.”

“Kind of hard when you’re giving me gifts I can never repay in my lifetime.”

Gently, he rests his big hand over mine. “The point of a gift is that you don’t have to repay it.”

“John … A house?”

His lips quirk, and I know he’s fighting to keep a straight face. “I understand that, to normal people, it’s an outlandish thing to get someone. But we both know I’m not normal. Not anywhere within the area code of normal.” He squeezes my hand. “I know you don’t want me for my money. This isn’t about that. I want you to have this house.”

“But why?”

For a second, he searches my face as though he’s trying to see if I’m kidding or just plain clueless. “Because you have always wanted a home. That’s what you told me. Remember? ‘A house on a little street, where it’s private but close to everything. An older house with character and charm, and a rooftop garden to plant tomatoes and flowers, and I can soak in the sun’.”

Oh, God. I did say that.

“This …,” he stretches an arm out in the direction of the room, “can be your home. You never have to worry about losing it because it’s yours outright. I’ve added all tax payments into the mortgage, which goes directly to me. You’re safe now, Stells. Always.”

Oh. Hell.

His hair refuses to lie straight, instead sticking up in wild angles along the top of his head. I smooth my palm over one, and he closes his eyes, blinking slowly, his whole body leaning into the touch.

“So,” I say, none too steadily, “does this house come with you in it?”

He goes completely still. Jade-green eyes hold mine, giving nothing away. “No. It’s yours. No strings attached.”

“And if I want you in it?”

Did I think he was still before? He’s frozen now, tense and staring. He licks his lips before speaking. “Then I’ll be here with you for as long as you will have me.”

“I mean, it’s a pretty big house.” My fingers comb through his hair just for the pleasure of touching him. “I couldn’t possibly use all this space alone.”

His body slowly relaxes, leaning toward mine. “I could probably convert one of the rooms into a practice space.”

Both of us are speaking lightly, like this is all idle conversation. It’s anything but.

“You could.” I trace the shell of his ear, loving the way he shivers. “But what if I wanted babies?”

A light comes into his eyes that I haven’t seen before. It is free and bright and beautiful. “Then, Stella Button, it would be an honor to try and help you make those babies.”

I can’t stop my grin. “You’d really want that? Children? Family life?”

I’m not even sure I want that right now. But I have to know what he’s thinking about us, about the future. He doesn’t seem daunted. He looks happy, hopeful.

John runs his hands up my thighs and holds my hips. “I want everything with you, Stells. Everything and anything. You want kids, we’ll have kids. If you don’t, then we’ll have each other alone. That we are together is what matters.” His grip tightens. “That is my dream. You and me. It’s what gives me peace.”

Hot tears well in my eyes, and John thumbs them away as they roll down my cheeks. I’m a mess with him.

“I want that too,” I say. “Buying me a house is a beautiful, if somewhat shocking gesture.”

He laughs low and soft, only now appearing the slightest bit chagrined.

I lean in closer, touching his jaw. “But it’s not a home if you aren’t with me.”

John presses his forehead against mine. “I love you, Stella. I don’t want to go through this life without you. Please believe that. Please believe that I’ll try to do better. I’ll try to—”

I kiss him quiet. It’s a soft kiss, a press of lips to lips, but John groans deep in his throat and takes over, grasping the back of my neck to hold me in place as his mouth opens over mine. I don’t think I’ll ever get over how good it is to kiss him. The visceral punch I feel through my body still takes my breath.

With one last kiss, John cups my cheeks and meets my gaze, his eyes tender and wide. “We’re going to be okay.”

It isn’t a question, but I answer anyway. “Of course we are. We’re going to be forever.”