Stella

---

Stevens makes a place for himself on my lap and purrs. The warm, vibrating weight of him is a comfort as I pick up the phone and dial.

Absently, I stroke Stevens’s silky fur and wait, each ring increasing my agitation. Stevens presses into me, as if trying to bolster my spirits.

“Mitchell speaking,” a man answers shortly.

I’m fairly certain he knows who’s calling but I tell him anyway. “Hi, Mitchell, it’s Stella Grey.”

A chair squeaks, and Mitchell clears his throat. “Ms. Grey, always a pleasure to hear your voice.”

“Yes, thank you, Mitchell. I was wondering …” I lick my dry lips. “Have you any new info—”

“Ms. Grey,” he cuts in with an expansive sigh, “you know I’d call if I had anything for you.”

My grip tightens on the phone. “Yes, I know. I just … wanted to see …”

“I know,” he says, gentler now. “I’m sorry, kid. Your dad isn’t an easy man to find. He uses aliases, doesn’t file taxes, lives totally off the grid. Hell, I’m not sure his name really is Garret Grey.”

I snort but it sounds like a stifled sob. “Probably not. But it’s the only name I have to go by.”

“Look, I don’t feel right about continuing to take your money when I’m only running into dead ends.”

Dully, I nod, even though I know he can’t see me. Mitchell isn’t the first person I’ve hired to track down my dad. But he’s going to be the last.

I lick my lips again and find my voice. “Perhaps it would be best to take a break. Thank you, Mitchell, for trying.”

He grunts. “I’ve failed you, and we both know it.”

My smile is wobbly. “Not your fault you can’t find him. The man has devoted his life to slipping away from people.”

“At the risk of sounding patronizing, maybe it’s for the best. A dad who walks out on his kid isn’t worth finding.”

Despite Mitchell’s gruff, well-meaning sentiment, my vision blurs with hot tears that I rapidly blink away. “How right you are.”

I hang up and hug Stevens close. My nose and eyelids prickle and burn with unshed tears. I feel like a fool searching for my father when I know damn well he doesn’t want to be found. If he did, he’d know just where to find me. Or he would have before I’d moved. Now?

Well, he’d still be able to find me if he tried. Dad was always good at flushing out a mark. But he’s never bothered coming back.

A little laughing sob breaks free, and I burrow my face in Stevens’s ruff, heedless of the hairs tickling my nose. I should’ve let this go a long time ago. Dad left me. Fuck him. He doesn’t deserve another thought. But it didn’t stop me from spending far too much money looking for him.

I’m not even sure what I wanted with him. A chance to say fuck you for leaving me. A chance to ask why I was disposable. Maybe even to ask if we had other family. My mom didn’t have any.

Mom. There are days I struggle to remember her face. I have nothing left of her, no pictures, no mementos. By the time my dad had thought to pack up her things, an irate landlord had already thrown everything out and our apartment in DC had been rented. I’d never forgiven my dad for that.

It horrifies me that her features are nebulous in my mind. I know she had blond hair that was silky and cool to the touch, and deep blue eyes—the same color as mine. She smelled of fresh apples, and when I was sad, I used to rest my head on the slope of her breast and listen to her heartbeat.

I miss her so much it hurts to breathe sometimes. But she is gone. I have no one to rely on but myself. It’s been this way long enough that I should accept it and move on. I’ve been stuck in a holding pattern, trying to find a dad who failed me in too many ways.

Wiping my face, I set Stevens aside and stand, stretching my tired muscles. “No more self-pity, Stevens.”

Walking into the bathroom, I grab some tissue and blow my nose before washing my face. Stevens follows, watching with curious interest.

“I’m young and intelligent. My whole life is ahead of me. I’m staying in a penthouse with the cutest cat ever.” At this Stevens meows, and I grin. “Cutest, smartest cat ever. I don’t need to find the asshole who made me miserable when he was around. No more. Onward and upward.”

Stevens meows again, and I nod. “It is decided.”

With that, I take a long, hot shower. And if I happen to cry the whole time, there’s only Stevens to hear my sobs, and he’s not going to tell anyone.

John

---

I know the signs. They’re pretty damn clear. The weight in my chest, the way it becomes harder to get up in the morning, because the bed is comfortable and dreams are better than reality. Everything becomes heavy. Even my mind.

That’s the worst thing about it, not being able to escape your mind.

The mind is everything, right? How do you get away from your own thoughts? You can’t. There is only distraction.

It used to be that when my world started to go dark, I’d distract myself with music, drinking, partying, sex. Great distractions when you’re a rock star and everyone wants to please you. At least for a while. But the dark will always find a way in.

Besides, drinking, doing drugs? Worst fucking distraction ever. I might as well have pushed a self-destruct button and saved myself some time.

I slouch down on my couch and run a hand over my face to feel something other than the heaviness pressing into me. Doesn’t stop the whispers, though. The insidious little thoughts creeping through my brain, telling me that I deserved this, that I am a waste of space.

“Goddamnit.” I lunge up and prowl the living room. Coping mechanism number one: remind yourself that your thoughts are not always your friend. They can lie like a motherfucker.

I’m Jax fucking Blackwood, a goddamn legend. I’m the voice of my generation.

Not anymore. You’re the cautionary tale of your generation.

“Shit.”

It’s not true, man. That’s just anxiety trying to make a nice, comfortable home in your brain. Fuck off, anxiety.

I settle a little, but not enough. I’m on medication, but that isn’t as black and white as it sounds. It’s a matter of finding what medication works for me. Trial and error. And no matter what I take, I have to stay mentally vigilant.

I make an appointment with my therapist. I won’t lie—the childish side of me chafes at the fact that I need to reach out for help. It’s stupid as hell, but there it is; I feel dependent on others and don’t like it. But that’s part of what pulled me under before—the refusal to believe that I needed help.

I know better now. And right now, I need reinforcements. Even if this is going to suck ass.

I pick up my phone and dial.

Thirty minutes later, my doorbell rings.

Fucking, fuck, fuck, this is really going to blow chunks.

Rye and Whip grin at me from the other side of the door.

“Hello there, Sting,” Rye says as he shoulders past me.

“Sting?”

Whip walks in and gives me a patient look. “You sent out an SOS.”

Right. “Message in the Bottle,” one of The Police’s best songs.

“Cute,” I say as Scottie follows, his expression stern and a little pissed off. Since he always looks that way, I don’t take it personally.

“Jax,” he says by way of greeting. But I see the worry in his eyes too. He knows I wouldn’t call all of them here if it weren’t serious.

I glance at my now empty landing.

“What are you looking for?” Scottie asks.

“Making sure Brenna isn’t lurking in the shadows.” Where Scottie goes, she usually follows like an evil henchman in five-inch designer heels. “Where is she?”

“In L.A.,” Scottie says as he leans against an arm of the couch. “What’s going on, Jax?”

“Just jump right into it, eh?” I walk to my kitchen, pretending like I’m not about to hurl. “No ‘Hello there, Jax, good to see you. How have you been?’”

Scottie lifts a brow. “How have you been, Jax?”

“Fine, thank you.”

“Glad to hear it. Now tell me what the hell is going on.”

Rye and Whip plop down on armchairs and watch us. I pull out a couple of beers and toss them each a bottle. They catch their drinks with ease.

“You want one, Scottie? I haven’t any tea brewed.”

Crossing his arms over his chest, he gives me a level look. “Am I going to need it?”

“Probably.”

Scottie pulls the cuffs of his shirt, adjusting them just so. His suit is dove gray and impeccable. I’ve only seen him truly ruffled once and that was over his now wife, Sophie. I know he’ll remain calm when I tell him my news. I rely on that. He’s the glue that holds this band together—an excellent quality to have in a manager.

“Dude,” Rye says from his slump in the chair, “just spit it out already.”

Rye, our bassist, is big bruiser of a guy with an encyclopedic knowledge of music. He’s also a pain in the ass.

“Jesus,” Whip says with a shake of his head. “Let the guy have a minute.”

“Thanks, Whip.”

“Sure thing, Jax.” He winks. “Shit either floats or sinks. Either way, it’s still shit.”

“I don’t … even know what the fuck that means.”

He grins. Like a moron.

Girls love Whip. He’s got the whole dark hair, blue eyes, and model face thing going for him. Hell, I have that look too. But Whip somehow makes himself appear innocent and a little lost, like all he needs is the love of a good woman to save him. And they all fall for it. He’s our drummer. Even now, he’s tapping his hands on his thighs because he can’t be still.

With a sigh, I throw myself onto the couch and scrub my hands over my face. “I have an STD.”

If a mouse farted right now, you’d be able to hear it.

“I’m sorry, what?” Rye says with a cough.

“You heard me.”

A throat clears.

Scottie’s accent gets crisper. “What STD do you have, John?”

He’s pulling out John. I’m in deep shit.

I flop back and meet his grim face. “Chlamydia.”

“Bloody hell.” He pinches the bridge of his nose and then pushes off from the couch to pace.

“Wow.” Rye rocks forward and clenches his hands. “Wow. That’s just … fuck.”

Whip gives me a sympathetic look. “Sorry, man.”

“Yeah.” I feel about the size of a bug.

“How in the bloody hell …” Scottie throws up a hand. “Don’t answer. I know how. Damn it, John, you know better.”

“Seriously,” Rye adds. “Safety first, man. Cover it before you smother it.”

Despite feeling like shit, I sit upright. “Hey, I suited up.”

“Then why—”

“Oral.” When Rye frowns, I give him a pitying look. “You suiting up then too? Using a dental dam? Otherwise, I’d be getting my shit checked out if I were you.”

Rye looks horrified. “You fucking serious, man?”

Scottie makes an annoyed noise. “That’s it, I’m enrolling all of you in Sex Ed.”

From his slouch in the chair, Whip grins wide. “Just give me the CliffsNotes.”

“You had those. They’ve clearly left you all woefully undereducated.”

Whip shakes his head and gives me a sympathetic look. “Tough break, J.”

“Yeah.”

“This is why I’m off casual sex,” he says darkly. “From now on, I’m waiting for a girlfriend or employing a professional.”

“You’re going to pay a hooker?” Rye asks, shocked. “Have we sunk so low, William?”

“A carefully vetted, highly trained professional,” Whip corrects, then shrugs. “She knows what she’s doing, and no one gets hurt or contracts a fucking STD.” I don’t miss the emphasis on that last bit.

“And if she talks,” Rye presses, “what then?”

Whip shakes his head. “The type of woman I’d hire would have as much at stake in keeping her client’s identity secret.”

“You seem to know a lot about this,” I point out, peering at my friend. “You wouldn’t happen to be using said service now, would you?”

“We’re talking about your sex life right now, Deep Throat, not mine.”

Whip easily evades the throw pillow I chuck at him, but not the can of Pringles I follow with. They make a satisfying ring when they connect with his head, and I laugh as he rubs his head and flips me off.

“Man,” Rye leans in, his gray eyes wide with concern, “does your dick hurt? Or is it your balls? I’ve always wondered what happens but was afraid to look it up. Google is not your friend in those cases.” He shudders.

“I said I got it from oral, didn’t I? It’s in my throat.”

“Your fucking throat?” Again with the expression of horror.

“You’d rather my dick was jacked?” I can’t help but laugh, even though it isn’t funny. Not to me, anyway.

“No. I just … God. I don’t think I’ll be able to go down on a chick for at least a week after this.”

Whip snorts. “A whole week? That’s like fasting for you.”

“Right?” He waggles his brows.

“You lot are giving me heartburn,” Scottie murmurs, then pauses and frowns. “How does this affect your vocals?” He holds up a hand when I cut him a glare. “I had to ask.”

My shoulders slump. “The infection didn’t get out of hand because we caught it early. I’ll tell you how I feel when I try to sing.”

Nodding, he pulls out his phone, his thumb tapping at the screen.

“What are you doing?” I ask with some trepidation.

“Calling Brenna.”

“What? No!” I leap up, ready to tackle him for that phone. “Don’t tell her. I’ll never hear the end of it.”

He lifts a brow. “You think you’d keep it from her? She’s head of PR and this is going to be a bloody public relations nightmare. Your partners have to be informed.”

I halt. “Fuck. I know, all right. I just … Fuck.”

Whips smiles. “Fucking is what got you into this, son.”

“William?” Scottie looks at him. “Shut it.”

“Yes, boss. Shutting it right now, boss. Completely shutting it.”

Scottie doesn’t bother to acknowledge him. “Have you an idea of who the lady in question might be?”

“Yeah.” My stomach clenches. “I think I know who. Thing is, we didn’t exactly exchange names.”

“You mean there’s only one candidate?” Rye asks, as though the possibility of not having gone down on countless women is unheard of. If he’d asked me a few years ago, I’d have agreed.

Truth is, I used to love getting a woman off that way. Maybe it was my proper British childhood, but the idea of getting my mouth between a woman’s thighs has always felt slightly illicit and completely addictive. To bring a woman to the point where she’s quivering, fucking teetering at the precipice and all it takes is the simple touch of my tongue to make her lose her mind is a serious high.

Then it became too easy, too commonplace. When sex is easy to come by, offered multiple times on a daily basis, the thrill turns to something more pedestrian. Now, sex is more about me getting off as efficiently as possible. And isn’t that a sad thought.

I rub my jaw, wanting to touch my aching throat but refusing to do it. “One candidate who might have given me the STD. We were on tour. You know how it is. Maybe … shit … ten or fifteen women around the same time.” Everything inside me clenches and twists. I might have passed this on. I had protected sex every time, but I hadn’t worn a condom when a chick went down on me.

I can feel Scottie at my side and the weight of his stare. It adds to the weight already on my shoulders, and I close my eyes. “I don’t even know their names, Scottie.”

He doesn’t say anything. I don’t want him to. There’s nothing to be said. At some point, you can’t outrun your mistakes.

Unexpectedly, his hand grips my shoulder and gives it a squeeze. “We’ll sort it out, mate.”

I nod but it’s perfunctory. “I should be the one to tell them.”

His grip goes hard. “Absolutely not.”

I glance his way and find him glaring. “It’s my mistake. I need to own it.”

Scottie’s nostrils flare in that bullish way of his. “And you will leave yourself wide open to those who will take advantage of this situation.”

“If I infected a woman, she deserves to be pissed.”

“Pissed, yes. Sue you or exploit the situation? No. You weren’t the only one making the decisions during sex.”

“When did you become so cynical?”

His smile is brief and humorless. “When you lot became famous.”

I snort and look away. He isn’t wrong. The shit we’ve seen over the years has affected all of us in different ways. Scottie has become more protective, whereas I have become more isolated. Sex was my last significant contact with people outside of the band.

“Brenna and I will handle it,” he says in a low voice. “Let us do our jobs.”

What a job. I don’t answer, and Scottie wanders off to call Brenna.

Wincing, I pace over to the back window. The snow is basically gone now, only little clumps left in the corners. I have a terrace garden I could sit in if I wanted to. But I don’t think I ever have.

Rye comes to stand next to me and then Whip appears on my other side. We’re silent, staring out at the city as Scottie’s voices rises and falls with annoyance.

“I can’t have sex anymore,” I mutter.

Whip shoves his hands into his jeans pockets. “Well, not until your treatment is done.”

“What’s that, like, a week?” Rye adds.

I rub the back of my neck. “That’s not the point. I’m not risking this again.”

Rye glances over at me. “You’re just done? With sex?”

“I don’t know. Whip has it right; I can’t do casual. But I’m not looking for serious either.” The last thing I want is a girlfriend. I’m a fucking mess, and there is no way I’m giving someone that much power over me.

Whip nods. “Like I said, you either become really well acquainted with your hand or you hire someone.”

“Make a mental note not to touch Whip’s hand,” Rye says to me.

Whip gives him the finger as I sigh.

“None of those options appeal.” Double fuck.

Rye’s heavy hand lands on my shoulder. “I guess you’re screwed, J.” He snorts. “Or not screwed, if you want to get technical.”

Don’t I know it.