Fall

by Callihan, Kristen

The second I lay eyes on Dr. Stern, I grab hold of her bag. “She’s in the bedroom.”

  Stern follows me inside. “Calm down, Jax.”

  “I’ll be calm when Stella is better.” I halt and spin to face Stern. “Shit. She has a sore throat, Doc. And some kind of pinkish rash on her neck. Could I have …” I run a hand through my hair. “What if I infected her?”

  Stern’s eyes narrow. “You didn’t have unprotected sex with this woman while you were undergoing treatment, did you?”

  “What? No! Fuck no. But we kissed once. Remember the grocery store incident I asked you about? The kissing bandit? That’s Stella.”

  Stern shakes her head, and her voice softens. “Then you’ll remember that I said you can’t contract chlamydia through a kiss. Jax, the antibiotics did their job. We tested you. You’re clean. So unless you two have had some oral form of sexual contact …”

  “No. Just that kiss.” I run a cold hand over my face. “I’m worried … Her throat is sore.”

  Dr. Stern touches my arm. “Which could be caused by a number of things. I will test her if that’s what she wants.” Her expression turns serious. “But I’m going to need your friend’s permission to examine her, Jax. Though, between you and me, if you’re in a relationship with this woman, I would tell her about what happened.”

  A weight settles in my chest and guts. “I should have told her from the beginning. I just …” I shrug, my shoulders tight. It feels like ants are crawling over my skin. “Look, can you suggest she get tested?”

  Dr. Stern gives my arm a friendly squeeze. “Let me see her. High fever, rash, and a sore throat could indicate strep.”

  I expel a sigh and take her upstairs and promptly forget about my own worries when I see Stella curled up on the bed looking weak and pitiful and in pain. Hurrying over, I scoop her up and settle her on my lap, cuddling her close. “Stella Button, the doctor is here. She’s going to help you.”

  Stella rests her cheek on my chest. “Okay.”

  She trembles, and I kiss her temple before looking at Stern. “Fix her, Doc. Fix her fast.”

  Stern’s smile is clearly bemused. “She isn’t broken, Jax. Just sick.”

  That might be true. But while Stella is hurting, nothing feels right.

  * * *

  Stella

  There is being sick and there is being in hell. I am in the latter. Jesus wept, I want to beg for drugs. Just knock me out and wake me when I’m better.

  My mind drifts, an ebb and flow of pain and heat and strange noises. I know John is with me. I feel the hard strength of his body next to the mushy, hot mass of mine. I hear his voice, his gorgeous smooth-as-amber honey voice telling me to drink, asking me to lift my arms as he slips a clean, cool shirt over my battered body, telling me that I will be better soon.

  Ha. Lies. The pain in my throat is broken glass and slow-moving lava.

  Still I cling to him. He is all that is safe and comforting in my aching world.

  Then the doctor arrives. I didn’t know doctors even made house calls anymore. She tells me she’s the band’s personal physician. Part of me wants to laugh—of course Jax Blackwood would have a doctor at his beck and call. But I hurt too much and am too weak to do anything more than answer her questions with soft croaks that barely sound like real words.

  She’s telling me something important as she examines me. I just don’t care. As long as she makes this pain and hot hell go, I’ll do anything she wants. She swabs my throat and then she’s gone. John is back, forcing fluids down my hellfire throat.

  It’s a haze after that. I know he’s here. He lies down next to me, his hands drifting through my damp hair with soothing strokes. It feels too good, and I move closer. He is cool compared to my flame. His arm curls around me, drawing me against his chest. My head finds the crook where his shoulder meets his arm. A perfect resting spot, and I relax with a sigh.

  I don’t know how long we stay like that. Time passes, I know. He gives me the antibiotics the doctor prescribed, helps me to the bathroom when I have to go. Helps me back to bed when I’m done. We always settle in the same position. His fingers in my hair, my hand burrowing under his shirt to find his smooth, cool skin.

  Any sense of self-consciousness burns away with my fever. My world narrows down to pain and trying to escape it. John helps me escape. He takes care of me. My fever peaks in the middle of the night, and he’s there, wiping my arms with a cold cloth that burns along my skin.

  “Easy,” he whispers in the dark. “We’ve got to cool you down, Button. Easy now.”

  That voice, smooth and gentle, grounds me, makes me do what it wishes. I concentrate on that voice throughout the night and into the morning.

  I don’t know why he doesn’t leave me, but am afraid to ask in case I give him ideas. Doesn’t matter; he stays. He stays, and he has no idea what that means to me. I haven’t been cared for like this since my mom died. Part of me wants him to go. I can’t become attached to him. Because no one stays forever and the leaving hurts too much.

  But I don’t say a word. I cling like the weak woman I am.

  At some point the next day, he forces me to eat some soup. I am not a good patient, pushing his hand away with a snarl every time the damn spoon hovers in front of my face.

  “If you dribble your soup,” he tells me, smiling with his eyes, “we’ll have to put you in the shower.”

  I glare at him, spoon pressed between my lips, then sag against the pillows. “Actually, I need to shower. I feel gross.”

  John sets down the soup I’ve been avoiding for the past half hour. “Well, let’s get you showered.”

  “Alone, rocker boy.”

  A look of reproach shoots my way. “I’ve already had about ten chances to see you naked today.” John stands and holds out his hand. “Believe me, I have no interest in that.”

  I stare up at him. “Why? What’s wrong with my body?”

  He chokes on a laugh. “You’re serious now? Stella Button, your body is fucking gorgeous.” His eyes heat, and he looks me up and down. “Any place, any time you want to get naked for me, I will be there. With fucking bells on. But not when you’re sick. We get naked, it will be when you’re healthy and wanting it. Panting for it.”

  God, the way he looks at me. Like he’s picturing it in detail. Like he’s a little dizzy with the idea. Then again, I’m dizzy too. Right now, I don’t know if it’s the fever or him. Maybe both. “We are not getting naked.”

  I wish that had sounded more emphatic.

  His lips quirk to the side, but he fails to hide the amused smile in his eyes. “Not today.” He grabs my hand and hauls me up. “Into the shower with you, Stells. No offense, but you kind of stink.”

  My head is leaden, and I lean against him even as I nudge his ribs. “Ass.”

  He smiles as he walks me into the bathroom. “And to think women claim they want total honesty.”

  “Silence is also appreciated in some situations.”

  John snickers, then gets the shower ready. He leaves me to it but insists on staying by the door outside. “Call me if you’re in trouble. I mean it,” he says with a tone that is downright bossy. “If you feel dizzy. If you wobble at all, you call me. I’ll close my eyes if you’re worried about me seeing you, but I’m not having you faint and hurt yourself. Okay?”

  “Yes, sir.” I give him a weak salute. Truth is, my head is becoming heavier, and I need to get clean before I really do sag to the floor.

  My shower is quick. I can’t linger the way I want. My body weighs a thousand pounds, and my throat still hurts. I want to lie down, but the cool water is glorious.

  At some point, John slides fresh clothes in for me. They rest in a neat pile on the floor by the door. I don’t exactly like that he picked through my panty drawer, but I’m grateful regardless.

  Feeling a little more human, I open the door and find him waiting just as he promised.

  “Better?” he asks, keeping his eyes on my face. He’d left me a tank to
p and sleep shorts to change into. Skimpy but nice and cool. And frankly, I don’t care if he sees the outline of my nipples. Comfort beats out modesty at the moment.

  “Yes.” But I’m fading. My voice is weak and my head pounds from standing up for too long.

  Utterly patient, he holds out his big, calloused hand, and I let him guide me back to a freshly made bed.

  I don’t hesitate to slide all the way into the middle, making room for him. I need him there so much, I’m tempted to plead, but I don’t have to. He follows me into the bed and, when I tuck myself against his side, he covers us with the blanket. My hair is damp, and he lifts it to drape over his shoulder before wrapping an arm around me.

  We don’t say a word, neither one of us wanting to bring up the fact that he’s in bed with me and I’m now lucid enough to be fully aware of him.

  “Stells?” he whispers after a moment.

  “Hmm?”

  “Earlier, you said there was no one to take care of you …” His words trail off as I tense, now fully awake and uncomfortably alert. John squeezes my shoulder, bracing me against him. “What happened to your family? You don’t have to tell me, but …” He shrugs, clearly at a loss.

  He’s right. I don’t have to tell him a thing. My life is my business. But he’s also here, caring for me when no one else has. And if I want to have friends, I have to learn to let them inside these walls I have built.

  Licking my dry lips, I answer slowly. “My mom died when I was eleven.”

  “Babe …” His hand cups my the back of my head in a tender gesture. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

  I shrug and pick at a piece of lint on his shirt. “Undetected heart condition. It sucks but that’s life.” It hurts like hell to swallow. “My dad wasn’t in the picture until then. Mainly because he was a bum. When Mom died, he showed up and brought me to New York to live with him.”

  For a second, I see my dad as he was in those early days, fading red hair, scraggly beard, skinny as hell. “My dad was utterly at a loss at what to do with a grieving preteen. He’d taught me what he knew, how to charm people, how to get them to do what he wanted without them even realizing it. My dad is a grifter, and I’d learned at his feet. Only I’d made an effort not to be like him—to never take advantage of others”.

  Blinking rapidly, I clutch the loose folds of John’s shirt. “The day I turned eighteen, he left. Job was done, he was out.”

  “Jesus.” John wraps me up in a tight hug. I let him because I need it too much. His chest is firm and warm, and I hear the steady beat of his heart against my cheek.

  “It was … well, it was shit,” I admit with a pained laugh. “But I got through it.”

  “Of course you did. You’re a badass, Stella Button.”

  With a snort, I ease back, and he lets me, moving a bit until we’re both comfortably lying side-by-side once more. Showering, and this ugly trip down memory lane, has worn me out, and my eyes close.

  John seems to know I need a break because he starts to sing, his voice soft and low. The sound rolls over me like a gentle hand, and something inside me eases with a sigh. I’ve never been sung to before. I probably would hate it coming from anyone else, or crack internal jokes about it being cheesy. But John isn’t just anyone. His voice is his soul. I soak in its beauty and let it take me where it will.

  My hand slides under his shirt again, seeking his firm skin. He leans into the touch as his fingers thread through my hair.

  I feel safe and protected, entirely at home in his arms. But a small voice inside my head wonders if this is a strange dream. He is adored by millions, his voice a gift people pay to hear, and yet he’s singing to me. How did it come to this?

  I drift, listening to the bittersweet cadence as he starts to sing “Asleep” by The Smiths. “Isn’t this song about suicide?” I ask, without thinking.

  John pauses and his abs tense. “Yes?” It comes out as a question, almost apologetic and a little cautious, like he expects a lecture. “Or maybe just dying. Hard to tell when it comes to Morrissey.”

  “He is quite the chipper fellow,” I murmur, thinking of The Smiths’ singer who’s known for being maudlin on a cheerful day.

  John’s chest rumbles in a low laugh. “You know about The Smiths?”

  “‘I Am Human’ is one of my favorite songs.” I run my hand along his side. “Used to listen to it on a loop when I was fifteen and deep into my teenage angst.”

  “Oh, yeah?” His voice is husky and fond. “What made you angsty, Button?”

  I lift a shoulder in a shrug. “I’d never been kissed. Never even been asked out.”

  His stomach muscles tighten. “How is that possible? You’re cute as hell.”

  “Eh, I was redheaded, freckled, round-faced, and at the time, completely flat-chested. Not what the guys in my class were looking for, I guess.”

  He smooths his hand up my arm. “Teenage boys are idiots. I mean, I basically had one criterion for girls: easy lay.”

  “Lovely.”

  “Hey, I said we were idiots.”

  “Are you saying that your standards have changed?”

  “Ah …”

  “Maybe just start singing again,” I advise.

  His lips brush the top of my head. “You’re the one who interrupted the quiet beauty of my singing about slowly sinking into an inevitable death as your friends look on and weep.”

  Closing my eyes, I flatten my palm against his skin. “Your sense of humor is a little twisted, you know that?”

  I can almost feel him smile. “The guys find it annoying as hell.”

  “Were you like this before …” I trail off awkwardly.

  His chest lifts and falls on a sigh. “Yeah. Abysmal gallows humor and lacking in proper social tact.”

  He sounds as though he’s quoting Mr. Scott.

  “I knew it.” With a smile, I turn my head into his warmth. He carries the scent of my lemon-honey soap he’s been using to wash his hands with; underneath that is a tinge of creamy sandalwood that might be his deodorant. Nothing special, really, but I’d happily press my nose to his skin and breathe him in for days. Truth is, the simple act of being near him makes me happy. “Never change, John. Promise me that much.”

  He’s silent for a second, his hand resting on the crown of my head. “Promise.”

  “Good. Now, sing me a song that isn’t about death.”

  He chuckles, slow and easy, and his fingers play with my hair again. “Mmm … You know, I just realized most slow songs are kind of morbid. Loss of love, longing, death … Jesus, we musicians are a sick, sad bunch.”

  I let out a huff of laughter. “The world is sick and sad half the time. You’re just singing its songs, giving a voice to let all those feeling out.”

  He toys with a lock of my hair.

  “Do you ever,” I begin thoughtlessly, and then bite my lip to shut up.

  His breath warms my hair. “Do I ever what?”

  “Nothing.” I snuggle closer. “I don’t know what I was going to say.”

  His voice is soft but slightly amused. “Yes, you do. Just ask, Stells. It’s okay.”

  I find myself pressing into him, trying to ground myself, to ground him. “Do you ever think about that night?”

  He knows exactly what night I’m talking about, and his body tenses.

  “I’m sorry,” I blurt out. “I shouldn’t have—”

  “Don’t be,” he cuts in. “I’d rather have you ask then tiptoe around me.”

  Dully, I nod, my pulse picking up.

  John adjusts, settling down in a more comfortable position. “Everyone tiptoes around it, myself included. It’s like it’s some dark secret, which is a joke because everyone knows.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say again, because I don’t know what else to say.

  But he seems to appreciate it. He gives me a little squeeze. “We live in a world where people greet each other with ‘How are you?’ But few of us actually want an answer. It’s kind of hilari
ous if you think about it. We don’t really want to know how someone else is doing, but we want to look as though we do.”

  “I’m always tempted to answer that I have horrible period cramps and I can’t remember if I left the oven on, and can you still call it a grilled cheese sandwich if you add any meat other than bacon?”

  He laughs short and light. “Definitely no on that last question.” He pauses, then goes on in a subdued tone. “I didn’t know I was in trouble back then. I’d always lived on highs and lows. I kind of thought everyone did. I’d be pumped about life, churn out song after song, stay up all hours just wanting to keep going. Then I’d hit this wall and everything would plummet. I wouldn’t want to get out of bed, preferred sleep over waking, had no interest in anything. But the band was always there. I was famous; I didn’t have time to ‘wallow’ as I used to call it.”

  “What changed?” I whisper.

  “I don’t know,” he says in a hollow, faraway voice. “The lows became longer, stronger. I started living in my head. I realized I didn’t have any dreams. They were all gone.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Most people have a dream they’re trying to achieve, a goal in life that keeps them going. I’ve done what I wanted to do. I’ve reached my pinnacle. I had nothing left, nothing to strive for. The knowledge of that hit me and I was left staring into an abyss. And the darkness swallowed me up.

  “And all I could think was, who the fuck am I? I felt like a lie, and then all this … ugliness started pouring in—telling me I was unlovable, unworthy, a fake—until I felt so dirty and trapped in my own skin that I couldn’t stand it. And there was no way out.”

  I stroke his skin now. This beautiful man who has influenced and inspired countless people and didn’t seem to know it. This beautiful man who makes me feel more alive than anyone I’ve ever met. I want to cry because I’ve felt that way before too. Not to the extent that John did, but I understand that horrible feeling.

  His body eases a little, but he continues in a rough voice. “But that’s not what I think about.” He swallows audibly. “What I hold onto, what I keep crystal clear, is that moment when I started to fade. I remember how fucking terrified and regretful I felt. I didn’t want to go. Not really. I just wanted to feel okay.”