Fall (VIP 3)
“Hmm …” Brenna comes over and gives us all a refill. At this rate, the weekend is going to pass in a drunken blur. Not that I’m complaining.
She sits at the edge of the pool and dips her legs in. “Kill John sponsors a bunch of charities. So far, Scottie has had interns managing them, but they’re more interested in the music side of the business, and too many things have fallen through the cracks. We’ve been talking about finding someone to organize the promotion. Basically, we need an events coordinator. They’d also be responsible for developing new projects.” Her amber eyes meet mine. “You could do that.”
“Me?” I squeak. “I don’t have any experience with that.”
She shrugs. “And I didn’t have any PR experience when I started. We need someone who will know how to make these functions fun and stress-free for the charities involved. We’re not talking stuffy galas but lifetime experiences, finding ways to raise money while spreading happiness. I know you could do that.”
The lump in my throat grows. “Brenna … That’s …It would be …” Wonderful. Horrible. “But I can’t. I can’t take a job where I’d eventually be in contact with … him.”
By the way Sophie glares at Brenna and Libby is suddenly way too interested in her drink, I’m guessing they agree. But Brenna holds my gaze. “I’m not a total asshole. I know it would be hard and awkward as fuck. But, damn it, don’t let him rule your life. You want this job, it’s yours. Or I’ll help you find another one.”
My smile wobbles as I blink rapidly. “You’re pretty awesome, Brenna.”
She grins. “Yeah, I am. But seriously, Stella, think about it, okay? You deserve to put yourself first.”
I can’t take the job. I’m not that strong. But she’s right; I need to figure out how to make a life without John. He was only in it for a short while, anyway. It shouldn’t be too hard to go back to how I used to live when Jax Blackwood was just a voice I heard on Pandora every now and then.
But I know that’s a lie. Regret and sorrow pull me down until I feel like I’m drowning. I’ll hide behind smiles and pretend I’m happy like I always do. But this is a death, and I don’t know how to get past it.
Chapter Thirty-Two
John
* * *
Back to running. Running is good, the painful burn in my lungs and legs pure, uncomplicated. If I run long enough, my mind goes perfectly blank. I love those times. I live for empty thoughts. The second something unwanted tries to push its way to the surface, I run harder, faster. I can do this; I excel at diversion.
But eventually, I have to return home from my run. The sight of that stone staircase leading up to those damn ornately carved-wood doors hurts my chest. Entering my code on the number pad hurts my chest. Even the damn sanitized smell of the elevator hurts my chest. She is everywhere, and I can’t hide at home. So I stay out running as long as I can.
Facts are facts: I can dither no longer. I have to move on. I need out of New York. Out of the U.S.
I’ll go to England. No, fuck that. I’ll go visit Killian in Australia. He’s staying in Scottie’s house; there’s room for me.
The Raconteurs’ “Steady, as She Goes” starts thumping through my earbuds. Usually, I love this song, but music makes my skin crawl right now. I yank the earbuds out as I turn down the street to home. There’s a massive stone pressing down on my chest. I’d worry I’m having a heart attack but that heinous stone has been there since … Well, I’m not going there.
Exhaustion makes my pace wobble, and I nearly stumble by the time I get to the stairs. There’s a guy lounging on the stoop, his long legs sprawled in my way. For a weird, hazy second, I think he might be a hallucination; I’m certainly weak enough to be seeing things, but then he looks up and gives me that supercilious smirk I’ve seen more than half my life, and I know I’m not dreaming.
“You look like shit,” Killian says. To the point as always.
I take the bottle of lemonade he holds out for me and guzzle it down. It’s cold and sweet and gives me a chance to get my brain working again. Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I take a breath and then another.
“You’re back.” Obviously.
“Aw …” He smiles. “You noticed.”
“Asshole.” I toss the empty bottle his way and he catches, clearly anticipating the move. Killian and I have always known each other on a level that goes deeper than words or action. He is part of me. Or he was. When I tried, it fractured something between us that did not heal well but thickened and twisted like a keloid scar.