Fall (VIP 3)
“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.”