And though I’d only wanted to show her how gorgeous this guitar is, I’d picked a song that’s all about the voice. I can’t hide in this song. Singing it well means letting emotion into the equation.
The constant heaviness within me turns into something thicker, viscous and warm, then tight and thin. Yearning. That’s what this uncomfortable feeling is. Fucking yearning.
I push it into the music, desperate to let it free, get it away from me.
Sweat trickles down my back. My throat burns as I sing about promises made, love that lasts to the grave, and the simple need to love and be loved.
I’m thinking too much, which is never a good thing. Emotion chokes me, clutching my throat and locking down tight. I’m going to be sick. My hand shakes. The next chord is weak, my voice slipping off-key.
I end the song with a garbled sound and face the silence, aware of Stella and Sam staring at me, expecting an explanation. Humiliation prickles along my back.
But then Stella claps. I’m so shocked by the happy sound that my chin jerks up.
She beams at me. “That was brilliant.”
She means it. I don’t know how she missed the utter shittery that was the end. Or maybe she’s ignoring it. Either way, the walls are pressing in on me. My iceberg is crumbling. I need out and away. I need to be alone. There’s a strange safety in solitude.
And maybe that’s why, once I’ve finished my business with Sam and arrange for the Strat to be delivered, I do my very damnedest to drive Stella as far away from me as I can by acting like the biggest douche bomb possible.
Chapter Eight
Stella
* * *
I think I have stars in my eyes. I don’t have a mirror, so I can’t confirm. But I feel them. I know I’m gaping at Jax. I can’t help it. I am starstruck. I have been from the moment he started to play.
“Play” is too weak a word for what he does. He touched his fingers to those guitar strings, opened his mouth, and the world changed. My world changed. Who I was, all my problems, fears, everything dropped away, and there was just sound, music, emotion. His emotion, bittersweet and beautiful and aching.
God, his voice. It isn’t showy or strained. It doesn’t rely on flash to get the message across. It is smooth, deep honey, the caress of tender fingers along the nape of my neck, a flutter of butterflies in my stomach. Jax Blackwood sings like he’s telling you a secret that only you’re worthy of hearing.
When I’d asked him to pick a U2 song, I hadn’t a clue what he would choose. I’d thought maybe something fast and upbeat. Instead, he plays me a love song. His version of “All I Want Is You” is beautiful and painfully filled with desperate yearning. He sings and tears my world open. My heart is an exposed wound, and I have to blink rapidly not to cry.
But he doesn’t even see me. Eyes lowered, the thick fan of his lashes hiding his gaze from mine, he plays with fluid ease and sings about forever.
With each line, every chord, my fingers dig deeper into my thighs, my throat swells tighter.
I love him in that instant. Completely. Painfully. I know it’s an illusion, a testament to the power of his talent. And the moment he stops, I’ll be released from this spell. But it doesn’t make it any less intense.
He gets to the final refrain, his voice growing husky and crying for his love, his fingers flying over the strings, the music getting tighter, faster, more urgent. He’s coming undone. Sweat drips from his brow; the corner of his mouth quivers.
I move to reach for him, but then stop. He’d hate that.
The chords clamor, going off-key, his voice breaking. The final note dies awkwardly, both hanging in the air and somehow abruptly final.
He stands there, no longer Jax, but John, his chest heaving. His hand trembles as he runs his fingers through damp hair and glances wildly around as though seeking escape. I clap because I don’t know what else to do.
He accepts my praise with a tight nod, still not fully looking at me, and then hurries along his purchases with Sam. The guitar will be delivered later. I get the feeling he doesn’t want to touch it just now. He’s still a little shaky when we leave the shop and step out into the crisp air.
John pauses to pull his fake glasses from his pocket and put them on. Another run of his fingers through his hair to tidy it and he’s back to being the hot geek. He shoves his hands in his chino pockets and gives me a benign smile like the whole impromptu concert never happened. “And that was Sam’s Guitar Shop.”