Fall (VIP 3)

“Of course I do,” he agrees happily. “Many of them. I’ll pick a good one for our ride.”

“I’m not riding on a motorcycle through the city. I’ll have my eyes closed the whole time or be terrorized by cabs.”

He blows a soft raspberry. “Ye of little faith. I’m a kick-ass driver, Button. But, no, we’ll go outside the city, have lunch, ride the highways like our asses are on fire.”

“Lovely picture. I don’t know why I would ever worry.” I’m pretending to protest, but excitement fizzes through my blood like soda.

John clearly knows I’m into his plan because he rubs his hands together, biting his bottom lip to contain his grin. “This is going to be fun. Let’s go on Wednesday. It’s supposed to be warm and sunny.”

I might be protesting, but his plan sounds wonderful—mainly because it involves being with him. I haven’t taken on any new clients and left a message on my phone, stating I’m on vacation. A foreign concept for me, but I’m getting used to it. Until I’d stepped away from work, I hadn’t realized how much I needed time to just be me and enjoy doing things I like.

“Okay, I’ll let you torment me on a bike.” I wave a spoonful of ice cream in his direction. “But I get the second half of the day.”

I have an idea. Something of me that I can share with him. I haven’t told him about my hobby, haven’t told anyone really. It will be exposing myself in a way that feels slightly uncomfortable. But I asked the same of him in the park; I can’t do less for him. And I’m fairly certain John hasn’t experienced anything like what I’m going to show him.

“What are we doing?” he asks as we push back from our seats.

Shaking my head, I follow him out the door and into weak sunlight. “It’s a surprise.”

“Does it involve nudity? Because I’m down with that.” He waggles his brows, the pink tip of his tongue peeking out between his teeth.

“You put the kibosh on nudity and nudity-related antics, remember?”

“I’m beginning to rethink that plan,” he says darkly.

Laughing, I nudge his side and am about to respond when a strange sort of clicking-fluttering sound erupts around us. At first I have no clue what it is, only that John has gone stiff beside me. Then it registers that there’s a group of guys aiming cameras our way, all of them shouting “Jax!”

“That your newest, Jax?”

“How you feeling?”

“She know about your women, Jax?”

Shocked, I stand there and stare back at them. All this time, no press has bothered us. I’d half expected it at the park. But nothing. Now they’re all over us. I hadn’t a clue how it would really be. The noise they create is enough to scramble my brain.

John takes out his phone and texts someone as they keep shouting our way.

A squeal pierces the air, and a new group surges in. Fans. Having never been in a true fan crowd, I don’t know what to expect. It’s actually sweet. His fans are respectful, some shy, some shaking and crying. He signs autographs and takes a bunch of selfies with them. I’m edged back and move toward the curb to watch him work.

My John is gone, replaced by Jax Blackwood of the easy smiles that don’t quite reach his eyes, and the chuckles that aren’t as deep but louder, forced. Not that I think any of his fans notice. No, he has that unique quality of making a person think all his attention is on them. That he can manage it in a crowd that increases from ten to twenty, then thirty, is impressive.

“You work for Jax?” a teenage girl beside me asks, her eyes alight with curiosity. She’s with a group of friends who have already gotten selfies but linger, taking more pictures of him.

“No, I’m his friend.”

A few girls glance at me with wide eyes. “How did you get to be friends with Jax?” I don’t miss the emphasis on “you,” as though this is a miracle of the highest caliber. Maybe it is. Watching him now, everything we’ve done before could easily be thought of as a dream, some strange figment of my imagination.

“I’m his neighbor,” I say absently.

A ripple goes through the group of girls.

“Lucky,” the girl who asked me says.

“Where does he live?” another asks.

I shake my head and bite back a smile. “Sorry. Classified.”

One of them mutters “bitch” under her breath. The others glare, but the girl beside me gives me an overly sweet smile. “I get it. I’d try to keep him to myself for as long as I could too.”

“Good luck with that,” someone stage whispers, and there are a few titters.

I don’t know what to say. I get their annoyance; I’m withholding information they desperately want. But being the outlet for their disappointment doesn’t make me want to linger. I want to get out of here. This is nothing like the happy spectators watching John play in the park. The crowd is stifling, and the urge to turn and walk away is high. But I won’t leave John.