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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.”
