Today, I’m running with Scottie. He got me into running a year ago, showing me the joys of this special type of torture. No doubt about it, the high is worth it.
My lungs have a good burn in them, my body warm and loose as we jog along the Hudson River Park path. When we first started jogging together, Scottie kicked my ass every time. I’d limp along like death on legs while he barely broke a sweat. Now the tables have turned. Scottie is the one lagging behind, his cheeks flushed, his usually irritable expression even more so.
Since he’s become a father—and I am still in shock over Mr. Ice becoming Mr. Mom—Scottie hasn’t had much time to do anything but take care of his baby, something he does with the same unwavering intensity that he gives to his job, to the band. The joy in his expression when he talks about his offspring is incandescent. I’ve never seen anything like it, and it makes me envy Scottie just a little bit, though not much because the guy has circles under his eyes that rival Saturn’s rings.
“Come on, Dad,” I joke, slowing down to match his pace. “You want to develop a gut?”
“Get stuffed,” he mutters.
I grin. Payback is a beautiful thing. “I can’t. That’s why we’re running.”
“That’s why you’re running,” he bites out between breaths. “I’m running because I’m a bloody masochist.”
“I thought you were a sadist.”
He glares, and I laugh, feeling lighter.
Scottie mutters a curse, before running his hand over his brow. “I’m curious—”
“When are you not?”
“You say you’re running because you can’t have sex,” he goes on. “Yet it has been two weeks since you began antibiotics. Surely, they’ve run their course.”
My feet pound a steady rhythm. “They have. In fact, I saw Dr. Stern today and have been given the all-clear.”
“Then why—”
“I was serious when I said I was done with casual sex. I can’t risk it. Frankly, I don’t want it like that anymore. The thought of getting down and dirty with a woman I don’t know …” I shudder. “Nope. Not happening. Which means Jax Jr. is on bread and water for the foreseeable future.”
Scottie grunts. “It isn’t all bad waiting. In truth, when you find someone you actually want, it’s so bloody fantastic, it makes up for all the torture.”
“Oh god, you aren’t giving me a ‘love will give you wings’ speech, are you?”
He cuts me a look. “Anyone who sneers at love hasn’t experienced true pleasure and is talking out of his arse.”
I make a face, but I’m not annoyed. Despite the fact that he acts like he’s my dad half the time, we’re the same age. And he’s one of my best friends. Out of all my friends, Scottie’s brand of chill with a side of fuck you has become the easiest for me to relax around. I can speak my mind, and he won’t let me get away with shit.
In a world where almost everyone lets me get away with whatever I want, his fortitude is a gift. Not that I’d tell him. Scottie would hate that.
We run in silence, his huffing loud but leveling out. I know Scottie will be content to stay as we are, not talking about a thing. Ordinarily, I would too. But I’ve been restless for days. An uncomfortable emotion that feels a lot like guilt is growing within me, and I can’t seem to get away from it.
Truth? I need to confess. Killian, Rye, or Whip will give me a free pass for my shit behavior. Mainly because they don’t want me “upset.” I fucking hate that. Even though I know I’d have an easier time talking to one of my bandmates, I go for gold and tell the one guy who won’t sugarcoat a damn thing.
“I asked Stella if she was an escort.”
Scottie stumbles a step. “You did what?”
His shout rings out over the path, and a few pigeons take flight.
“Keep your voice down,” I mutter, jogging along.
But Scottie has stopped. I turn my head and find him standing in the path, hands on his hips, his face like thunder. If I were Scooby, it would be the time for me to say, “Ruh-roh.”
On plodding feet, I jog back to him.
Scottie’s voice is all edges when he speaks again. “Am I imagining things or did you just tell me that you accused Stella Grey of being a prostitute?”
I rub the back of my sweaty neck. “In retrospect, it sounds a lot worse.”
Scottie’s brows wing up. “In retrospect? Mate, you couldn’t make it sound better if you tried. Women don’t respond well to being called whores.”
“Hey, I meant the type of escort who takes old dudes out, shows them a good time, and maybe agrees to have sex with them … Okay, fuck, that sounds sketchy too.”