Idol (VIP #1)

by Kristen Callihan

  He actually says it like he hasn’t heard me right, not as a response to my question. But I answer him anyway.

  “You could have hurt someone else. You could have hurt me, or some poor soul along the way, with your drunk-ass driving.” Grief sinks its fingers into my heart. “You could have destroyed lives, left people behind to pick up the pieces.”

  He blanches, those ridiculous lashes of his sweeping his cheeks as he blinks.

  “You want to kill yourself?” I snap. “Do it some other way—”

  My voice dies as a snarl leaves him, and he honest-to-God bares his teeth at me. He takes a hard step in my direction as though he might actually come at me, but he halts himself. “Don’t you dare…You have no fucking clue what I’ve… ” His face goes gray as he glares down from his great height.

  We stare at each other while he kind of just sways there, all pasty and trembling, his anger so near the surface that his eyes shine with it.

  It’s that pain-filled rage that snares me, distracts me from the warning signs.

  “You don’t know…” He swallows convulsively.

  Only then does it occur to me that I’m in trouble. I leap back, but it’s too late. My lawn bum hunches over and hurls. All down my front.

  Shock roots me to the spot for an agonizing moment. Then the smell hits me anew. I force myself to look up, face my tormentor. A thousand curses race through my head but only one sentence gets past my clenched teeth.

  “I hate you.”

  Killian

  Usually when a woman tells you she hates you with a cold, dead look in her eye, she makes an effort to avoid all further contact.

  Not so with Elly May, she of the water hose from hell.

  Okay, I did just yack all over her, so she might have reason to hate me. Very good reason.

  I haven’t apologized to anyone in years. A small voice in my head is telling me I should do it now. But the whisky still sloshing around in my head is drowning that voice out. Shit, everything is sloshing right now—the ground, my brain, my blood. My ears are ringing.

  I’m going down. I know I am. Vague surprise registers as my tormentor steps forward, not away, and wraps her arms around me. Holding me up.

  Good luck with that, honey.

  I hear her curse, feel her knees buckle under my weight. We fall down together. I think I laugh. Not sure. It’s all fading. Exactly what I want.

  The world is a blur. Water blasts my face. Again. Mother fuck, that’s annoying.

  Sputtering, I try to wipe my face, but my arms aren’t working right. Everything is rubbery and heavy.

  “Stop flailing, you complete pain in my ass,” snarls a girl.

  Elly May. I don’t care if her voice sounds like vanilla cream over ice, she’s the devil. A water devil. Maybe hell doesn’t burn. Maybe it’s perpetual drowning.

  “You’re not going to drown,” she says, spraying me again.

  I sputter, spit out a mouthful of water that tastes of vomit and whisky. I can’t see a goddamn thing past the deluge. “What is with you and water?” I manage before another round hits me.

  “It has this magical ability to wash away filth,” she drawls as her hand rubs over my chest, not in a soothing way, but hard, as if she’s trying to remove my skin. Soap bubbles. It smells like grapefruit and vanilla. Girl soap.

  “Yes, soap. Water and soap cleans,” she continues, as if I’m an infant. “I know. Crazy, right?”

  Sarcasm. I’m an expert on it. When I’m not so drunk my eyes refuse to open, that is.

  Hard hands move to along my scalp. Fingers snag in my hair.

  “Jesus, when’s the last time you brushed this mop?”

  “Birth. Now lay off. Let me up.”

  “You have vomit in your hair. I’m getting it out.”

  I let her wash me, her voice drifting in and out as she bitches. She’s never gentle. Doesn’t matter. I can’t handle gentle anyway.

  I am dried off, tugged along. Everything still spins. Dip, sway, spin. No matter what I do to get away from it, I still hear the rhythm of life.

  “I don’t hear anything but you babbling,” she says, her face a fuzzy halo above me.

  Below me is soft. Cool sheets. Heavy blankets.

  She rolls me on my side, shoves pillows behind my back. “You barf again, you’re on your own, buddy.”

  Always am, honey.

  Chapter Two

  Killian

  The pillow beneath my head is…fucking fantastic. I mean, it really is. Like a squishy cloud or something. Which is weird. Why am I getting a hard-on over a pillow?

  This oddball thought wakes me up enough that I open my eyes. Sunlight burns, and I wince, squinting for a second. The room is white. Whitewashed wood-paneled walls, white sheets, white curtains drifting in a soft breeze coming through an open window.

  I press my face against the cool pillow that feels like a cloud and take a breath. There’s an axe of pain splitting my skull. My mouth is burnt toast.

  On the bedside table sits a tall glass of some red drink. It’s filled with fresh ice, the glass beaded with condensation as if someone just brought it in. Next to it are four clear, blue pills and a note:

  For the criminally stupid.

  Despite the fact that movement makes my stomach heave, I snort. Memories of my hostess’s sharp tongue and rough hands rush in. I ignore them—because I really don’t want to remember how drunk I was—and pick up the glass.

  The drink smells vaguely like a Bloody Mary but also of something sharp and citrus. I don’t want to taste it, but that axe is driving deeper, and I’m thirsty as fuck.

  It goes down hard, me gagging along the way, the pills I take with it almost getting stuck in my throat. The concoction is fizzy, which is a surprise. I’m guessing it’s Bloody Mary mixed with ginger soda and lemons—but hell, maybe there’s arsenic in it too. By the time I finish, I kind of enjoy the taste and feel like I just might live.

  I lie on the white cloud bed, smell the touch of sea brine in the air, and listen to the wind chimes. Until the banging of pots and the slam of a cabinet door snag my attention.

  Elly May.

  If her name really is Elly May, I’m going to laugh my ass off. But Elly May sounds more like a sexy, hay-riding chick. The kind that will milk you dry then offer up her pie. My Elly May is far from that.

  Yesterday was fuzzy, but I remember her all right: Frowning face. Foul mouth.

  I hear it again in the form of a muffled “fuck” and another slam of a door.

  Grunting, I sit up, taking a few breaths as the room spins. I’m buck-ass naked and have to smile at that. Most interesting shower I’ve had in a while, and I didn’t even get off.

  It takes an eternity to stand and even longer to reach my clothes. I find them neatly folded on a chair and smelling of Tide. My grandma used Tide. I shove my clothes on and head for the door.

  I’ve been sleeping in the back room of an old farmhouse, apparently. I don’t remember what the outside even looks like, but inside is kind of spare country with plank floors and faded furniture.

  There’s a nice, well-used Martin acoustic leaning against an entire wall of bookcases filled with old LPs. She must have a couple thousand records. Outside of a few deejays I’ve met, I haven’t seen anyone own actual vinyl records. They give the room a musty smell.

  So, I’m dealing with a guitar-playing music lover. Please, God, don’t let this chick be some sort of Annie Bates psycho. But then I remember the way she glared at me last night. I doubt she’s my number-one fan.

  I follow the noise and find her in a kitchen, a big square room with one of those classic farm tables that can seat twelve in the middle of it.

  She ignores me as I sit at the table, my moves slow and pained. Fuck this shit. I’m not drinking that much again. Never. Again.

  In the silence, I watch her stir something in a pot on the stove like she’s trying to beat whatever it is into submission. She is definitely not a hot bumpkin. No Daisy Dukes on t
his chick. Her plump ass hides under ratty jeans with holes in the knees as she stomps around in heavy black boots better suited for my bike—the bike I’m pretty sure is wrapped around her fence. I don’t remember crashing and haven’t got a scratch on me. The will of the universe is a strange thing. Why it brought me to her of all people, I don’t know.

  My hostess moves to turn off the stove, and her profile comes into view. Long, straight hair the color of wet sand, gray eyes, and an oval face that should be all soft angles but somehow looks sharp and hard: Elly May is kind of plain. Until she opens her mouth.

  Then it’s one long stream of colorful bitch.

  It’s been years since I’ve had a female berate me for such an extended period of time. If the dousing of ice-cold water hadn’t shocked me yesterday, that tongue lashing surely did the job.

  Yeah, she has a mouth on her. Though she isn’t using it now. I find that more unsettling.

  “Hey.” My voice sounds like cracked glass. “I, uh, thanks for…ah…” I swallow. “Well, thanks.”

  And people call me a poet.

  She snorts as if she’s thinking the same. I silently will her to fully turn and face me.

  And she does, her expression pinched with disgust. “You drink what I left you?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I salute, fight a grin.

  She just looks at me, then grabs a bowl and fills it. Her boots thud as she stomps over and sets it before me. A blob of lumpy white stuff stares back at me.

  “It’s grits,” she says before I can speak. “I don’t want to hear any crap; just eat it.”

  “You always this sunny?” I ask, taking the spoon she’s thrust in my face.

  “With you? Yes.” She gets her own bowl and sits far away from me.

  “‘And though she be but little, she is fierce.’” While Elly May might have a juicy ass, she can’t be more than five foot three, and is small boned.

  Her scowl takes on epic proportions. “Did you just quote Shakespeare?”

  “Saw it on a tattoo,” I lie, because it’s fun to tease her. “There might have been something before that.” I scratch my bearded chin. “Something like… ‘Oh, when she is angry, she is keen and shrewd!’”

  “Never saw that part on a tattoo,” she mutters, giving me a dubious look before taking a bite of her grits.

  I give her a bland, innocent look, and then we eat in silence. The grits are good, taste-wise. The consistency, however, isn’t exactly helping my nausea.

  “The drink was helpful,” I say to fill the silence. I once thought I’d love silence. Turns out, I fucking hate it.

  “My dad’s old hangover cure.”

  A timer dings, and she gets up. I smell the biscuits then, and my mouth waters. Like a hungry dog, I track her movements as she pulls the tray from the oven and puts the golden mounds on a plate.

  As soon as she sets the plate on the table, I’m on them, my fingertips burning, my tongue smarting. Don’t care. They’re too good. Heaven.

  She watches me, her lips slanting as if she’s stuck between a smile and a scowl. She’s got nice lips, I’ll give her that. Cupid lips, I think they’re called. The kind that, while small, are shaped like a kiss.

  “Want butter with that?” she asks.

  “Is that a real question?” I manage between bites.

  She gets up, grabs a jar that I find out is filled with honey butter—damn, that’s good—and gets us each a cup of coffee, adding cream to both without asking if I like it that way. I usually take it black and sweet, but I’m not complaining for shit right now. Not when she might take away the biscuits if I do.

  I swallow another bite of heaven. “What’s your name?”

  I can’t keep calling this girl Elly May. Then again, I’m just passing through, so it’s not like it really matters. But I want to know just the same. Grumpy or not, she’s taken care of me when I’d have called the cops in her position.

  She sets down her mug and looks me in the eye. “Liberty Bell.”

  I’d wonder if she’s fucking with me, but the militant expression on her face says she is completely serious.

  “That’s…patriotic.”

  She snorts and sips her coffee. “It’s ridiculous. But my parents loved it, and I loved my parents so…” She shrugs.

  Loved. As in past tense.

  “You alone then?” I wince as soon as the words come out, because she tenses, her soft gray eyes going hard again.

  Liberty pushes back from the table. “I had your bike towed this morning. I’ll take you to town so you can sort it out with the mechanic.”

  I stand too, fast enough to make the floor tilt. “Hey, wait.” When she pauses to look at me, I’ve got nothing. A first. I run my hand over my tangled hair and remember her washing it. “Don’t you want to know my name?”

  Hell, it’s the last thing I want to give. But it irks that she’s already rushing me out the door. And damn if I know why that bothers me.

  She looks me over, a slow inspection that makes my skin itch and swell. It isn’t a hot look. It’s judgment. And I’m clearly found lacking. Another first.

  Her hair sways, catching the sunlight as she shakes her head. “No. No, I don’t.”

  And then she leaves me with a cup of cooling coffee and a plate of biscuits.

  Liberty

  I’ve been alone too long. I don’t know how to act around people anymore. Especially not this guy. Yesterday he was disgusting. Drunk and too far gone to function. I should have left him on my porch, called the police, and cleaned myself up while they hauled his ass away.

  But I couldn’t. Not all drunks are bad. Some are just lost. I have no idea what this guy’s issue is. I only know that, when faced with the decision, I hadn’t the heart to leave him.

  So I dragged him to my bathroom and washed him clean. There was nothing sexual about the act. He stank something awful and was so butt-drunk, it was all I could do not to wring his thick neck for being so reckless.

  Not to mention I was pissed to have to give my bed up to the idiot. No way was I going to be able to haul him upstairs to the guest rooms.

  But now, in the light of day, I am at sea when it comes to my drunken bum. His presence in my house is immense. As if a mere room could never contain him.

  Presence. My mom used to say there were those who just had it. I never understood what she meant until today. Because even though he’s fumbling his words and clearly hung-over, this guy vibrates with vitality. It permeates the air like a perfume, soaking into my skin and making me want to rub myself all over him just to get a little bit more of that feeling—as if by being near him, I, too, might be something special.

  It makes no sense. But then life rarely makes sense to me.

  And now that he isn’t piss-ass drunk and filthy, I can see the beauty of him. His body is long and tight with a sort of rawboned strength of sinewy muscles and sharp movements. His hair is still a tangled mess, falling down to his shoulders and the color of rich, dark coffee. A thick, unkempt beard covers most of his face, which is…annoying. Because it hides too much.

  But what I can see points to an attractive man. His nose is bold, a bump along the high bridge as if he once busted it, but the shape fits his face. Prominent cheekbones and what looks to be a stubborn chin under all that fuzz give him an air of pure masculinity.

  His eyes, however, are downright pretty. Framed under the dark slashes of his brows, they shine like obsidian.

  How could a person not be swayed? Those eyes tracked my every move around the kitchen earlier. Unnerving me.

  I shoved food at him just to make him look away. He hadn’t, though. Even as he inhaled my biscuits like a man starved, he watched me. Not in a sexual way, though, more like I was a mess he’d inadvertently walked into. The irony made me want to laugh.

  Now, I just want to get away from him. Talking about my parents reminds me why I should hate this guy—this drunk-driving stranger who took not only his life but the lives of everyone he shared the road
with into his unsteady hands. My life will never be the same because of a drunk driver, and I have little respect for those who do it. Even if they quote Shakespeare and have cheeky, somewhat cute smiles.

  Not looking back, I get my keys. He’s not far behind though, his boots clomping just as loudly as mine, echoing in the front hall. He’s got a fresh biscuit in hand and is chewing on the remnants of another. I refuse to find that endearing.

  “You really don’t want to know my name?” he calls.

  I grab my sunglasses. “Why is this bothering you? It isn’t as though we’ll ever see each other again.”

  His frown grows. “Seems like common courtesy.”

  “After that shower, I think we’re past basic etiquette.”

  Oddly, this makes him smile, and when he does? Oh boy. It’s like the sun breaking through storm clouds, all brightness and open joy. I’m fairly blinded by it and have to blink and look away.

  “See, that’s my point.” He gestures toward me with his biscuit before taking a huge, grunting bite. “You’ve seen me naked—”

  “Don’t talk with your mouth full. It’s disgusting.”

  He keeps chewing. “You’ve washed my cock—”

  “Hey, I didn’t get anywhere near your dangly bits, buddy. ”

  That grin of his wraps around his food. “In my mind you did. And you washed my hair. You can’t wash a man’s hair and not know his name. That’s just bad juju.”

  “Juju?” I try not to laugh as I head for the door. “You’re still drunk.”

  “Clear as a crystal, Libby.” He’s right behind me, dogging my steps. “Now ask my name.”

  I stop short and turn, and my nose meets the center of his chest. The contact ripples through me like a vibrating wave. I step back and tilt my head.

  He gives me a slightly smug, completely antagonistic look. But his voice drops, sweet and cajoling. “Come on, ask.”

  God, that voice. I’ve been trying to ignore it because it’s the kind of voice that can pull you under, make you lose your train of thought. Low and deep and powerful. He talks, and it’s a melody.