I don’t spend time with chicks. I don’t spend time with anyone. It’s writing-composing, practicing, recording, touring, fucking, sleeping. Same old record spinning round and round. I used to hang out with the guys, but that tapered off once we went Platinum. No free time and too much attention on us when we were in public took care of that.
I’m a twenty-seven-year-old, multimillionaire singer-guitarist in the biggest rock band in the world, and I have no earthly clue how to have a relationship with a woman. I could laugh. But I don’t find it funny.
Because I want Liberty Bell.
Hell, I knew I was in trouble when she stripped down to that plain, black bikini, and I got instant, demanding wood. I swear she’s trying to hide behind the clothes she wears, because her body is banging. She isn’t model perfect; I’ve done model perfect, a lot. And at some point, bodies just become bodies. Attraction is a whole different beast.
Liberty’s plump-but-firm ass, narrow waist, and perky little breasts just do it for me. Jesus, her tits. They’d fit the wells of my palms perfectly, those sweet tips pointing up, just begging to be sucked.
That day at the beach I’d wanted to get my hands and mouth on them so badly, I’d almost run off into the ocean so I didn’t jump her.
So, yeah, I’m in trouble. She got starstruck over who I am, and while I know she still likes me for me, when I try to see her stepping into my world, I fail. Not because she wouldn’t fit. But because everything I know about Libby tells me she wouldn’t want to. When she lets her guard down, I see that she’s into me too. But she’s fighting it, throwing up walls almost desperately. What’s a guy supposed to do with that?
So I’ve put some distance between us in the most literal way I can.
My bike is back from the shop, and I took a long drive along the mainland coast—staying at cheap motels, driving when I get up, eating when I get hungry. It’s beautiful, calming. Lonely. I miss her. Which is weird since I only really just met her. But I know her. After weeks of hanging out, I know all sorts of Libby things.
I know that even though she makes the best damn biscuits in the world and perfect peach pie—food that will have me moaning in pleasure—Libby likes to snack on ramen noodles slathered in BBQ sauce and butter, which is some truly disgusting shit. I know that she loves Scooby-Doo cartoon movies and actually gets freaked out during the “spooky” scenes.
And she knows me. She knows that Britney Spears was my first concert, not The Strokes as the public believes—though how I wish that were true. She knows I hate beans, not because of the taste, but because I can’t stand biting into the nasty skins surrounding them.
We know each other. We can talk about anything, or nothing. It never gets old or boring. Libby is my resonance; when I’m in her vicinity, I’m suddenly amped up, with everything moving at a different frequency. And I don’t care if that’s sappy. It’s the truth.
I can’t stay away any longer. If all I can have of her is friendship, I’ll have to take it.
It takes me all day to get back home. When I turn down the long shared road toward our houses, the sky is fading to smoky blue shot with coral pink. My house sits dark in the shadows. Golden light streams from Libby’s window, hitting the lawn. Her silhouette moves past the kitchen window, and I imagine she’s cooking something awesome.
My bike nears the fork in the road, one way taking me to her, the other to my house. I want to go to Libby so badly it’s an actual, physical pain in my chest and gut. I want to sit in her kitchen that smells of comfort food, hear the slam-bang of her pots and pans as she talks about nothing in particular, and watch the efficient way she moves in her space.
I want that.
I turn toward my house instead. And it hurts.
After a shower, I grab a beer and slump in the big rocking chair on my porch. I find my cell sitting on the little side table. I left it behind on purpose. Five missed calls from Scottie, and a text: Jax is ready. Get your ass back to NYC.
Well, for once I’m not ready. I text him back so he’ll stop bugging me.
Tour doesn’t start for over a month. We have time.
His response is immediate.
Guys want to get back into it. They’re asking me to book a few earlier shows.
Fuck. Part of me is annoyed that they didn’t call me themselves. But I haven’t exactly been communicative. And we all know that the best way to get any of us to do something is to sic Scottie on our asses.
Rubbing my neck, I think of what to do. Libby is right; I can’t hide forever. But I’m not ready to leave. Not yet. I send Scottie a final text: I’ll call you in a few days. Then I turn off the phone.
The night is muggy, the beer icy. Over the hum of the cicadas comes the sound of a guitar. It’s an acoustic version of The Black Keys’ “You’re The One.” It must be a new recording because I haven’t heard it before.
Then I realize—it isn’t a recording. It’s live. Libby is playing that guitar. Of course it’s Libby, the girl raised by musicians, who writes songs of poetic beauty and hides them away like a dirty secret. Of course she’d hide this from me too.
I want to be irate, but her sound distracts me. The hairs on my forearms rise as I sit up. She’s good. Really good. Her style is easy and smooth, not the hard, tense drive of mine. More folk to my rock. But I appreciate the fuck out of it.
My fingers twitch with the desire to pick up my guitar. For the first time in months, I want to play. Fuck that, I need to play, be the rhythm to her lead, or the lead to her rhythm. Find out what she can do.
She eases into Sinead O’Connor’s “The Last Day of Our Acquaintance.” It’s an older song, not heard much anymore. But Rye developed a huge thing for O’Connor after he saw her “Nothing Compares 2 U” video during some ‘90s rockumentary, and it was all we could do to get him to turn off her music. I’m pretty sure at this point his dream girl has a shaved head.
Memories of Jax chucking a salami sandwich at Rye on our tour bus after the five-hundredth playing of “Mandinka” run through my head, making me smile. And then Liberty begins to sing.
The beer bottle slips from my hand. Holy. Fuck.
Her voice is melted butter over toast. It’s full of yearning, soft and husky. Need. So much need. And pain.
I’m on my feet before I know it. I go into the house and pull my acoustic Gibson from its crate. The neck is smooth and familiar against my palm. A lump fills my throat. Christ, I’m close to crying.
Get a grip, James.
My fingers tighten on the guitar. From the open door, Liberty sings about loss and separation with a rasping defiance. That voice guides me, sends my heart pounding.
She doesn’t hear me approach or even open the door. Her eyes are closed, her body curling protectively over the guitar. That her voice has so much power in such a restrictive position is impressive. But it’s the expression she wears, lost yet calm, that gets to me.
She feels the music, knows how to phrase it and own it.
I’m hard just being close to her. My balls draw up when she hits the last power refrain, her voice coming down like an anvil, and I swear I can’t breathe. It’s like the first time I sang on a stage and felt the world open up with possibilities.
I think I fall a little in love with Liberty Bell in that instant.
She notices me then and gives a yelp, abruptly killing the last note. “Jesus,” she says when she finds her voice again. “You scared the life out of me.”
You’re bringing me back to life.
The thought runs through my head, clear as glass. But I don’t say that. I can barely find my voice at all. I stand there like an idiot, my chest heaving, gripping my guitar as if it’s a life line.
A flush rises up her neck and over her cheeks. She ducks her head, as if she’s ashamed. No way in hell am I letting her hide.
“Beautiful,” I croak past the lump in my throat. “You’re beautiful.” I know with an eerie calm that I’ll never see anything or anyone more stunning in my life. E
verything has changed. Everything.
Libby
My heart is still trying to beat its way out of my chest after the scare Killian gave me. But it’s slowly calming, and on the heels of that comes something that feels a lot like mortification. Killian has caught me singing, balls to the wall—or whatever the female equivalent would be.
A few days ago, I heard him take off on his bike, and when he didn’t come back that night, or the next, my heart squeezed and my stomach sank. I might have thought he’d left for good, only Killian tacked a note on my front door before he left: Gone roaming for a while. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do—at least not without me.
It simultaneously hurt that I was so easily left behind and pissed me off that he didn’t bother saying goodbye in person. But I’m not his keeper. And I clearly can’t make anyone stay in my life. So I went back to business as usual, trying to ignore the yawning pit in my stomach, only to discover that my “usual” was now empty and quiet, too quiet.
To fill the void, I played my guitar and sang. Every night. Something I hadn’t done in months. It made me think of my parents, and that hurt too, like a wound scabbed over that you keep picking despite the pain, or maybe because of it.
And now Killian is back, filling my porch doorway and lighting up the room with his presence. He’s here. My own personal magnet. His pull is so strong, I have to fight not getting up and running to him. Fight not grinning like a fool even though I’m still hurt. But I want to grin, so badly. Because He. Is. Here.
It sets everything right again. And yet it puts my world off kilter as well.
The way he’s looking at me… Hell, it lights me up, sends sparks and flares along my nerve endings.
Beautiful. He called me beautiful, his dark eyes roaming over me as if I was his reason, the only reason.
I sit frozen under the force of that stare. He isn’t wearing his usual playful smile. He looks almost angry, desperate.
His fingers tighten around the neck of the guitar until his knuckles turn white. “Play with me, Liberty.”
I should have expected that—he’s holding his guitar, after all—but I didn’t, and the request is a sucker punch to the throat.
A strangled sound escapes me. I can’t perform in front of Killian James. While I’m comfortable with Killian the man, Killian the musician intimidates me. His vocals are the stuff of legend—strong, clean, and powerful with a rawness that hooks into your soul and gives it a tug. He sings, and you feel he’s doing it just for you, taking your pain, frustration, joy, rage, sorrow, and love and giving it a voice. And while I know I can sing, I’m an amateur.
Killian’s eyes go wide as he takes a step closer. “Please.”
He stands in the center of the room, still clutching the neck of his guitar as if it’s the only thing holding him together. But it’s me he watches, the lines around his eyes tight, his chest lifting and falling with deep, quick breaths.
He wants this. A lot. I suspect he needs this. Whatever his reason, he’s been pushing his music away. But he wants to let it back in just now. To deny him feels akin to stomping on a spring bloom fighting its way through the cold winter earth.
I lick my dry lips and force myself to tell him everything. “The first time I tried to perform for someone other than my parents was for the fourth grade talent show. I was set to play ‘In My Life’ by The Beatles.”
Killian starts to smile, but I shake my head. “It was no good. By the time I got on the stage, I was shaking so badly, I thought I’d faint. I just stood there, staring. And then I heard someone snicker. I ran out of there and fucking pissed my pants backstage.” A pained grimace pulls at my lips. “They called me Piddy Bell until senior year.”
“Fuckers.” Killian scowls. “And I have it on good authority that Jax pissed himself during his kindergarten’s holiday play. On stage.”
My hand caresses the smooth curve of the guitar body. I love this instrument. Love playing it. How can that be when it’s also linked to so much fear and humiliation? “Second time I tried to play on stage was in college. Open mic night. Didn’t even make it out there. I threw up behind some amps and ran out.”
“Babe…”
I hold his sad gaze. “I quit, Killian. Quit trying. Quit dreaming. And part of me is ashamed of that. But part of me is relieved. My parents were happy. They didn’t want that life for me. Said it was too brutal.”
Killian’s jaw works as he grinds his teeth, and when he speaks, it’s almost a growl. “When did they tell you that?”
“From the beginning. I just didn’t want to believe them at first.”
He nods as if I’ve confirmed something for him. “And then they were there to say, ‘We told you so.’ Had you tuck away your songs and focus on other things.”
My fingers clench my guitar neck. “It wasn’t like that.”
But it was. That burns too.
Killian’s gaze doesn’t waver. “You wrote those songs, tried to play for others, because you love music, just as I do. It’s in your blood whether you want it there or not.”
“Yes,” I whisper, because I can’t lie to him when he looks at me like he’s seeing my soul.
Killian takes a step closer. “Play with me. See how good it can be.”
“I don’t…”
“I will never laugh at you,” he promises fiercely. “Ever. I’m your safe place, Libby. You’ve got to know that.”
Some deep tether in me sags a little, giving me room to draw a deeper breath. I swallow my fear. “What do you want to play? One of yours?”
His tension seems to release on a breath, but his nose wrinkles. “Naw. Feels pretentious asking you to sing my songs. Let’s do something classic. But fun.” He bites his bottom lip, his brows knitting, until he lights up. “You know Bon Jovi’s ‘Wanted’?”
I have to grin. Were my dad alive, he’d be moaning over Bon Jovi being called a classic. But I can’t fault Killian’s choice. It’s unexpected, yet I see the possibilities. The song can work well on an acoustic and without drums to back it up. And it’s a duet of sorts.
“’Dead or Alive’? Yeah, I know that one.” I adjust my strings, fiddling with the tone. And then I pluck the first few notes, the old but familiar twang making me smile.
Killian makes a happy sound as he pulls a chair close and starts to do his own adjustments. Good Lord, just the sight of his big hand and long fingers moving along the frets, his forearms, corded with muscles and flexing, makes my mouth dry. Killian holding a guitar is the stuff of both my dirtiest fantasy and my most girlish daydreams.
My heart is pounding, anticipation and nerves running through my veins. I can’t believe I’m about to play with him. Sing with him.
He glances at me, his dark eyes glinting. “You take the lead.”
“What?” My stomach drops. “No. No way. You’re the lead guitarist.”
He chuckles. “Not tonight. You lead. We’ll harmonize the lyrics, but you take the first verse.”
After a few minutes of working out who will sing what, we agree to start. My hands are so sweaty, I have to rub them on my shorts before I can hold my guitar.
Killian’s voice is a soft purr of encouragement. “This is gonna be fun, Liberty Bell. Just let go, feel it.”
Taking a deep breath I start. And fumble. Blushing, I power through it. The music. Just feel the music.
Okay. I got this.
I begin to sing—wobbly at first, but stronger when Killian smiles wide and nods, encouraging. I close my eyes and think of the lyrics. It’s about a musician, world-weary and jaded. Lonely. A man who’s been reduced to nothing more than entertainment for the masses.
And it hits me. I open my eyes, look at Killian. My heart hurts for him. But he doesn’t seem to notice. He’s listening to me sing. He comes in with the rhythm, picking up the second verse. Then he sings.
Killian’s voice is a wave of sound that sweeps over the room. It’s the difference between singing in your shower and finding yourself in a conce
rt hall.
I stumble a chord progression before getting a hold of myself. Feel the music.
So I do.
And we sing, just enjoying.
Killian is a generous musician, letting me lead, propping me up when I stumble. Occasionally he changes things up so I’m forced to follow, but he does it with a smile, daring me to step outside my safe box and risk. It’s like a dance, playing with him.
And I grow bold, putting more emotion into my voice. I become that lonely but proud musician.
Our gazes clash, and energy licks through me, so strong it prickles my skin, pulls at my nipples. Joy unfiltered surges through me, and I smile even as I sing with all my heart. He grins back, his eyes intense, burning like dark coals. It makes me so hot, I want to toss down my guitar, throw myself in his lap and just take. It makes me want the song to never end.
He picks up singing the refrain, and that deep voice sinks into my bones, runs like liquid heat up my thighs. God, he’s beautiful. Perfect.
With fluid grace, he hits a guitar solo, his lids lowering, his strong body rocking. All of his sinewy muscles tense and flex, but he’s loose, so loose now, totally into the song. It’s like sex, watching him let go. And I throb.
The song ends too soon. I’m left panting, sweat coating my skin.
We stare at each other for a long minute, a dull roar swooshing in my ears as if my body can’t quite come down from the high.
“Jesus,” I finally rasp.
“Yeah,” he says, just as raw. “Yeah.”
I’m shaking when I set my guitar down and run a hand through my damp hair. “That was…” I take a hard breath. “How can you give that up?”
The fire in his eyes dies, and he ducks his head, carefully setting his guitar aside as well. “Everyone needs a break now and then.”
Fair enough. I’m still shaking. “I feel like I’ve run a sprint or something.”
Idol (VIP #1) Page 7
