Idol (VIP #1)

by Kristen Callihan

  His cheeks flush. “You were humoring me?”

  “No. I wanted to know you. What your life is like outside of here.”

  “But not see it for yourself?” His eyes narrow, that flush running down his neck.

  “Exactly.”

  Silence grows so thick, the sounds of truck doors slamming ring out in the room. The movers are done. And I’m guessing we are too. A lump swells in my throat. But I don’t move. I stare up at Killian, who looks back at me with disgust.

  “Bullshit,” he whispers.

  Someone lays heavily on a car horn. I’m guessing Brenna.

  “They’re waiting for you,” I say.

  His nostrils flare. Then he’s moving. I’m in his grip before I can blink. He hauls me up and gives me a hard, biting kiss. I welcome the sting, biting back. The idea that I won’t get to feel him or taste him any more rips my heart apart. His kiss turns softer, but not sweet. No, he’s molding and shaping my lips with his, savoring.

  I try to put my arms around him, but he pulls away. He’s breathing hard, his bottom lip swollen and wet. “I’m going now before I say something I’ll regret.”

  Part of me regrets ever meeting him. Because this hurts too much. I could go with him. I could lose myself in him. Even as I think it, my entire body freezes in fear so violent, I swallow convulsively. I can’t do it. I can’t leave this house.

  He searches my face for some sign. Whatever he sees has his jaw clenching. His fingers bite into my upper arms. “We aren’t done. Do you hear me? Not even close to done.”

  “I don’t want to be done,” I whisper.

  His teeth meet with a loud click. “Then stop being a coward and get your ass to New York.”

  When I don’t say anything, he curses and strides away. The door slams in his wake. And he’s gone.

  Chapter Eleven

  Killian

  New York will always be my home. It has a strange effect on me: instantly relaxing and instantly energizing. Going to meet Jax, however, is another story. My fingers drum a beat against my thigh as I ride the private elevator up to his apartment. Scottie offered to arrange a meeting on neutral ground, but I rejected the idea. Jax isn’t my enemy. He never was and never will be.

  Doesn’t mean I’m looking forward to this.

  The elevator opens directly onto his foyer.

  Two years ago, a magazine did a huge spread on Jax at home. Jax showing off his industrial loft, living the life of a young rock star. What they never knew is that it was all a lie. It wasn’t even Jax’s place; it was Scottie’s.

  Jax’s real home looks like something an old New York society matron would live in: dark wood floors, crown molding, rich colors on the walls, classic artwork in ornate gold frames. It makes me laugh every time I visit because I half-expect Jax to greet me wearing a smoking jacket and clutching a pipe.

  “Every time you walk in here, you’re smirking.”

  Jax’s voice halts my progress. I hadn’t even noticed him.

  He’s leaning against the arm of a green velvet settee in his parlor—yeah, he has a parlor, for fuck’s sake.

  I stare at him for a second. He’s bulkier than I’ve seen him, his color healthy, his light brown hair longer than usual, almost reaching his collar. I set my guitar case down. “It’s because I’m expecting to be greeted by a butler. Or maybe find a little poodle yapping at my feet.”

  “I’ve been thinking of getting a dog.” Jax stands. The corners of his eyes crease, his head cocking to the right. I know his face as well as my own. Better, because I’ve seen it since we were six years old. So I know he’s tense and hating it.

  That makes two of us.

  I drop all pretense and move across the room to pull him into a guy hug, giving his shoulder a slap. “Fucking idiot,” I say gruffly. “You look good.”

  He hugs me back before we break apart. “You look like shit. What the fuck did you do to your hair?”

  I know he’s bullshitting me, but my hand reflexively goes to my shorn hair. For an instant, I don’t see Jax but Libby standing before me, her small breasts trying their hardest to poke through the thin tank she’s wearing, her cheeks flushed, and her hands shaking as she cuts my hair. I can almost feel her fingers sliding along my scalp again, manipulating my head in the direction she wants it.

  Christ, just thinking about her makes my chest hurt.

  “Something I should have done a while ago,” I say lightly, like I’m not fucked up inside.

  Jax nods, but doesn’t say anything else. We stand there, looking at each other, neither of us speaking. It’s been this way since he woke up in the hospital. Me, because I couldn’t think of anything to say that didn’t end up with me shouting at his dumb ass, and Jax?

  I used to know what he was thinking just by looking at him. Or I thought I did. I’ve realized I didn’t know shit.

  “Well,” Jax says, breaking the silence. “You want a drink or something?”

  “No. I’m good.”

  He nods again, then curses. “Fuck it, Kill, just get it out.”

  Get it out? I don’t even know where to begin. Heat swamps my chest and pushes its way up my throat. My fist connects with his chin, and Jax hits the floor, knocking over a side table on his way down.

  “Jesus.” Jax rubs his face and gives a weak laugh. “I forgot how hard you hit.”

  I flex my fingers. “I didn’t know I was going to do that.”

  “I did.” He grunts and slowly rises to his feet, waving off my offer of help. Jax touches his lip where a bead of blood wells. “You feel better?”

  “No.” I head to the kitchen to get some ice. “My hand fucking hurts.”

  “Yeah, sorry my face got in the way.” He catches the ice pack I toss him. “You gonna ice that hand?”

  I want the pain. “I didn’t hit you that hard.”

  Jax snorts and heads over to an old fashioned sidebar. His mini fridge is stocked with bottled waters and juices. A big change from the beer and vodka that used to fill it. “Want something?”

  “A cranapple.”

  We drink our juice like good little boys until I can’t take it any more. “It was the worst fucking moment of my life. Finding you.” I swallow hard and stare down at my reddened knuckles. “I get that it was worse for you. Doesn’t help. I…you scared the fuck out of me.”

  “I know.” His expression is hollow, the ice pack lying limp in his hands. That day, his green eyes had been bloodshot and dull. They’re glossy now, and he blinks, looking off. “I wasn’t thinking about you. Or anyone.”

  “I was your best friend. And you just… You could have come to me.”

  He huffs, trying to smile but failing. “You would have tried to make it better.”

  “Damn fucking right I would.” I push off the chair I’ve been leaning on and pace to a window half-obscured by red silk curtains.

  “I didn’t want to be fixed,” he says. “Not then.”

  I can’t even answer.

  Jax sighs. “If I’d been in my right mind, I would have done things differently. But that’s the problem; I wasn’t.”

  My fingers dig into the silk. “You gonna do it again?”

  It takes too long for him to answer. And when he does, his voice isn’t strong. “I don’t intend to.”

  I snort, anger racing hot through my veins. “That’s comforting.”

  “I’m being honest. I’m getting help. That’s all I can do.”

  Turning to face him is worse. He looks calm, composed, while I’m ready to jump out of my skin. “I don’t know if I can do this again,” I tell him. “If it’s touring, the life, that set you off, I don’t want to do it. I’ll be worrying that I’ll find you again, drowning in your own vomit.”

  A vivid image flashes in my mind. But it isn’t of Jax. It’s of me, of Libby hosing me down, putting me into a bed and ordering me not to mess it up. Guilt and loathing snake down my insides.

  Jax glares at me. “I deserve that. But let’s get one thing strai
ght: You, Killian fucking James, aren’t God. You can’t fix everything or protect us all.”

  “The fuck?”

  “Don’t give me that. You’ve always been like this, taking all our shit on as your own. Thinking you can fix everyone’s life and make it better. You can’t. Just yours.” He stands and slaps the ice pack on the table. “What I did was fucked up and shitty. I’m getting help. That’s all I can say. Either you can deal with that or you can’t. Your call.”

  He heads for the small studio he has in the apartment, not looking back.

  Left alone, I turn back to the window. Far below, traffic is a constant stream, people darting around on the sidewalks. Always trying to fix people’s lives and make them better? Is there anything wrong with that?

  I think of Liberty being here with me, what she would say right now. But she’s silent in my head. Instead, I see the fear and frustration in her eyes when I tried to get her to agree to perform with me.

  “Fuck,” I whisper. Pulling out my phone, I text her. Her replies are stilted. Mine are too. Each exchange falls like a stone in my gut. I’ve damaged something between us. My thumb caresses the screen. I want to go to her. But I’ve got work to do here too.

  Tucking the phone in my pocket, I grab my guitar and go to play with Jax.

  Libby

  He’s gone. And it’s as if the sun has died. My orbit is off, everything dark and silent. It hurts to breathe, hurts to move. I knew he’d eventually go; I knew it would hurt. But I still wasn’t ready for this. Nothing is right anymore.

  I try to work. I have the creativity of wet cardboard. I kind of just sit, limp and staring. I finish up my projects—I won’t be surprised if my clients complain about the uninspired work I’ve sent them—and turn away new jobs. I have enough money saved to take a vacation of my own.

  Only what I’m really doing is walking from window to window, jumping at every little sound and catching my breath whenever a car drives along the road, which isn’t often. Because I live in Nowhereville.

  As soon as Killian left, I knew I’d made a mistake. I should have gone with him. I should have told my fears to shut up. But hindsight really is a bitch. Only now do I see what I’ve become.

  A person can get…stuck, for lack a better word, in a life. It’s surprisingly easy, really. Hours bleed into days; days fade into months. Before you know it, years have passed, and you’re just this person, someone your younger self wouldn’t even recognize.

  My parents died, and somehow, so did I. Friends drifted away—no, I drifted away from friends. I can’t pretend differently. I drifted away from everything—wrapped myself up in Grandmama’s old house and a job that meant I never really had to leave home, and just hunkered down. It wasn’t even a conscious decision. I simply retreated and never reemerged.

  Killian wanted to drag me by my ankles back into the world of the living. Worse, he wanted to push me into its spotlight. Now he’s gone.

  And I let him walk away.

  “I’m an asshole,” I say to the room. Silence rings out.

  I used to love silence. I hate it now. Hate. It.

  “Fuck it.” I’m not sure I like this development of talking out loud to myself. But I have bigger things to worry about.

  I’m lying on the floor, wearing Killian’s dirty Star Wars T-shirt like some lovelorn idiot, so I use my phone to open a search engine. I have no idea where Killian stays, but at least I can get to the correct city.

  I’m scrolling through flights to New York when my phone vibrates with a text.

  You were right. I needed to face Jax on my own.

  I stare at the screen. Frozen. This is good. Why doesn’t it feel good?

  Little dots pulse at the bottom of the screen as he writes. Another text pops up.

  We’re cool now. I actually want to get back to work.

  Swallowing hard, I force myself to write.

  I’m glad. Everything will be okay. You’ll love it.

  I don’t know what else to say. I am happy for him.

  He answers.

  I miss you. Promise me you’ll come to a concert.

  No more requests to come play with him. Blinking hard, I stare out the window where the sun shines bright and hot. My vision blurs, and I blink again.

  Of course I will.

  A tear runs down my cheek. I ignore it.

  He writes again.

  I want to apologize. I tried to push you into something you weren’t ready for. It was selfish. I’m sorry.

  He’s being sweet, and yet my throat hurts from trying not to sob.

  It’s okay, Killian. I know you meant well.

  Jesus, we’re texting like strangers. I try to think of something light, something that sounds like us. Anything. But then he texts.

  Gotta go practice. Talk later?

  Perhaps we will. But I know for sure what we had isn’t the same anymore. My hand trembles as I type.

  Sure. Have fun. :)

  The little smile emoticon stares back at me like a mockery. I turn off my phone and toss it aside before Killian can answer. Lying on the floor in the sun, I close my eyes and cry. I missed my chance and only have myself to blame.

  Chapter Twelve

  Killian

  The VIP section can either be an oasis of calm or a pulsing storm of frenetic energy. When you’re famous, you quickly learn that it’s your call how the night will go. You want privacy? You get it. You want a group of women willing to ride your dick and moan your name? Sure thing.

  Tonight it’s privacy. Jax and I wait in a room overlooking a crowded bar and an empty stage. Even though the club has a VIP room, it’s not actually pretentious, serving beer and burgers rather than champagne and cocktails. Up-and-coming live acts perform nightly, and the crowd loves to dance for the fun of it, not just to be seen.

  Music thumps and pulses from down below, but it’s relatively quiet up here.

  A waitress in worn jeans leads Whip and Rye in a moment later.

  The second he sees us, Rye, our bass player, comes bounding over. And though I’m taller, he nearly hauls me off me feet as he gives me a squeeze that bruises my ribs. “About time you got here, fucker.” When I laugh (wheeze) he sets me down, giving my head a slap. “Thought you might become a fucking hermit.”

  Rye is built like a linebacker with the energy of a puppy. A scary combination. He’s grinning wide now, but there’s caution in his eyes. His quick glance toward Jax tells me all I need to know. They’re not sure of him either.

  “I was on vacation, asshole.”

  “Out tanning his ass while we’re working,” Whip says, coming alongside of us. People often think we’re related because we look a lot alike, only his eyes are blue. In school, we used to tell girls we were cousins, but it’s bullshit. He’s all Irish, with a faint accent to prove it.

  He gives me a quick tap on the shoulder. “Tell me you found some hot girl to keep you occupied.”

  I’ve never hidden anything from them. But for some reason, I don’t want to tell them about Libby just now. Not when I know they’ll ask questions.

  “According to Brenna,” Rye says, “he had a cute little neighbor.”

  My back stiffens. “You gossiping with Brenna again?”

  Rye’s cheeks flush a little. It’s well known to all of us that he has a thing for my oblivious cousin. And, yeah, I’m using it to my advantage just now.

  But he quickly snorts. “I’m taking that evasion as a yes.”

  We join Jax at the table. “What’s he evading?” Jax asks.

  “Talking about the friend he made at summer camp,” Whip says.

  A waitress comes in and sets down the round of beers Jax ordered. Rye gives her a look, and she smiles wide. “I shouldn’t ask…but are you JJ Watt?”

  We all choke on our beers, trying to hide our laughter. Except Rye, who flushes again. His smile is easy. “Don’t tell anyone I’m hanging out with One Direction here, ’kay? Might mess with my image.”

  “Okay.” She f
rowns slightly as I give Rye the finger, and Whip kicks his shin under the table, making the bottles rattle.

  “Jesus,” Rye says when she leaves. “One year out of the press and I’m usurped by a linebacker.”

  “You do kind of look like him,” Whip says, squinting at Rye. “Only shorter. Could get you a lot of sloppy-seconds action, though.”

  “My action has and always will be prime and all mine, fuck you very much.” Rye sets his attention back on me. “So what about your summer crush?”

  “Talk about evasion.” I take a long drink of my beer before giving him a bland look. “Yes, there was a neighbor. No, she wasn’t a summer crush.” Libby is much more than that. “We hung out. She’s cool. Her dad was a studio guitarist. George Bell.”

  “No shit?” Rye leans in, interested.

  “You know him?” Whips asks.

  “I didn’t know him personally,” Rye says. “But I’ve heard of him, sure.”

  It isn’t a surprise that Rye knows about Libby’s dad. Whenever we went on tour, Rye would have his nose in some music history book. There isn’t an instrument he can’t play or a musical tidbit he can’t name. And we’ve tried to stump him. Many times. We always fail.

  “You guys haven’t?” he asks when we all kind of look blank.

  “Not even a little,” Jax says.

  “He was a beast guitarist. Could have been a star on his own. But I guess he didn’t want that. Sat in sessions for a lot of huge bands in the late eighties and nineties.”

  “That’s what Libby said. He taught her to play.” I glance around at their smirks. “Jesus, would you stop thinking with your dicks. She actually helped me come up with songs.”

  “Do tell,” Jax drawls.

  I don’t appreciate the look in his eyes, as if Libby is already cheap entertainment. I might have gotten around to telling them about my relationship with her, but not now. Instead I lean back in the booth seat and shrug. “She sings and plays guitar. And frankly, she’s fucking phenomenal.” I pause, considering, but fuck it, these are my best friends. I can’t hide everything. “I asked her to come play with us.”