Idol (VIP #1)

by Kristen Callihan

  “What the fuck?” Jax looks at me as if I’ve sprouted a dick on my forehead.

  “Don’t worry, she said no.” It still smarts. Because I know she was born to be out there. The same way I was.

  “How about asking us first?” Jax says with another look of disgust. “Kill John doesn’t need another member.”

  “It was to perform three songs with us as a guest. Shit, Jack White does it all the time, and it’s brilliant.”

  “You’re no Jack White.”

  “I’d say I’m better, but from where I’m sitting right now, I admire Jack’s willingness to branch out and test his limits. We don’t.”

  Rye laughs darkly. “He’s right, man. We need new material.”

  Jax is still pouting like I peed in his Wheaties.

  I shake my head. “If you want to know the truth, I had no interest in coming back until I heard her. She was inspiring.”

  They all look at me for a long moment, then slowly Whip nods. “Happened to me in Iceland. Was wandering around, not really into anything. Then I went to this club. There was this deejay, a mix master. His sounds were wicked hot, like nothing I’ve heard before. I hung out there all week and started working on some beats with him.”

  Jax frowns but doesn’t say anything.

  “Whip called me up,” Rye puts in. “I flew out to meet him, and we started composing.”

  “Let me get this straight,” Jax says slowly, his frown growing. “None of you wanted anything to do with music this past year?”

  Heaviness settles over the table. I lean in, resting my forearms on the cold glass. “We might as well clear the air now. Yeah, Jax, we were fucked up.” I gesture toward Whip and Rye with my chin. “What you did threw us all off. I’m not saying it to make you feel guilty—”

  “Oh, well that’s a comfort.” He snorts and takes a drink.

  “Too fucking bad,” I snap. “It is what it is. And if it took branching out and roaming the world to find our way back, if we all found different sounds and inspirations, well, that’s a fucking boon, not something to bitch about.”

  Jax glares at me while Whip and Rye sit quiet but tense. We all stare at each other for a long minute, the club pulsing and throbbing around us.

  Then Jax sighs and runs a hand over his face. “You’re right. I know you’re right.” His head hits the back of the booth with a thud, and he blinks up at the ceiling. “I haven’t had some sort of musical epiphany.” His green eyes cut to us. “But I want to play. I need to.”

  His urgency is palpable. It freaks me out that he wants to go on for the wrong reasons. But I’m not his dad. I can only support him and do what’s best for the band. “That’s why we’re here,” I say.

  With the edge of his thumb, Jax picks at the soggy label on his beer bottle. “It means a lot.” He glances up, faces us. “I’m serious. I know I’ve been an asshole. But… Thanks for coming back.”

  Thing is, Jax was never an asshole before. He was the happy one, the guy who got us motivated. I know Whip and Rye are thinking it too. The table goes silent again, and I wonder how we’re ever going to get back to that easy place we lived in for so long, whether it’s even possible.

  “Aw, come on now,” Whip blurts out in a plaintive whine better suited to a seven year old. “We’ve done the heavy. Can we just get over ourselves and drink our fucking beers?”

  Jax laughs at that. “Yeah, man. We can do that.”

  Rye raises his hand to get the attendant who is quietly standing far off in the corner of the room. He whispers something in the man’s ear while the rest of us drink “our fucking beers” and look down at the action going on in the main room.

  Not a minute passes before the door opens and a group of women enter.

  Fuck.

  “Thought we might like some company,” Rye says. Musical genius, Rye might be, but he’s also a total dog when it comes to sex. “You know, before all the bonding occurs.”

  The women are beautiful, well dressed, and very interested. A few months ago, I’d have been all over that. Now I’m annoyed that I can’t hang out with my best friends for more than ten minutes without being interrupted. I don’t even think about my dick. He’s taken.

  What I don’t expect is Whip and Jax to be less than enthusiastic as well. Whip looks pained, his gaze darting down toward the dance floor and then to his hands fisted on the table. Jax just looks blank. But when he catches my eye, the look disappears and he sits back, parting his thighs to make room for the girl he grabs around the waist and pulls into his lap.

  “Ladies,” he says.

  The girls giggle.

  The sound crawls over my skin. When the rest of the women descend on the table, pushing themselves into the booth, I raise my hand. “Hold up,” I say to a very pretty brunette in nearly sheer silk. “I gotta piss.”

  Classy. It has the effect I wanted. Her nose wrinkles, and she scurries out of my way. But her expression quickly smooths. “Hurry back. I can’t believe I’m going to party with Killian James.”

  She’s not. But I don’t correct her.

  I slide out and head for the exit.

  “Wait up.” Whip is at my side. “Wanna go down to the actual bar?”

  I want to ask him why he’s suddenly not interested, because he’s a bigger player than Rye. But then I’d leave myself wide open for the same question. So I just nod.

  The bar is crowded, people bumping into us. But there’s anonymity here too. As long as we don’t make eye contact with anyone, we’ll be left alone for now.

  “I got used to not being recognized,” I tell him as we drink our beers.

  “Me too.” He glances at the empty stage. “Kind of liked it.”

  “But you want to get back to that.”

  “I must be a glutton for adoration.” His eyes meet mine. “You?”

  I think about it for a second. Did I miss the adoration too? There’s a strange tension in my spine, along my arms. I look at the stage, and my heart beats faster. “I miss it.”

  I don’t add that I fear it too. It would be so easy to let the need for it take over.

  “Yep.” He takes a drink. “As for the rest? I feel old now.”

  I have to laugh at that. “Old and boring.”

  “Maybe.” He shakes his head. “I want something real. Get back to that place we were when we wrote ‘Apathy’.”

  A place of truth. I had that with Libby. I felt it when we sang. I want it back. I want it with her at my side. Does that make me selfish? I don’t know. But regret weighs on my shoulders. I backed off, gave her space. And it feels like a mistake.

  I have made enough mistakes in my life. I set my bottle down on the bar, my stomach sour. “I want you to listen to the songs I wrote,” I tell Whip. “I think they’ll go with what you and Rye have been working on.”

  Whip slowly smiles. “We’re gonna do this? Kill John rebooted?”

  Anticipation licks over me like a good buzz. No more regrets. Forward action from here on out. “Yeah, man. We are.”

  Libby

  I’m having a pity party of one, lying on the couch and staring at the ceiling when someone knocks on the door. It sends my heart into instant overdrive, and I’m not ashamed to admit that I need it to be Killian.

  Even so, I sit there for a long moment, trying to stop shaking.

  Another knock gets me up. My legs wobble as I head for the porch. Outside, a town car sits in the drive. My mouth goes dry, my palms damp. They slip on the knob as I wrench open the door.

  Disappointment sends my heart skydiving to my stomach.

  “What the hell are you two doing here?”

  Scottie gives me a dry look as he speaks to Brenna. “I thought Killian said she was shy.”

  Shy? Is that how Killian sees me? Knowing him, he probably called me a hermit, which isn’t exactly wrong. I used to relish that, but now I realize how stupid it was, hiding away from life.

  “Shy does not mean mute,” I snap. “Or deaf. Try addressing me in
stead of your assistant.”

  “I love her more every time I see her,” Brenna says with a bright smile. “She’s like a little Kate Hudson. Only not as blond. Or as perky, thank God.”

  “Don’t you two have an a cappella contest you should be commentating on?”

  Scottie’s perfect mouth twists. “A cappella? What are you nattering about?”

  Brenna snorts. “She’s cute. No,” she says to me in an overloud voice. “We’ve moved on to solo acts, kid.” She bumps my hip with hers as she walks up into my house. She does it so easily, I don’t even think to stop her.

  Thankfully Scottie has some manners and inclines his head. “You really do not want to let her loose in your house unattended, Ms. Bell. May I come in?”

  “If you can control Thing One, then you might as well.”

  Already Brenna has poured three glasses of ice tea and is rummaging through the kitchen for God knows what.

  “Where are your cookies?” she mutters, opening a cabinet. “Kitchens like this always have cookies. I’ve seen it on TV.”

  “I have crackers, yogurt, and very sharp knives.” I shoo her away.

  “No cookies?” She lays a hand on her chest. “I’ve been waiting all day for some.”

  “Sorry to disappoint.” I barely have any food in the house. I haven’t felt like eating—I’m shocked too.

  But because my hospitality gene kicks in, I put the drinks on a tray and take them out to my living room. Scottie and Brenna follow. For a minute, we sit sipping ice tea in heavy silence. Well, Brenna and I do. Scottie won’t touch his glass, just eyes it suspiciously. I’m tempted to tell him it’s not poisoned. Then again, part of me likes the idea of him fearing it just might be.

  Setting my glass down, I get more comfortable in my chair. “All right, then. Why are you here?” Why isn’t Killian here if they are? I miss him so much it hurts to breathe, and their presence makes it worse.

  Scottie’s expression begins to sour as if he’s choking down something particularly distasteful. He can’t blame my tea, at least. Brenna, on the other hand, starts to snicker. A lot.

  Scottie shoots her an ugly look before leaning forward. “Killian has a message for you.”

  “A message?” My heart kicks into high gear, but my mind skids to a halt. “What the hell is this? The fifth grade? Why can’t he just call me?”

  The corner of Scottie’s eye twitches, and Brenna coughs loudly into her hand. Tears are forming beneath her cat glasses.

  “Yes,” Scottie grinds out through his teeth. “That would have been the logical choice.” The twitching by his eye gets worse. “However, we’re here to deliver it—”

  “Is it a singing telegram? Because that might be worth it.”

  Brenna loses the fight and erupts with laughter, her slim form doubling over.

  “Go search for cookies,” Scottie snarls at her, though he hasn’t really lost his cool. He’s as contained as ever—well, aside from the eye tick thing.

  Still hooting, Brenna staggers off, and Scottie turns his focus back to me. “There are days I truly hate my job.” He pulls a folded piece of paper from his inner breast pocket and hands it to me. “Don’t ask. Just read the bloody note.”

  Well then.

  I hate that my fingers shake as I take it from him and open the smooth, creamy paper. Killian’s penmanship is slanted and messy. And my heart instantly squeezes. Damn, I miss him.

  Libs,

  You gave Scottie shit about this, didn’t you?

  I pause, and part of me itches to look up to see if Killian is hiding somewhere in the room. It’s silly, but Jesus, sometimes the man spooks me. I push aside the thought and keep reading.

  You don’t know how much it kills me to miss seeing Scottie choking on his disdain.

  I fight a smile. He’d have loved the singing telegram part.

  You don’t know how much it kills me not seeing you, Liberty Bell.

  The note ends there, and I snort, not at all amused.

  “If he wants to see me,” I can’t help but complain to a silent Scottie, “then why the hell isn’t he here? And what the hell is this little—”

  With a long-suffering sigh, he holds out another note. I pluck it from his grasp.

  I can’t be there. I’ve committed to practice and have been threatened with bodily harm if I try to sneak out. Have a little pity and read the damn notes, okay?

  Lips twitching, I look up at Scottie. “Give me the next one.”

  Grumbling under his breath, Scottie pulls out a larger tri-folded paper.

  I can’t be there, Libby. But you can be here. You know you can. Come to me, Libby. Get on a plane and be with me. I miss you so much, I can’t even call you. Because hearing your voice, hearing you say no, you won’t join me, would rip my guts out.

  So, like a coward, I sent Scottie and Brenna. (Plus payback’s a bitch, and Scottie was due. He’s dying right now, isn’t he? Go on, laugh. It will make it worse for him.)

  I do laugh, because I can hear Killian’s voice in my head, cajoling and teasing. He wants me. A shuddering breath escapes me, and I blink to clear my vision.

  These songs I wrote with you, they’re our songs, not mine. I wrote them because of you. I’m not going to sing them with anyone else but you.

  Come on tour with me. Meet the Animal firsthand. She’ll purr for you, Libs, I promise.

  Say yes, Liberty. Say it. Come on, just one little word. Part those pretty lips and say it. Y-E-S.

  Okay. I’m not going to write any more. Except for one last thing.

  The letter ends, but Scottie is already holding out another note, this one a bright, obnoxious yellow. I have to bite my lip at his pained expression, and I take it in silence.

  Killian’s scrawl is deep and thick in this one.

  If you don’t get your sweet butt on a plane, I’m going to send Scottie and Brenna to your house every other week until you or they crack. I’ll do it, baby doll. Don’t think I won’t.

  Yours,

  K

  “He’s deranged,” I mutter, lovingly folding up the paper and toying with the edges.

  “As you say,” Scottie deadpans. His gaze bores into me. “Well?”

  A scattered stack of papers litters my lap. I rest my palm on their cool surface and sigh. “I’m calling him.”

  From the kitchen, I hear a long groan.

  “Fucking hell,” Brenna shouts. “If I have to keep coming back here, you’d better start making cookies!”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Killian

  “I miss fucking.” With that little tidbit, Whip tosses a drumstick in the air, watches it twirl, and catches again.

  “Not interested in helping you out there,” I say, lounging against the couch as I down a bottle of ice-cold water. I don’t tell him that I miss it too.

  We’ve just finished an intense session, playing for a few hours. It felt good. Really good. Sweat slicks my skin, my blood is humming, and I’m keyed up. If Libby were here… But she isn’t. Scottie has to be at Libby’s by now. I shift in my seat, acid rising in my stomach.

  “If you miss it so much,” Rye says from his perch on a speaker, “go out and fuck someone and spare us your whining.”

  Whip gives him the finger while still tossing his drumstick. “Can’t. I’m traumatized.”

  At this we all sit straighter.

  “Holy shit,” Rye drawls. “Sir Fucks-a-lot has gone cold? Say it ain’t so.”

  Whip shrugs, concentrating on his stick. “Ran into some gritty kitty. Put things in perspective.”

  Rye and I shudder in sympathy.

  “What the fuck is a gritty kitty?” Jax asks. He rarely talks now, but his brows raise in interest.

  I wonder if that’s why Whip brought this up, because it isn’t like him to talk about personal stuff. And then I instantly resent the thought. We’re trying to get back to that place where we aren’t worrying about Jax and his moody ass—so different from the way he used to be—but it isn
’t easy. It sits on us like a stone.

  I’ve got to guess it sits on Jax too.

  Whip spins in his seat, neatly catching the falling stick. “How can you not know about those kitties? I refuse to believe that you, Mr. Jax-in-any-hole, hasn’t encountered one.”

  Jax’s lip curls, but his eyes are laughing. “Maybe because I don’t use juvenile-ass language, so I don’t know the term?”

  We all snort at this.

  “You shitting me?” I laugh. “You’re the asshole who got everyone calling me Manwingo for a year.”

  “Manwingo!” Rye and Whip shout happily.

  Jax almost smiles. “It was a compliment, chucklefuck.”

  I raise a brow.

  Jax reads it well. “Yeah, okay, point made. Still don’t know what gritty kitty is.”

  Rye shudders, and Whip’s mouth puckers. “Dude, it’s pretty self-explanatory. I went down to feast on what looked like it would be a pretty sweet kitty and it was all—”

  We groan, cutting him off.

  Jax shakes his head. “Shit, that’s just wrong. I can’t believe I forgot that one.”

  “It’s like he’s a born again cherry.” Rye laughs.

  “It was so unsavory,” Whip goes on. “Realized I didn’t know this girl’s name or where the hell her pussy had been before. I got the fuck out of there. Figured enough was enough.”

  “Just because you encountered some grit doesn’t mean you gotta quit.” Rye wags his brows.

  “Your rhymes give me heartburn, man,” Whip says.

  “Well, you’re depressing the fuck out of me,” Rye says as he stands and stretches his arms overheard. “Let’s get the hell out of here and go to a club. Find some premium, well-maintained kitty.”

  When none of us say anything, he lets out a noise of disgust. “Come on. I swear, if you all start acting like old men, I’m going to kill my…” He trails off, going pale.

  No one looks at Jax, but he laughs hollowly. “Word of advice: Stay away from OD-ing. Not as fun as it looks, man.”