Idol (VIP #1)

by Kristen Callihan

  Heavy silence falls over the room, and Jax lifts his head to look at us. His expression twists with a smirk. “Too soon?”

  It will always be too soon for me. But I’m saved from answering when my phone rings.

  The familiar tune of “Hotel Yorba” plays, and I’m not embarrassed to admit my heart stops. Libby. I roll off the couch, striding toward the door as I pull out my phone. “Gotta take this.” I might be running at this point.

  Fuck. If she’s calling to say no, I might punch a wall. I go into the padded sound booth so no one can hear me.

  “Libby,” I answer. Do I sound breathless? Shit, this girl has me acting like a preteen, and I don’t even care.

  “You have some interesting communication skills,” she says by way of greeting.

  I grin. Sending Scottie and Brenna to give her notes might be construed as juvenile and slightly corny, but there is some method to my madness. I knew it would either annoy her or throw her off guard before she could retreat behind her walls. I’m hoping for the latter. “I’d prefer talking face to face.”

  She huffs, but it doesn’t sound angry. “I got that.”

  “Don’t keep me in suspense, Elly May. I’m dying here.”

  “And you think calling me Elly May is going to help your cause?”

  “Liberty Bell,” I warn. Hell, I’m sweating. I lean against the wall. “Out with it, evil woman.”

  A sigh, and then her voice goes soft and small. “I miss you too. So much.”

  “You’re killing me, babe.” My eyes close. “You know what? I lied. If you don’t come to me, I’m coming to you. And I’m not leaving empty handed.”

  “You’d forcibly haul me back with you?” she asks with a husky laugh.

  “Yep. Might take you over my knee before I do, though.”

  I’m not going to lie; my dick gets hard at the thought. It twitches when she laughs again.

  “You like living dangerously.”

  “You’d be well satisfied.” I smile but it’s weak. “Tell me, Libby. Tell me you’re on your way.”

  She sighs. “You want me there to visit or to perform?”

  I want her as my partner in all things. I know that now. But one issue at a time.

  “Babe, I’ve made what I want very clear. Stop hiding away in that house.”

  “Killian, do you understand that the idea of getting on a stage and performing for a Kill John–sized crowd makes me want to vomit? As in, I’m eyeing the bathroom as we speak.”

  I want to hug her so badly. I clench my fist against my thigh. “Do you really hate the idea? Between you and me, without thinking about anything else, what does your heart say?”

  Silence follows, highlighting the sound of her breathing. “I’m afraid…” Her voice is stark. “…that I’ll lose myself.”

  “I won’t let you.” She has me now. Even if she doesn’t fully realize it. I’ll always be there for her. I just have to show her.

  She speaks again, barely a whisper. “I’m afraid I’ll look ridiculous up there.”

  I let out a breath. “Oh, baby doll. If you could just see yourself the way I see you. Your voice, the passion in the way you play—that brought me back to music. You belong out there. You said you wanted to fly. So fly with me.”

  “Why is this so important to you?” she rasps. “Why are you pushing it so much?” I can practically hear her brain whirring. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose. If I want her trust, I have to go all-in now. “The first time I told my parents I wanted a guitar, they sent an assistant out to buy me a six-thousand-dollar Telecaster.”

  She’s silent for a beat. “Is that supposed to be bad?”

  I snort in tired amusement. “They got me lessons from the best teacher in New York. Because, and I quote, ‘Killian’s finally found a little hobby.’”

  I keep talking, exposing more. “When I told them I wanted to form a band, be a rock star, they asked me if I needed them to book a concert hall for me. They knew some people.”

  “I…ah…I don’t understand. They sound more supportive than most parents. Maybe a little patronizing, but they clearly cared.”

  “Libs, I meant it when I said I had a good childhood, the best of everything. But I was also something akin to a pet. Interest in who I was or what I did with my life wasn’t there. I wasn’t missed or needed. And that isn’t a poor-little-rich-me speech. Just the bald truth. To this day, they haven’t heard a single song or gone to any of my concerts. Which is fine.”

  But it isn’t.

  She clearly picks up on that. “So you want to fix me because of what? Childhood angst?”

  Something in me snaps. “I’m trying to show you how much I care, that your dreams mean something to me! They’re not things to be swept under the rug or given lip service. They fucking matter, Libby. You matter.” I stop there, my body tensing. I’ve said too much, exposed my underbelly. It isn’t a comfortable sensation.

  She draws a breath, the sound crackling through the phone. “You matter too.”

  My eyes close. Maybe some of my motivation is selfish, because I miss her so badly right now it hurts. I’m so into this girl. She has no idea how much.

  “I’ve always had my guys, the band. We pushed each other when one of us doubted. We were a team. I wouldn’t be where I was without them. I want to be that for you, Libby. You’re too talented not to at least try.”

  I swear, it feels like hours before I hear her response. Her laugh is tired and brief. “God. Am I going to do this?”

  “Yes.”

  “That was rhetorical.”

  “I’m just moving the process along, babe.”

  She pauses for a second before speaking. “I have conditions.”

  “Name them.” My heart pounds, adrenaline making me pace.

  “I don’t want anyone to know about us.”

  “Okay—Wait, what?” I halt, gripping the phone too tightly. Hide us? “What the hell? No. Why?” I’m sputtering now. “Is this that whole Yoko thing again?”

  “It isn’t a ‘thing’,” she says with annoying patience. “It’s a legitimate concern—even more if I’m going to be on stage with you.”

  “Because your talent will suddenly disappear if people know my dick’s been in you?”

  “Don’t be crude.”

  Oh, I’m being crude. I rest a fist against the wall. Just rest it. For now.

  Her voice softens. “Please put yourself in my place. I’m an unknown, untried musician who you want to put on stage with the biggest band in the world. No one does that, unless they’re getting themselves some.”

  “Which I am,” I point out, stupidly.

  “You trying to piss me off?” she snaps.

  I sigh and thump my forehead against the wall. “No. I didn’t mean it that way. Go on.”

  “You’re right. People are probably going to think something like that regardless. But you go and tell your band that you want your girl on stage with you? They’re going to think one thing: I fucked my way up there.”

  Wincing, I grind my teeth, trying to think of a retort.

  I hear her voice catch. “I have my pride, Killian. Don’t take it from me.”

  “Baby doll.”

  “Let me prove myself before they set their minds on who or what I am.”

  I’m silent for a long minute. “Fuck,” I snarl, pushing off the wall. I sigh and the fight goes out of me. “All right. You’re right. I know you’re right. But they’re going to know the second they see us together, Libs. I’m not good at hiding how I feel.”

  “Did you tell them about us?”

  I stare through the glass. A sliver of the next room is visible, and with it Jax’s profile. He looks relaxed. Solemn but okay.

  “Brenna and Scottie know, obviously. But they won’t say anything. The guys don’t, though. Not details like that.” I hadn’t wanted to share, as if by telling them about it, I’d lose something private, something real. “J
ust that you helped me with my music and that you’re talented as all fuck. They know I sent Scottie to coax you out here.”

  “And they don’t mind?”

  My teeth sink into my bottom lip. Truth? Or lie? But it isn’t really even a question. “They thought I was cracked at first. Then I showed them the songs and played that recording we did of ‘Artful Girl’.”

  I used my phone for that, and the sound quality was shit, but Libby’s talent shone through even then. It had been more than enough, for almost everyone. Jax is being a pain in the ass. But I’d expected as much.

  I rub the back of my stiff neck. “They want to meet you.”

  It feels like an eternity before she talks. “Okay, I’ll come. I’m not promising I’ll go through with it. But I’ll try.”

  Every tense muscle I have seems to release at once, and I lean on the console. I swallow hard before answering her. “I won’t say anything about us. But once we’re alone, all bets are off. That’s my time, Libby. And I intend to use it well.”

  I swear I can feel her blush through the phone. But then her husky voice comes in strong. “Good. I’ve been left to using my imagination, so you’d better be creative.”

  This girl.

  My dick is thick and demanding in my jeans now. Palming the head to ease its pain, I grind out the only thing I can. “Get here.”

  Libby

  My legs feel rubbery as I end my call with Killian. I’m going to do this. I’m going on tour with Kill John. I want to throw up. I want to see Killian so badly my teeth hurt. But performing on stage? That’s another kettle.

  I’d rather focus on his last words and the heated need in his voice. He’d been hurting—the same way I’m hurting now. I didn’t know it was possible to feel empty between my legs, to actually want a cock in there so bad it aches. No, not just any cock. Killian’s. It has to be his now. Damn the man, but he gets to me.

  But I have guests camped out in my house, and I’m not walking around with hard nipples and flushed skin. So I take a deep breath and think of the time I walked in on Grandmama watching porn. Sufficiently horrified, I walk back into the living room.

  “You look green around the gills,” Brenna remarks. “Tell me that’s because you’re coming to New York.”

  Close enough. I nod.

  Scottie goes…less stiff. “Very good.” He looks me straight in the eye. It hits me anew how attractive this guy is. Not even sexually, though he has that too, but just the sheer force of his looks is enough to make me speechless. His crisp British accent doesn’t hurt either. “You’ve made the right decision, Ms. Bell.”

  “Is that based on you not having to pass me any more notes in study hall, Mr. Scott?”

  His eyes narrow. “Precisely.”

  While Brenna snickers, he stands and pulls his cuffs back into place. “I have a few calls to make.”

  The second Scottie is out of the room, I relax. I’m not proud of this. But damn.

  “It’s ridiculous, isn’t it?” Brenna says in a whisper that carries all over the house. “How insanely gorgeous Scottie is?”

  She’s either too good at reading people or just as dazed in the man’s presence as I am. I’m guessing a little of both by the way she seems to shake herself out of a trance.

  “Are you and he…”

  “God, no,” she says with a snort.

  “Flattering.” Scottie’s dry tone catches us red-handed as he walks back into the room. He really is unfairly man-pretty. All shiny and chiseled. Not my type, but a girl can admire.

  “Obviously you heard me say you were hot,” Brenna says. “You don’t need any more of an inflated head.”

  Scottie takes a seat on my grandma’s pink chintz armchair. Surrounded by flowers, he sits as regally as if it were a throne. “Looks are one thing. You insinuated that my character was faulty, which is far worse.”

  “Oh, stop fishing.” Brenna turns to me. “He passes the first test but failed the second. And it has nothing to do with personality but basic chemistry. We have none.”

  “What are the tests?” I can’t help but ask.

  “Yes,” Scottie urges. “Enlighten us, dear.” He glances at me. “She’s right, though. No sexual chemistry to speak of.”

  Brenna takes a sip of lemonade. “Whether you admit it or not, every person you meet, you assess for two basic things: hotness and fuckability.” She nods and continues. “Test one: Hotness. How hot do you find a person? Obviously Scottie’s hotness goes to eleven. He knows it. We all know it. Test two: Fuckability. Given the circumstances, would you want to do them?”

  “This is true,” I admit, holding up my hand. “Yes and no.” Because I know she’s going to ask if Scottie passes those for me. Of course he’s hot. And though he acts like a snooty old man, he can’t be much older than thirty. But no matter how good-looking he is, there’s only Killian for me now.

  She pouts, then goes and looks at Scottie, her gaze roving over him. He sits still, amusement in his eyes. She glances back at me. “Nope. There’s still no spark. I could look at him all day, but that’s about it.”

  I nod. Brenna and I are in total agreement.

  “If you ladies are done dissecting my physical attractiveness,” Scottie says, “I’d like to get going. Ms. Bell, I’ve booked you a flight to New York with Ms. James. It leaves in three hours, which means you’ll have to get packing now.”

  “Aren’t you coming?”

  “No.” He adjusts his already perfect cuffs yet again. “I’ve other business to attend to first. I’ll be following later.”

  Brenna makes a noise that could mean anything, given her perfectly composed expression, but neither of them addresses it. She stands and heads toward my room. “Right then, on with the packing.”

  No way am I leaving Little Miss Bulldozer to pack for me. I hurry after her, excitement and anxiety thrumming through my veins.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Libby

  New York City has a sort of silver tint to it—half of it in constant shadow, the other half shining in the sunlight slanting through the tall buildings. I crane my head, gaping up through the car window at those skyscrapers like the little yokel I am. I don’t even care. It’s a people-watching paradise, a constant rhythm and flow of human activity. There’s an energy here that permeates the air and sinks into your skin. I have the urge to ask the car to pull over so I can walk.

  “You want to roll down the window so you can pant like a dog?” Brenna’s voice is full of humor.

  I don’t take my eyes off the scene rolling past. “I tried that earlier, and you complained about the hot wind mussing your hair. Remember?” We’d just come out of the Holland Tunnel, popping straight up in the middle of the Theater District, and I’d nearly jumped out of my seat from excitement.

  Brenna makes a noise of smothered agreement. “We’ll go exploring later. In fact, speaking of mussed hair, how do you feel about a makeover?”

  The question pulls me from my window, and I sit back against the plush leather seat of our hired limo. “As in we have some sort of Princess Diaries, dude takes a pot of wax to my eyebrows and a weed whacker to my hair moment?” I laugh faintly. “Am I that bad?”

  “No, of course not.” Brenna’s cool gaze travels over me as if she’s inspecting a derelict house in need of rehab. “But every girl can do with a bit of sprucing up now and then. Especially if she’s going to be in the press.”

  Press? My stomach takes an unruly tumble. “You don’t need sprucing,” I point out, ignoring the angry antics of my innards.

  She shrugs, not even causing a wrinkle in the scarlet red suit painted on her. “I’ve had my makeover.”

  “If that’s the result, sign me up.”

  “Really?” Her eyes glint, and it’s only half evil.

  It’s my turn to shrug. “You think I’m going to complain about some shopping, a day in a hair salon, and a massage? Just because I don’t usually do those things doesn’t mean I don’t like them.”


  “I never said anything about a massage.”

  “Oh, there will be massages. Mani-pedis, too.”

  “I like the way you think, Liberty.”

  We share a grin, and then she’s on the phone making plans. When she finishes, she eyes me again.

  I refuse to fidget. “You’re looking at me like I’m a lump of clay.”

  “Just waiting for me to mold,” she agrees with a nod. She arches a finely plucked brow.

  “Nothing too outrageous. I still want to look like me. Only…better.”

  She chuckles. “I understand completely. We’ll bring out the best version of you.”

  “And then get massages.”

  “That’s the real carrot, isn’t it?”

  “Yep. I’m all over it like a starved bunny.”

  Even though she’s smiling slightly, her gaze turns cool and cautious. “You realize Killian wants to pay for this.”

  “I figured. If he’s offering, I’ll accept.”

  Brenna sits back, crossing her legs. How she manages to make that look sexy and casual is beyond me. At this point I have a girl crush. “You know,” she says, “I expected you to resist Killian footing the bill. Cry independent woman and all that.”

  “In the course of a month, Killian has torn apart my lawn with his bike, thrown up all over my favorite shirt, and eaten my food almost daily. I wasn’t too happy about the first two, but feeding him was my pleasure. I’m guessing this is Killian’s pleasure. Refusing a gift he’s offering would be petulant. And I sure as hell don’t have the money for what you have planned.”

  “You’re slightly odd, you know that?”

  “Says the pot to the kettle. Now tell me, is that your natural hair color or did you get it done at the salon we’re going to?”

  The limo turns up Fifth Avenue, and a shaft of sunlight slides through the windows. Brenna’s red-gold hair gleams brightly. “Only my stylist knows, hon. But I do have some ideas for you.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “I’m going to enjoy this,” she says with satisfaction.

  Five minutes later, the limo pulls up in front of a salon. We’re whisked into a lounge area that is cordoned off from the main salon. There, a ridiculously gorgeous woman with brilliant pink hair, wearing what has to be the perfect little black dress, offers us a beverage.