“Chicks used to think we were related because we look so much alike,” Whip tells me. “We said we were cousins. For some weird-ass reason, that got us a lot of play.” He frowns. “Women are strange creatures.”
I laugh, snuggling back into Killian’s embrace. He’s warm, solid, and all mine. “If you say so. Though I think it probably had more to do with you both being hot, as opposed to related.”
“See?” Whip says brightly. “She thinks I’m hot.”
“She thinks I’m hotter,” Killian counters. “Don’t you, babe?”
“Scottie’s really the hottest of you all,” I tell them.
Killian chuckles darkly, and his hand slips down just a bit. Under the cover of his bent arm, his fingers graze the side of my breast, his warm palm giving me a gentle squeeze. I squirm a little and feel his grin against my neck. “If you say so, baby doll.”
Cheeky ass.
Whip rolls his eyes, but leans in and gives me a quick kiss on the cheek. “Any time you want to dump this bum, you know where to find me.”
He gives Killian a tap on the shoulder as he heads into the crowd.
“Can we leave now?” Killian murmurs. His hand is still busy, slowly fondling me, each touch getting heavier, more direct. I squirm again, my butt pushing against his rising interest. He grunts low, nudges me back.
“We can’t,” I whisper, though I really want to agree. “You promised Scottie you’d make nice with those journalists.”
Killian sighs, grinding his dick against my bottom one last time before letting me go. “Okay, fine. But we’re not staying long.”
I watch him walk away, because his ass in those well-worn jeans is a thing of beauty. I’m already regretting being good tonight.
“Wow,” says a male voice in the dark. “You’ve got Whip Dexter and Killian James wrapped around your finger. You must be good.”
The bar table next to me is tucked in the shadows, away from the bulk of the party. I hadn’t seen the guy until now.
He steps my way, clearly thinking he’s the shit. Tight black, leather pants, flowing white silk shirt. I want to ask him which ’80s hair band’s wardrobe he raided. He’s extremely good looking, in a slick, pretty boy way—dark hair falling over his brow, pouty lips, fine, almost girlish features.
I stare at him, unimpressed with the way he casually flicks his hair back from his face. “Good at what?” I mean, I know what. I just want him to say it.
“You doing them both?” He shows his teeth. “Or maybe taking the whole band on?”
“Let me ask you something. Do you actually think that’s acceptable to say to someone?”
Pretty Boy gives me an innocent smile. “Aw, come on. I’m just kidding around. Seriously. I know the score. We newbies don’t get anywhere without a little persuasion.” He offers me his hand. “I’m Marlow.”
I glance at the offered hand. “Marlow, I don’t care if you sucked dick to get invited here or not. But do not disrespect women as an opening line.” I push off from the table. “If you’ll excuse me.”
A hard hand slaps down on my shoulder, and I’m wrenched around. The guy is scary strong—something I didn’t anticipate because he looks all of a hundred twenty pounds. Angry grey eyes glare down at me. “You’ve got a some nerve,” he snarls, his fingers biting into my skin. “I’m a signed artist. Who are you? Killian James’ fucking whore.”
“Get the hell off—”
He invades my space, my back hitting the edge of the bar table. “Why don’t you play nice? Be a little friendly.”
It’s then I see how glassy his eyes are, the pupils wide. It distracts me. Without warning, he grabs my breast and squeezes. Hard.
Revulsion, rage, shock—all of it floods me. For a bright, hot second I can’t move. And then the rage takes control. My hand flies up, fingers punching into his eye sockets.
He rears back, stumbling, and I knee him between the legs. Unfortunately, my hit glances off his thigh. But he’s stunned and blinking frantically, snarling out curses.
I know when to run. My heels grind into the pavement as I pivot, my heart in my throat, flight taking over fight. I hear him coming for me.
“Fucking bitch!” Nails scratch my exposed back, catching on my halter. It rips, the sound loud against the buzzing in my ears.
My hands fly to my top, grasping my breasts to keep the fabric from falling down farther. I think I cry out. I don’t know for sure because another shout drowns out all sound.
And then Killian is there, bearing down on us like death. I sob. His expression actually scares me, even though I know it isn’t directed my way. He brushes by me, and with another enraged bellow, grabs Marlow by his neck.
The guy doesn’t stand a chance. Killian slams him to the patio pavement. He doesn’t talk, doesn’t hesitate, just starts whaling on the guy with his fists. It’s terrifying, brutal.
Around me, a crowd gathers. Phone camera flashes go off, others held up to record it all. Three more guys blow past me. Whip, Rye, and Jax.
They’re trying to pull Killian off a struggling Marlow, who gets a hit in. Not that Killian feels it. He strains against Whip and Jax’s hold. “Get the fuck off. You mother fucker…” And with that, he kicks Marlow. A security guard rushes into the fray.
I bite back another sob. Something soft and warm settles over my shoulders: a tiny beaded shrug jacket. At my side, a woman with heavy gold eye makeup gives me a small smile. “It’s all I have.” She puts an arm around me, drawing the shrug farther over my exposed shoulders. “You okay, hon?”
She’s a groupie. I know her on sight. And her kindness breaks me. I start to cry again. Two other women join us, closing ranks, protecting me from the cameras.
Maybe Killian’s rage has run its course. Maybe he hears me. Whatever the reason, he throws off Jax and Whip with a snarled “I’m good.”
His gaze finds me, and the ugly expression on his face crumples as he comes. “Libs.”
I clutch his shirt as he hugs me hard, his body damp with sweat. The rest is a blur as we’re ushered back to our room. But not before I see Scottie’s expression. Shit has clearly hit the fan.
“What the bloody hell was that?”
Killian looks up from his spot on the couch and gives Scottie a cold look. “That was me kicking a shitbag’s ass.”
He hasn’t stopped shaking, and he hasn’t let me go. Even when a doctor looked at his swollen and bruised hand—and suggested Killian should have an X-ray for broken bones—he had an arm around me, squeezing me tight. The only time he released me was to pull off his shirt and put it on me.
Scottie snorts now. “That shitbag was Marlow. The label’s newest and hottest young star, for fuck’s sake.”
Lovely. The sick feeling in my stomach intensifies.
“He’s going to be singing through a feeding tube if I see him again,” Killian snaps.
“At any rate,” Scottie retorts, “I was asking Libby, not you.”
All eyes turn to me, except for Killian’s. He just cuddles me closer. “Leave her the fuck alone. She’s been through enough.”
“It’s okay, Killian.” I rub my hand down his forearm, trying to calm him. He grunts but relaxes a little.
Scottie, Jax, Whip, Rye, and Brenna are all waiting. I take a deep breath, because remembering makes me shake as well. “He came out of nowhere,” I say. “Said that I should…” I glance at Killian.
He exhales a hard breath. “Just say it, baby doll. I’m not going to hunt him down or anything.”
This doesn’t sound remotely sincere.
“He suggested that since I was servicing all the members of Kill John, I should do the same with him.”
“Mother fucker,” snarls Killian.
“Dicknozzle,” Whip mutters.
The rest are silent. Waiting for me to continue.
“I…ah…told him what I thought about that, then I tried to leave.” Cold fear trickles down my spine. I’m safe. I know this. But I don’t feel it. At my side
I feel Killian tense more and more. He’s practically twitching.
I blink several times. “He…ah…grabbed my breast.”
Killian makes a sound I can’t even interpret, and I’m suddenly on his lap, wrapped up tight. I breathe for a couple of seconds before I finish the story. “This blow-up was my fault.”
“No fucking way,” hisses Killian.
“It’s never your fault,” Brenna cuts in. She’s been silent until now. But I see the way she trembles. “Never.”
“I just meant, when he did that, I poked him in the eyes, tried to ball him. That’s what really set him off. He deserved it, but I should have handled it quietly, left sooner.”
“And I would have just beat the shit out of him sooner,” Killian says, pressing his face into the crook of my neck. “Baby doll, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay.” But my eyes tear up. I’ve never been physically attacked before. I took self-defense courses during college because it seemed the safe thing to do. But reality is different, and not so easy to let go.
Scottie sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “Nothing is ‘okay.’” He pins me with an icy stare. “Are you all right?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Then get some rest.” He turns his attention to Killian. “You. I want those fingers in the splint the doctor left. Don’t give me shit, or so help me…” He holds up a hand and appears to be doing a mental countdown.
“I’ll splint the damn fingers,” Killian says, exasperated. He already has them wrapped in ice. I’m afraid to look. His whole hand was swollen, the knuckles split and bleeding, before they treated it.
Finally Scottie blows out a breath. “We need to fix this.”
“It won’t be easy,” Brenna says somberly. “The entire fight was filmed from multiple angles and is already being played on numerous outlets.”
“Fuck,” sneers Jax. He doesn’t look at me, though I feel the weight of his disappointment in the air.
It doesn’t matter that we’re here because a self-centered prick thought it was okay to put his hands on me, or that I defended myself the best way I could. Guilt still rides me. I’m the one who was involved. Everyone here knows Killian wouldn’t have lost his shit if it hadn’t been in my honor.
I can’t bring myself to look at anyone.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Libby
Late at night, when we finally slip into bed, Killian holds me for a long time, his chest to my back. I drift in the warmth of him, body and soul at peace. And he breathes me in, slow and deep as if he’s memorizing my scent.
“I could have killed him,” he whispers in my hair.
In the dark, my hand finds his forearm, pressed across my chest, and I stroke his skin, tracing the muscles beneath it. “But you didn’t.”
His breath is soft and low. “I totally lost my shit. Didn’t think of anything but beating his ass.”
“It’s over now.” Under the cool of the covers, with his heat along my skin, I’m safe. And though Killian is more than capable of protecting himself, I wish he felt safe as well.
His fingers curl around the curve of my shoulder. “I’ve never been needed by anyone but the guys. We became each other’s family. I watch out for them.”
I don’t say anything, simply run my fingers over the strong bones of his wrist, along his inner arm where his skin is like silk over stone.
“I failed them, Libs. I should have known Jax was losing his grip.”
“Killian—”
“I should have kept us together after he tried to end it instead of drifting away.”
The covers rustle as I turn to face him. “Almost every night for a year, I went to bed thinking I should have tried to get my dad into rehab. I should have said something instead of looking the other way.” I cup Killian’s cheek, rough with the day’s growth. “Half the time I couldn’t look in the mirror because I thought, would my dad have been happier, would he have drank less, if he’d never given up the life to have me?”
Killian’s eyes widen as if he’s in pain. “No, Libby. No one who knows you would ever consider you a regret.”
I sigh, my thumb touching the corner of his mouth. “That’s the problem, though. Logic tells you one thing, but you still feel another. You can tell me I’m wrong about my dad. I can tell you you’re wrong about failing the guys. But believing is harder, isn’t it?”
His lips press against my brow. “I don’t want to fail you, Libs. And right now, I don’t know how avoid doing that.”
“I feel the same,” I whisper.
He moves over me then, settling his body on mine. There, in the dark, he makes love to me. It’s almost desperate, the way we touch—searching kisses, fumbling caresses. And it’s heartbreakingly tender. Every touch counts, feels like the end of something, the beginning of something else.
I’m terrified, and I don’t know why. Maybe he is too, because he doesn’t let me go. Not when we reach our climax, and not when we drift off to sleep in the waning hours of the night.
In the morning, I’m alone. Killian has gone to get his hand X-rayed just in case there are fractures.
I eat breakfast in my room and don’t expect visitors. When Jax shows up, I’m wary. He barely looked my way last night, as if he couldn’t stand the sight of me.
“You want some coffee?” I ask as he follows me into the suite’s living room where the room service cart is set up.
“Yeah, sure.” He taps his thumb against his thigh.
We’ve been traveling together for a while now, but we’ve never really been alone except for that first night when he came to check on me and my sad case of stage fright. We’re not friends, but I’ve never considered him my enemy. Unfortunately, I have no idea if that’s true for him or not.
In silence we sip lukewarm coffee until I can’t take it anymore. “You here to bawl me out or something?”
Jax smirks. “You have a bit of a dramatic side, don’t you?”
“Oh, please, you looked like you wanted to spit nails last night.”
His mouth twitches. “Last night was fucked up. On all counts.”
I run a thumb around the thick edge of my cup. “It was at that.”
Jax sets his cup down. “Despite what you may think, I like you, Libby. You’re talented as hell. You belong in this world as much as any of us do.” Shock courses through me, but he doesn’t stop there. “And I’m sorry as hell that dickhead put his hands on you. He deserved a beat down.”
“Why do I feel there’s a ‘but’ coming along?”
His green eyes lock on mine. “The record label is going to give Killian hell. Right or wrong, what he did looks bad for the band. And for you.”
“I know this.”
“I know you know. But do you understand the power you have over Killian? It’s pretty apparent, he’ll always choose you over anything else.”
“What do you want me to say?” I ask. “I’m sorry this happened. I wish it hadn’t. But I can’t change Killian’s reaction.”
Jax rubs his fingers over his forehead then peers at me. “And in the future? When other assholes come out of the woodwork? Because they will. Half the public already blames you. For the simple fact that you’re a woman, and Killian’s now acting unhinged.”
“Great.” Though I’m not surprised. Victim-blaming is alive and well in modern society.
“Yeah, great,” he repeats with a sigh. “He cannot handle it—not when the spotlight of judgment is on someone he cares about. He couldn’t handle it on me, and he absolutely won’t be able to take it on you.” Jax kneels next to me, his eyes tired but intense. “There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t feel the repercussions of what I did. I feel guilty as all fuck for the way I hurt them. But especially for the way it caused Killian to break down. Because he was the one who tried to shield me from the press and take it all on his shoulders.”
After last night’s confession, I know more than anyone how much it still hurts Killian. My throat clicks as
I swallow. “This is why you didn’t want me here?”
Jax nods. “I didn’t know what would happen. But I knew there’d be something.” He laughs sadly. “There always is on a tour. And I knew Killian wasn’t ready. He doesn’t have his walls up anymore.”
No, he doesn’t. I don’t either. Both of us are walking around exposed and vulnerable. I feel naked enough as it is. But the idea that I’m also Killian’s weakness is intolerable. You’re supposed to protect the ones you love, not leave them open to pain.
“Promise me something,” I whisper, because my voice is fast fading. “Be…kind to him. Take care of him. He needs it.”
Jax nods, tension working between his brows. When Jax leaves, I head to another room.
Scottie answers on the second knock. It’s a betrayal, what I’m about to do. But it doesn’t stop me. “Can I come in?”
Killian
“We are not amused, Mr. James.”
Sitting at a glossy conference table in a cold hotel meeting room is not my idea of fun. Listening to the duo I like to call Smith One and Smith Two is giving me heartburn. My two least favorite record label execs sit across from me, both of them in identical black Armani suits and sharing the same reproachful expression. They only need sunglasses and ear pieces to complete the Agent Smith look.
As soon as I calmed down last night, I knew this meeting was coming. You cause a scene at an industry party, you will be hearing about it.
Back when Kill John first started, we’d been their bitch—attending parties and functions when they wanted us to, touring when they demanded it, every damn aspect of our lives under their control. Those days are gone. You put out a diamond-status album like we did with Apathy, and the tables turn. Kill John no longer kisses ass, we get our cocks sucked.
Doesn’t mean certain execs don’t forget that once in a while, especially when they smell blood in the water—something Smith One clearly has been waiting for. “First we had to deal with John Blackwood’s drug habit—”
“He didn’t have a fucking drug habit,” I snap. “He was clinically depressed, and I’ll thank you to shut the fu—”
Idol (VIP #1) Page 24
