Idol (VIP #1)

by Kristen Callihan

  I turn to Jax. “And I made her feel like I didn’t want her when I sent her away. Because I’m an idiot.”

  Jax sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “And I’m an asshole. Kills, man, I encouraged her to leave the tour. Said you’d be distracted by her. But that was my own shit talking, me trying to put things back the way they were before.”

  I should be pissed. But mostly I’m just tired of struggling to pretend everything is normal. “We broke, Jax,” I tell him while watching the TV. “We’re gluing ourselves back together, but it’s never going to be the same.”

  “Fuck. I know.”

  The defeat in his voice makes me bump his shoulder with mine. “We’re not who we were. We’re better. Evolution, Jax. Not regression.”

  He shakes his head, but he’s fighting a smile. “I’m sorry, though. I miss her too.”

  Libby’s smoky voice snags my attention again. “She’s it for me. It’s a done deal.” I’ve been hers since the second she hosed me down and woke me up. “My life doesn’t work anymore without her in it.”

  “I know, man. We all know it.” Jax puts a hand on my shoulder. “Do this show, and then you go get your girl.”

  Libby

  It takes forever to wash the makeup off my face. By the time I’m done, my skin is pink and angry at me. But I feel better. Freer. Sometimes all it takes in life is to decide to own it. And everything changes. Would Killian understand? I sang that song for him as much as for myself—to tell him I finally got it. Life is what you make of it. I know that now. Because of him.

  I hear Brenna enter the suite and go out to meet her. She has a box of pizza in one hand.

  “Your performance was totally awesome.” She does a little victory dance that makes me laugh.

  “You’ve told me that three times now.”

  “You have to give reinforcement in threes,” she says, sticking out her tongue. “Otherwise it doesn’t stick.”

  “Consider it stuck, then.” I accept a piece of pizza and take a big bite. So good. I’m starved tonight.

  Brenna scarfs down her own slice. “The guys are in New York now.”

  I pause mid-bite. “I thought they were in London.”

  “They were. They got into New York this morning for their final concert of the tour. They always like to end things on their home turf.”

  “Right. I’d forgotten that.” Longing falls like a heavy blanket on my shoulders. I actually roll them as if I could shrug the feeling off. Doesn’t work, though. I set my piece of pizza aside and search for a water in the mini fridge.

  “They’re on stage now,” Brenna says, watching me with wary eyes. “Scottie has a recording of it he wanted you to see.”

  “Scottie does?” I can’t keep the skepticism out of my voice.

  Brenna gives a cheeky grin. “Pretty sure he was ordered to.”

  “Hmmm…” I can’t say more. The idea that Killian is passing me yet another proverbial note sends me a flash of hope and an ache of nostalgia.

  We curl up on the couch, and Brenna plays the video. God, it hurts seeing him. Bare chest glistening with sweat, ratty old jeans hanging low and lovingly outlining that nearly obscene bulge of his—he’s a hot rock star at his finest. And the way he holds that white and black Telecaster in his big hands is like music porn.

  His deep, rich voice sends a shiver down my spine as he dips his head to the mic. “We’d like to play a tribute tonight. If you know the words, sing along.”

  I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t “Darling Nikki.” Oh, but it’s so good. Killian’s voice is pure sex, dripping with sticky sin. And watching him work his guitar? Jesus. Heat washes up my thighs, pools between my legs.

  Killian’s beloved Animal goes wild. Women scream; men hold their hands up in solidarity. They all join him, shouting the words.

  He absolutely shreds the guitar on the solo, his hips thrusting, his back bowed. Emotion pulls the slashes of his brows together, has him biting his lip. I’ve seen that face before—when he’s over me, coming, giving in to lust.

  In my periphery, I catch a glimpse of Brenna gawking at the screen and then back at me.

  I don’t know what to say. A lump closes my throat. I swallow hard against it, but the pain doesn’t go away. My hands start to shake.

  Killian’s shouting how he wants another grind.

  A song about a freaky whore? About a deal with the devil? An unforgettable woman? It could be all and any of those things. A tribute? To whom? Prince? Or me? I sang “Cream.” Now he’s singing this.

  “Libs—” Brenna starts to say.

  I hold up my hand. “I…ah…I’m going to bed. I need to think…” I don’t say anything more. But I do leave my phone on the table as I walk away. Because I have a feeling he’ll call, and I have nothing I can say to him over the phone.

  Chapter Thirty

  Killian

  I’m on my phone the second I get back to the dressing room. My blood is pumping, my body humming. I have to pace to cool down. People flow around me, laughing, staring, trying to get close. I want to order them out, but I’m too busy trying to call Libby. I keep getting her voicemail.

  I don’t leave a message. I want to talk to her.

  Sitting my ass in a chair, I start to text her, only to see one from Brenna.

  What the fuck was that? Idiot. (!!!!) >:-(

  I read it twice before holding up the phone to the guys. “Why the hell is she yelling at me?”

  “Dude.” Rye shakes his head. “I told you not to choose that song.”

  “What’s wrong with ‘Darling Nikki’? It’s my favorite song on Purple Rain—an album we talked about when we first bonded over music. She played Prince tonight. I played Prince tonight. I’m supporting her. How can it be more clear?”

  “A.” Rye holds up a finger. “That is way too esoteric.”

  “It’s supposed to be,” I protest. “It’s a message to her, not the rest of the world.”

  “B,” he says over me. “‘Darling Nikki’ is what Prince sings to Apollonia when he’s basically calling her a whore.”

  Whip nods. “Yeah, the lyrics pretty much say she’s only good for freaky sex.”

  I stare at them, incredulous. “Why didn’t you all tell me this before we did the fucking song?”

  “You were pretty insistent,” Rye says with a shrug.

  “And you knew the lyrics,” Whip points out calmly. “You just sang them.”

  “Of course I know the lyrics. It’s the context I didn’t get.”

  “Context is everything, man.”

  I press the heels of my hands against my eyes and try not to shout. “Shit. Shit. Shit.”

  Jax hands me a water. “Relax. If she knows you as well as I think she does, she’ll get your message.” He fights a smile. “Convoluted as it was.”

  “Shit.”

  * * *

  “Libs, if you get this message, call me. Please. Baby doll. Please. I need to talk to you. I…ah…that song was for you. Shit. Not to call you a whore— I mean, never! Okay? It was because I am so proud of you. I wanted to tell you— Just call me, okay? Please.”

  * * *

  “Libs. I’m getting a little concerned. Where are you? Pick up your phone.”

  * * *

  No texts either? You’re killing me here.

  * * *

  “Ellie May, pick up the damn phone. Call me back. I’m getting on a plane and tracking you down. Or I would if I could fucking find you. Damn it, I told you I’d get shit wrong. I want to make them right. Please let me.”

  * * *

  “I need you, all right? That’s what it comes down to. You’re it. My present, my future, my everything. Not my whore. I haven’t even seen the damn movie! Okay, just… yeah. Call me.”

  * * *

  Libby

  New York City. One redeye flight, and I’m here. I feel like I’ve been run over with a sand truck. Gritty-eyed and sore, I sit passive as a makeup artist works on my face. Some
one else is blowdrying my hair, attempting to give it some waves around my face. Good luck with that.

  I’d rather be anywhere but here. But Brenna, now crowned Official Pain in My Ass, booked an interview with Vanity Fair. I could cancel, she told me. But it would look bad. Especially considering the little gossip column that showed up on TNV last night.

  I don’t have to look at it again to remember it. The fucking thing is burned in my brain:

  Last night on the Late Night Show, the new darling of the music world, Liberty Bell, performed an absolutely cheeky rendition of Prince’s “Cream.” Not much by way of news unless you consider that, only an hour later, rock god and rumored boyfriend of Ms. Bell, Killian James, countered with a cover of “Darling Nikki” during Kill John’s concert in Madison Square Garden.

  One must speculate, is James declaring their supposed fling officially over? Thanking Bell for a good time? Or is he asking her for another go? Whatever the case, we are certain Killian’s loyal fan base is waiting with bated breath to find out if their sexy idol is once again single and free.

  Well, I can’t exactly blame them for interpreting Killian’s message that way. But it stings to know people are all up in our business, judging us. I feel naked down to my soul.

  It will be over soon. I haven’t turned on my phone yet. I know Killian has been trying to contact me. But the conversation we need to have can’t happen over the phone.

  Frankly, I’m sick of phones and texts. I avoided social media and casual texting all these years for a reason. I don’t want cold and impersonal. I don’t want to hide behind a screen. I need personal contact, face-to-face communication.

  The makeup artist finishes, and an assistant with a Bluetooth headset has me sit on a chrome-and-leather chair.

  “There’s water just here,” he tells me as if I can’t see the ice bucket at my side. “The green one is excellent. Imported from Japan at over four hundred dollars a bottle.”

  I refrain from pointing out how crass it is to tell me that, and choose the slightly less ostentatious bottle of Bling H2O with the logo bedazzled onto it.

  A reporter comes in, her hair brilliant blue, her smile welcoming. I steel my spine and grit my teeth. Just get through this, and you’ll be free to go. Get through this.

  “There’s been so much written about your involvement with Killian James. But you and James have been rather closed-mouthed about the topic.” The reporter gives me a slight but encouraging smile, her blue hair slipping over one eye. “Given last night’s performance, would you care to offer us a little bite?”

  “There isn’t much to tell that the world doesn’t already know.” Not really true. But true enough.

  The reporter’s smile has an edge to it now—a barracuda searching for blood in the water. “Oh, now, I’m not so sure about that. After all, we don’t know your side of the story.”

  Nothing to lose. And everything to gain. “What do you want to know?”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Killian

  “You ever think about it?” I whisper. She sits before me, skin gilded in the evening light, eyes glazed, frosted jewels. So fucking beautiful it breaks my heart. “What it would be like? You and me?”

  “Yeah.”

  I breathe in her scent. Touch her skin. “You can have the world. Just reach for it.”

  “I don’t need the world,” she whispers in my ear.

  “What do you need?” I’ll give her anything. Everything.

  Soft hands on my neck, gentle lips mapping my skin. “You.”

  “Dude, we have to get out there.” Rye’s voice comes to me at a distance.

  I stare down at my phone, rubbing my thumb over the screen.

  “Dude?”

  “Killian,” Jax says, sharper. “Snap out of it.”

  I run a hand through my hair. It’s longer now, in need of a trim. “She isn’t answering me. I don’t know where she is. Brenna won’t tell me.” We’re back at the Bowery Ballroom where we started our tour. Memories of Libby flood in, and I swallow hard.

  A hand lands on my shoulder. Jax’s eyes meet mine in the mirror. “As soon as the show is done, we’ll pile up on Scottie and make him cry uncle.”

  “Yeah,” Whip agrees behind me. “That shithead definitely knows where she is.”

  I’m pretty sure we could break Scottie’s legs, and the man still wouldn’t talk. He’s like ice that way. From outside the dressing room door comes a steady chant for Kill John. The air hums, but I don’t feel the familiar crackle of anticipation.

  “Come on, man.” Rye slaps my other shoulder. “Get off your ass. Moping is a destructive and unattractive quality.”

  This from the guy who stayed in bed for a week when John Entwistle died, crying that The Who would never be the same again. But he’s right. I pull myself together because my guys need me.

  One more show and I’m free. Just get through this.

  Libby

  The last time I saw Kill John perform, I was in the wings, watching them from behind. Being in the audience is an entirely different experience. On stage, the crowd’s energy comes at you like a wave. In the audience, I feel the full force of Kill John’s power. And it is awe inspiring.

  Killian’s deep, luscious vocals blend with Jax’s brutal melody. Together they are rage and yearning. Whip beats on his drums with perfect timing and rhythm, while Rye’s funky base supports it all. That is the technical aspect. But the real truth of their music cannot be defined. You have to feel it.

  I’m swept up by it and find myself dancing with the crowd. Scottie assigned me protection in the form of a massive bodyguard named Joe. He’s at my side now, blocking people from crushing too close or stepping on my toes. It’s sweet, but not necessary. The club is small and not so overcrowded that I can’t move.

  Kill John finishes up “Oceans,” and a sweaty Killian pulls off his damp shirt. Predictably, whistles of approval break out all over. His lips twist but he doesn’t acknowledge them as he gulps down some water.

  Standing midway to the stage, I can see him clearly enough to note the shadows under his eyes and the lines of strain around his mouth. And though no one else would notice, I can tell the guys are concerned. It’s in the way they watch him, Rye and Jax’s bodies angled slightly toward him like shields.

  While the crowd shouts requests, the guys make a few adjustments, Jax and Killian getting different guitars and Whip picking up a new set of sticks. Killian’s movements are unhurried, almost languid.

  “Play ‘Oceans’ again,” a guy right behind me yells loud enough to blow my hair forward.

  The request is ridiculous enough to grab Killian’s attention. He lifts his head, a smirk on his face as if he’s going to say something, but then our gazes clash. I know the second he realizes it’s me. Because everything freezes. His expression wipes totally blank, then shatters, his lips parting on a breath, his eyes going wide.

  I feel that look down to my toes. It wrenches my heart. I know there and then that he’s hurting as much as I am. It’s all there in those coffee dark eyes. Everything that’s passed between us—every look, word, touch—is all there. Tears blur my vision, and I offer him a watery smile.

  He twitches as if he’s fighting not to hop off the stage. But then a slow smile spreads. He barely nods. I wonder if he’s having as hard a time functioning as I am.

  When he turns toward his guys, his movements are jerky. One by one, three sets of eyes focus on me. Whip’s expression is one of relief. Rye’s smile is wide and bright. Jax stares at me for a long moment and then gives me a small chin tip.

  My heart thuds as Killian turns back to the mic. His gaze locks onto me. “I met my best friend on the lawn of a farmhouse. I’d lost my way, my music. She helped me find it again.” I choke back a sob, clutching my arms around my chest, as Killian keeps talking. “Back then, she asked me to sing one of my songs for her. I wouldn’t do it. Truth is, I wanted her to like me more than she liked my music.”

  The cr
owd awws, and he gives them his cheeky smile. “I know. I’m pathetic, aren’t I?”

  “I love you, Killian,” shouts a woman at the back. “Have my babies!”

  “No,” cries a man near the stage, “have mine!”

  Killian chuckles low in the mic. “Sorry, guys. I’m taken.” While the crowd moans, he grins and switches out his Telecaster for a big acoustic Gibson J-200, plucking a few chords. “Thing is, I still want her to like me. So I’m not gonna play a Kill John song right now. I’m gonna play an old favorite of mine. And maybe I’ll get the message right this time.”

  There’s a wolf whistle in the crowd.

  Jax leans close to his mic. “You’d better, or we’re benching you for the rest of the game.”

  People laugh again, but I’m stuck on the happy grins Jax and Killian exchange. Gone is the underlying tension that’s seemed to ride them, replaced by an easy joy and appreciation for each other that brings a lump to my throat. The band is in perfect sync as they start to play “Trying To Break Your Heart” by Wilco.

  A half-laugh, half-sob breaks free. His choice is quintessential Killian; he’d never go for a straightforward, saccharine love song. But this song, with its twisted lyrics and gently teasing remorse, makes perfect sense to me. The music is lilting and bittersweet and full of possibility.

  Tears blur my vision, and I’m laughing again. Laughing and crying.

  He catches my gaze, and his eyes soften. Through the lyrics, he tells me how much it hurt to let me go. How much I hurt him. How much he wants me back.

  My feet start moving. I weave through the swaying crowd, Joe helping to clear a path. Killian watches me come, his whole heart shining in his eyes. He’s calling to me, singing that he’s the man who loves me.

  By the time I reach the stage, it’s apparent to the audience that something’s going on. People make room, their smiles wide. But not as wide as Killian’s.

  Setting his guitar down, he strides over and holds out his arms. The second our hands clasp, something inside me relaxes. He hauls me up with ease, and then I’m in his arms. Holding tight, his long, lean body surrounds me, a shelter from all things.