Idol (VIP, #1)(21)

He snorts again, but I talk over him.

“I have your albums. I’ve heard you sing. There’s so much life in your music. God, people would kill to have that talent, that power to convey so much emotion. And I…” I shake my head. “Hiding here, or behind our friendship… I can’t pretend that’s right, Killian. I wouldn’t be a friend to you if I did.”

He’s silent for a long moment, his expression stony. Then he gives a short nod. “Understood.” He looks around as if he’s suddenly woken up and doesn’t quite know where he is. His gaze slides over me, not holding on. “It’s getting late. I’m gonna head out.”

Before I can say another word, he leaves. And it takes everything in me not to shout for him to come back.





Chapter Six





Killian



I stay away from Liberty for the next few days. Not sure what to do but keep my distance until I cool down. She hit below the belt when she basically spoke the truth—damn it. The worst was when she claimed she didn’t want me using her as an excuse to stay.

Excuse? The last thing I view Libby as is an excuse to hide. I’d been a breath away from kissing her when she’d looked up at me, her eyes wide beneath that ugly trucker hat. Hell, I’ve wanted to kiss her for days. Every time I look at her. Normally, I wouldn’t hold back, but nothing about my relationship with Libby is normal.

I don’t spend time with chicks. I don’t spend time with anyone. It’s writing-composing, practicing, recording, touring, f*cking, sleeping. Same old record spinning round and round. I used to hang out with the guys, but that tapered off once we went Platinum. No free time and too much attention on us when we were in public took care of that.

I’m a twenty-seven-year-old, multimillionaire singer-guitarist in the biggest rock band in the world, and I have no earthly clue how to have a relationship with a woman. I could laugh. But I don’t find it funny.

Because I want Liberty Bell.

Hell, I knew I was in trouble when she stripped down to that plain, black bikini, and I got instant, demanding wood. I swear she’s trying to hide behind the clothes she wears, because her body is banging. She isn’t model perfect; I’ve done model perfect, a lot. And at some point, bodies just become bodies. Attraction is a whole different beast.

Liberty’s plump-but-firm ass, narrow waist, and perky little breasts just do it for me. Jesus, her tits. They’d fit the wells of my palms perfectly, those sweet tips pointing up, just begging to be sucked.

That day at the beach I’d wanted to get my hands and mouth on them so badly, I’d almost run off into the ocean so I didn’t jump her.

So, yeah, I’m in trouble. She got starstruck over who I am, and while I know she still likes me for me, when I try to see her stepping into my world, I fail. Not because she wouldn’t fit. But because everything I know about Libby tells me she wouldn’t want to. When she lets her guard down, I see that she’s into me too. But she’s fighting it, throwing up walls almost desperately. What’s a guy supposed to do with that?

So I’ve put some distance between us in the most literal way I can.

My bike is back from the shop, and I took a long drive along the mainland coast—staying at cheap motels, driving when I get up, eating when I get hungry. It’s beautiful, calming. Lonely. I miss her. Which is weird since I only really just met her. But I know her. After weeks of hanging out, I know all sorts of Libby things.

I know that even though she makes the best damn biscuits in the world and perfect peach pie—food that will have me moaning in pleasure—Libby likes to snack on ramen noodles slathered in BBQ sauce and butter, which is some truly disgusting shit. I know that she loves Scooby-Doo cartoon movies and actually gets freaked out during the “spooky” scenes.

And she knows me. She knows that Britney Spears was my first concert, not The Strokes as the public believes—though how I wish that were true. She knows I hate beans, not because of the taste, but because I can’t stand biting into the nasty skins surrounding them.

We know each other. We can talk about anything, or nothing. It never gets old or boring. Libby is my resonance; when I’m in her vicinity, I’m suddenly amped up, with everything moving at a different frequency. And I don’t care if that’s sappy. It’s the truth.

I can’t stay away any longer. If all I can have of her is friendship, I’ll have to take it.

It takes me all day to get back home. When I turn down the long shared road toward our houses, the sky is fading to smoky blue shot with coral pink. My house sits dark in the shadows. Golden light streams from Libby’s window, hitting the lawn. Her silhouette moves past the kitchen window, and I imagine she’s cooking something awesome.

My bike nears the fork in the road, one way taking me to her, the other to my house. I want to go to Libby so badly it’s an actual, physical pain in my chest and gut. I want to sit in her kitchen that smells of comfort food, hear the slam-bang of her pots and pans as she talks about nothing in particular, and watch the efficient way she moves in her space.

I want that.

I turn toward my house instead. And it hurts.

After a shower, I grab a beer and slump in the big rocking chair on my porch. I find my cell sitting on the little side table. I left it behind on purpose. Five missed calls from Scottie, and a text: Jax is ready. Get your ass back to NYC.