Idol (VIP, #1)(44)

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 f*cking.” 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 f*ck 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 f*ck 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 * who got everyone calling me Manwingo for a year.”

“Manwingo!” Rye and Whip shout happily.

Jax almost smiles. “It was a compliment, chucklef*ck.”

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 * had been before. I got the f*ck 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 f*ck 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.”