Idol (VIP, #1)(55)

“Why the limo yesterday?” I ask because I can’t listen to my running thoughts any more.

Killian catches my hand and holds it in an easy clasp. If he feels how clammy I am, he’s nice enough not to mention it. “It was your first time in New York, and you were having a Pretty Woman moment. That definitely calls for a limo.”

“It would be smart not to mention Pretty Woman in that context,” I tell him dryly.

His cheeks flush. “Shit. Right. You are a powerful, modern woman. If anything, I should be the prostitute here—”

“Not helping.”

“Right. Right. No payment for sex of any kind.” He lifts my hand and kisses my knuckles. “But lots of sex is still on the table. Hot, dirty, sweaty—”

I grab the back of his neck and haul him down to silence him with my mouth. He likes that, and practically climbs on top of me as he kisses me back.

Making out like teenagers in the backseat, this is what he does to me. We’re both breathless when we pull apart. “If we keep this up,” he murmurs, “I’m going to ask Michael to circle the block.”

“No,” I squeak out in horror. “He’d totally know what we were doing!”

He gives me a dry, slightly pained look. “I’m sure he had no clue what we were up to last night.”

“Don’t tell me that,” I wail, covering my face. “God, I’ll never be able to look him in the eye again.”

Killian just laughs, pulls my hand away, and gives me a sweet kiss.

When we pull up, I keep my head down and mutter a quick “Thank you” to Michael as he holds the door for me.

Whip lives in a loft in Tribeca. According to Killian, half of it has been sound-proofed and converted into a stage and a small recording studio.

“Nothing too fancy,” Killian had said as we got dressed to go. “Just convenient for when we want to mess around with new sounds or practice.”

After Killian punches in a code, we take an old-fashioned service elevator to the top floor. It opens onto a light-filled space with worn wood floors and exposed brick walls.

I follow Killian farther into the loft on legs that feel like noodles, my pulse thrumming in my neck so hard I’m sure it’s visible. When he stops short in the entrance and turns my way, I almost stumble into him.

Killian braces my shoulders, then ducks his head to meet my eyes. “Hey. Listen to me.”

“I’m listening.”

His dark eyes shine with emotion. “You are Liberty Bell. The woman whose guitar playing and voice brought me to my knees. You were born for music.” His fingers squeeze just enough to hold my attention. “Nothing anyone says can take that away. You belong here.”

My eyes smart. “Stop,” I whisper. “You’re going to make me cry.”

His smile is tilted and brief. “Kick ass, Elly May.”

A laugh bubbles in my chest. “Kick ass, lawn bum.”

With a quick kiss to my forehead, Killian sets me back and walks on into the loft. “Yo!” he calls out, his voice echoing in the cavernous space. “Where’s everyone at?”

We move past funky ‘50s modern furniture, a kitchen with navy cabinets and copper appliances, and through a pair of glass doors.

A group of guys stand around an open space with a small seating area and a low stage, set up with a drum kit and several guitars to the side.

They all turn when we enter, and I swear I’m about to stumble to my knees, I’m so nervous. Two of them are tall and lean like Killian—one with dark hair and blue eyes who looks like he could be related to Killian, and another with brown hair and green eyes. His expression is guarded, his body tense.

Another guy is built like a football player and has sandy hair and a big grin.

“Killian,” says the big guy. “You brought a friend.”

Killian’s tone is easy. “Guys, meet Libby.”

The one who looks a lot like Killian is Whip Dexter, the drummer. He shakes my hand in a bruising grip and gives me a friendly smile. “Heard your demo tape. You’ve got a great voice.”

Blush. “Thanks.”

The big guy, who is Rye Peterson, the bass player, nods in agreement. “I hear you play the guitar as well.”

“Yep.” I’m holding the case of my old Gibson, my palm so sweaty I’m in danger of dropping the damn thing.

“Glad to have you join us,” Rye says. “It’s gonna be fun, kid.”

Kid. Okay. I can handle “kid.”

Jax, the sullen one with brown hair, is the last to saunter over. All the guys are good looking. But Jax would be perfect in an Abercrombie and Fitch catalogue. He’s got that all-American, pouty perfection about him. I suddenly remember that the press has called Jax a devil in an angel’s body, and Killian an angel disguised as the devil.

I can see what they meant. Jax appears wholesome, polished—the kid you send to Harvard and he returns to run for office. Killian looks more like the guy waiting on his motorcycle down the street for your daughter to crawl out her window.

Personality wise, I know Killian is kind and honest. Apparently everyone else does too.

As for Jax?

He gives me a long look, and I’m clearly found wanting. “Liberty Bell, was it?”

“Pretty hard name to forget,” I say, not liking his tone.