Idol (VIP, #1)(57)

Killian jumps up and whoops, raising his fists.

We finish the set, and I’m left panting and feeling like I’ve swallowed razors.

Jax looks me over, his expression blasé as ever. “All right.”

“That’s it?” Rye says, giving my shoulder a hearty slap as Killian jogs over. “Naw, she killed it. Acknowledgment, Jax. Give it.”

Jax snorts. “The point was to see if she’d try.” He gives me a rare friendly look. “You did.”

“You’re still a dick,” Killian says. A brief touch to the small of my back is all he gives me. It’s more than enough right now, even if I want to turn and fling myself on him. His deep voice affects me as it always does. “She’s in.”

Jax nods, focusing on putting his guitar down. “Guess so.”

A wave of dizziness threatens to topple me. Holy shit; I’m playing with Kill John. What the f*ck am I doing?





Chapter Seventeen





Libby



Boston, Fenway Park. Full house. But don’t worry, Killian told me earlier, it only seats about thirty-seven thousand people. Only. Ha.

Said people are now chanting something that sounds a lot like “Kill John.” The floor beneath my knees vibrates with heavy bass as Not A Minion—the opening act—does their finale.

Where am I?

Crouched over a toilet, heaving my guts out.

I slump back, fairly disgusted that I’m on this nasty floor, but too weak to get up.

A faint knock sounds on the door.

“Go away. Forever,” I add with emphasis.

But the door opens. Footsteps echo. A pair of worn, black boots appear on the opposite side of my stall. I would think it’s Killian, but I know his stride. The man walks with a swagger, as if he’s making room for that heavy, long dick he’s packing in his pants. This walk is much cleaner, but just as confident.

However, the last person I expect to hear is Jax. “Do I need to throw you a life raft? Or is your head finally out of the toilet?”

“Har.” I wipe my mouth and curse the gods that Jax, of all people, has found me in such a low state.

Slowly, as if expecting another round of vomiting, he opens my stall door. I glare up at him, misery weighing me down. His expression, as usual, is placid. He hands me a frosty bottle of ginger ale. “Drink up, chuckles. You’re on in twenty.”

I take the proffered bottle with gratitude. The soda goes down cold and wonderfully refreshing.

“I want to die.” I glance at him. “I don’t even care if lobbing death jokes your way is in poor taste. That’s how serious I am.”

He laughs, short and dry. “I like you more for not curbing your jokes for me.” He offers me a hand, and I take it, letting him pull me up.

I keep gulping the ginger ale as I make my way to the sink. Jesus. I look strung out—totally haggard and slightly green. Setting aside the soda, I wash my hands and pat cold water on my sweaty face. “So why are you here,” I ask him. “You lose a bet? Draw straws?”

A soft snort echoes in the room. “I volunteered.”

I stare at him in the mirror. “Well…that’s new.”

Jax’s reflection shrugs. “The rest of them would just baby you. We don’t have time for that.”

Time. Right. My time is almost up. The sound of Not A Minion finishing up and the subsequent roar for Kill John is hard to ignore. The whole room hums with suppressed energy, as if a great beast is waiting to be let out of the gate. The Animal. That’s what Killian calls the crowd. I understand that now. Too well.

Cold sweat breaks out along my back.

“I can’t do it,” I blurt out. “I’ll barf on stage. I know it. I told Killian I was defective this way. Shit. Shit.”

Jax leans a shoulder against the wall and watches me. After a moment, he pulls out a packet containing a tiny toothbrush and a little tube of toothpaste and hands it over. “You know why I have these things?”

“You’ve got magic wizard pants on? Is there a tent in that pocket too?”

“Not now,” he says with a small smile, “but maybe later when a couple of eager female fans drop on my lap.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Gah. I set myself up for that. Unclean!” I shove my new toothbrush in my mouth and brush with vigor.

He chuckles. “I have these things because I was just in the little boys’ room doing the same.”

I freeze. “You?” I squeak around the brush in my mouth, toothpaste foam bubbling on my bottom lip.

“Me,” he says, frowning at my display. “Every freaking show.”

I quickly rise and grab a paper towel to pat dry. “Seriously?” I mean, Jax Blackwood having stage fright?

He shakes his head as if I’m being ridiculous. “It happens to a lot of performers. Barbra Streisand quit doing live shows because she had it so bad.”

“I have to pause here,” I say. “You, Jax Blackwood, Mr. Too Cool Rocker, just referenced Barbra Streisand.”

He pulls a face. “Smart ass. She’s a legendary singer. Of course I know who she is.” His lips twitch, but then he’s calm again. “Would it be better if I’d said Adele? Because she’s been known to puke beforehand too.”