Idol (VIP, #1)(58)

“Marginally,” I grump.

He rolls his eyes. “If you go out there and hurl on stage, we’ll talk. Until then, buck the f*ck up, drink your soda, and be on cue. Got it?”

“No.”

His eyes narrow to icy green slits. “Killian put his ass on the line for you. He believes in you, which means I have to too. Do not make him look the fool.”

Of all the things Jax could have said to snap me out of my fear, that was it. I kind of hate him for finding my weak spot so easily. All I can do is salute, unable to resist sticking one finger up slightly higher than the others. “Got it.”

“Good. Twenty minutes!”

Yep. I’m going to die.



Killian



I love playing at Fenway. It’s historic, filled with quirks. Legends have performed here, and it’s imbued with the soul of baseball. Even though I’m standing under the burn of electric lights, I swear I can smell baseball—a faint aroma of hot dogs and beer, grass and sun. The stadium isn’t huge, but it feels that way. Walls of fans rise almost straight up around us. The floor is a vast sea of writhing bodies. In the distance, I can just make out the baseball diamond, protected from fans by metal fencing.

My body vibrates as I finish singing and step back to take a drink of water. My hand shakes just a bit. I’m nervous. Not for me. For her.

Whip and Rye keep up the beat, doing a jam solo that will lead into the next song, “Outlier.” It’s Libby’s first song with us.

I see her hovering in the wings, her face pale as death. My poor girl, torn up by stage fright. Jax offered to talk to her. Seeing as he’s been a grumpy pain in the ass about her until now, I was more than happy to let him go. Maybe they can form a friendship. Something I’d love.

I catch her gaze and give her a slight nod and a smile. You got this, baby doll.

Like a good soldier, she straightens her spine, slips her guitar strap over her head, and takes a visibly deep breath. God, but she glows with an inner light as she strides out on stage.

The Gibson L-1 open body practically dwarfs her small frame. She’s wearing another silky sundress, this one white with big red poppies all over it. Chunky black boots grace her feet, just like the first time I met her.

Rye picks up a fiddle, and Jax switches out his Telecaster for a mandolin. Last week, we toyed with “Outlier” and “Broken Door,” finessing the sound. Now it’s perfect. John, who’s in charge of all my equipment, hands me my Gretsch, and I walk to the mic.

“We’re gonna do things a little different tonight. Get a little soulful.”

The Animal howls its approval.

I grin into the mic. “And this lovely lady to my right,” I say as Libby walks up to the mic next to mine, “is the talented Ms. Liberty Bell. Let’s give her a proper welcome.”

She trembles as the Animal screams, catcalls, and hollers, punctuating the night air. She doesn’t look at me, doesn’t do anything but stare out at the sea of humanity with wide eyes. And for a cold second, I fear for her. Have I pushed her too far? Have I f*cked everything?

But then Jax starts picking on his mandolin, and Rye starts up on the violin: go time. Whip ticks out a one, two, three, and Liberty explodes into action, hitting her mark with perfect precision.

Her voice is clear and utterly beautiful. It breaks my heart and makes it swell all at once.

Jax sings backup. And then it’s my turn to join in.

Libby and I harmonize. As she turns, the harsh stage lights set her aglow. She looks at me and smiles. Her joy is f*cking incandescent. It sets me off, the surge of pure emotion stronger than anything I’ve ever felt on any stage.

Here is where she’s meant to be.

The song ends too soon. My need to kiss her is so strong it hurts. A vibrating roar of approval surrounds us. She beams as she takes her bow and exits. I don’t want her to go.

The rest of our show goes by in a blur until she returns for the last song. We’ll do an encore later, but for now, we’re ending with “In Deep.” It’s a love song with a sarcastic bent. Libby and I will play eighty percent of the song ourselves with the band coming in for the finale.

The second she’s back by my side, my body tunes into hers. Looking more confident now, she plucks the opening tune—light, playful.

I don’t face the crowd. I turn to her. I play and sing for her. And she sings back to me, her eyes shining bright. This. This is what it’s supposed to be about.

We finish on a lingering note, and then Libby and I exit. The rest of the guys will play on for a few minutes. I need those minutes. I want to talk to her, find out if she feels as amped as I do.

But Libby apparently has other ideas. She doesn’t look my way as she walks off stage, her pace so quick it’s practically a jog. Her hair whips around her head as she wrenches off her guitar and thrusts it in John’s waiting hand. I toss him my guitar as well, not slowing down. I’m so pumped, my heart races, my cock is a steel bar, bent painfully against my jeans. It wants out and in Libby.

But that’s not going to happen now.

Past working crew, loitering execs, and God knows who else, she moves, never stopping, not making eye contact with anyone. I don’t bother talking. She can’t outrun me—my longer legs keep me in pace with her frantic strides—and eventually, she’ll have to stop.