Idol (VIP, #1)(60)

The guys laugh.

Jax peers at me. “Didn’t hurl on stage.”

“Yay me,” I deadpan. “Thanks, by the way. You saved my bacon.”

“Mainly, I saved the rest of us from having to smell your breath,” he says with a shrug, but the corners of his eyes crinkle with humor. “I’ll ask Jules to keep extra ginger ale and toothbrush kits in stock.”

Jules is one of the assistants and is riding on another bus. So many buses. A bus for roadies. One for Brenna, Jules, wardrobe coordinators—that the guys have a wardrobe kind of made me snicker, but it’s basically the shit job of doing their laundry—and press coordinators. One for the Not A Minion. And one for Scottie. Yes, he has his own bus. The guys, however, have always travelled together and stick with that tradition. And none of the other buses is as nice as ours with its black-and-cream leather interior, full kitchen, bath, and dozens of luxury perks—well, maybe Scottie’s is too, but he won’t let me in to check.

Killian hands me a bottled lemonade from the ice bucket at his side. There are also beers in it, but he knows me well. I take a long drink, refreshed by the sweet-tart flavor.

“So,” Whips asks, tapping a quick beat on the small djembe drum he’s holding. “How did it feel busting your rock concert cherry?”

I grin around my bottle and absolutely refuse to look at Killian. Memories of our bathroom visit are like handprints on my skin. “Once I got on stage, it was…perfection.”

Whip laughs. “Yeah. It’s something, isn’t it? And you did good. Better than you think.” His blue eyes crinkle with glee. “I remember our first big gig.”

“Madison Square Garden,” Rye puts in, chuckling.

“We’d done dozens of smaller clubs,” Whip explains, “but finally we had hit our stride and were on a major tour. So there we were. Opening night. Jax is puking up a lung behind a set of speakers, sending roadies scattering like roaches in the light.”

I laugh, and Jax shakes his head.

Whip continues with a big grin. “Rye’s pacing back and forth, babbling about how he can’t remember any of the music.”

Killian flails his hands as if to mimic Rye, and his voice rises to a falsetto. “‘What’s the opening song?’ ‘What do we play after?’ ‘How do I f*cking play my f*cking bass?’”

Rye’s cheeks pink. “Fuck, it’s so true. I was a total blank.”

“And you?” I ask Whip, because he’s telling the story.

“Oh, I was a hot mess. Poked myself in the f*cking eye with my stick.”

“What?” I laugh.

“Seriously.” His eyes gleam. “I don’t even know how I did it. But the motherf*cker was so swollen, I couldn’t see out of it.”

“Oh, God.” I wipe my own eyes, now blurry with tears, then catch Killian’s smiling gaze. “Where were you in all this?”

“Oh, Killian was right in the center of the storm,” Whip says. “He just stands there, hands on hips, looking at us. And then yells…”

At once Jax, Rye, and Whip shout, “That’s it, I want my mommy!”

Killian laughs, ducking his head.

The guys crack up.

“It was so f*cking random,” Rye says, practically choking. “We all stopped our shit and just gaped at him. Pulled us together in an instant.”

Killian catches my eye, and I smile. Happiness and a tender, finer emotion swell in my chest. I adore this man. Everything about him. As if he reads this, his expressive eyes darken, and I feel his care, his need as clearly as if his arms were wrapped around me.

I blink and look away, not wanting the others to see what has to be clearly stamped on my face. “Well,” I say, “I guess my vomit session wasn’t so bad after all.”

“You were golden, Libs,” Killian tells me, his deep voice encouraging. “And it will only get easier.”

“Says you,” Jax retorts. But he turns his attention to the guitar in his hand and plucks out a familiar tune.

On cue, the guys follow suit and start to play The Beatles’ “Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da” with Killian and Jax harmonizing, Rye playing a small lap keyboard, and Whip beating on his djembe.

Whip nudges me with his elbow, and I join in singing.

We go like that all night, singing, playing, and trying to best each other with choosing obscure songs to perform. And the bus speeds down the endless dark highway. I have no idea where we are. But that’s just geography. For the first time, I have some inkling of who I really am.



“Like sex on Sunday, sliding skin to skin,” Killian growls to a crowd of sixty-thousand screaming fans, but his hot eyes are on me. “I’ll sink into your grace, lick up your sweet sin.”

Jesus. I was there when he wrote those lyrics, and it still makes me weak at the knees when he looks at me as though he’s remembering every touch between us. Then he sings with his deep, raw voice, as if promising me more.

My words come out raspy, needy when I sing back, “You think you have me figured out. You think you want in, but that’s not what love’s about.”

At my side, Rye bumps shoulders with me as we play, and Killian sings the refrain of “Broken Door.” Stage lights turn everything into a white haze. Their heat caresses my skin. Energy flows through me on a wave, making the tiny hairs along my body stand on end. My nipples tighten, slick need swelling between my thighs.