Idol (VIP, #1)(63)

“Jealous? More like disgusted.”

I push to my feet as Brenna goes bright red.

“You mother—”

“All right,” I cut in. “Why don’t we take it somewhere else?” I nod to the very interested crowd forming. Someone giggles, a few people duck their heads. But most stare.

Brenna blanches, her gaze darting around before zeroing in on Rye, who doesn’t appear to be bothered at all. “You are an *,” she hisses beneath her breath.

It’s the lowest she’s kept her voice the whole time, but the force of her anger is enough to make Rye flinch. He opens his mouth like he’s going to reply, but Brenna turns away from him, grabbing a mute Jesse by the hand and stalking off.

Jesse glances back, clearly fearful for his job.

I wave him off as Rye snorts.

“Little wuss didn’t even stand up for her,” Rye mutters.

He brushes past us, stealing a beer out of some guy’s hand as he goes. The door slams on his way out.

“That right there.” Jax shakes his head in disgust. “That’s why you don’t f*ck with your crew.”



Libby



“I bet they’re doing it within the week,” one woman says to another as they drink martinis and watch Brenna and Rye stomp off in different directions.

The other woman snorts. “They’re probably already doing it. And can you blame her?” She sucks at her teeth. “Rye is hot as hell.”

“Mmm…all those massive muscles.”

“Personally, I’d rather do Killian. Tight and lean, with those sinful eyes. And that walk of his. You know he’s loaded for bear.”

“I have no idea what that means,” her friend says with a laugh.

But I do. I turn away before I have to hear more speculation over Killian’s equipment. Or the women who clearly want a chance to find out how big it actually is.

After-parties are a fact of touring life I never really considered. Frankly, I think they blow. Oh, meeting true fans is fun. They practically vibrate with joy when they finally face one of the guys. It’s cute. At least, those types of fans are. Then there are the groupies. Women whose job, it seems, is to put another notch on their proverbial bed posts. I shouldn’t hate on them, and I try really hard not to. But watching them hang on Killian like he’s a steak thrown into a pack of lionesses isn’t easy.

And they will do anything—anything—to get attention. I’ve seen more tits in these past weeks than in the whole of my life. Tops coming off at the oddest times. Like, oh, hey, the music started? Let me rip off my top and shake what my mama gave me. Or my plastic surgeon. Same difference.

Doesn’t matter if it’s a room full of journalists, record execs, roadies, and other hangers on. In fact, that somehow appears to make a strip show more thrilling for them.

Killian doesn’t encourage them. If anything, he always shoots me a pained look that says, “See what our hiding is making me do?” I love him for it. And hate myself a little more each time.

Oddly, Whip is also shying away from women. I’d wonder if he didn’t fancy them, but his eyes always stay glued to the displays of female flesh as if he’s hypnotized. Jax appears as apathetic about women as he is about everything. Oh, he goes off with a few, but the enthusiasm isn’t there.

Rye is the only one who seems to enjoy it. At least he did until he blew up at Brenna. Now that they’re gone, it’s business as usual: overly loud and fake laughter, people looking around to see who’s looking at them.

“Always something to talk about,” says a female voice at my side as I lean against the bar and sip my drink. A pretty blonde who’d look right at home in a Southern sorority gives me a pleasant smile. “Or write about, as the case may be.”

A press badge on her chest identifies her as Z. Smith.

Protective of both Rye and Brenna, I give the woman a quelling look. “Must be a slow day if a little argument is something to write about.”

She shrugs, her gaze drifting over the room. “Depends on who’s arguing.” Her sharp blue eyes settle back on me. “I’m Zelda, by the way.”

I take her offered hand. “I love that name.”

“I hate it,” she says with a nose wrinkle. “But it’s mine, so what can I do? You’re Liberty Bell.”

“Which makes me an expert on oddball names,” I say with a laugh.

“I don’t envy the jokes you must have heard when you were younger.”

Though she’s simply chatting with me, I don’t relax. Brenna and her assistant, Jules, have drilled into me the importance of watching your tongue with the press. They can take anything you say and twist it.

“The best response,” I tell her lightly, “is to just yawn in the face of idiocy.”

“I’ll remember that.” Her expression becomes a bit sharper. “So what do you think of being on tour? This is your first public experience, correct?”

Here we go. Interview time. “It’s a learning curve, but I’m enjoying it. The guys have been very supportive.”

“Killian James brought you in, right?”

“Yep.”

“I heard some story that you were neighbors this summer.”

Probably because that’s what Brenna put in my press statement.