Idol (VIP, #1)(7)

Now, I just want to get away from him. Talking about my parents reminds me why I should hate this guy—this drunk-driving stranger who took not only his life but the lives of everyone he shared the road with into his unsteady hands. My life will never be the same because of a drunk driver, and I have little respect for those who do it. Even if they quote Shakespeare and have cheeky, somewhat cute smiles.

Not looking back, I get my keys. He’s not far behind though, his boots clomping just as loudly as mine, echoing in the front hall. He’s got a fresh biscuit in hand and is chewing on the remnants of another. I refuse to find that endearing.

“You really don’t want to know my name?” he calls.

I grab my sunglasses. “Why is this bothering you? It isn’t as though we’ll ever see each other again.”

His frown grows. “Seems like common courtesy.”

“After that shower, I think we’re past basic etiquette.”

Oddly, this makes him smile, and when he does? Oh boy. It’s like the sun breaking through storm clouds, all brightness and open joy. I’m fairly blinded by it and have to blink and look away.

“See, that’s my point.” He gestures toward me with his biscuit before taking a huge, grunting bite. “You’ve seen me naked—”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full. It’s disgusting.”

He keeps chewing. “You’ve washed my cock—”

“Hey, I didn’t get anywhere near your dangly bits, buddy. ”

That grin of his wraps around his food. “In my mind you did. And you washed my hair. You can’t wash a man’s hair and not know his name. That’s just bad juju.”

“Juju?” I try not to laugh as I head for the door. “You’re still drunk.”

“Clear as a crystal, Libby.” He’s right behind me, dogging my steps. “Now ask my name.”

I stop short and turn, and my nose meets the center of his chest. The contact ripples through me like a vibrating wave. I step back and tilt my head.

He gives me a slightly smug, completely antagonistic look. But his voice drops, sweet and cajoling. “Come on, ask.”

God, that voice. I’ve been trying to ignore it because it’s the kind of voice that can pull you under, make you lose your train of thought. Low and deep and powerful. He talks, and it’s a melody.

He’s staring at me now, waiting, his dark gaze expectant. It sets off a slow thud, thud, thud in my chest. I haven’t stood this close to anyone in a good, long while.

Swallowing, I find my voice. “All right then, tell me.”

But he doesn’t speak. He freezes as if he’s caught and is suddenly wary.

“You’re kidding me, right?” I laugh, not really amused at all. “You bug the hell out of me to ask, and now you pull a Rumpelstiltskin?”

He blinks as if shaking himself out of a trance and then glares. “Don’t worry, your firstborn is safe from me.” He sucks in a breath and thrusts out his hand. “Killian.”

I eye that hand of his. Big, broad, the fingertips and top edge of his palm are calloused. A musician of some sort. Probably a guitarist. I run a thumb over my own rough fingertips. He’s waiting again, his brows knitting as if I’ve insulted him by not taking his hand.

So I do. It’s warm and firm. He gives me a squeeze strong enough to bend my bones, though I don’t think he knows how hard his grip really is. Definitely a musician.

“Pleased to meet you, Liberty Bell.” His smile is nice, boyish almost, beneath his thick beard. Earlier, I thought he was in his thirties. But now I’m guessing he’s more my age, mid-to-late twenties.

I let his hand go. “I wouldn’t call our meeting a pleasure, exactly.”

“Oh, now, you have to admit I have great aim.” He gives me a nudge as I roll my eyes.

“Let’s never speak of that again.”

“Speak of what?” His tone is light as he follows me outside.

I head toward my truck, but he stops me with a touch to my elbow. He’s focused on Mrs. Cromley’s house across the way. Mrs. Cromley died six months ago, and her nephew, George, took over the place. Haven’t seen him yet, but I know he’s a forty-something with a wife and kids. I doubt he’ll move in; the house sits at the edge of nowhere, and our little island of the tip of the Outer Banks doesn’t even have a school.

Then again, Al’s Grocery van is idling out front, and two big boxes are on the porch. Killian looks around, taking in the rolling grass turning toasted brown as fall sets in, the crest of the hill, and the small sliver of blue where the Atlantic Ocean crashes to the shore.

Killian scratches his jaw as if his beard itches. “That house over there. That George Cromley’s place, do you know?”

A sinking sensation pulls at my gut. “Yeah,” I say slowly.

Killian nods and catches my gaze. His smile is just as slow and smug as usual. “Then I guess I won’t need a ride into town after all, neighbor.”





Chapter Three





Killian



I told her my name, and she didn’t recognize me. It’s been so long since someone my age looked at me as if I were a total stranger, it’s oddly unsettling now. And ain’t that f*cked up? I’ve roamed far and wide to get away from fans, from people kissing my ass and wanting something from me. And now that I’ve crossed paths with a girl who clearly would just like me to go away? I’m irritated.