Idol (VIP, #1)(8)

Snorting, I take a sip of scalding hot coffee and lean back in my old-fashioned rocking chair. From my seat on the porch, I have a good view of Liberty’s house. It’s a two-story, white clapboard. The type you’d see in an Edward Hopper painting. Driving past, you’d suspect a little old lady was inside rolling out pie dough. I bet Liberty makes awesome pie, but she’d probably brain me with the roller for pissing her off before I even got a taste.

The scar my bike slashed along the grass is an ugly reminder of what I did the other night. Driving drunk. That isn’t me. I’d been the one to keep the guys in check. Keep them away from falling victim to the hard stuff—from becoming clichés, as Liberty put it.

Something strong and ugly rolls in my chest. All my efforts hadn’t helped Jax. Images of his limp body flash before my eyes in vivid color: graying skin against white tiles, yellow vomit, green eyes staring at nothing.

My teeth clench, my fingers aching from the force of my grip on the mug.

Fucking Jax. Idiot.

Hurt makes it hard to breathe. My body twitches with the need for motion. Go somewhere else. Keep moving until my mind is blank.

A slam of a screen door has me flinching, and hot coffee spills over the rim of my mug.

“Shit.” I set it on the floor and suck on my burnt finger.

Across the way, Liberty stomps down her porch steps, heading toward a high-fenced-off vegetable garden. A smile pulls at my lips. The girl never just walks. Wherever she goes, it’s like she’s embarking on a mission of doom.

She moves through a patch of sunlight, and her hair turns the color of brown butter. I have the urge to capture the moment, write down a lyric. Panic at the thought has me rising and pacing.

I should go into the house. And then what? Lie on the ancient couch covered in ugly blue roses? Drink the day away?

Crates of my stuff have arrived. Including three of my favorite guitars. Scottie, the rat bastard, sent those along even though I never asked for them. Does he think I’m going to compose? Write a song? No f*cking way. Shit. I have no idea what I’m doing here. Scottie’s grand idea of me hiding out on an island almost nobody has heard of is stupid. That’s what I get for listening to him while I was drunk.

Maybe Scottie has psychic abilities, because my cell starts ringing. And only a handful of people have this number. My eyes are on Libby kneeling between rows of green things when I answer the phone. Only it isn’t Scottie.

“Hey, man,” Whip says.

I haven’t heard his voice for nearly a year. The familiar sound is a kick in the head. I sag back into my chair. “Hey.” I clear my throat. “What’s up?”

Jesus, don’t be about Jax. My fingers go cold, blood rushing to my temples. I take a deep breath.

“Is it true you’re slumming it somewhere in the wilds of North Carolina?”

I let out a snarl. “Is he okay?”

There’s a pause and then Whip curses. “Shit, man, I wasn’t thinking. Yeah, he’s fine.” Whip makes an audible sigh. “He’s a lot better. Seeing a counselor.”

Good. Great. Nice that Jax has called to tell me as much. I rub my hand over my face, closing my eyes. “So what’s going on, then?”

“Just been thinking.” Whip’s voice goes distant. “We’ve all been scattered to the four winds. And…hell, just wanted to talk. See where you were at.”

Jax is the one who scattered us. He broke us that day, as effectively as if he’d thrown a boulder into a window. And while Jax and I usually played the roles of mom and dad in the group, Whip has always been the anchor, our glue. He’d throat-punch me if I said it to his face, but Whip is also the most sensitive. I know he’s hurting.

I glance over at Libby again. Her plump ass sways as she pulls on weeds. The sight almost makes me smile; she’d hate knowing I’m watching her. I find my voice then. “Have you talked to the others?” I ask Whip.

“Been hanging out with Rye. We’ve come up with some material.”

This is new. It’s usually Jax and I who write. I sit up a little straighter, trying to focus. I need to be supportive. I know this. But it’s hard to muster any enthusiasm. Even so, I say what needs to be said. “You record anything I can hear?”

“Yeah, sure. I’ll send it to you.” Whip pauses, then causally adds, “Maybe you can fine-tune it. Give us some notes.”

I don’t know how I feel about this. I’m not pissed. I like that they’re composing. But something rolls inside of me: avoidance, the desire to get away, and with it, the need to end the call.

But Whip isn’t finished. “Or maybe come back and work with us.”

I’m on my feet again, walking to the porch screen. I rest my forehead against its fragile wall. “Not yet. But soon, man.”

“Yeah. Sure.” Whip sounds about as sincere as I do.

“I’ll be in touch,” I say. It may or may not be a lie. I haven’t picked up my guitar in nearly a year, and have no desire to try now.

“Right.”

The silence, when he hangs up, rings in my ears. I don’t know how to be myself anymore, don’t know how to be part of Kill John. How do we go on? Do we do it without Jax? With him? And all the time looking over our shoulders for fear he’ll try it again?

Part of it isn’t even about Jax. I’m tired. Uninspired. It makes me feel guilty as hell.