Idol (VIP, #1)(82)

“Yeah, sure.” He taps his thumb against his thigh.

We’ve been traveling together for a while now, but we’ve never really been alone except for that first night when he came to check on me and my sad case of stage fright. We’re not friends, but I’ve never considered him my enemy. Unfortunately, I have no idea if that’s true for him or not.

In silence we sip lukewarm coffee until I can’t take it anymore. “You here to bawl me out or something?”

Jax smirks. “You have a bit of a dramatic side, don’t you?”

“Oh, please, you looked like you wanted to spit nails last night.”

His mouth twitches. “Last night was f*cked up. On all counts.”

I run a thumb around the thick edge of my cup. “It was at that.”

Jax sets his cup down. “Despite what you may think, I like you, Libby. You’re talented as hell. You belong in this world as much as any of us do.” Shock courses through me, but he doesn’t stop there. “And I’m sorry as hell that dickhead put his hands on you. He deserved a beat down.”

“Why do I feel there’s a ‘but’ coming along?”

His green eyes lock on mine. “The record label is going to give Killian hell. Right or wrong, what he did looks bad for the band. And for you.”

“I know this.”

“I know you know. But do you understand the power you have over Killian? It’s pretty apparent, he’ll always choose you over anything else.”

“What do you want me to say?” I ask. “I’m sorry this happened. I wish it hadn’t. But I can’t change Killian’s reaction.”

Jax rubs his fingers over his forehead then peers at me. “And in the future? When other *s come out of the woodwork? Because they will. Half the public already blames you. For the simple fact that you’re a woman, and Killian’s now acting unhinged.”

“Great.” Though I’m not surprised. Victim-blaming is alive and well in modern society.

“Yeah, great,” he repeats with a sigh. “He cannot handle it—not when the spotlight of judgment is on someone he cares about. He couldn’t handle it on me, and he absolutely won’t be able to take it on you.” Jax kneels next to me, his eyes tired but intense. “There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t feel the repercussions of what I did. I feel guilty as all f*ck for the way I hurt them. But especially for the way it caused Killian to break down. Because he was the one who tried to shield me from the press and take it all on his shoulders.”

After last night’s confession, I know more than anyone how much it still hurts Killian. My throat clicks as I swallow. “This is why you didn’t want me here?”

Jax nods. “I didn’t know what would happen. But I knew there’d be something.” He laughs sadly. “There always is on a tour. And I knew Killian wasn’t ready. He doesn’t have his walls up anymore.”

No, he doesn’t. I don’t either. Both of us are walking around exposed and vulnerable. I feel naked enough as it is. But the idea that I’m also Killian’s weakness is intolerable. You’re supposed to protect the ones you love, not leave them open to pain.

“Promise me something,” I whisper, because my voice is fast fading. “Be…kind to him. Take care of him. He needs it.”

Jax nods, tension working between his brows. When Jax leaves, I head to another room.

Scottie answers on the second knock. It’s a betrayal, what I’m about to do. But it doesn’t stop me. “Can I come in?”



Killian



“We are not amused, Mr. James.”

Sitting at a glossy conference table in a cold hotel meeting room is not my idea of fun. Listening to the duo I like to call Smith One and Smith Two is giving me heartburn. My two least favorite record label execs sit across from me, both of them in identical black Armani suits and sharing the same reproachful expression. They only need sunglasses and ear pieces to complete the Agent Smith look.

As soon as I calmed down last night, I knew this meeting was coming. You cause a scene at an industry party, you will be hearing about it.

Back when Kill John first started, we’d been their bitch—attending parties and functions when they wanted us to, touring when they demanded it, every damn aspect of our lives under their control. Those days are gone. You put out a diamond-status album like we did with Apathy, and the tables turn. Kill John no longer kisses ass, we get our cocks sucked.

Doesn’t mean certain execs don’t forget that once in a while, especially when they smell blood in the water—something Smith One clearly has been waiting for. “First we had to deal with John Blackwood’s drug habit—”

“He didn’t have a f*cking drug habit,” I snap. “He was clinically depressed, and I’ll thank you to shut the fu—”

Scottie holds up a hand. “What happened with Jax isn’t pertinent to yesterday’s events.”

“I beg to differ,” Smith One says. “It is yet another pileup in the car wreck that is Kill John lately.”

A red haze swarms over my vision. “Metal Death left a bathtub full of actual shit in a hotel room, but you’ve got a problem with me defending a woman?”

“Property damage can be quietly taken care of,” Smith One retorts. “You, on the other hand, attacked a man in a room full of reporters.”