Idol (VIP, #1)(9)

Though I’m on a porch, the walls press in on me, taking my air. I should go inside, do…something. My feet take me the opposite direction, off my porch and straight to Liberty.

She’s hunched over a row of herbs and doesn’t look up when I lean my wrists against the top of the fence, which is at chin level. I watch her work, not minding the silence. It’s amusing the way she ignores me, because she doesn’t do a good job of it. Her whole placid, I-don’t-give-a-f*ck-that-you’re-here expression just tells me she very much gives a f*ck. Only she doesn’t want to.

I grin at the thought. There’s something so normal about it all. “You know, I’ve had girls on their knees before me plenty of times. But they usually do it with a smile.”

She snorts. “I’d be more impressed if you were the one used to being on your knees. I like givers, not takers.”

Jesus. I can just imagine her, plush thighs spread wide, using that bossy tone to tell me what she likes best as I eat her out. I shift my hips, drawing them away from the fence. No need for her to see the growing bulge in my pants; I’m not entirely sure if I’m attracted to her or have suddenly become a masochist. “What about give and take? You down with that?”

Even as I joke, a twinge of guilt hits me. When was the last time I gave, anyway? Because she’s right; I got lazy, sat around like a king having girls suck me off while I thought up song lyrics or planned the next album. Reached a point where I did not give a ripe grape what those girls did or where they went once I got off.

Liberty glares up at me now. “What exactly are you doing here anyway? Don’t you work?”

God, I want to laugh at that. I bite my bottom lip. “Don’t you? Isn’t it, like, a Tuesday?”

“It’s Wednesday, and I work from home, thank you.”

“Doing what?”

“If I wanted you to know, I would have said.”

“Are you a deejay?”

“A deejay?” She gapes up at me. “Are you serious? Where would I even play? At the church?”

I actually flush. I don’t think I’ve flushed with embarrassment in my entire life. Glancing up at the sky to see if any pigs are flying around, I mutter, “You have all those records.”

“Ah.” She gives me a tight nod. “Those were my dad’s. He was a deejay in college.”

“It’s an impressive collection.”

“It is.”

“And the guitar?”

Her shoulders hunch. “Also my dad’s.”

Now I know how reporters feel when they interview me. I empathize. This girl has me beat on evasive maneuvers.

“You’re really not gonna tell me?” I don’t know why I’m pushing this. But her determination to shut me down amuses me.

“Guess not.” She pulls out a pair of scissors and snips off bunches of sage, thyme, and rosemary. My grandma used to have an herb garden. A small box set up in her kitchen window back in the Bronx. When I was a little kid, I’d beg her to let me cut what she needed, and she’d remind me not to bruise the leaves.

I shake off old memories before they choke me. “Fine. I’ll just leave it to my imagination.” I scratch my chin, now beard-free and smooth—damn thing itched too much to keep in this heat. “I’m gonna go with phone-sex worker.”

Libby tucks her herbs in her basket and leans back on her heels. “That’s just ridiculous. Do I sound like a phone-sex worker?”

“Actually? Yeah.” I clear my throat because I can practically hear her cream-and-ice voice doling out demands. “Yeah, you do.”

She scowls at that, her eyes finally meeting mine again. Whatever she sees in my expression has her frown deepening and her color rising. She quickly turns back to her gardening. “I’ve got work to do. You gonna stand there watching all day? Or maybe there’s a bottle you’ll be wanting to find your way to the bottom of.”

“Cute. And no. No more binge drinking for me.”

She makes a dubious sound.

I should go. I glance back at my house. It sits like a lump against the land, all forlorn and silent. That ugly itch feeling rises within my chest again. I have to fight not to scratch at it. Libby isn’t looking, though; she’s yanking weeds. Sighing, I clear my throat. “Can I help?”



Libby



He’s not leaving. I’m not sure what to do with that. It kills me to be inhospitable to him. With every short word I throw him, I can feel my grandma rolling in her grave. I was raised to be polite above all things. But Killian sets my teeth on edge for a whole host of reasons.

I’d expected to see him again, sure. We’re neighbors after all. But I didn’t expect him to immediately seek me out and want to remain in my company. And though I haven’t been welcoming, that doesn’t seem to bother him. He kind of reminds me of those boys in grade school who get a kick out of tugging girls’ pigtails.

And the bald truth is guys who look like Killian simply don’t bother with me. They never have. So why now? Is he bored? Slumming?

Whatever the case, I’m both unsettled by his presence and annoyingly curious about the guy.

Killian, on his hands and knees, weeding, should be diminished in size. If anything, he seems larger now, his shoulders broader as they move beneath a faded Captain Crunch T-shirt. His coffee-dark hair falls in tangles around those shoulders, and I have the urge to offer him a haircut. I don’t mind longer hair, but Killian’s is just a hot mess. I swear the man doesn’t own a brush.