Idol (VIP, #1)(92)

“You are not your father,” Brenna insists. “And far from an alcoholic. Trust me, I’ve seen my share of them.”

I try to smile but can’t.

“What’s wrong, Libby? Talk to me.”

Absently, I rub my thumb over my knee. “I had a guitar in my hands before I learned to write. I never tell anyone that. But it’s true. Music was our family’s way of communicating. My parents died, and I just let it go. Until Killian.”

I glance up at Brenna. “My mom didn’t want this life for me. She thought it was too hard, soulless. My dad didn’t either. But because he thought it was too addictive. And I told myself I resisted being here because I was afraid or shy. But it was them and their constant warnings that if I tried to live this way, I’d lose myself.”

“Libby,” Brenna says quietly. “Your parents’ experiences don’t have to be yours. What do you want? If you want to quit and go back to your farmhouse, you can.”

Closing my eyes, I can see the golden coastal light slanting through the old glass of my grandmother’s house, the worn floorboards, the battered farm table where I served Killian biscuits. The echo of his laughter haunts my memories.

“I was on vacation there,” I tell Brenna. “That wasn’t real life.”

“What is for you?”

“I love singing, making music, performing. Killian saw that in me when I couldn’t see it myself. But this life right now? It’s empty. It doesn’t…it doesn’t have him.”

I miss Killian with a force that’s nearly crippling. We haven’t spoken in a while, and that’s on me and my pride. It still hurts that he sent me away. Find myself, my ass. I’d found myself with him. But I let him go too. The fact that we both just seemed to give up depresses me. Maybe we weren’t meant to be.

Silence ticks.

“You have to know Killian is crazy about you,” Brenna finally says.

“I thought so,” I say thickly. “But if he really was, he wouldn’t have told me to go live my life without him. Would he?”

“What?” she sounds shocked.

My chest clenches, and I have to force myself to tell her the rest. “He could have said we’d met up at the end of his tour. But he didn’t. Instead he tells me that we should take this time to reevaluate what we want.”

It isn’t until I say the words that I really feel how badly he’d cut me. “He pushed me away.”

Brenna looks at me for a long minute. “I know my cousin. He has never been this way about a woman. Ever. If he said that, he was probably trying to do something noble and set you free.”

I laugh without humor. “Oh, he certainly did that.”

“No,” she says gently. “I mean, he told you what he thought you needed to hear to go because he thought it was best for you. Not because he didn’t want you anymore. That’s typical of my big-hearted but ham-handed cousin.” She gives my arm a nudge. “Come on, Libby, he’d be here in a heartbeat if you asked him to, and you know it.

“Brenna, my dad drank to escape the reality of life with me and my mom. I cannot be any man’s burden. I can’t. I want Killian to know I’m okay on my own too. That I can manage without him holding my hand.”

“But you aren’t okay.” Brenna’s pretty face pinches. “You’re miserable.”

I stand and dust myself off. “You know what? I am. I miss Killian so much it’s eating me alive. But worse than that, I’ve been feeling sorry for myself. Moping like a sadsack.”

Brenna’s face changes. “Okay…”

“We doing the Late Night Show tomorrow?”

“Yeah.”

“Can you make sure Killian sees me on it?” I know she can. Between her and Scottie, they could take over the world if they wanted to.

“Sure thing.”

“All right, then. I have to practice a song.” I head for my room. One thing is certain: the tight band I’ve kept around my emotions has snapped. And now broken, nothing can hold back the tide. I need to find my way back to happy.





Chapter Twenty-Nine





Killian



I have no idea where the f*ck we are. I don’t really care. Jax can shout the customary, “Hello, insert whatever the hell town,” for once. Our dressing room is like all the rest: stark and filled with people who don’t need to be here.

A shrill laugh stabs at my nerves. I don’t bother looking to see who it is. Scottie’s brought in a small TV. Libby is going to perform on the Late Night Show. She’s in L.A. Right, I’m in New York. Hours behind her.

Scottie gives me a nod, turns on the TV, and sits in the chair beside me, crossing one leg over the other like the elegant bastard he is.

On the screen, the audience claps, Libby having already been announced. And there she is, walking on to the tiny soundstage with that determined stride I know so well. Brenna has developed a signature look for her: flowing, almost bohemian knee-length sundresses and big, chunky combat boots. Pure Libby.

My chest clenches at the sight of her, a pang of longing shooting through my heart. It hurts seeing her. Agitated, I turn the volume up high as she gives the audience a nod of acknowledgment.

Libby plucks a few strings on her Martin, then leans closer to the mic. Her pretty lips are glossy and pink, and the ghost of their touch tickles along my neck.