Idol (VIP, #1)(93)

“My best friend in the world taught me this lesson,” she says in that sweet vanilla cream voice of hers. “Just took me a while to believe it.”

And my heart pounds. Am I that friend? I hate that I have to ask myself. God, please let it be me.

Libby starts singing Prince’s “Cream.” Perfect tune, perfect delivery. There’s a little smile about her mouth, almost wry, a bit bittersweet. And she looks at the camera—directly at it, as if she finally owns her talent. Her song choice confirms it, the lyrics about taking your chance, reaching for what you want in life.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. A frisson runs over me, just as powerful as when I first stepped on stage. I can actually feel the world shifting gears, changing her life and mine into something new once again.

A girl tries to hang on my arm. I brush her off without taking my eyes from the screen. “Do you see her?” I say to no one in particular. “Right there, that’s my girl. Isn’t she f*cking luminous?”

Whip stares down at the TV with a proud smile. “That she is, man.”

I turn to Jax. “And I made her feel like I didn’t want her when I sent her away. Because I’m an idiot.”

Jax sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “And I’m an *. Kills, man, I encouraged her to leave the tour. Said you’d be distracted by her. But that was my own shit talking, me trying to put things back the way they were before.”

I should be pissed. But mostly I’m just tired of struggling to pretend everything is normal. “We broke, Jax,” I tell him while watching the TV. “We’re gluing ourselves back together, but it’s never going to be the same.”

“Fuck. I know.”

The defeat in his voice makes me bump his shoulder with mine. “We’re not who we were. We’re better. Evolution, Jax. Not regression.”

He shakes his head, but he’s fighting a smile. “I’m sorry, though. I miss her too.”

Libby’s smoky voice snags my attention again. “She’s it for me. It’s a done deal.” I’ve been hers since the second she hosed me down and woke me up. “My life doesn’t work anymore without her in it.”

“I know, man. We all know it.” Jax puts a hand on my shoulder. “Do this show, and then you go get your girl.”



Libby



It takes forever to wash the makeup off my face. By the time I’m done, my skin is pink and angry at me. But I feel better. Freer. Sometimes all it takes in life is to decide to own it. And everything changes. Would Killian understand? I sang that song for him as much as for myself—to tell him I finally got it. Life is what you make of it. I know that now. Because of him.

I hear Brenna enter the suite and go out to meet her. She has a box of pizza in one hand.

“Your performance was totally awesome.” She does a little victory dance that makes me laugh.

“You’ve told me that three times now.”

“You have to give reinforcement in threes,” she says, sticking out her tongue. “Otherwise it doesn’t stick.”

“Consider it stuck, then.” I accept a piece of pizza and take a big bite. So good. I’m starved tonight.

Brenna scarfs down her own slice. “The guys are in New York now.”

I pause mid-bite. “I thought they were in London.”

“They were. They got into New York this morning for their final concert of the tour. They always like to end things on their home turf.”

“Right. I’d forgotten that.” Longing falls like a heavy blanket on my shoulders. I actually roll them as if I could shrug the feeling off. Doesn’t work, though. I set my piece of pizza aside and search for a water in the mini fridge.

“They’re on stage now,” Brenna says, watching me with wary eyes. “Scottie has a recording of it he wanted you to see.”

“Scottie does?” I can’t keep the skepticism out of my voice.

Brenna gives a cheeky grin. “Pretty sure he was ordered to.”

“Hmmm…” I can’t say more. The idea that Killian is passing me yet another proverbial note sends me a flash of hope and an ache of nostalgia.

We curl up on the couch, and Brenna plays the video. God, it hurts seeing him. Bare chest glistening with sweat, ratty old jeans hanging low and lovingly outlining that nearly obscene bulge of his—he’s a hot rock star at his finest. And the way he holds that white and black Telecaster in his big hands is like music porn.

His deep, rich voice sends a shiver down my spine as he dips his head to the mic. “We’d like to play a tribute tonight. If you know the words, sing along.”

I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t “Darling Nikki.” Oh, but it’s so good. Killian’s voice is pure sex, dripping with sticky sin. And watching him work his guitar? Jesus. Heat washes up my thighs, pools between my legs.

Killian’s beloved Animal goes wild. Women scream; men hold their hands up in solidarity. They all join him, shouting the words.

He absolutely shreds the guitar on the solo, his hips thrusting, his back bowed. Emotion pulls the slashes of his brows together, has him biting his lip. I’ve seen that face before—when he’s over me, coming, giving in to lust.

In my periphery, I catch a glimpse of Brenna gawking at the screen and then back at me.