Idol (VIP, #1)(95)

Frankly, I’m sick of phones and texts. I avoided social media and casual texting all these years for a reason. I don’t want cold and impersonal. I don’t want to hide behind a screen. I need personal contact, face-to-face communication.

The makeup artist finishes, and an assistant with a Bluetooth headset has me sit on a chrome-and-leather chair.

“There’s water just here,” he tells me as if I can’t see the ice bucket at my side. “The green one is excellent. Imported from Japan at over four hundred dollars a bottle.”

I refrain from pointing out how crass it is to tell me that, and choose the slightly less ostentatious bottle of Bling H2O with the logo bedazzled onto it.

A reporter comes in, her hair brilliant blue, her smile welcoming. I steel my spine and grit my teeth. Just get through this, and you’ll be free to go. Get through this.

“There’s been so much written about your involvement with Killian James. But you and James have been rather closed-mouthed about the topic.” The reporter gives me a slight but encouraging smile, her blue hair slipping over one eye. “Given last night’s performance, would you care to offer us a little bite?”

“There isn’t much to tell that the world doesn’t already know.” Not really true. But true enough.

The reporter’s smile has an edge to it now—a barracuda searching for blood in the water. “Oh, now, I’m not so sure about that. After all, we don’t know your side of the story.”

Nothing to lose. And everything to gain. “What do you want to know?”





Chapter Thirty-One





Killian



“You ever think about it?” I whisper. She sits before me, skin gilded in the evening light, eyes glazed, frosted jewels. So f*cking beautiful it breaks my heart. “What it would be like? You and me?”

“Yeah.”

I breathe in her scent. Touch her skin. “You can have the world. Just reach for it.”

“I don’t need the world,” she whispers in my ear.

“What do you need?” I’ll give her anything. Everything.

Soft hands on my neck, gentle lips mapping my skin. “You.”

“Dude, we have to get out there.” Rye’s voice comes to me at a distance.

I stare down at my phone, rubbing my thumb over the screen.

“Dude?”

“Killian,” Jax says, sharper. “Snap out of it.”

I run a hand through my hair. It’s longer now, in need of a trim. “She isn’t answering me. I don’t know where she is. Brenna won’t tell me.” We’re back at the Bowery Ballroom where we started our tour. Memories of Libby flood in, and I swallow hard.

A hand lands on my shoulder. Jax’s eyes meet mine in the mirror. “As soon as the show is done, we’ll pile up on Scottie and make him cry uncle.”

“Yeah,” Whip agrees behind me. “That shithead definitely knows where she is.”

I’m pretty sure we could break Scottie’s legs, and the man still wouldn’t talk. He’s like ice that way. From outside the dressing room door comes a steady chant for Kill John. The air hums, but I don’t feel the familiar crackle of anticipation.

“Come on, man.” Rye slaps my other shoulder. “Get off your ass. Moping is a destructive and unattractive quality.”

This from the guy who stayed in bed for a week when John Entwistle died, crying that The Who would never be the same again. But he’s right. I pull myself together because my guys need me.

One more show and I’m free. Just get through this.



Libby



The last time I saw Kill John perform, I was in the wings, watching them from behind. Being in the audience is an entirely different experience. On stage, the crowd’s energy comes at you like a wave. In the audience, I feel the full force of Kill John’s power. And it is awe inspiring.

Killian’s deep, luscious vocals blend with Jax’s brutal melody. Together they are rage and yearning. Whip beats on his drums with perfect timing and rhythm, while Rye’s funky base supports it all. That is the technical aspect. But the real truth of their music cannot be defined. You have to feel it.

I’m swept up by it and find myself dancing with the crowd. Scottie assigned me protection in the form of a massive bodyguard named Joe. He’s at my side now, blocking people from crushing too close or stepping on my toes. It’s sweet, but not necessary. The club is small and not so overcrowded that I can’t move.

Kill John finishes up “Oceans,” and a sweaty Killian pulls off his damp shirt. Predictably, whistles of approval break out all over. His lips twist but he doesn’t acknowledge them as he gulps down some water.

Standing midway to the stage, I can see him clearly enough to note the shadows under his eyes and the lines of strain around his mouth. And though no one else would notice, I can tell the guys are concerned. It’s in the way they watch him, Rye and Jax’s bodies angled slightly toward him like shields.

While the crowd shouts requests, the guys make a few adjustments, Jax and Killian getting different guitars and Whip picking up a new set of sticks. Killian’s movements are unhurried, almost languid.

“Play ‘Oceans’ again,” a guy right behind me yells loud enough to blow my hair forward.