Idol (VIP #1)

by Kristen Callihan

  He’s staring at me now, waiting, his dark gaze expectant. It sets off a slow thud, thud, thud in my chest. I haven’t stood this close to anyone in a good, long while.

  Swallowing, I find my voice. “All right then, tell me.”

  But he doesn’t speak. He freezes as if he’s caught and is suddenly wary.

  “You’re kidding me, right?” I laugh, not really amused at all. “You bug the hell out of me to ask, and now you pull a Rumpelstiltskin?”

  He blinks as if shaking himself out of a trance and then glares. “Don’t worry, your firstborn is safe from me.” He sucks in a breath and thrusts out his hand. “Killian.”

  I eye that hand of his. Big, broad, the fingertips and top edge of his palm are calloused. A musician of some sort. Probably a guitarist. I run a thumb over my own rough fingertips. He’s waiting again, his brows knitting as if I’ve insulted him by not taking his hand.

  So I do. It’s warm and firm. He gives me a squeeze strong enough to bend my bones, though I don’t think he knows how hard his grip really is. Definitely a musician.

  “Pleased to meet you, Liberty Bell.” His smile is nice, boyish almost, beneath his thick beard. Earlier, I thought he was in his thirties. But now I’m guessing he’s more my age, mid-to-late twenties.

  I let his hand go. “I wouldn’t call our meeting a pleasure, exactly.”

  “Oh, now, you have to admit I have great aim.” He gives me a nudge as I roll my eyes.

  “Let’s never speak of that again.”

  “Speak of what?” His tone is light as he follows me outside.

  I head toward my truck, but he stops me with a touch to my elbow. He’s focused on Mrs. Cromley’s house across the way. Mrs. Cromley died six months ago, and her nephew, George, took over the place. Haven’t seen him yet, but I know he’s a forty-something with a wife and kids. I doubt he’ll move in; the house sits at the edge of nowhere, and our little island of the tip of the Outer Banks doesn’t even have a school.

  Then again, Al’s Grocery van is idling out front, and two big boxes are on the porch. Killian looks around, taking in the rolling grass turning toasted brown as fall sets in, the crest of the hill, and the small sliver of blue where the Atlantic Ocean crashes to the shore.

  Killian scratches his jaw as if his beard itches. “That house over there. That George Cromley’s place, do you know?”

  A sinking sensation pulls at my gut. “Yeah,” I say slowly.

  Killian nods and catches my gaze. His smile is just as slow and smug as usual. “Then I guess I won’t need a ride into town after all, neighbor.”

  Chapter Three

  Killian

  I told her my name, and she didn’t recognize me. It’s been so long since someone my age looked at me as if I were a total stranger, it’s oddly unsettling now. And ain’t that fucked up? I’ve roamed far and wide to get away from fans, from people kissing my ass and wanting something from me. And now that I’ve crossed paths with a girl who clearly would just like me to go away? I’m irritated.

  Snorting, I take a sip of scalding hot coffee and lean back in my old-fashioned rocking chair. From my seat on the porch, I have a good view of Liberty’s house. It’s a two-story, white clapboard. The type you’d see in an Edward Hopper painting. Driving past, you’d suspect a little old lady was inside rolling out pie dough. I bet Liberty makes awesome pie, but she’d probably brain me with the roller for pissing her off before I even got a taste.

  The scar my bike slashed along the grass is an ugly reminder of what I did the other night. Driving drunk. That isn’t me. I’d been the one to keep the guys in check. Keep them away from falling victim to the hard stuff—from becoming clichés, as Liberty put it.

  Something strong and ugly rolls in my chest. All my efforts hadn’t helped Jax. Images of his limp body flash before my eyes in vivid color: graying skin against white tiles, yellow vomit, green eyes staring at nothing.

  My teeth clench, my fingers aching from the force of my grip on the mug.

  Fucking Jax. Idiot.

  Hurt makes it hard to breathe. My body twitches with the need for motion. Go somewhere else. Keep moving until my mind is blank.

  A slam of a screen door has me flinching, and hot coffee spills over the rim of my mug.

  “Shit.” I set it on the floor and suck on my burnt finger.

  Across the way, Liberty stomps down her porch steps, heading toward a high-fenced-off vegetable garden. A smile pulls at my lips. The girl never just walks. Wherever she goes, it’s like she’s embarking on a mission of doom.

  She moves through a patch of sunlight, and her hair turns the color of brown butter. I have the urge to capture the moment, write down a lyric. Panic at the thought has me rising and pacing.

  I should go into the house. And then what? Lie on the ancient couch covered in ugly blue roses? Drink the day away?

  Crates of my stuff have arrived. Including three of my favorite guitars. Scottie, the rat bastard, sent those along even though I never asked for them. Does he think I’m going to compose? Write a song? No fucking way. Shit. I have no idea what I’m doing here. Scottie’s grand idea of me hiding out on an island almost nobody has heard of is stupid. That’s what I get for listening to him while I was drunk.

  Maybe Scottie has psychic abilities, because my cell starts ringing. And only a handful of people have this number. My eyes are on Libby kneeling between rows of green things when I answer the phone. Only it isn’t Scottie.

  “Hey, man,” Whip says.

  I haven’t heard his voice for nearly a year. The familiar sound is a kick in the head. I sag back into my chair. “Hey.” I clear my throat. “What’s up?”

  Jesus, don’t be about Jax. My fingers go cold, blood rushing to my temples. I take a deep breath.

  “Is it true you’re slumming it somewhere in the wilds of North Carolina?”

  I let out a snarl. “Is he okay?”

  There’s a pause and then Whip curses. “Shit, man, I wasn’t thinking. Yeah, he’s fine.” Whip makes an audible sigh. “He’s a lot better. Seeing a counselor.”

  Good. Great. Nice that Jax has called to tell me as much. I rub my hand over my face, closing my eyes. “So what’s going on, then?”

  “Just been thinking.” Whip’s voice goes distant. “We’ve all been scattered to the four winds. And…hell, just wanted to talk. See where you were at.”

  Jax is the one who scattered us. He broke us that day, as effectively as if he’d thrown a boulder into a window. And while Jax and I usually played the roles of mom and dad in the group, Whip has always been the anchor, our glue. He’d throat-punch me if I said it to his face, but Whip is also the most sensitive. I know he’s hurting.

  I glance over at Libby again. Her plump ass sways as she pulls on weeds. The sight almost makes me smile; she’d hate knowing I’m watching her. I find my voice then. “Have you talked to the others?” I ask Whip.

  “Been hanging out with Rye. We’ve come up with some material.”

  This is new. It’s usually Jax and I who write. I sit up a little straighter, trying to focus. I need to be supportive. I know this. But it’s hard to muster any enthusiasm. Even so, I say what needs to be said. “You record anything I can hear?”

  “Yeah, sure. I’ll send it to you.” Whip pauses, then causally adds, “Maybe you can fine-tune it. Give us some notes.”

  I don’t know how I feel about this. I’m not pissed. I like that they’re composing. But something rolls inside of me: avoidance, the desire to get away, and with it, the need to end the call.

  But Whip isn’t finished. “Or maybe come back and work with us.”

  I’m on my feet again, walking to the porch screen. I rest my forehead against its fragile wall. “Not yet. But soon, man.”

  “Yeah. Sure.” Whip sounds about as sincere as I do.

  “I’ll be in touch,” I say. It may or may not be a lie. I haven’t picked up my guitar in nearly a year, and have no desire to try now.

  “Rig
ht.”

  The silence, when he hangs up, rings in my ears. I don’t know how to be myself anymore, don’t know how to be part of Kill John. How do we go on? Do we do it without Jax? With him? And all the time looking over our shoulders for fear he’ll try it again?

  Part of it isn’t even about Jax. I’m tired. Uninspired. It makes me feel guilty as hell.

  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-fuck-that-you’re-here expression just tells me she very much gives a fuck. 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.

  But he has shaved. The sight initially threw me because I’d been expecting that backwoods beard when I heard his voice earlier. But instead of a fuzzy face, I was greeted by the smooth, clean sweep of his jaw, a stubborn chin, and a big, dimpled smile. How is anyone supposed to resist that?

  “How did you learn the difference between weeds and plants?” His black velvet voice envelops me, but he doesn’t look up from his task. The little furrow of concentration between his brows is kind of endearing. “Because it all looks the same to me.”

  “My grandma taught me.” I clear my throat and rip at a particularly tenacious weed.

  “Grandmas are good like that.”

  I can’t imagine him hanging around a grandmother. Or maybe I can. She’d probably serve him milk and cookies and chastise him about taking better care of himself. I point out another weed. “Eventually it gets easier to spot them.”

  “If you say so.” He doesn’t sound too happy but keeps working.

  We’re silent again, going about our business.

  “Top-secret spy?”

  I jerk my head up at Killian’s question. “What?”

  He waggles his dark brows. “Your job. Still trying to figure it out. You a spy?”

  “You found me out. Now come with me.” I incline my head toward the house. “I have something to show you inside.”

  White teeth sink into his plump lower lip. “Unless it involves spanking, I’m not going.”

  I snort, despite myself.

  “Sex-toy tester?”

  “Ah. No.”

  “Erotica writer?”

  “Why are all the options suddenly sex-related?”

  “Because hope springs eternal.”

  “Better hope I don’t accidentally, on purpose, nut you.”

  “All right, all right. Home shopper?”

  “I hate shopping.”

  “Yeah, I can see that about you.”

  My head jerks up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He shrugs, completely unrepentant. “A girl who stomps around in worn out Doc Martens isn’t usually the type to squeal over a new sale.”

  I sit back on the heels of said Docs. “Okay, I’m not big on fashion. But that doesn’t have
to mean I’m not a shopper.”

  “You just said you hate shopping. Like, just said it.”

  “Yeah, but you shouldn’t be able to tell simply by looking at me.”

  His nose wrinkles as he scratches the back of his neck. “I’m confused.”

  “Maybe I’m addicted to buying dolls. Maybe I have a whole room of them at the back of the house.”

  Killian gives a full-body shudder. “Don’t even joke about that. I’ll have Chucky nightmares for months.”

  I think about a room of dolls staring at me and shudder too. “You’re right. No dolls. Ever.”

  He winks at me. I have no idea how he manages to do it without looking like a smarmy ass, but it’s cute instead. “See?” he says. “Not a shopper.”

  “And you are, what? A detective?”

  He sits back on his heels too. “If I was, I’d be a pretty shitty one since I can’t figure out what you do.”

  We stare at each other, his dark gaze drilling into me, waiting. It’s surprisingly effective, because I swear, I’m starting to sweat.

  “Fine,” I blurt out. “I’m a book cover designer.”

  He blinks as if surprised. “Really? That’s…well, the last thing I’d have guessed, but totally cool. Can I see your work?”

  “Maybe later.” I go back to weeding, though really, I’m hacking the same spot over and over. There isn’t anything left but a dark scar of soil. Smoothing a hand over the cool earth, I eye him. “And what do you do?”

  He’s good; he barely flinches before covering it with a wide and easy smile. “I am currently without employment.”

  I’m about to ask what he did before, but something brittle and pained lingers in those coffee-colored eyes of his, and I don’t have the heart. Yesterday he was drunk on my lawn. I don’t think life is going his way at the moment, and I have no desire to pick at that wound.

  He covers the silence by pointing at a green vine. “Pull this?”

  “No. That’s a tomato vine.”

  It becomes apparent that Killian isn’t comfortable with long silences. “So was this place ever a working farm?”

  I’d think he talks to hear himself, but he looks at me with genuine interest every time he asks a question. I take a moment to look at the land around me. Collar Island is part of the chain known as the Outer Banks. While the northern end has a town and multiple grand vacation homes, the southern tip—where my grandma’s house is located—is fairly isolated. Nothing but a few scattered houses and waving green and tawny grass, surrounded by sandy beach and vivid blue ocean.