True to my promise, I cook Killian chicken and dumplings, and I bake a peach pie for dessert. Cooking helps ground me. I need it tonight. Bumblebees have taken residence in my belly, bumping around and fighting for supremacy in that small space. I find myself putting a hand against my abdomen throughout the evening, trying to settle them.
I don’t know how to act anymore. Why on Earth is he here with me? When he could hang out with anyone. Seriously, I’m hard pressed to think of a rich and famous person who’d turn him down. Me? I’m prickly and private and plain. A fairly boring woman who all but hides out in her house. These are facts. It annoys me that I question my worth. But I can’t shake it. I don’t understand him.
For his part, Killian is quiet tonight, as if he’s tired. He doesn’t leave, though. He calmly sits at my kitchen table and watches me with hooded eyes.
It makes me more nervous, and I find myself jumping up more than once to get this or that.
I do it again, and Killian snorts.
“What?” I ask, meeting his glare.
He points an accusatory finger at me. “You’re acting weird.”
I freeze in the act of topping off his already full cup of coffee. “Shit.” I wince and sit down. “I am. I totally am.”
“Well, stop.” His jaw clenches as he tosses down his fork. “It’s pissing me off.
“I’m sorry.” My hands lift in a helpless gesture. “I don’t mean to. It’s just, I keep thinking it.” He’s Killian James. In my kitchen. Mind. Blown.
He stares with eyes that seem to see right through me. Hurt clouds those dark depths too. “Not you, Liberty,” he says in a low, raw voice. “Okay? Just… Not you.”
My heart pounds in my chest. “W-what do you mean?”
Killian braces his forearms on the table, his expression tired. “You Google me yet?”
“No.” Annoyance colors my tone. Sure, I’d been sliding into this side of ridiculousness, but I’m not that bad. “I figured you’d tell me about yourself if you wanted to.”
He gives me a tight sort of smile-grimace, as if he wants to lighten the mood but can’t. “My mom is kind of famous. She was a top model. Her name is Isabella.” His lips twitch. “She only goes by Isabella.”
“That Isabella?” I say, gaping.
He gives me a sidelong look. “Yeah, that one.”
Isabella Villa, famous supermodel and second-generation Cuban American. She is gorgeous: perfect golden skin, high cheekbones, luminous dark eyes, and glossy raven hair. Killian has her eyes, her coloring, her charisma. He must have inherited his bold features from his dad, because Isabella’s are as delicate as a doll’s.
“Her image was everywhere when I was in high school,” I say.
He rubs the back of his neck, his nose wrinkling. “Yeah. Try being a teenager and all the guys have your mom’s picture hanging in their lockers.”
The iconic image of Isabella wearing a diamond bra and panty set with white angel wings fluttering behind her as she struts the catwalk comes to mind. I’m not even into women, and I found those pictures irresistible. “Bet you got into a lot of fights.”
A smile creeps into his eyes. Just barely. “You have no idea.” Laughing darkly, he shakes his head. “Thing is, she’s a good mom. Loving, if a little flighty.”
“And your dad?”
“Killian Alexander James, the second.” He gives me a wry look. “I’m the third. My dad is a hedge fund manager. He met my mom at a Met fundraiser, and that was it for him. They were good parents, Libs. Well, as good as they could be. But they were also busy and traveled a lot. My grandmother took care of me most of the time. She was great, you know? Took no shit, always kept me grounded, made me do chores, learn how to cook, that sort of thing.”
“She sounds lovely.”
Killian nods, but he’s not focused on me. “She died about two years ago. I still miss her. She was the one who encouraged me to start the band. Hell, encouraged all of us to keep at it. We’d practice, and she’d listen. Even when we sounded like shit, she’d praise us.” His gaze draws inward, and a frown pulls at his mouth. “When our album went platinum, she was the first person I went to see.”
He stops talking, just scowls at the scarred kitchen table. And I find myself reaching for him.
At the touch of my fingers to his, Killian looks up. “She fluttered around the apartment she practically raised me in, dusting off the seat for me, running to get me coffee and pan. My abuelita,” he hisses, leaning in. “Like I was the fucking president or something.”
My fingers twine with his cold ones. “I’m sorry, Kill.”
He holds onto me, but doesn’t seem to see me. “I sat there on the old chesterfield sofa I’d peed on when I was two, while she tittered away, and I knew my old life was over. I’d never be the same. That no matter what I wanted, there would be a dividing line between the world and the person I’d become.”
“Killian…”
“It’s not all bad, Libby. I’m living the dream.” His lips pinch. “But it gets fucking lonely sometimes. You start wondering who you are and how you’re supposed to be. And I think…shit, I know that’s why Jax couldn’t handle things.”
His eyes meet mine then. “I didn’t want to tell you who I was because you looked at me like I was just another guy.”
“More like you were a pain in the ass,” I correct with a watery smile.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “That too.”
“Okay, so I got a little…starstruck. But I still think you’re a pain in the ass.”
“Promise?” The worry in his voice, his eyes, has me squeezing his hand again.
“My dad was a studio guitarist,” I tell him. “Played backup in recording sessions for a lot of huge bands in the nineties.” Killian jerks up in surprise, but I forge on before he can speak. “My mom was a backup singer. That’s how they met.”
“Hell, that’s awesome.”
“Yeah, they thought so.” I still do.
The sun rose and set on Mom and Dad. They’d do a duet, and joy would flood me. Music has always been a part of my life. A way to communicate. Silence entered my world when they died.
Emptiness threatens to pull me under. I focus on the present. “Thing is, Dad was always around famous people. He never gave it much thought. It was talent he respected—and a good work ethic. But one day, David Bowie came in for a session, and my dad literally fell off his seat. Couldn’t play for shit, he was so overwhelmed. Because Bowie was an idol to him.”
Killian chuckles. “I can see that.”
“You ever meet anyone you’d been a fan of?” I ask him.
“So many,” he admits. “Eddie Vedder was a big one. I think I grinned like an idiot for an hour. He’s a cool guy. Down-to-earth.”
“Well, there you go. You’re my Bowie, my Eddie Vedder.”
I start to pull away, but he gives my hand a little tug, and I finally see the twinkle in his eyes. “You like me better than Eddie.”
“Whatever you say, hon.”
But he’s right. I’m beginning to think I like him more than anyone.
Killian asks for a second slice of pie as we spread out on the floor and sort through Dad’s old records. I’m determined not to act like a nut anymore.
We listen to Django Reinhardt, one of my dad’s favorites.
“You know he only had use of three fingers on his left hand,” I tell Killian as we bop our heads to “Limehouse Blues.”
“One of the greatest guitar players of all time,” Killian says, then pulls out another album from the stack I’ve set on the rug between us. “Purple Rain. Now, talk about a fucking brilliant guitarist. Prince was a monster, just so…effortless but with such badass soul.”
Resting my head in my hand, I smile up at him. “You ever seen the actual album?”
His dark brow quirks. “No.”
My smile grows as he slips the record out of its sleeve and his eyes go wide. “It’s fucking purple!”
The way his deep
voice almost squeaks makes me laugh. “Yeah. I had the same reaction when I was eight and found it. My dad totally yelled at me when he caught me using it as a tea tray for my dolls.”
Carefully, Killian tucks the purple record back into its sleeve. “I think it’s awesome that you grew up with music that way. My family appreciated it, but not with the same consuming love I had.”
I hum an acknowledgement but sorrow holds my tongue. Life has been so silent since my parents died. Too silent. I never really thought about how I turned my back on the simple joy of loving music, and how badly that has affected me.
I’m so distracted by my own thoughts that I don’t see Killian reach for the black file box until he’s already opening it.
“No, don’t—” My words die as he lifts up the battered ream of paper.
His gaze darts over the first page. “What’s this?”
Kill me now. Just take me out back and shoot me. Heat pushes through my flesh with a thick, uncomfortable fist. “Nothing. Just scribbles.”
I make an attempt to grab the stack, but he easily evades me by sticking out one of his freakishly long arms and holding my shoulder with his freakish strength.
“Hold up.” A smile starts pulling at his lips, and he uses a thumb to riffle through a few of the top pages. “These are songs.” Dark eyes flick up to meet mine. A twinkle of surprise lights his expression. “Your songs.”
“How do you know they’re mine—”
“You put your name on the top of each.”
I flop back on the floor and cover my eyes with my forearm. “They were private.”
Silence greets me, but I don’t dare look. I’m so exposed now. Worse than being naked. Getting naked with Killian would at least result in pleasure. This? Torture. I swallow hard and grit my teeth.
The floor creaks, and I feel his warmth. His touch is gentle as he lifts my arm from my face and grins down at me. “These are fucking great. Why are you embarrassed?”
“You just read the equivalent of my diary. Why wouldn’t I be embarrassed?”
“You’re right. I’m sorry.”
“Funny, you don’t look at all sorry.”
He bites his bottom lip, clearly trying to rein in his glee. “Well, when I stumble across a diary like this?” He holds my stack of songs a little higher. “How could I be? It’s like finding a unicorn.”
“Into unicorns, are you?”
“Ha. Stop deflecting.” Killian crosses his legs before him and keeps flipping through my songs like a geek who’s found a long-lost chapter of The Lord of The Rings. “Why didn’t you tell me you wrote songs?”
I lurch up and snatch them from his hands. “It’s something I did when I was younger. A hobby.” Something my parents made quite clear was a dead end.
“The last one is only a few years old.” His expression pinches as he watches me put the songs away and close the file box lid. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Libs.”
With a sigh, I press my hands on the box lid. “I know. Honestly, I haven’t thought about them in a while. Okay, after you told me who you really were, they did enter my mind. But I didn’t want you getting any ideas.”
“Ideas?”
I can’t look at him. “You rightly called me out on getting weird on you. No way was I about to say, ‘Oh, hey, I wrote these songs!’ Like some lame sales pitch. I wouldn’t do that to you, Killian.”
“Libs.” He touches my arm so I’m forced to meet his gaze. “I’d never think you were doing that.”
I nod. “At any rate, it really isn’t a big deal. It was for fun.”
His frown doesn’t ease, as if he still wants to ask a whole host of questions I don’t want to answer.
Panic clutches my chest. “I’m serious. Can we please drop this?”
Killian takes a deep breath. “Okay, Libby.”
He glances around, at a loss. I’m there too. But before it can get any more awkward, he shrugs and returns to picking through the records like nothing happened.
I’m so grateful, my vision blurs before I blink it clear.
“Oh, man, Nevermind.” He holds up the Nirvana album and flips it over to read the back. “God, I remember when Jax and I discovered the Seattle Sound. It was like this beautiful rage and perfect disdain. The power behind it, like a fucking wave of sound that crashed into, sent you tumbling.” He grins wide. “We’d listen, study, then make these horrendous attempts to copy it.”
Lying on my stomach, I rest my chin on my palm. Inside, I’m still a bit shaken, but talking about legends is easer. Comforting, almost. “You didn’t copy it. You found your own voice.”
Nirvana had “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” Kill John has “Apathy”—our generation’s battle cry. “Apathy” drives just as hard and fast as “Teen Spirit” but there’s more pain in it, less rage. A question of why we’re here. A song of loneliness and feeling useless.
“When my parents died,” I tell him quietly, “I listened to ‘Apathy’ on a loop for a week straight. It made me feel…I don’t know, better somehow.”
Killian’s lips part in surprise, his gaze darting over my face. “Yeah?” His voice is soft. “I’m glad, Libs.”
He reaches out as if he’s afraid I’ll bite. But he’s a brave one. The tips of his fingers trace my cheek. My lids lower as he speaks, low and rumbly. “Had I been there, I’d have wanted to give you comfort.”
Warmth swells in my belly, spreading outward. I’d have wanted him to give it. I clear my throat and force my eyes open. “So it was just you and Jax at first?”
Killian sets his hand on his thigh. “Yeah. We grew up together and then both went to the same boarding school. We met Whip and Rye there.”
I have to laugh. “I can’t picture you in a boarding school.”
Killian makes a goofy face. “I was a right saint, you know. Good grades. Followed the rules.”
“So how did you become a rock star, then?”
He ducks is head, shaking it a bit. “I don’t consider myself a rock star. I’m a musician. I’ve always loved music, loved making music.”
“If you love to make music,” I ask him, “why are you here? Why not in a studio?”
His expression shuts down. “You don’t want me here?”
I want you any way I can get you.
“Here is the least likely place anyone on Earth would expect you to be.” I peer at him. “Is that why? Are you hiding?”
He snorts. “Jesus, Libs. What’s with the inquisition?”
“It’s not an inquisition,” I say calmly. “It’s a legitimate question. That you’re agitated only means I’m picking at a nerve.”
Killian lurches to his feet, his glare cutting. “Most people would stop picking.”
“Yeah, I’m annoying that way.” I stare at him, unwilling to blink.
He huffs out a breath, his hands linking behind his neck. “I don’t feel it, all right?” His bare feet slap against the floor as he paces. “I don’t want to sing. Don’t want to play. It’s just…a void.”
“When’s the last time you tried?”
He spreads his arms wide in an annoyed appeal. “I don’t want to try right now. I just want to be.” He pauses, glaring at me over his shoulder. “Is that okay with you? Am I allowed to just be for one freaking second?”
I stare at him for a long moment, then slowly rise. “You can be anything you want. It’s whether you’re happy that’s the question.”
“You’re one to talk,” he shoots back, stalking toward me. “Tell me right now that you aren’t hiding from life in this old house. Jesus, you’re a young woman living like an old lady. You won’t even let us talk about your hidden talent. I honestly wouldn’t be surprised if you’d rather I thought you pedaled porn.”
A slow shake starts deep in my belly, cold and hard. “I don’t want to fight with you,” I say quietly. “I just want you to be happy. And I don’t think you are.”
“Yeah, well, right back at you, babe.”
“Okay, now
I’m pissed.”
He huffs, his hands on his hips as he glares down at me. “Thanks for the update. I didn’t notice.”
“Fuck you, Killian.”
His jaw pops as he grits his teeth. “You know what? Fuck it. Here’s the truth: I wasn’t happy—until I met you.”
I literally rock back on my heels, nearly blown down by his candor.
His hands fist as he takes a step closer. “I’ve been here for nearly two months. I never stay in one play that long. And why do you think I’m still here? The scenery? No. It’s you I don’t want to leave.”
“I…I don’t. You shouldn’t…” I swallow hard. No, no, no. Never fall for a musician. Isn’t that what Mama always said? They’ll break your heart the way they’re always looking over their shoulder for the next gig.
Killian’s mouth twists. “That too real for you? Shocker.”
I wince at the bitterness in his tone and try to speak calmly. “What you do, how you’ve affected the world, I can only dream of what it must be like.”
He snorts again, but I talk over him.
“I have your albums. I’ve heard you sing. There’s so much life in your music. God, people would kill to have that talent, that power to convey so much emotion. And I…” I shake my head. “Hiding here, or behind our friendship… I can’t pretend that’s right, Killian. I wouldn’t be a friend to you if I did.”
He’s silent for a long moment, his expression stony. Then he gives a short nod. “Understood.” He looks around as if he’s suddenly woken up and doesn’t quite know where he is. His gaze slides over me, not holding on. “It’s getting late. I’m gonna head out.”
Before I can say another word, he leaves. And it takes everything in me not to shout for him to come back.
Chapter Six
Killian
I stay away from Liberty for the next few days. Not sure what to do but keep my distance until I cool down. She hit below the belt when she basically spoke the truth—damn it. The worst was when she claimed she didn’t want me using her as an excuse to stay.
Excuse? The last thing I view Libby as is an excuse to hide. I’d been a breath away from kissing her when she’d looked up at me, her eyes wide beneath that ugly trucker hat. Hell, I’ve wanted to kiss her for days. Every time I look at her. Normally, I wouldn’t hold back, but nothing about my relationship with Libby is normal.
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