Idol (VIP #1)

by Kristen Callihan

  The storyline rolls along; my touch roams. Libby remains utterly still, but I can practically feel the tension vibrating within her. When the tip of my finger skims the crease where her thigh meets her hip, her breath catches, legs parting wider.

  “Have I mentioned how much I appreciate this new skirt-filled wardrobe?” I whisper, drawing circles along her skin.

  “Brenna’s idea.” Her hips shift just a bit, following my touch. “Right now I’m missing my shorts.”

  I smile, my eyes on the screen, my fingers drifting to the edge of her panties. “Later, you can put them on and we’ll play Fuck the Farmer’s Daughter.”

  She stifles a laugh, which turns to a strangled whimper when I pluck her panties. Her voice goes breathy. “I’m trying to watch the damn movie. I’m not interested in fooling around.” She moves a tiny fraction, nudging against my finger.

  In the dark, I grin, heat and lust pulling my abs tight. “I’m sorry,” I say, not sorry at all. “But I don’t believe you. I’m gonna have to check.”

  “Killi—oh, hell.”

  I’m thinking the same as my finger slides over slick, swollen skin. And it makes me feel like a fucking god. Because I did that to her. I’m the one who gets her this wet. The one she needs. I’m the one she’s panting for right now, moving against my touch with a tiny whimper.

  I’ll make it better. It’s my job now. My privilege. And I’ll be damned if anyone tries to take that away.

  Libby

  I really should stop Killian. We’re playing with fire, fooling around in so many public places. A reporter just implied that I whored myself to him. And here he is fingering me in a movie theater.

  I should protest, but the man is a damn musician; he plays my body like a master, never missing a beat. I can’t resist that. I don’t want to, not when each sure, sly touch sends heat and pleasure shimmering over my skin. Not when I can almost feel him holding in a grin, his shoulder pressed against mine, his eyes on the screen as he oh-so-gently circles my clit.

  He plunges a finger into me, and it’s all I can do not to moan and part my thighs wide, ride his hand. I struggle to keep still, keep my eyes on the fire fight playing out in some distant galaxy.

  God, he’s too good. Every time he pushes in, his finger crooks, hitting a spot that has me biting my lip. I can feel myself getting wetter, my flesh plumping. Beneath the sound effects and music of the movie, I can hear the sounds of him working me—wet and deep, slow and steady torture.

  My head falls back against the seat, my breath coming in sharp bursts. Above the waist, I’m still, my hand only shaking a bit as I take a bite of caramel corn, pretending all is normal. But below, my thighs part wider—the simple act illicit and ratcheting up the tension in me—my hips make small movements, pushing each thrust of his finger in deeper.

  Another whimper escapes me. Killian leans in, his lips close to my ear. “Shh…I’m trying to watch the movie.”

  The rat bastard gives my clit a flick with the tip of his thumb. I twitch, and he plunges two fingers in deep. My lids flutter, my heart pounding. I’m going to kill him. Soon.

  “Mmm…” he says, his thumb continuing to fondle me. “I love this part. Such a sweet movie.”

  My breaths are coming fast and light. Heat swarms my body. The fact that someone might see, that we could get caught, intensifies everything.

  Maybe I should be ashamed of that, but I can’t be. Not when an orgasm is stealing over me, creeping like a hot hand over my thighs, down my back, along my breasts.

  It catches and holds, taking my breath. I stiffen against the seat, practically vibrating.

  Killian’s deep voice, barely a whisper in the dark, is at my ear. “This one is mine. Give me what’s mine, baby doll.” Teeth nip my lobe, his fingers pushing up into that spot. “Come.”

  And I do. All shuddering, repressed breaths, body shaking, my thighs squeezing against his hand. I come so hard I see stars behind my closed eyes. As I sag into the soft seat, he leaves me with a last, lingering caress—a gentle tap as if rewarding me for a job well done.

  I should kick him for that. But I can’t move. He’s destroyed me.

  “Jerk,” I whisper without heat.

  His shoulder nudges mine. “You can take your revenge later.”

  I glance at him then, only when I can finally meet his gaze without showing how much he affects me. His dark eyes glitter in the flickering light. When I try my best to reprimand him with a look, he grins wide. Impossible to resist. I don’t know why I even try.

  Taking a quick glance around to see if anyone is watching, I lean in and give the hard swell of Killian’s biceps a soft kiss. His muscles twitch in surprise, but then he sighs, his long body slouching down in the seat.

  His hand finds mine in the darkness between us. In a low voice only for me, he speaks one last time. “Baby doll, I could assert my manly dominance, thump my chest, and declare you’re mine. But it wouldn’t mean a damn thing if I’m not yours in return.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Killian

  My mood is mellow now. Getting Libby off will do that for me. I take my time heading out when the movie’s over. Eventually I’ll meet her in the suite. She’ll draw us a bath, insisting that we have a nice, hot soak to end the day. She always does. Libby is a creature of habit, and I find that oddly soothing. Whatever craziness life throws my way, I want her there, calm and steady.

  Scottie is standing by the exit door, arms crossed, feet planted. His expression is granite. In other words, he’s ticked. Why he’s glaring at me instead of Brenna and Rye, or even Whip and that reporter, I don’t know.

  “What’s up?” I ask. “Someone talk during the movie? Or are you still pissed Han died?”

  His eyes narrow. “Some things we don’t joke about, Killian.”

  Right. Brenna had told me she was almost one-hundred-percent sure Scottie cried when they first went to see the movie. I didn’t know the man could produce tears.

  “Maybe it was a fake-out,” I tell him. “You know, he’s really hanging on some scaffolding, waiting for Billy Dee to pick him up… Right. No more talking about Han.”

  Scottie grunts and walks with me out to the lobby. It’s fairly empty now, hangers on and crew having gone off to the next party.

  “You’re not as circumspect as you’d like to believe,” he tells me.

  Confused, I glance at him. He glares right back.

  “Eventually people will notice you and Ms. Bell getting cozy.”

  My steps slow. “Say what you’re going to say, Scottie.”

  He stops and faces me. “You saw what happened with Rye and Brenna tonight.”

  “Everyone saw. Your point?” My mellow is heading toward pissed off.

  “The longer you draw this out, the worse it will be when people learn the truth.” He sets his hands low on his hips. Lecture stance. “There’s a saying: Shit or get off the pot.”

  “That’s classy for you, Scottie.”

  “You two want to be together, make it known. Brenna and I will find a way to deal with it.”

  “We’re not a problem for you to deal with,” I snap, keeping my voice low.

  “You are. And if you can’t see that, you’re being deliberately blind.”

  For a second, I have to look away.

  Scottie takes the moment to go in for the kill. “I want her, Killian.”

  I reel back as if punched in the gut, and he rolls his eyes.

  “To manage, you git.” For the first time, humor lights his expression.

  I take a bit longer to calm. “Jesus, say it another way then. I already had to deal with Whip tonight, for fuck’s sake.”

  “I’ve never seen you so territorial.” He’s quietly laughing at me. Ass.

  “Get used to it.” I run my hand over my tight neck. I definitely need a soak now. “Seriously, though? You want to take Libby under your wing?” I know what that means. It’s something anyone who knows anything about the industry dreams of. Scot
tie is a legend.

  He started off with us, convincing four eighteen-year-old punks to take a chance on him, never mind he was basically our age with absolutely no true experience at the time. We took that gamble and never looked back. As for Scottie, he’s picked up a select number of other clients along the way, all of them going platinum.

  The man is a business and marketing genius with a killer instinct. If he says someone has It, the music industry listens.

  “You were right to ask her on the tour,” he says. “She is exceptional. Brenna tells me she’s getting an increasing number of interview requests for Liberty, fan mail by the dozens. We haven’t said anything to her because we don’t want to overwhelm her at the moment.”

  “Good plan.” Because Libby would freak. And not in a good way. “But why are you talking to me and not her?”

  “I plan to discuss this with her. Perhaps suggest we start once the tour is over.” His eyes narrow as he studies my face. “I want to know how you’ll take it.”

  And then I remember how it was in the beginning. I didn’t own a second of my life. She does this, and our time together will whittle down to nothing. Absently, I rub my abs, where my stomach squeezes in protest. Really not feeling mellow anymore.

  “I don’t know how Libby will handle going full tilt,” I tell Scottie. “Or if she’ll even want to. But I won’t stand in her way.” I’d never do that, even if it means that, one day, she’s gone.

  Libby

  Scottie makes me nervous. I can admit that. I’m not attracted to him, but I won’t deny his effect. The combination of his stunning looks, hard eyes, and crisp voice acts like an avalanche on the nerves. You’re pinned in place, and even if you look away, he’s trapped you with his voice.

  So when he approaches me during the sound check at the stadium, I tense, keeping my eyes on Killian singing as long as I can.

  A low chuckle washes over me. “Avoiding eye contact won’t make me go away, Ms. Bell.”

  Bracing myself, I turn. “Prolonging the inevitable is a thing with me, I guess.”

  He’s not smiling—he rarely does. But his eyes are soft—well, for him. “Intelligent move. I want to discuss something with you. Have you a moment?” He inclines his dark head toward the right wing row of seats, just far enough away that we can hear each other while Kill John runs through an older song.

  I’d rather stay here and not discuss anything. But I nod and lead the way.

  He waits until I’m seated to fold himself into a nearby seat. And then he looks me over as if inspecting a bug. “You are not backup material.”

  Instantly I tense, steel coming into my spine. “Seriously? Is this some fucking cliché shakedown? Because we can skip to the end right now where I tell you to fuck your mother.”

  “Colorful,” Scottie murmurs, looking amused. “No, Ms. Bell, this is not a shakedown.” He peers at me. “You do have a vivid imagination, however. And I now see why you’re so compatible with Killian. Same descriptive vocabulary.” He leans in, resting his hands on his knees. “You are a headliner, Ms. Bell. Front and center stage.”

  “I…ah… What?”

  He keeps his tone even and patient, as if he’s talking to a distracted child. “Your sound, the quality of your voice, is unique. More importantly, when you get on stage, you are compelling. I want to represent you, Ms. Bell. Develop you.”

  My ears ring faintly. “Hold on. First, please stop calling me Ms. Bell. It reminds me of being sent to the principal’s office.”

  “Fair enough.” His expression says I’m insane.

  “Second. I’m…well, I’m not an entertainer. I came for Killian.”

  I glance in Killian’s direction, and our gazes clash. Even now, he’s aware of where I am. His dark eyes crinkle, as if he’s trying to encourage me, even as he sings and plays his guitar. I break eye contact and face Scottie again.

  “I’m not a star.”

  Scottie’s brows draw together. “There are many things you are not, Ms.—Liberty. But you are star material. More importantly, when you get on a stage, you come alive.” He gestures toward the band with his chin. “Just as they do. Tell me you do not feel that.”

  “I do.” My insides being to tremble. “I love it, but…”

  “The worst thing you can do in life is ignore an opportunity out of fear.”

  “I’m not afraid.”

  His dry expression makes a mockery out of that statement. I cringe. “Okay, a little. It’s just… I do love it. But the rest? The public side? No, thanks.”

  Scottie sits back, resting his ankle on his bent knee in that way men have of crossing their legs. “I am afraid to fly,” he tells me.

  “Okay…”

  “Utterly and completely,” he continues, his body stiff. “Every time I get on one of those death contraptions called a jet, I want to vomit.”

  “But you fly all the time.”

  “My job demands that I do.” Another brow quirk. “You understand my meaning?”

  My head feels heavy as I nod.

  Maybe Scottie notices that I’m on the verge of panic, because his voice goes soft as Kill John ends their set and the music stops.

  “Killian believes in you.”

  I refuse to look in Killian’s direction again.

  “He brought you here, put you on that stage, because he believes,” Scottie murmurs.

  A shuddery breath leaves me.

  “You had to know this,” Scottie says.

  “Yes.” I knew. But I’d never allowed myself to think too deeply on what was behind all his support. Had he pushed Scottie on me too?

  As if reading my mind, Scottie makes a noise of disagreement. “No one in this group does something against their will. Including me.” He leans in, forcing me to meet his eyes. His expression is hard, serious. “I have little interest in managing a reluctant singer. You have to be all-in or you will fail.”

  “Then why approach me at all? When you knew I’d be reluctant?”

  “There’s a difference between snapping out of a fear and being unwilling to do a thing at all. I wanted to discover which scenario I was dealing with.”

  “And now you know?”

  Scottie gives me one of his quick, tight smiles. “Only you can tell me that. I’ve merely opened the door for contemplation.” He rises, crisp and fresh as ever in his perfect three-piece suit. “You know where to find me when you have an answer.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Killian

  “Where the hell are you going?”

  Jax’s question stops me short. So close to the exit, and yet so far. I turn and adopt what I hope is a bland expression. “To bed. Catch a nap.”

  Yeah, that goes about as well as expected. The guys look at me as if I’d just said I wanted one of them to put a diaper on me. Once they get over their horror, the questions start flying.

  “Bed? There had better be a woman waiting in that bed.”

  “More like three,” Whip adds. “It’s freaking four o’clock. You don’t go up to bed at four for anything other than three women.”

  “Is that a new rule?” I deadpan.

  “It ought to be,” Rye retorts, disgust still riding high on his face.

  “Seriously, Kills?” Jax shakes his head. “Are we old men now?”

  I can’t tell them the truth. That I do have a woman waiting for me. Or that Libby is better than three women, better than any amount of women. So I have to stand here looking like a killjoy and a dick. “I’m just tired.” Lame. Lame. Lame.

  “Fucking lame, man.” Rye shakes his head.

  I keep my mouth shut.

  “Next thing you’ll be telling us you have a headache,” Whip says, his nose wrinkling like he’s scenting something ripe.

  “Now that you mention it,” I start with a forced grin.

  They all roll their eyes and groan. Jax tosses a water bottle at my head. I catch it mid-air.

  “Take some aspirin and buck up,” he says, chucking a small pill bo
ttle next.

  I catch that too and clutch it in my hand. Fucking hell. I’m stuck. We have a rare night off. After we wrapped up our run-through and initial sound check, Libby went upstairs, saying she was taking some time for herself. None of the guys questioned that. Why should they? She’s entitled to some personal space.

  I am not given the same leeway. No, they want to hang out, go to a bar and check out the local scene—which means women. Ordinarily, I’d be down with spending time with the guys. They’re my best friends; we’ve been apart for nearly a year. But having to push off advances from women without the guys figuring out why? Not easy. And not fun.

  Neither is continuing to pretend that Libby is just my friend. I can’t touch her the way I want to, which is pretty much all the time and all over. I practically have to sit on my hands to keep from reaching for her. Makes me damn grumpy.

  Worse? Libby has been sliding me looks all day. And they were not sexy, when-are-you-going-to-be-inside-of-me-again looks. She’s thinking things. Never a good sign when it’s accompanied by frowns.

  Scottie talked to her earlier, so it’s a pretty good bet that’s what it’s about. But I can’t figure if she’s mad or not. And I want to know. Now. When she cut out on the evening early, it wasn’t like I could say, “Oh, hey, I’m leaving with Libby too.” I’m stuck biding my time.

  I might have channeled my inner toddler and fucking pouted were it not for the fact that the guys would wonder about that too. Fuck it.

  Frustration claws its way up my throat, and I blurt out the one thing I know will make them back off, even if it humiliates me in the process. “I have the shits, all right?”

  Three sets of shocked faces stare back at me.

  “Now can I go, or is there anything else you wanted?”

  Rye clears his throat. “Dude, just go. I mean, take care of you and all that.”

  “Grab some Pepto or something,” Whip adds helpfully.

  “Didn’t you just use that bathroom?” Jax darts a glare toward the bathroom in question. “You better not have befouled it—”