Idol (VIP #1)

by Kristen Callihan

  Scottie holds up a hand. “What happened with Jax isn’t pertinent to yesterday’s events.”

  “I beg to differ,” Smith One says. “It is yet another pileup in the car wreck that is Kill John lately.”

  A red haze swarms over my vision. “Metal Death left a bathtub full of actual shit in a hotel room, but you’ve got a problem with me defending a woman?”

  “Property damage can be quietly taken care of,” Smith One retorts. “You, on the other hand, attacked a man in a room full of reporters.”

  “Details.”

  “You damaged our newest talent, breaking his nose and busting open his lip, because you can’t keep your dick in your pants.”

  “No,” I say with exaggerated care, “I beat the little turd because he couldn’t keep his hands to himself.” I give Smith One a smile with teeth. “You see the difference? Because it’s an important one. You go after an unwilling woman—my woman in particular—and you’re going to get hurt.”

  He doesn’t miss the warning. His eyes narrow. “We’ve had to hold off our promotional plans until Marlow’s face heals. Thousands of dollars wasted in cancelled appearances.”

  “You should probably talk to him about his behavior. Assign him community service so he can think about his sins.”

  “You think this is funny, Mr. James?” Smith Two taps his gold pen on the table as if to get my attention. “Because I assure you the label isn’t laughing.”

  “No,” I agree. “They’re sweeping an attempted sexual assault under the table. Bravo for that.”

  “Not to mention,” Smith One puts in, “that you damaged your hand.”

  I refuse to move my wrapped fingers from their gaze. “It’s fine.”

  “It’s insured for a million dollars, Mr. James.” Smith One shoves a stack of papers toward me as if I’m going to read them. “Premiums just went up.”

  I laugh, a short bark of annoyance, and then catch Scottie’s eye. Up until now, he’s been sitting back, almost lounging in his chair. Although the Smiths are wearing Armani, Scottie’s sharp tailoring makes them look like slobs, because his charcoal-grey bespoke three-piece suit is straight up Gieves & Hawkes out of Savile Row. My father shops there, and his standards are only slightly less particular than Scottie’s.

  Scottie’s appearance is its own form of intimidation. The fact that nothing scares him is another.

  “Marlow is a flash in the pan,” Scottie says, bored. “And yet here you are insulting your highest-earning client. I suggest you make amends for wasting his time with this meeting and direct your efforts to putting a better spin on the story.”

  Smith and Smith blink in unison, and Smith One sneers. “Mr. James is under contract—”

  “Mr. James has fifty-million followers on Twitter alone.”

  News to me. But I join Scottie in leveling them a long How you like me now, bitches? stare. Whatever it takes to get them off my back and away from Libby.

  Scottie rises. “None of whom would appreciate him being mistreated. Never underestimate the power of social media or fanatical fans. Now if you’ll excuse us, gentlemen. My client has a concert to perform.”

  Smith Two’s cold eyes follow our movements. “Make all the veiled threats you want, Mr. Scott. But we will have order. No more running off the rails, or there will be repercussions.”

  “Those two are a pain in my ass,” I grumble as we walk back to my suite.

  “They’re right, you know.” Scottie’s laser gaze slashes my way. “What you did was stupid. On all counts.”

  “What the hell?” I glare at him. “You’re actually taking their side?”

  He stops short, turning to face me. We’re of a similar height and stand eye to eye. “You are under contract. They can make your life difficult, and they most certainly can blackball Liberty from gaining a foothold in this industry, if they so choose. They were interested in signing her. But now they have concerns over PR issues created by your blowup.”

  My heart skips a beat, cold flooding my veins. I’m as untouchable as I’m going to get. But I cringe with regret at the thought of putting Liberty’s future in jeopardy.

  “Setting that aside,” he continues, “you’ve managed to bring Kill John back into the limelight, though not as a band united, but as the butt of a sad joke where Killian James flies into a jealous rage because Marlow, the new hot—younger—rising star, got handsy with some tart.”

  “Hey.” I step closer. “Don’t call Libby that.”

  “I’m not calling her that. They are.”

  “You think I should have just let that shithead off?”

  “No. If it were me, I’d have done the same. I’d like to rip the tosser’s tiny balls off and cram them down his throat. But it doesn’t change the fact that we have to fix this. And quickly.”

  “Shit.” Hands on hips, I duck my head and try to calm my breathing. “How?”

  Scottie doesn’t miss a beat. “Take her off the tour.”

  “No.” My loud reply echoes in the hall. “She’ll think we’re punishing her.”

  “That’s merely a matter of your fear and her ego at risk. The reality is she’ll be miserable with all this added speculation, the two of you constantly under the microscope. However, if she were on her own…”

  “On her own?”

  “People already love her. Brenna’s staff is fielding hundreds of requests a day for more Liberty. It’s her moment to break out. So let me break her out while she’s hot.”

  I don’t want to agree. Everything in me screams in protest. If she goes, I’ll lose her. My fear is that simple. But it isn’t my call to make. It isn’t even Scottie’s; it’s Libby’s.

  I know this, and yet the idea of sending her out to the wolves suddenly chills me. I want her to shine, and I want to wrap her up and tuck her into my side.

  “This morning, she sought me out to talk,” Scottie says. “She agreed to let me manage her. She also asked me what I thought she could do to make things easier for you.”

  It shouldn’t feel like a betrayal, but it does. Not that she wants to try or that she was looking out for me, but that she discussed these things with Scottie first, not me. I don’t have any experience in relationships, but I’m fairly certain confiding in the other about life-altering decisions is a key component.

  My head aches something fierce; my guts are rolling like I’m hungover. I want more time alone with Libby, away from the world. But that’s not going to happen. I want to do right by her, but I’m bumbling my way through. “What did you tell her?”

  “I told her to get off the tour.”

  “Jesus, be a dick, why don’t you?”

  “I’m being realistic. And I think she understands that.”

  My jaw aches from grinding my teeth. “If she wants to do this, I’m not going to hold her back. I’ve already told you that.”

  “Yes, I know. The problem is, mate, she doesn’t want to leave you.”

  I’d be happy about that, except I have a bad feeling she’s holding on out of misplaced loyalty. The whole situation is a shit cracker on top of a shit day. And it isn’t even noon. “She’s tough, Scottie. But not hardened. I don’t want her crushed before she has a chance to bloom.”

  “I’m planning to stick with her, if that makes you more comfortable.” Scottie’s gaze is level, calm. “Jules can manage the day-to-day tour details here.”

  Jules, Scottie’s assistant, is great. But I really don’t give a fuck about the tour at this moment. Clearing the thickness out of my throat, I search for words. “Protect her.” I press my hand to my eyes to ease the hot throb of pain behind them. “That’s all I care about.”

  Silence follows. For once, the ice man is gone. In his place is the Scottie I met years ago as a young punk hungry for fame, the one who looked after Jax when he tried to take his life. This Scottie is the man you’ll follow anywhere because you know he’ll have your back.

  Those eerie blue eyes of his seem to burn with determination. “Ther
e are no guarantees in life. I cannot promise you the world won’t try to chew Liberty up and spit her out. But the woman gives me shit on a continuous basis. And I’ve made grown men cry.”

  Despite my crap mood, I feel a smile forming. “My favorite was when the owner of The Lime House blubbered.”

  Scottie’s eyes narrow with remembered glee. “Complete tosser.” His expression evens out. “As you say, she is tough. And she’ll have me on her side.”

  Which in Scottie terms is to say she’ll have the best in the business at all points. It still sits heavy in my gut that she won’t have me. Not if I do what needs to be done to get her to go.

  My headache threatens to crush my skull. I’m going to have to let Libby go. Set her free.

  I swallow hard and nod. “I’ll talk to her.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Libby

  I’m curled up on the couch in our suite, playing the guitar, when Killian finally returns. He leans against the door for a long minute, head tilted back, gaze on some distant point. The lines of his body are tight with tension, making him appear almost gaunt. I want to go to him, hold him close. But he pushes off and heads my way.

  “Everything all right?” I ask, setting the guitar aside as he hunkers down before me, sitting on the low coffee table. Bluish smudges mar the skin beneath his eyes. There’s a scrape along his jaw, presumably where Marlow punched him, and his hand is splinted. Guilt is a punch in the heart.

  Killian sighs and leans forward to rest his head on my shoulder, his hands going to my hips. Immediately, I wrap my arms around his back and stroke him. We sit in quiet until he takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “Shit day, baby doll.”

  “Yeah,” I agree, my throat thick.

  He kisses the side of my neck, a soft press of lips, then sits up straight. His face is somber. “Talked to the record execs.”

  I sit up straighter. “They’re giving you trouble, aren’t they?”

  “They tried.” He shrugs. “They were pissed about the fight. But that’s to be expected.”

  “I’m so sorry—”

  “No,” he cuts in. “Don’t start that again. We both know who is to blame, and that fucker isn’t coming anywhere near you again.”

  “Doesn’t make it any better, though, does it?”

  Killian’s sigh is tired and low. “Guess not.” He snorts with disgust. “They want me on my best behavior from now on.”

  My fingers feel cold, and I rub my damp palms along my thighs. “Killian—”

  “You talked to Scottie.” Pain shadows his eyes, making them dull. He doesn’t ask about what. It’s obvious he knows.

  I clear my throat. “You’re upset.”

  He smiles, but it isn’t with humor. “No, Libby. I’m proud. This is huge. It’s the next logical step, and you’re taking it.” His big hands curl around my knees, giving a small squeeze. “It’s huge. I’m happy for you.”

  “You don’t exactly look happy,” I point out. My heart begins to pound with a sick dread, and I don’t even know why.

  Killian’s gaze slides to the side, his teeth catching his lower lip. “I just wish you had come to me instead of him.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.” I touch his hand and find it cold. “I wanted a different perspective. And you kept telling me everything was fine, not to worry. But it isn’t fine. And I do worry. I want to help you.”

  Killian takes that in with an expression I can’t fully read. Regret, maybe? Hurt, definitely. But his voice is even when he finally speaks. “Scottie told me he thought you should start working with him now. Said it was your time to break out.”

  “He did,” I say slowly. “But the tour is still going.”

  Killian grips the back of his neck, his arm flexing. He won’t meet my eyes. “The tour is moving to Europe. No one will question if you aren’t there.”

  No one will care. Because I am not really a part of Kill John anyway. I know this. I never wanted to push my way into their band. It still doesn’t stop the shards of pain from stabbing their way into my chest.

  I need to get a grip. I am the one who went to Scottie. He told me that leaving the tour was best. But for some ridiculous reason, I thought Killian would put up a fight. That he wouldn’t want me to go. Pride. Stupid pride.

  “No, I suppose not.” I hate that my voice breaks.

  He nods, the action slow, as if it’s taking effort. “Scottie can get you set up in L.A. By tomorrow.”

  My insides swoop. “Tomorrow?”

  Holy hell, I’m being handled, a problem swept under the rug. It’s one thing to take control of the problem, but to have Killian actually agree with Scottie is unsettling.

  Still, I have to ask. “Is that what you want?”

  Killian looks at me sharply. “It isn’t about what I want anymore.” He lets his hand fall, and for a moment, I think he’ll reach for me. But he rests it on his thigh. “It’s about what’s best for you. For the band. It would be better for you if you do this now.”

  “But is it what you want?” I snap, unable to let it go.

  Killian seems to brace himself. When he lifts his head, his eyes are clear. “Yeah, Libby, it’s what I want. I think you should go.”

  Nausea rolls in my belly. God, how many times had my mama warned me? Musicians don’t stick when life gets hard. And if they do, they regret it. I lurch to my feet.

  He tries to grab my wrist. “Libs—”

  I brush him off with a tight smile. “I’m okay. I have to stand. My legs are falling asleep.” I pace to the window where rain streaks down in rivers, the landscape blurry and gray. “It’s a good plan,” I manage. “The best plan.”

  He’s silent, and I risk a look. I wish I hadn’t. Pity etches his features. Fuck that. My fingers curl around the heavy drapes. He’s sending me away. After all his cajoling, after outright ordering me to join him, when the shit hits the fan, he fucking sends me away.

  “I could come with you for a bit,” he says. “Help you get set up.”

  Jax’s warning runs through my mind. Killian will put me first. Even though it’s clear he wants me gone, his loyalty will always drive him into doing the noble thing. I’m the problem here. I refuse to add more to it by tearing him away from his life, his obligations.

  Killian had the courage to push me toward a life I didn’t want to admit I craved. I can do this for him now and walk away with dignity. The lump in my throat reaches epic proportions. I swallow convulsively, willing myself not to cry. “And leave the tour?” I choke on a sharp laugh. “No. That’s ridiculous.”

  He frowns. “Libby, if you need me—”

  “I don’t.” I know he cares. But I’m done being his problem to solve.

  He recoils as if I’ve slapped him. That burns too. I’m not the one backing off. He promised everything would be okay if we stuck together. And now this.

  “Okay, then,” he says slowly, the frown growing deeper.

  I want to rage and fight. But pride forces me to remain calm. I refuse to be any man’s regret. I sigh and run a hand through my hair. My head hurts. My heart aches. “Killian, I’ll be fine. It’s like you said; this is just the next step.” Where I leave you. I don’t want to leave you.

  “And your tour won’t last forever. I’ll just wait in L.A….” I trail off, not really knowing what else to say. Everything is jumbled and stuck in my chest.

  His body is stiff as he stands, setting his hands low on his hips. “Look…You’ll be busy. I’ll be busy.” He takes a breath, like he’s trying to force his words out. “You can take this time to settle down, see what you really want.”

  “What I really want?” My lips feel numb. He’s not just sending me away. He’s letting me go. And here I was worried about setting him free. I want to laugh. Or cry. It’s a toss-up.

  “Yeah,” he croaks. “Without me hovering or holding you back. You can… You can figure out if this is the way you really want to live.”

  Somehow I find the strength to nod. “Y
eah, you’re right. Everything has been going full-tilt. Half the time, it didn’t even seem real.”

  He blanches at that but makes a noise of agreement. It’s so stiff, his manner so impersonal.

  I find myself babbling on, making excuses for both of us. “And it would be stupid to hold each other back when we don’t know where we’ll end up.”

  Lie. Lie. Lie. I want to beg him to just hold me, tell the world to fuck off. But he’s already backing up.

  His gaze is clear. “This is good, Libs,” he tells me, his voice flat. “You’ll see. You can take the time now and find out if this is the life you want, without me interfering. And I can…” He shrugs. “I can do the tour like a good little rocker and stay out of the news.”

  I flinch. It’s my fault he was in the news. “So, that’s it then.”

  Killian’s dark eyes hold mine. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

  Killian

  I let her go. It needed to be done. For her sake. I tell myself these things as I make an excuse to get the hell out of the room, claiming I need to do a sound check. She doesn’t stop me. That hurts just as much as anything. Maybe I expected her to tell me it was all a mistake, that she was only saying what she thought I wanted to hear, that she needed me.

  But she let me leave. Are we broken up? I’m not even sure. I was trying to be supportive, to get her away from this mess. But if feels like something else. Like we’re done.

  Taking the elevator down, I can’t look at myself in the door’s reflection. My entire body hurts, my heart screaming at me to get the hell back in that room and stake my claim.

  She doesn’t need me.

  She made that clear.

  No one in my life has. Not my family, not Jax when he was hurting so badly he’d rather end things than reach out to me, and not Libby.

  What the hell is wrong with me that I need to be needed?

  By the time I reach our practice space, set up in some conference room, rage pumps through my blood. I said what I had to say to get Libby to go. Only now do I realize I’d wanted her to fight me with the same conviction she fights everything else. I wanted her to choose me. How fucking selfish is that?