Idol (VIP #1)

by Kristen Callihan

  I did the right thing here. She’ll be out of the tour’s harsh glare. People won’t see her as my girl, but a talent in her own right.

  I plug in my guitar. I’m shaking so hard, I drop my pick twice.

  “Fuck it,” I snarl.

  “Someone is in a mood,” Whip says from the door. He walks in and takes a seat at his kit. “What crawled up your butt?”

  “Libby isn’t going to Europe with us.”

  “Why? Because of last night?” He shakes his head and taps on his cymbal. “That’s bullshit. And you’re okay with this?”

  No, I’m not fucking okay. I’m barely holding it together.

  “She wants it. Scottie’s taking her under his wing.” The words taste like ash in my mouth.

  Whip gapes at me. “And she said this? She said, ‘Killian, I want to ditch your ass and go off with Scottie to find my fame.’”

  “No,” I mutter. “She didn’t say it like that.” I turn away from him and grab a fresh pick. “She…I gave her a push.”

  “Man, I don’t think—”

  “It’s done.” I turn on an amp and flick the volume up to full. “You gonna play or continue to piss me off with questions?”

  “By all means,” Whip says, twirling his drumsticks. “Let’s play.”

  But it’s no fucking good. I don’t get further than a few chords before the rage surges up once more. My fingers fumble on the strings. I can’t play. I don’t want to fucking play. This time, the rage chokes me. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I’m barely aware of ripping the guitar strap off over my head. The Telecaster in my hand smashes into the floor with a satisfying crack and a deafening buzz of reverb.

  Guitar destroyed, chest heaving, I don’t feel better. Not even a little bit.

  Whip comes to stand by my side, surveying the damage. “Guess we aren’t playing today. Come on. We’ll medicate with single malt like proper rock stars.”

  Libby wouldn’t like me drinking. But Libby won’t be around by tomorrow. I press my fingers to my aching forehead. “Yeah, a drink sounds about right.”

  I come back to Libby in the middle of the night, and she’s asleep. I curl myself around her anyway; she feels so good I almost can’t stand to touch her anymore, not when she’s leaving.

  The thought hits me like a comet, and my insides flare. I must make a noise because she stirs, her voice soft and muffled with sleep. “Killian?”

  She turns in my arms, her body warm, her fingers tracing my brow. I was going to let her sleep, but I can’t. My hand slides to her cheek.

  “Give me this,” I whisper. “Before you go. I need this.”

  I find her mouth. I’d say kissing her is like coming home, but I’ve never had a true home. I don’t know if the sense of rightness I feel with her means home or not. Right now it’s something stronger, tinged with desperation. I’m desperate for her. The way she tastes, the way she moves, the little sounds and sighs that only she makes.

  There’s no one else like her. There never will be. I know that now. Maybe I’ve always known that, but now it feels like I’ve discovered something too late.

  Libby moves against me, waking up in my arms, and she kisses me back, her hands roaming over my arms, neck, back, like she can’t find a place to land. We go slow, lingering, memorizing each other. I angle my head and open her mouth wider with mine, get deeper, take more. I need it all.

  The bed creaks as I roll over and fit myself between her willing thighs. She gasps in my mouth, and I swallow her breath. I want it all, and it isn’t enough right now by half. Breaking away from her lips, I lean back so I can pull the shirt over her head. It’s my shirt. The ratty old thing I wore at the beach when we first met. It has to mean something that she’s always wearing it.

  I’m pulling at straws. And she’s naked beneath me. My hands ghost over her satin skin. Perfect.

  In the dark, I trace the topography of her body with my fingers and lips, kissing my way down her graceful neck, along her collarbone. I take my time on the little places I’ve often overlooked—the center of her chest where I can feel her heart beating, the soft, fragrant curve along the side of her breast.

  The skin on her inner arm is like fine silk; she shivers as I run the tip of my tongue in patterns down to her elbow. Libby sighs my name, her fingers combing through my hair and massaging the tight spots on my nape. Beneath me, her thighs are parted wide, her body pliant. The wet heat of her sex press against my chest, calling my attention.

  I slide farther down, licking and nipping my way along. I love the way she squirms. I know how much she gets off on the anticipation of me reaching my destination. It’s a little game we’ve played many times: how long can we draw it out, touch each other and yet not touch those places we want it the most.

  I press my lips against the hard curve of her hipbone, my arms wrapped tight around her waist. Fuck. No one knows me better than this woman. And I’d bet my life I know her better than anyone on Earth. And I’m sending her away. She’s going. It’s so fucking wrong, it’s choking me.

  I try not let it show. But I can’t stop the tremor running through me.

  “Killian?” her vanilla cream voice slides through the dark.

  Tell her. Tell her what she is to you. She’s your lodestone. You have a fucking map inked on your body, but you are completely lost without her right next to you. Tell her.

  I suck in a breath and surge down. My mouth finds her slick, swollen flesh, and I latch on, feasting like it’s my last meal.

  Libby gasps, her body arching off the bed. In the gloom, her skin is a pearly cream, her sweet little tits pointing up and shaking as she writhes. I hold her hips down and eat her out with no finesse, just greed. And she whimpers and cries.

  Good. Remember that. Need it. Crave it. I know I will.

  I don’t let her come. Not yet. When she quivers against my tongue, her clit swelling, I lift away. Libby cries out, her arms reaching for me.

  “Shhh,” I whisper, crawling over her. “I got you.”

  Her damp breasts cushion my chest as I settle over her, needing that skin-to-skin contact. The throbbing tip of my cock finds the slick notch of her pussy, and I push in, no hesitation—a little mean about it, even. We both need that.

  The first thrust is always the most painful. Because it never fails to punch me in the heart, the fucking perfection of her, the tight, hot, wet clasp. Like home. Yeah, she’s my home. My everything.

  She never shies away from me, but raises her hips, spreads herself wider, as if she needs to take every inch I can offer. Her legs wrap around me, her hands grasping my shoulders. “Killian.”

  We move as one, pulling apart, sliding back together. It’s slow torture. Every time I ease back, I feel cold. Every thrust in, I want to grind myself there, imprint myself from the inside.

  My arms bracket her slim shoulders. In the dark, I find her. Her eyes glint as she stares up at me, and we slowly undulate. Her air becomes mine.

  Tell her. Beg her not to go.

  I dip my head and kiss her, kiss her until I don’t feel anything but her mouth, her body. Kiss her until I can’t think about tomorrow.

  I’m probably crushing her. There isn’t any space between us. But she’s wrapped tight around me, not letting go. Her lips consume me, her sweet pussy milking my dick as she comes. And I want to shout. It can’t end. Not yet.

  But then I’m coming too, so hard my body shakes. I don’t make a sound. I can’t. I’ll be begging her if I do.

  I fall asleep wrapped up in her, my fingers clinging so hard to her shoulders that my knuckles ache.

  In the morning, she’s packed before I’m out of bed. The sight of her bags settles like lead in my gut as I pull on a pair of jeans.

  “You’re leaving now?” I ask, stating the obvious. But, Jesus, she’s fast.

  Libby shifts on her feet, as if she’s already imagining walking out the door. “Your plane leaves tonight, anyway. Scottie got us a flight out early.”

  Right.
Because he’s now the one she plans things with. He’s her manager. He should be planning her life right now. He does the same for me. A green tinge of jealousy clouds my vision.

  “Okay, then. I guess you gotta go.”

  Libby nods and grips her rolling suitcase. “Have a safe flight.”

  “Yeah, you too.” Fuck, we’re already talking like strangers.

  She glances at the door and a small smile tugs at her pretty lips. “Seems we’re destined to always be leaving each other.”

  So stay. Tell me you can’t live without me the way I can’t live without you. But she doesn’t. And I don’t either. I should. My heart tells me I’m a fool not to tell her how I feel. But I’ve pushed and cajoled Libby too much already. She needs this, and I refuse to stand in her way just because I’m hurting.

  If you love someone, you set them free. Isn’t that how the saying goes? That, if it was meant to be, they’ll come back. Doesn’t help me for shit right now, though.

  “Well…” I make an abortive move to go to her just as she leans in to hug me. We meet in the middle, our lips brushing, her nose bumping into mine. It’s quick, almost impersonal. It fucking sucks.

  “Call me,” I tell her.

  Her gaze is on the floor. “I will.”

  One last awkward hug, and then I step back, stuffing my hands into my pockets. I’m not proud of that, but I know I won’t be able to let her go if I don’t distance myself first. I don’t watch her leave, just turn away and head for the bathroom. But I hear the door click and the hollow sound of an empty room loud and clear just the same.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Libby

  As I board my plane, I’ve realized two things: I let Killian go without a fight. And he did the same with me.

  At the time it all felt very self-sacrificing. Now I feel as though I’ve swallowed razor blades. Why didn’t we just talk to each other? Why did’t I put up a fight? Why didn’t he?

  Self-doubt is not my friend, and it’s whispering in my ear. Did Killian regret putting so much on the line for me? Getting his band and himself in hot water again because of me?

  I lean my head against the small plane window and close my eyes. When has taking a break ever resulted in something good? Isn’t it just another way of saying goodbye?

  The plane takes off, and I feel like I’ve left a large chunk of myself behind.

  LA is…not what I expected. Oh, I thought there would be sun, sea, and palm trees. And LA has that in spades. What I did not realize is that a good chunk of LA is made of long, slightly downtrodden strip malls.

  That all changes when Scottie checks us into the Hotel Bel-Air. The place is gorgeous with its fragrant gardens, soaring stucco architecture, and swank black-and-white color scheme. It has to be expensive as hell, but Scottie made clear that he’s footing the bill until we sign a deal with a record company. And Scottie does not stay in dumps. Or so he tells me when we part ways to settle into our rooms.

  My room has its own garden terrace with a Jacuzzi plunge pool, living room, and a fireplace. Instantly, I want to take a picture and show Killian. He’d love this place. It occurs to me that he’s probably stayed here many times.

  But I don’t. I need to make a clean break with this. Go cold turkey. If I keep calling him, I’m going to want to be with him even more. I’m going to end up saying something stupid like, “please take me back!”

  I put my phone away and take a long bath. I decide then and there that if I ever have the money to build a dream house, I’m designing it just like this place. I’m just not entirely sold on the location.

  After room service of a spectacular lobster Cobb salad, I meet Scottie in the lobby.

  The man looks right at home here in his cream-colored three-piece suit, gray silk tie, and sky blue shirt. He’s wearing loafers and sunglasses. All of this would look ridiculous on a mere mortal, but not Scottie.

  “Are you sure you’ve never modeled for Dolce & Gabbana? Because you look exactly like that model—”

  “Don’t say his name,” Scottie snaps, glaring at me over his shades. “Ever.”

  “You’re just giving me ammunition,” I reply in a sing-song voice as he guides me out to a waiting Mercedes sedan.

  “I’ve filled an entire cemetery with musicians who have tried to tease me, Ms. Bell.”

  He doesn’t appear serious. Of course with the sunglasses on, it’s hard to tell.

  Our destination is a recording studio, and I try not to gape as I spy not only a few famous movie stars walking by but two of my favorite singers chatting in a glass-and-steel break room inside.

  “This way.” Scottie ushers me into a smaller, private booth where a man waits for us.

  He looks to be in his mid-forties, balding (with gray frosting what hair is left) and icy blue eyes. Those eyes lock on me, and I can see their keen intelligence. He stands as we enter.

  “Scottie. Good to see you.”

  They exchange handshakes, and then the man turns his attention to me.

  “This is Ms. Liberty Bell,” Scottie tells him.

  “Love the name.” He shakes my hand. His grip is fast and brutal. His smile is genuine. “Did you two come up with it?”

  “No, sir. My parents had that honor.”

  “Honey-sweet voice as well. Excellent.”

  I might be offended if it wasn’t clear he was figuring out how to market me.

  Scottie gestures for me to take a seat, and the two men follow suit as soon as I do.

  “This is Hardy,” Scottie says to me.

  “As in ‘Hardy Jenns. With two Ns’?” God help me, I flipped him off. Wincing. I lower my finger. “I’m sorry—”

  “Let me guess,” Hardy interrupts with a wry smile. “You hate when it does that.”

  I smile too. “It’s bad form to mix movie quotes.”

  Scottie looks at us with his usual put-out expression. “When you’re done with your ’80s movies fun, I’d like to get on with this.”

  Both Hardy and I blink in shock.

  “Hell, Scottie,” Hardy says with a laugh, “I had no idea you’d lower yourself to watching ’80s movies.”

  “Mmm…” Scottie hums, deadpan. “And sometimes I listen to rock music. Fancy that.”

  Hardy leans closer to me. “Warning: taunt the tiger too much and he’ll swipe.”

  I like Hardy, with his easy humor and kind eyes. He’s nothing like what I’d heard from my parents about record producers being egotistical artists who liked to browbeat musicians.

  The thought amuses me, and I actually turn my head, some deep-seated part of me expecting Killian to be at my side so I can share a look with him. But he isn’t here. His absence is a cold blast against my skin, and my smile dies.

  Thankfully neither of the men who actually are in the room seems to notice.

  “Hardy is an excellent producer, and we’ve been discussing your options.”

  “I’ve seen clips of you with Kill John, Liberty—”

  “Call me Libby. Please.”

  “Well, Libby, you have a voice and natural sound that guys like me dream of developing.” His icy eyes light with excitement. “I’ve got a few ideas I’d like to run by you.”

  “I’m game if you are.” That sounded all right, didn’t it? On the inside I’m shaking like a leaf in a storm. If I can get through this without giggling like a fool, I’ll be happy.

  Scottie is texting, but he glances at the door when it opens, and three more men enter.

  “Ah, yes.” Scottie puts away his phone. “Your backup band. Tom plays guitar, Murphy on bass, and Jefferson on the drums.”

  The guys file in. They’re all older than me, clearly seasoned musicians. Guys like my dad, who worked the industry but never tried to make a bid for stardom. Instantly, I feel a measure of comfort. Glancing at Scottie, I’m guessing he knew exactly what he was doing when he hired them. And I have the urge to kiss his handsome cheek. If I didn’t know it would make him uncomfortable as hell, I would.


  “You look like your mother,” Tom says as he sits down.

  Surprise tingles over my skin. “You knew her?”

  Of the three men, he’s the oldest, probably in his forties. “I knew both your mom and your dad. Marcy and George were true talents.” His brown eyes grow solemn. “I was sorry to hear of their passing.”

  “Thank you.”

  Murphy and Jefferson take a seat as well.

  “Marcy and George,” Jefferson says. “And your name is Liberty. That some sort of George and Martha Washington joke?”

  “You know, you’re the first person who actually got that,” I say with a laugh. “Most people focus on the whole Liberty Bell thing.”

  “I’m named after Thomas Jefferson,” he says. “So I get the torture too.”

  “Shit, at least you weren’t named after the place where you were conceived,” Murphy adds. The tall, wiry guy grins at me from behind a mop of blond hair.

  We all think about it for a second, and then I groan in horror. “Oh my God, they didn’t name you after a Murphy bed, did they?”

  His cheeks go ruddy. “Fuck yeah, they did. Why they had to share that little factoid with me is the real question.”

  “And yet you shared it with us,” Hardy says.

  “My pain is now yours.”

  Laughing, we move on to discussing Scottie’s grand plans for me, which include developing some new songs, recording, and, in the meantime, doing the publicity circuit with appearances in small clubs and on talk shows.

  It sounds exhausting and exhilarating. The guys Scottie’s hired are supportive and clearly talented. It’s a dream come true. But the hole in my heart still bleeds steady and cold. I tell myself I’ll get over it, but it feels like a lie.

  Killian

  The Animal is gone. In its place is an ocean of people. And endless sea of writhing bodies, screaming for Kill John, screaming my name. I have to answer. They’re waiting for it.

  “Hello, London.” My voice echoes into the sea, and the sea roars back