Idol (VIP #1) Page 5

  Killian frowns, but his voice is gentle. “When did they die, Libby?”

  I don’t want to answer. But silence is worse. “A little over a year ago.” I take a breath. “My mom and dad went out to dinner. Dad got drunk but drove anyway.”

  I can’t tell him that my dad was always drunk in those final days, missing a lifestyle he’d vowed to give up when my parents had me. Was I the cause of my father’s bad choices? No. But some days, it sure felt like it. I swallow hard. “He crashed into a family van. Killed the mother in that van, himself, and my mom too.”

  “Fucking hell.”

  I try to shrug and fail. “It is what it is.”

  “It’s fucked up, honey.”

  Nodding, I search through the cooler for another lemonade.

  “Liberty?” His voice is so soft and tentative that I immediately still and lift my head.

  Killian squeezes the back of his neck, his jaw bunched. But he doesn’t look away, even though it’s clear he wants to. “I… Fuck…” He takes another breath. “I’m sorry. For the way we met. For tearing up your lawn and puking on you.” His cheeks redden, which is kind of cute. “But most of all, for forcing you to take care of a drunk driver.”

  He flicks a few grains of sand off his knee. “It was fucked up. And I’m not that guy.” His dark eyes are wide and slightly haunted. “Or I wasn’t until recently. I just…had a rough time lately,” he finishes with a mumble before frowning at the sea.

  “And you turned to the bottle.” It isn’t my place to criticize. And I try to make my voice gentle. “It never works, you know.”

  He snorts. “Oh, I know.” He glances back at me, and his lips curve on a bitter smile. “I failed spectacularly at that experiment in oblivion.”

  “If you’d failed,” I say softly, “you’d be dead.”

  Killian blanches. “I guess you’re right,” he says in a thin voice.

  We’re quiet for a moment, the crash of waves and the cries of gulls filling the air. Then I hand him his sandwich. “I’m glad you didn’t.” I’m glad you’re here. With me. But I don’t have the courage to say that.

  He shakes his head as if laughing at himself, but when he meets my eyes, there’s a lightness in his expression. “I’m glad too, Liberty Bell.” Killian leans in and peers at me. “We cool now?”

  He sounds so hopeful—and a bit unsure—that the last vestiges of anger toward him leave me. I fear that too. Anger is a wall I’ve built to protect myself. I know this. What I don’t know is how to protect myself from hurt without it. But I want to try.

  I find a smile. “We’re cool.”

  Chapter Five

  Libby

  We’re friends. I don’t know how it happened. I was all set to hate Killian, but he’s wormed his way under my skin with embarrassingly little effort. Maybe because, as the days pass, he never really leaves. Somehow he’s around for breakfast the next morning¸ then ends up hanging out with me all day until it’s night again. Or maybe because I’ve sunk into a pattern of enjoying his company and then waiting until he returns to me. I swear, I seem to be waiting for him even in my sleep, my thoughts consumed with all things Killian—what is he doing? What’s he thinking now? When’s he coming over again?

  The annoying thing is that I was perfectly content before he came. My life had a pattern and was comfortable. Reliable. Now, it’s anything but. Everything is driven by this push of anticipation for him.

  I tell myself it isn’t really my fault. I don’t think there’s a person on Earth capable of resisting the man. Killian is a peacock in a world of sparrows. He catches the eye and holds it. Oddly, it isn’t even about looks. Killian’s features are bold and strong; he’s good looking, sure, but not extraordinary. And yet he is, because whatever makes Killian Killian lights him up and draws people in like a candle in the dark.

  Proof positive I’m not the only one affected? Grumpy old Mrs. Nellwood is currently beaming at Killian like he’s her favorite grandson, even though he’s rifling through her store and making a general ruckus.

  Killian has dragged me away from work and into town. I hate going to town, but he whined and pouted, then grinned and poked at my ribs until I agreed to give him a ride.

  “You’re not gonna make me walk all that way, are you, Libby?” he’d said with that lopsided smile of his, the one that causes little crinkles to form at the corners of his dark eyes. “It’s got to be, what? At least a mile. Maybe two.”

  “You’re a fit young man. You’ll survive.”

  “I’m new to the area. I could get lost. Next thing you know, I’m half-starved, and in my weakened condition, I could be eaten by wild, rabid bunnies.”

  “Bunnies?” I hadn’t wanted to laugh but did anyway. “Of all the animals, you go with bunnies?”

  “Have you ever looked in a bunny’s eyes, Libs? They’re just waiting for their chance to dominate. Why do you think they’re always so twitchy?”

  “Because they’re freaked something’s going to eat them for dinner?”

  “Nope. They’re plotting. It’s just a matter of time before they make their move. Mark my words.”

  So here we are, in Nellwood’s General Store, Killian all but hopping from shelf to shelf, intent, it seems, on touching everything. “Oh, shit,” he drawls. “Look at this, Libs.”

  He picks up a red trucker hat and tries it on. “What do you think?”

  Of course he looks good in it. Even with his long, tangled hair. In truth, he’s like a hot trucker. It doesn’t help that his faded black Star Wars T-shirt clings to his chest and displays his tight biceps with loving care. Disturbed fantasies involving a big rig and a truck stop parking lot fill my head, and I have to give myself a mental slap to focus on the question at hand.

  His grin is one of goofy happiness, and I can’t help but smile back. “It’s totally you. In fact, you really should buy one in every color they have.”

  Killian points at me. “You’re getting one too.”

  “Yeah, no.”

  “It’ll protect your skin from that sunburn threat you keep going on about.”

  Behind the counter, Mrs. Nellwood titters. “So sweet, looking out for you. Liberty, dear, who is your young man?”

  My man? Gah.

  Under the brim of his hat, Killian’s dark brows waggle, though he manages to keep a straight face while he does it.

  “This is my new neighbor…” I glance at him and realize I have no idea what his last name is. Good God, I’ve let a virtual stranger into my life. And become way too attached to him at that.

  Killian doesn’t look at me, so he’s oblivious to my panic as he steps to the counter and extends his hand. “Killian, ma’am. I’m renting the Cromley place for a few months.”

  Mrs. Nellwood preens, her white bun trembling. “Welcome to Collar Island, Mr. Scott.”

  Killian frowns as if confused. “Mr. Scott?”

  Mrs. Nellwood’s pale blue eyes are shrewd. “I thought a Mr. Scott was the name on the rental agreement. Was I mistaken?”

  Killian’s back stiffens in surprise. He clearly hadn’t understood the busybody nature of a small town. But he recovers quickly and gives her the full force of his charming smile. “Mr. Scott handled the rental for me. I was traveling at the time.”

  It’s strange. Watching Killian, I get a sense he’s telling the truth, and yet he seems oddly unsettled. Maybe he’s like me and values his privacy. I don’t blame him. I’ve spent every summer of my life here. Still I’m treated like an outsider and an object of curiosity.

  I hide a lot since I moved in permanently. The idea that they’re just waiting for me to slip up and spill my innermost secrets sets my teeth on edge. I hate small talk, always have. Hate the awkward, too-tight effect it has on my skin, my throat. I’m better off on my own. Which is why I rarely come to town.

  Killian is paying for his things—a mountain of candy, chips, soda, knick-knacks that no one ever needs, and the hat—when the bell over the door rings and a group of g
irls enter on a wave a giggles.

  They look about sixteen, and it occurs to me that I’ve really been hiding away for a long-ass time, because I don’t recognize a one of them. At the counter, Killian shifts his weight so his back is to the girls. I wouldn’t have noticed except my attention, apparently, is always somehow on him.

  He thanks Mrs. Nellwood with a quick, tight smile then hustles over to me. He doesn’t actually move quickly, but each step he takes seems laden with the intent to get the fuck out of here. Fine by me.

  The moving mass of teenagers has hit the makeup aisle, and much squealing has ensued. And they’ve definitely noticed him. The girls keep whispering while glancing at his back, which isn’t surprising. Killian is tall and well formed. A hot stranger. He might as well be bait on a hook for the local female population.

  I am surprised, however, when Killian takes my hand and tugs me outside. Not surprised that he wants to leave, but that he does it in a way that makes it look like we’re a couple. In silence, we walk down Main Street, and all I can think about is the rough yet warm feel of his hand in mine. His hold on me is secure but easy, his stride slowed to match my shorter steps.

  Jesus, I need to get a grip. I can’t have a crush on this man. We’ve already set up a pattern in our relationship. He teases, I sneer. The idea of him finding out I’m attracted to him makes my insides twist. I’d never live it down. Never.

  “That was a cool place,” he says, breaking me out of my panicked thoughts.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever heard Nellwood’s described as ‘cool.’ But if you liked it, that’s all that matters.”

  Glancing down at me, his dark eyes flash with good humor, though the lines around his mouth are still tight. He gives me a little nudge as we walk along. “How very magnanimous of you, Libby.”

  That’s the other thing. Despite his general I’m-a-wayward-bum appearance, Killian has clearly received a fine education. Better than mine, if I had to guess. I want to ask him, but every time we touch on anything remotely personal about him, he withdraws.

  “Oh, hey.” He stops and faces me while digging around in the bag. “Got you something.”

  “Hell, no,” I blurt out when he lifts up a matching trucker hat, this one in purple.

  “Now, Libby, don’t knock it ’till you try it.”

  Before I can make a run for it, he slips the hat onto my head. He’s standing so close it’s almost an embrace when he lifts his arms to adjust the brim. Close enough to draw in the faint scent of soap on his skin. Close enough that a soft flush of heat washes over me, and I struggle not to lean in to him.

  “There,” he says. “You look…”

  He falls silent. The sound of my own breathing, and his, grows loud in the quiet. Flustered, I look up. He’s biting his lower lip in concentration, those strong, white teeth making little dents in that lush curve.

  Eyes the color of hot coffee meet mine, and my heart gives a great thwump in response. A tremor goes through my middle, my body heating so swiftly, I’m surprised I haven’t broken out in a sweat. I want to look away, but I can’t. He stares at me as if confused, his lips parting slightly.

  My own lips seem to swell, blood pulsing through them. I want to press them to his and ease this strange ache. I don’t move. Desperately, I try to think of what we were saying, where we are.

  I clear my throat. “I look what?” My voice is a croak of sound.

  Killian blinks, his dark brows knitting. He licks his lower lip, and I almost cave. When he speaks, his deep voice is a rumble. “Cute,” he says. “You look cute in that hat.”

  The gentle touch of his fingertips brushing back a lock of my hair has me shivering.

  “I thought your eyes were gray,” he says, still not stepping back. No, he’s leaning in, his breath a soft caress over my lips. “But they look green now.”

  The observation gives me the strength to break eye contact. I take a big step back and look away, a kick of pain hitting my heart. “I have my mom’s eyes. They change color depending on the light. Gray, green, blue.” I don’t want to think of Mom’s eyes. Or that the only way I can see anything close to them now is to look in the mirror.

  Killian touches my elbow. His expression is somber. “They’re beautiful.” He looks as though he’s about to say more, but then the group of girls come out of the hardware store in another wave of giggles.

  Killian tenses. I look their way and find them staring at us. No, not us. At him. Heads bent together, the girls peer at Killian and frown.

  I’m about to frown back at their rude asses when Killian gives the brim of my cap a playful tap. “Come on, little trucker, we’ve got snacks to eat.”

  He takes my hand again, tugging me along. The simple fact that he never looks their way makes me believe he’s trying to avoid interaction.

  “Do you know one of them or something?” I ask as we hustle toward my truck.

  “Who?”

  “Don’t play stupid. It isn’t a good look on you. You’re walking away from that group of girls like your balls are on fire.”

  “Sounds painful.” He shudders. “In fact, never ever talk about my balls being on fire again. Add that to our ‘Nope’ list.”

  “Killian, those girls. Do you know one of them?”

  “I’m twenty-seven. Why would I know a bunch of teenage girls here? Or anywhere? That would make me some sort of creeper.”

  “I don’t know why. But they were looking at you as if they knew you. And you’re clearly avoiding them.”

  “Now who’s playing detective.”

  I stop short by the passenger door to my pickup truck. His hand slips from mine, but he turns to face me. His scowl is dark. I glare right back. “Tell. Me. What’s going on?”

  He deflates then. “All right. Just…get in the truck, will you?”

  I gesture to the door, since I’m the one driving. He growls low in his throat and wrenches it open, tossing his snacks into the cab.

  It isn’t until we’re almost home that he speaks. “Okay. No, I didn’t know those girls. But I think they might have recognized me. Or they were trying to place me.” He frowns and rubs his chin. “I shouldn’t have shaved.”

  “Who are you that those girls would recognize you?” Jesus, is he some infamous criminal released on a technicality? “Is Killian your real name?”

  I sound a touch panicked, and he gives me a measured look. “Yes, it’s my real name.”

  The truck sways as we drive over a divot.

  Killian braces his arm against the dash. “Look, can you pull over while we talk about this? I’d rather not end up in a ditch.”

  “Fine.” I ease into the next pull-off that leads to a public beach. The Atlantic stretches out to the right of us, a dark swath glittering with sunlight.

  Killian squints into the sun. “My name is Killian James.”

  I stare at him, trying to place why that sounds so familiar. And then it hits me so hard I think I gasp. I must, because he turns to face me, his eyes wary.

  Killian James. Lead singer and guitarist for Kill John. The biggest fucking rock band in the world. Oh, God, I want to laugh. Just lose it right here and now. Of all the men fate has to put in my path. A rocker. And not just any rocker—one of the biggest stars of our generation.

  “You have guitarist’s hands,” I say faintly, as if that matters.

  His brows quirk as if he fears for my sanity.

  “When you shook my hand, I noticed the callouses,” I add, still kind of dazed. Jesus, Killian James is in my car. “And I wondered if you were a musician.”

  He glances down at his hands, then nods. “Yeah. I am.” He barks out a laugh and shakes his head.

  Heat invades my cheeks. I feel utterly stupid for not recognizing him. On the heels of that comes resentment of him hiding it from me. Because why the hell would I recognize him? I barely go on social media. I know his voice, his songs, but his face? Not so much. And no one expects a rock god to drop on their lawn. Drunk and disorder
ly, at that.

  “Why are you here?” I grind out.

  He leans back against his headrest. “Jax. I couldn’t deal…” He bites his lips, his cheeks flushing dark.

  Jax. The lead singer for Kill John. Now this story I know. Mainly because it was on the actual evening news. Last year, John Blackwood, Jax as the world calls him, tried to commit suicide by overdosing on sleeping pills. It was public and ugly. And from the little I heard of it, his attempt had broken up the band.

  “Killian…” I reach out, but he edges away, curling in on himself.

  “I found him, you know?” He stares at nothing. “My best friend. As close as brothers. I thought he was gone. After that… We were broken. Nothing felt real or solid anymore. And I needed to get out.”

  “The drinking?” I ask softly.

  Dark eyes meet mine. “It was the anniversary of his attempt. On the way here, I pulled over at a bar.” He shakes his head. “Wasn’t thinking right. Wasn’t thinking at all.”

  My heart aches for him. “I’m sorry about your friend. That you’re hurting.”

  He nods but still frowns at the road before us. “So now you know.”

  Silence fills the car. I want to stare at him. I can’t help it.

  Killian Fucking James. In my car.

  I’m not one of those fangirl types who learns the stats of her favorite band members and follows their every move. But I love music. It is personal to me, part of my life and my heritage. I have all of Kill John’s albums. It hits me that, aside from seeing shots of Jax on the news, I have no clue what the rest of Kill John’s members look like—they never put their faces on the album covers. I want to ask Killian about that. About a million things.

  But I don’t. I turn on the car and pull out onto the road. “Come on, we’ll snack. And later, I’ll make you my grandma’s famous chicken and dumplings.”

  I swear I hear him release a breath.

  When he talks, he’s his old, charming self. “Sounds like heaven, Liberty Bell.”