“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 disorderly, 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.”
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.