Idol (VIP 1)

“Why is this so important to you?” she rasps. “Why are you pushing it so much?” I can practically hear her brain whirring. “What aren’t you telling me?”

I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose. If I want her trust, I have to go all-in now. “The first time I told my parents I wanted a guitar, they sent an assistant out to buy me a six-thousand-dollar Telecaster.”

She’s silent for a beat. “Is that supposed to be bad?”

I snort in tired amusement. “They got me lessons from the best teacher in New York. Because, and I quote, ‘Killian’s finally found a little hobby.’”

I keep talking, exposing more. “When I told them I wanted to form a band, be a rock star, they asked me if I needed them to book a concert hall for me. They knew some people.”

“I…ah…I don’t understand. They sound more supportive than most parents. Maybe a little patronizing, but they clearly cared.”

“Libs, I meant it when I said I had a good childhood, the best of everything. But I was also something akin to a pet. Interest in who I was or what I did with my life wasn’t there. I wasn’t missed or needed. And that isn’t a poor-little-rich-me speech. Just the bald truth. To this day, they haven’t heard a single song or gone to any of my concerts. Which is fine.”

But it isn’t.

She clearly picks up on that. “So you want to fix me because of what? Childhood angst?”

Something in me snaps. “I’m trying to show you how much I care, that your dreams mean something to me! They’re not things to be swept under the rug or given lip service. They fucking matter, Libby. You matter.” I stop there, my body tensing. I’ve said too much, exposed my underbelly. It isn’t a comfortable sensation.

She draws a breath, the sound crackling through the phone. “You matter too.”

My eyes close. Maybe some of my motivation is selfish, because I miss her so badly right now it hurts. I’m so into this girl. She has no idea how much.

“I’ve always had my guys, the band. We pushed each other when one of us doubted. We were a team. I wouldn’t be where I was without them. I want to be that for you, Libby. You’re too talented not to at least try.”

I swear, it feels like hours before I hear her response. Her laugh is tired and brief. “God. Am I going to do this?”

“Yes.”

“That was rhetorical.”

“I’m just moving the process along, babe.”

She pauses for a second before speaking. “I have conditions.”

“Name them.” My heart pounds, adrenaline making me pace.

“I don’t want anyone to know about us.”

“Okay—Wait, what?” I halt, gripping the phone too tightly. Hide us? “What the hell? No. Why?” I’m sputtering now. “Is this that whole Yoko thing again?”

“It isn’t a ‘thing’,” she says with annoying patience. “It’s a legitimate concern—even more if I’m going to be on stage with you.”

“Because your talent will suddenly disappear if people know my dick’s been in you?”

“Don’t be crude.”

Oh, I’m being crude. I rest a fist against the wall. Just rest it. For now.

Her voice softens. “Please put yourself in my place. I’m an unknown, untried musician who you want to put on stage with the biggest band in the world. No one does that, unless they’re getting themselves some.”

“Which I am,” I point out, stupidly.

“You trying to piss me off?” she snaps.

I sigh and thump my forehead against the wall. “No. I didn’t mean it that way. Go on.”

“You’re right. People are probably going to think something like that regardless. But you go and tell your band that you want your girl on stage with you? They’re going to think one thing: I fucked my way up there.”

Wincing, I grind my teeth, trying to think of a retort.

I hear her voice catch. “I have my pride, Killian. Don’t take it from me.”

“Baby doll.”

“Let me prove myself before they set their minds on who or what I am.”

I’m silent for a long minute. “Fuck,” I snarl, pushing off the wall. I sigh and the fight goes out of me. “All right. You’re right. I know you’re right. But they’re going to know the second they see us together, Libs. I’m not good at hiding how I feel.”

“Did you tell them about us?”

I stare through the glass. A sliver of the next room is visible, and with it Jax’s profile. He looks relaxed. Solemn but okay.

“Brenna and Scottie know, obviously. But they won’t say anything. The guys don’t, though. Not details like that.” I hadn’t wanted to share, as if by telling them about it, I’d lose something private, something real. “Just that you helped me with my music and that you’re talented as all fuck. They know I sent Scottie to coax you out here.”