“Your performance was totally awesome.” She does a little victory dance that makes me laugh.
“You’ve told me that three times now.”
“You have to give reinforcement in threes,” she says, sticking out her tongue. “Otherwise it doesn’t stick.”
“Consider it stuck, then.” I accept a piece of pizza and take a big bite. So good. I’m starved tonight.
Brenna scarfs down her own slice. “The guys are in New York now.”
I pause mid-bite. “I thought they were in London.”
“They were. They got into New York this morning for their final concert of the tour. They always like to end things on their home turf.”
“Right. I’d forgotten that.” Longing falls like a heavy blanket on my shoulders. I actually roll them as if I could shrug the feeling off. Doesn’t work, though. I set my piece of pizza aside and search for a water in the mini fridge.
“They’re on stage now,” Brenna says, watching me with wary eyes. “Scottie has a recording of it he wanted you to see.”
“Scottie does?” I can’t keep the skepticism out of my voice.
Brenna gives a cheeky grin. “Pretty sure he was ordered to.”
“Hmmm…” I can’t say more. The idea that Killian is passing me yet another proverbial note sends me a flash of hope and an ache of nostalgia.
We curl up on the couch, and Brenna plays the video. God, it hurts seeing him. Bare chest glistening with sweat, ratty old jeans hanging low and lovingly outlining that nearly obscene bulge of his—he’s a hot rock star at his finest. And the way he holds that white and black Telecaster in his big hands is like music porn.
His deep, rich voice sends a shiver down my spine as he dips his head to the mic. “We’d like to play a tribute tonight. If you know the words, sing along.”
I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t “Darling Nikki.” Oh, but it’s so good. Killian’s voice is pure sex, dripping with sticky sin. And watching him work his guitar? Jesus. Heat washes up my thighs, pools between my legs.
Killian’s beloved Animal goes wild. Women scream; men hold their hands up in solidarity. They all join him, shouting the words.
He absolutely shreds the guitar on the solo, his hips thrusting, his back bowed. Emotion pulls the slashes of his brows together, has him biting his lip. I’ve seen that face before—when he’s over me, coming, giving in to lust.
In my periphery, I catch a glimpse of Brenna gawking at the screen and then back at me.
I don’t know what to say. A lump closes my throat. I swallow hard against it, but the pain doesn’t go away. My hands start to shake.
Killian’s shouting how he wants another grind.
A song about a freaky whore? About a deal with the devil? An unforgettable woman? It could be all and any of those things. A tribute? To whom? Prince? Or me? I sang “Cream.” Now he’s singing this.
“Libs—” Brenna starts to say.
I hold up my hand. “I…ah…I’m going to bed. I need to think…” I don’t say anything more. But I do leave my phone on the table as I walk away. Because I have a feeling he’ll call, and I have nothing I can say to him over the phone.
Chapter Thirty
Killian
I’m on my phone the second I get back to the dressing room. My blood is pumping, my body humming. I have to pace to cool down. People flow around me, laughing, staring, trying to get close. I want to order them out, but I’m too busy trying to call Libby. I keep getting her voicemail.
I don’t leave a message. I want to talk to her.
Sitting my ass in a chair, I start to text her, only to see one from Brenna.
What the fuck was that? Idiot. (!!!!) >:-(
I read it twice before holding up the phone to the guys. “Why the hell is she yelling at me?”
“Dude.” Rye shakes his head. “I told you not to choose that song.”
“What’s wrong with ‘Darling Nikki’? It’s my favorite song on Purple Rain—an album we talked about when we first bonded over music. She played Prince tonight. I played Prince tonight. I’m supporting her. How can it be more clear?”
“A.” Rye holds up a finger. “That is way too esoteric.”
“It’s supposed to be,” I protest. “It’s a message to her, not the rest of the world.”
“B,” he says over me. “‘Darling Nikki’ is what Prince sings to Apollonia when he’s basically calling her a whore.”
Whip nods. “Yeah, the lyrics pretty much say she’s only good for freaky sex.”
I stare at them, incredulous. “Why didn’t you all tell me this before we did the fucking song?”
“You were pretty insistent,” Rye says with a shrug.
“And you knew the lyrics,” Whip points out calmly. “You just sang them.”
“Of course I know the lyrics. It’s the context I didn’t get.”