Idol (VIP 1)

As soon as Killian left, I knew I’d made a mistake. I should have gone with him. I should have told my fears to shut up. But hindsight really is a bitch. Only now do I see what I’ve become.

A person can get…stuck, for lack a better word, in a life. It’s surprisingly easy, really. Hours bleed into days; days fade into months. Before you know it, years have passed, and you’re just this person, someone your younger self wouldn’t even recognize.

My parents died, and somehow, so did I. Friends drifted away—no, I drifted away from friends. I can’t pretend differently. I drifted away from everything—wrapped myself up in Grandmama’s old house and a job that meant I never really had to leave home, and just hunkered down. It wasn’t even a conscious decision. I simply retreated and never reemerged.

Killian wanted to drag me by my ankles back into the world of the living. Worse, he wanted to push me into its spotlight. Now he’s gone.

And I let him walk away.

“I’m an asshole,” I say to the room. Silence rings out.

I used to love silence. I hate it now. Hate. It.

“Fuck it.” I’m not sure I like this development of talking out loud to myself. But I have bigger things to worry about.

I’m lying on the floor, wearing Killian’s dirty Star Wars T-shirt like some lovelorn idiot, so I use my phone to open a search engine. I have no idea where Killian stays, but at least I can get to the correct city.

I’m scrolling through flights to New York when my phone vibrates with a text.

You were right. I needed to face Jax on my own.

I stare at the screen. Frozen. This is good. Why doesn’t it feel good?

Little dots pulse at the bottom of the screen as he writes. Another text pops up.

We’re cool now. I actually want to get back to work.

Swallowing hard, I force myself to write.

I’m glad. Everything will be okay. You’ll love it.

I don’t know what else to say. I am happy for him.

He answers.

I miss you. Promise me you’ll come to a concert.

No more requests to come play with him. Blinking hard, I stare out the window where the sun shines bright and hot. My vision blurs, and I blink again.

Of course I will.

A tear runs down my cheek. I ignore it.

He writes again.

I want to apologize. I tried to push you into something you weren’t ready for. It was selfish. I’m sorry.

He’s being sweet, and yet my throat hurts from trying not to sob.

It’s okay, Killian. I know you meant well.

Jesus, we’re texting like strangers. I try to think of something light, something that sounds like us. Anything. But then he texts.

Gotta go practice. Talk later?

Perhaps we will. But I know for sure what we had isn’t the same anymore. My hand trembles as I type.

Sure. Have fun. :)

The little smile emoticon stares back at me like a mockery. I turn off my phone and toss it aside before Killian can answer. Lying on the floor in the sun, I close my eyes and cry. I missed my chance and only have myself to blame.

Chapter Twelve

Killian

The VIP section can either be an oasis of calm or a pulsing storm of frenetic energy. When you’re famous, you quickly learn that it’s your call how the night will go. You want privacy? You get it. You want a group of women willing to ride your dick and moan your name? Sure thing.

Tonight it’s privacy. Jax and I wait in a room overlooking a crowded bar and an empty stage. Even though the club has a VIP room, it’s not actually pretentious, serving beer and burgers rather than champagne and cocktails. Up-and-coming live acts perform nightly, and the crowd loves to dance for the fun of it, not just to be seen.

Music thumps and pulses from down below, but it’s relatively quiet up here.

A waitress in worn jeans leads Whip and Rye in a moment later.

The second he sees us, Rye, our bass player, comes bounding over. And though I’m taller, he nearly hauls me off me feet as he gives me a squeeze that bruises my ribs. “About time you got here, fucker.” When I laugh (wheeze) he sets me down, giving my head a slap. “Thought you might become a fucking hermit.”

Rye is built like a linebacker with the energy of a puppy. A scary combination. He’s grinning wide now, but there’s caution in his eyes. His quick glance toward Jax tells me all I need to know. They’re not sure of him either.

“I was on vacation, asshole.”

“Out tanning his ass while we’re working,” Whip says, coming alongside of us. People often think we’re related because we look a lot alike, only his eyes are blue. In school, we used to tell girls we were cousins, but it’s bullshit. He’s all Irish, with a faint accent to prove it.