Idol (VIP 1)

Something everyone in the room clearly understands.

Killian slams his fist against his thigh. “What the fuck, Jax? Stop being such a dick and—”

“No,” I cut in. “It’s okay.” I grab my guitar. If Jax wants to haze me, I’m not going to back down. “I’m good.” I give Jax a level look. “Nice choice.”

His gaze slides away as he crosses his arms over his chest. “Just get on with it.”

“Dick,” Whip mutters under his breath.

My hands shake a little as I walk up to the mic. Killian looks like he wants to take a swing at Jax, but he keeps his attention on me, and when our eyes meet, he gives me a small nod. I almost smile at his support, but neither one of us wants to give Jax ammunition.

Rye makes a noise of annoyance and moves to my side, picking up his bass.

“No helping her,” Jax calls.

“Fuck you,” Rye says blandly. “It’s our band, J. Not yours. And I’m playing for Liberty.”

I give him a small smile then move in close. “Let me get through the first refrain,” I murmur. “I’ll stop. Then we both start up.”

Rye’s hazel eyes brighten. “You got some ideas, don’t you, sweets?”

“Yeah.” I’ll do the song my way, but I’m sure as shit not going to have Jax accuse me of punking out. Part of me wants to howl with laughter. It seems just yesterday, I was afraid to play in front of Killian. Now I’m going to sing in front of Kill John, and I’m not scared—much. I’m pissed.

Taking a cleansing breath, I start in on the opening lick. It isn’t easy, and I haven’t played this song. But I’ve heard it enough, and can feel my way through it. I don’t go hard and fast like the original, but softer, slower, playing the opening riff over and over until I have the proper rhythm and feel. When I sing, it isn’t with anger but with pain. I sing it my way, a lament.

I hear a noise of approval. I don’t look. I don’t look at anyone. My heart beats hard in my chest. I finish the first refrain of the song, then abruptly stop. Glancing at Rye, I nod, then my eyes meet Jax’s.

I give him a big smile. He blinks.

And then I hit it hard, fairly screaming into the mic. Do I sound like Layne Staley? Not even close. But that isn’t the point. The point is to act like I do. Fake it till you make it.

I see Killian begin to grin. Whip pops up and runs to his drums. He starts to play. Me, doing a song with Rye Peterson and Whip Dexter. Chills dance along my arms as I sing.

I close my eyes and lose myself to the music. My throat is raw, sweat running down my back.

Suddenly there’s another guitar, the sound so strong and perfect, my eyes snap open. I expect to see Killian by my side, but it’s Jax.

I stutter a lyric. And he gives me a look, a ghost of a smile twitching on his lips before it’s gone. He sings backup, adding to the sound, making it better.

Killian jumps up and whoops, raising his fists.

We finish the set, and I’m left panting and feeling like I’ve swallowed razors.

Jax looks me over, his expression blasé as ever. “All right.”

“That’s it?” Rye says, giving my shoulder a hearty slap as Killian jogs over. “Naw, she killed it. Acknowledgment, Jax. Give it.”

Jax snorts. “The point was to see if she’d try.” He gives me a rare friendly look. “You did.”

“You’re still a dick,” Killian says. A brief touch to the small of my back is all he gives me. It’s more than enough right now, even if I want to turn and fling myself on him. His deep voice affects me as it always does. “She’s in.”

Jax nods, focusing on putting his guitar down. “Guess so.”

A wave of dizziness threatens to topple me. Holy shit; I’m playing with Kill John. What the fuck am I doing?

Chapter Seventeen

Libby

Boston, Fenway Park. Full house. But don’t worry, Killian told me earlier, it only seats about thirty-seven thousand people. Only. Ha.

Said people are now chanting something that sounds a lot like “Kill John.” The floor beneath my knees vibrates with heavy bass as Not A Minion—the opening act—does their finale.

Where am I?

Crouched over a toilet, heaving my guts out.

I slump back, fairly disgusted that I’m on this nasty floor, but too weak to get up.

A faint knock sounds on the door.

“Go away. Forever,” I add with emphasis.

But the door opens. Footsteps echo. A pair of worn, black boots appear on the opposite side of my stall. I would think it’s Killian, but I know his stride. The man walks with a swagger, as if he’s making room for that heavy, long dick he’s packing in his pants. This walk is much cleaner, but just as confident.