Idol (VIP 1)

“Good plan.” Because Libby would freak. And not in a good way. “But why are you talking to me and not her?”

“I plan to discuss this with her. Perhaps suggest we start once the tour is over.” His eyes narrow as he studies my face. “I want to know how you’ll take it.”

And then I remember how it was in the beginning. I didn’t own a second of my life. She does this, and our time together will whittle down to nothing. Absently, I rub my abs, where my stomach squeezes in protest. Really not feeling mellow anymore.

“I don’t know how Libby will handle going full tilt,” I tell Scottie. “Or if she’ll even want to. But I won’t stand in her way.” I’d never do that, even if it means that, one day, she’s gone.

Libby

Scottie makes me nervous. I can admit that. I’m not attracted to him, but I won’t deny his effect. The combination of his stunning looks, hard eyes, and crisp voice acts like an avalanche on the nerves. You’re pinned in place, and even if you look away, he’s trapped you with his voice.

So when he approaches me during the sound check at the stadium, I tense, keeping my eyes on Killian singing as long as I can.

A low chuckle washes over me. “Avoiding eye contact won’t make me go away, Ms. Bell.”

Bracing myself, I turn. “Prolonging the inevitable is a thing with me, I guess.”

He’s not smiling—he rarely does. But his eyes are soft—well, for him. “Intelligent move. I want to discuss something with you. Have you a moment?” He inclines his dark head toward the right wing row of seats, just far enough away that we can hear each other while Kill John runs through an older song.

I’d rather stay here and not discuss anything. But I nod and lead the way.

He waits until I’m seated to fold himself into a nearby seat. And then he looks me over as if inspecting a bug. “You are not backup material.”

Instantly I tense, steel coming into my spine. “Seriously? Is this some fucking cliché shakedown? Because we can skip to the end right now where I tell you to fuck your mother.”

“Colorful,” Scottie murmurs, looking amused. “No, Ms. Bell, this is not a shakedown.” He peers at me. “You do have a vivid imagination, however. And I now see why you’re so compatible with Killian. Same descriptive vocabulary.” He leans in, resting his hands on his knees. “You are a headliner, Ms. Bell. Front and center stage.”

“I…ah… What?”

He keeps his tone even and patient, as if he’s talking to a distracted child. “Your sound, the quality of your voice, is unique. More importantly, when you get on stage, you are compelling. I want to represent you, Ms. Bell. Develop you.”

My ears ring faintly. “Hold on. First, please stop calling me Ms. Bell. It reminds me of being sent to the principal’s office.”

“Fair enough.” His expression says I’m insane.

“Second. I’m…well, I’m not an entertainer. I came for Killian.”

I glance in Killian’s direction, and our gazes clash. Even now, he’s aware of where I am. His dark eyes crinkle, as if he’s trying to encourage me, even as he sings and plays his guitar. I break eye contact and face Scottie again.

“I’m not a star.”

Scottie’s brows draw together. “There are many things you are not, Ms.—Liberty. But you are star material. More importantly, when you get on a stage, you come alive.” He gestures toward the band with his chin. “Just as they do. Tell me you do not feel that.”

“I do.” My insides being to tremble. “I love it, but…”

“The worst thing you can do in life is ignore an opportunity out of fear.”

“I’m not afraid.”

His dry expression makes a mockery out of that statement. I cringe. “Okay, a little. It’s just… I do love it. But the rest? The public side? No, thanks.”

Scottie sits back, resting his ankle on his bent knee in that way men have of crossing their legs. “I am afraid to fly,” he tells me.

“Okay…”

“Utterly and completely,” he continues, his body stiff. “Every time I get on one of those death contraptions called a jet, I want to vomit.”

“But you fly all the time.”

“My job demands that I do.” Another brow quirk. “You understand my meaning?”

My head feels heavy as I nod.

Maybe Scottie notices that I’m on the verge of panic, because his voice goes soft as Kill John ends their set and the music stops.

“Killian believes in you.”

I refuse to look in Killian’s direction again.

“He brought you here, put you on that stage, because he believes,” Scottie murmurs.

A shuddery breath leaves me.

“You had to know this,” Scottie says.

“Yes.” I knew. But I’d never allowed myself to think too deeply on what was behind all his support. Had he pushed Scottie on me too?