Idol (VIP 1)

As if reading my mind, Scottie makes a noise of disagreement. “No one in this group does something against their will. Including me.” He leans in, forcing me to meet his eyes. His expression is hard, serious. “I have little interest in managing a reluctant singer. You have to be all-in or you will fail.”

“Then why approach me at all? When you knew I’d be reluctant?”

“There’s a difference between snapping out of a fear and being unwilling to do a thing at all. I wanted to discover which scenario I was dealing with.”

“And now you know?”

Scottie gives me one of his quick, tight smiles. “Only you can tell me that. I’ve merely opened the door for contemplation.” He rises, crisp and fresh as ever in his perfect three-piece suit. “You know where to find me when you have an answer.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

Killian

“Where the hell are you going?”

Jax’s question stops me short. So close to the exit, and yet so far. I turn and adopt what I hope is a bland expression. “To bed. Catch a nap.”

Yeah, that goes about as well as expected. The guys look at me as if I’d just said I wanted one of them to put a diaper on me. Once they get over their horror, the questions start flying.

“Bed? There had better be a woman waiting in that bed.”

“More like three,” Whip adds. “It’s freaking four o’clock. You don’t go up to bed at four for anything other than three women.”

“Is that a new rule?” I deadpan.

“It ought to be,” Rye retorts, disgust still riding high on his face.

“Seriously, Kills?” Jax shakes his head. “Are we old men now?”

I can’t tell them the truth. That I do have a woman waiting for me. Or that Libby is better than three women, better than any amount of women. So I have to stand here looking like a killjoy and a dick. “I’m just tired.” Lame. Lame. Lame.

“Fucking lame, man.” Rye shakes his head.

I keep my mouth shut.

“Next thing you’ll be telling us you have a headache,” Whip says, his nose wrinkling like he’s scenting something ripe.

“Now that you mention it,” I start with a forced grin.

They all roll their eyes and groan. Jax tosses a water bottle at my head. I catch it mid-air.

“Take some aspirin and buck up,” he says, chucking a small pill bottle next.

I catch that too and clutch it in my hand. Fucking hell. I’m stuck. We have a rare night off. After we wrapped up our run-through and initial sound check, Libby went upstairs, saying she was taking some time for herself. None of the guys questioned that. Why should they? She’s entitled to some personal space.

I am not given the same leeway. No, they want to hang out, go to a bar and check out the local scene—which means women. Ordinarily, I’d be down with spending time with the guys. They’re my best friends; we’ve been apart for nearly a year. But having to push off advances from women without the guys figuring out why? Not easy. And not fun.

Neither is continuing to pretend that Libby is just my friend. I can’t touch her the way I want to, which is pretty much all the time and all over. I practically have to sit on my hands to keep from reaching for her. Makes me damn grumpy.

Worse? Libby has been sliding me looks all day. And they were not sexy, when-are-you-going-to-be-inside-of-me-again looks. She’s thinking things. Never a good sign when it’s accompanied by frowns.

Scottie talked to her earlier, so it’s a pretty good bet that’s what it’s about. But I can’t figure if she’s mad or not. And I want to know. Now. When she cut out on the evening early, it wasn’t like I could say, “Oh, hey, I’m leaving with Libby too.” I’m stuck biding my time.

I might have channeled my inner toddler and fucking pouted were it not for the fact that the guys would wonder about that too. Fuck it.

Frustration claws its way up my throat, and I blurt out the one thing I know will make them back off, even if it humiliates me in the process. “I have the shits, all right?”

Three sets of shocked faces stare back at me.

“Now can I go, or is there anything else you wanted?”

Rye clears his throat. “Dude, just go. I mean, take care of you and all that.”

“Grab some Pepto or something,” Whip adds helpfully.

“Didn’t you just use that bathroom?” Jax darts a glare toward the bathroom in question. “You better not have befouled it—”

I ping the water bottle back at him. “Shut the hell up.”

I’m never living this down. I’ll be Senõr Shitpants for the whole tour. But it sets me free. “I’ll meet up with you later,” I tell them as I head for the door.

“Not if you’re still Crappy McGee,” Rye calls out.