Idol (VIP 1)

“Mmm-hmmm… Because now, I know what I’m missing.” Her fingers steal under my shirt and stroke. “You are the best part of my day, Killian.”

My throat locks up with embarrassing swiftness, and I hold her tighter.

Delicate fingers run along my back. “Nothing would make me happier than being able to claim you in public. But that joy would be blackened if, in return, we have to deal with ugly speculation.”

I think about how I would have reacted if I’d heard the reporter ask Libby those questions. I would have lost my shit. I know it. And the knowledge sinks like a stone in my gut. Gone are the days of wild, out-of-control rocker behavior. You cause a scene, you’re gonna pay. Record label lawyers breathing down your neck about breach of contract and behavior clauses, press replaying your actions in slow motion over and over. It isn’t pretty.

One of the absolute worst parts of Jax’s suicide attempt were the clips of him being wheeled into an ambulance, which played on a seemingly endless loop, along with the smug-as-fuck reporters discussing why he did it and whether he’d ever recover his career. Was it the band’s fault, or was he was just trying to get attention?

Turning away from the life was the only recourse any of us had to maintain our sanity and dignity.

I take a heavy breath and let it out slow. “Okay, we don’t have to make it public yet. But the guys? They can keep secrets. Hell, we’re trained to close ranks. No one will know shit unless we let them. And I’m tired of hiding this from my friends. I’m tired of lying. It isn’t exactly admirable, either.”

She lets me go and runs her hand through her hair. “I know. But the guys won’t look at me the same way.”

“I disagree. But, hell, it shouldn’t matter what they think.”

She snorts, her lips twisting. “No, it shouldn’t. But it does. And I’ve yet to come across anyone who truly doesn’t care what the people they work with think about them.”

“I don’t.”

“Yes, you do.” She rests a hand on my chest. “You have more confidence than any one man has a right to, but you want your friends’ good opinions. You wanted it for me. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have done all that you did to smooth my way.”

Pressure tightens against my ribs, and I grunt. “Okay, fine. I want them to like you. I want us to get along. But—”

“Right now it’s just us in our own private little bubble. Everything changes when we tell them, for better or worse. If we could just wait…” She bites her lip. “Please, Killian? Please, just a little longer?”

My chest tightens even more. Sure, she has a point, but when will that ever change? And if she doesn’t want this now, when will she? I swallow hard against the lump in my throat. “I hate this. All day I wanted to touch you. It’s not even sex, Lib. I have to fight the impulse to hold your damn hand. I’m cut off at the balls.”

Her mouth quirks, but it only fuels my anger.

“I can’t do this much longer.” The words hang there, sounding harder than I intended.

“Do what?” she asks, her face paling.

I stare at her, realizing I could give an ultimatum. I could force the issue. I’m not used to feeling helpless or hurt. Fuck. I take a breath past the ache in my ribs. “You’ve had a lot heaped on you today. I’m taking a shower.” I back away from her, heading toward the bathroom. “Figure out your shit, Libby. I’ll be here when you do.”

Libby

I’ve hurt him. I know this. I knew it when I asked Killian to keep our relationship quiet, and when I asked him to continue doing it. I hate hurting him. But I see what he either can’t or refuses to acknowledge. The world isn’t black and white. And the band isn’t all right. They’re walking wounded right now. The love between them is clear. They’re brothers. But Jax leveled a blow they’re still reeling from. And the idea of adding more drama, more uncertainty makes me feel ill.

At first, it was pride that had motivated me to keep my relationship with Killian a secret. But now it’s something more. I care about these guys, as individuals and as a group. I don’t want to get between them when they’re obviously still fragile.

I tell myself all of this. But it doesn’t help when we climb into a limo and head out for the night. The guys want to relax, let off some steam by going to clubs. I should have stayed in, but when Whip called to ask, the look on Killian’s face—as if he expected I’d keep away from him—hurt too.

So here I am, crammed in between Whip and Rye, who are trading jokes over my head: most of them about Killian’s supposed intestinal distress. Putting the pieces together, it sounds as if Killian made an excuse to return to me at the expense of his pride. I feel even lower.