Idol (VIP 1)
Thankfully neither of the men who actually are in the room seems to notice.
“Hardy is an excellent producer, and we’ve been discussing your options.”
“I’ve seen clips of you with Kill John, Liberty—”
“Call me Libby. Please.”
“Well, Libby, you have a voice and natural sound that guys like me dream of developing.” His icy eyes light with excitement. “I’ve got a few ideas I’d like to run by you.”
“I’m game if you are.” That sounded all right, didn’t it? On the inside I’m shaking like a leaf in a storm. If I can get through this without giggling like a fool, I’ll be happy.
Scottie is texting, but he glances at the door when it opens, and three more men enter.
“Ah, yes.” Scottie puts away his phone. “Your backup band. Tom plays guitar, Murphy on bass, and Jefferson on the drums.”
The guys file in. They’re all older than me, clearly seasoned musicians. Guys like my dad, who worked the industry but never tried to make a bid for stardom. Instantly, I feel a measure of comfort. Glancing at Scottie, I’m guessing he knew exactly what he was doing when he hired them. And I have the urge to kiss his handsome cheek. If I didn’t know it would make him uncomfortable as hell, I would.
“You look like your mother,” Tom says as he sits down.
Surprise tingles over my skin. “You knew her?”
Of the three men, he’s the oldest, probably in his forties. “I knew both your mom and your dad. Marcy and George were true talents.” His brown eyes grow solemn. “I was sorry to hear of their passing.”
“Thank you.”
Murphy and Jefferson take a seat as well.
“Marcy and George,” Jefferson says. “And your name is Liberty. That some sort of George and Martha Washington joke?”
“You know, you’re the first person who actually got that,” I say with a laugh. “Most people focus on the whole Liberty Bell thing.”
“I’m named after Thomas Jefferson,” he says. “So I get the torture too.”
“Shit, at least you weren’t named after the place where you were conceived,” Murphy adds. The tall, wiry guy grins at me from behind a mop of blond hair.
We all think about it for a second, and then I groan in horror. “Oh my God, they didn’t name you after a Murphy bed, did they?”
His cheeks go ruddy. “Fuck yeah, they did. Why they had to share that little factoid with me is the real question.”
“And yet you shared it with us,” Hardy says.
“My pain is now yours.”
Laughing, we move on to discussing Scottie’s grand plans for me, which include developing some new songs, recording, and, in the meantime, doing the publicity circuit with appearances in small clubs and on talk shows.
It sounds exhausting and exhilarating. The guys Scottie’s hired are supportive and clearly talented. It’s a dream come true. But the hole in my heart still bleeds steady and cold. I tell myself I’ll get over it, but it feels like a lie.
Killian
The Animal is gone. In its place is an ocean of people. And endless sea of writhing bodies, screaming for Kill John, screaming my name. I have to answer. They’re waiting for it.
“Hello, London.” My voice echoes into the sea, and the sea roars back
They want me, adore me. For the first time in my life, I don’t care.
***
“Hey, it’s Killian. Apparently, my mother hen tendencies are strong. You said you’d call. You didn’t. Let me know you’re okay. That’s all I want, and I’ll get out of your hair.”
***
“Hey. It’s Libby. You didn’t answer, so here goes. My backup band is great. The guys are nice. Not as great as your guys, but I like them. I did my first talk show appearance. Felt like a complete fake. Then again, the actress who went on before me was so out of it, an intern literally had to snap his fingers in her face to get her to react. Once on, though, she was on. Host’s breath smelled like tapioca. Which is weird. I’ve never even had tapioca. How do I know what it smells like? But it was the first thought that popped into my mind when I caught a whiff. Anyway, going to bed.”
***
“Damn after parties are too loud. Sorry I missed your call, Libs. Had my volume up full blast and still didn’t hear it. Whip recorded your show on the bus DVR. You were awesome. Don’t like how Tapioca Breath was staring at your tits, though. Next time I’m on that show I might have to accidentally step on his balls. Libby, I really…”
***
“Your connection is shitty. All I heard was something about Whip, awesome, and balls. Then it went dead. I’m not sure I want to know. Lie. I do. Tell me you haven’t moved on to balls. Oh, and say hi to the guys. I’ve got to go.”