Libby

New York City has a sort of silver tint to it—half of it in constant shadow, the other half shining in the sunlight slanting through the tall buildings. I crane my head, gaping up through the car window at those skyscrapers like the little yokel I am. I don’t even care. It’s a people-watching paradise, a constant rhythm and flow of human activity. There’s an energy here that permeates the air and sinks into your skin. I have the urge to ask the car to pull over so I can walk.

“You want to roll down the window so you can pant like a dog?” Brenna’s voice is full of humor.

I don’t take my eyes off the scene rolling past. “I tried that earlier, and you complained about the hot wind mussing your hair. Remember?” We’d just come out of the Holland Tunnel, popping straight up in the middle of the Theater District, and I’d nearly jumped out of my seat from excitement.

Brenna makes a noise of smothered agreement. “We’ll go exploring later. In fact, speaking of mussed hair, how do you feel about a makeover?”

The question pulls me from my window, and I sit back against the plush leather seat of our hired limo. “As in we have some sort of Princess Diaries, dude takes a pot of wax to my eyebrows and a weed whacker to my hair moment?” I laugh faintly. “Am I that bad?”

“No, of course not.” Brenna’s cool gaze travels over me as if she’s inspecting a derelict house in need of rehab. “But every girl can do with a bit of sprucing up now and then. Especially if she’s going to be in the press.”

Press? My stomach takes an unruly tumble. “You don’t need sprucing,” I point out, ignoring the angry antics of my innards.

She shrugs, not even causing a wrinkle in the scarlet red suit painted on her. “I’ve had my makeover.”

“If that’s the result, sign me up.”

“Really?” Her eyes glint, and it’s only half evil.

It’s my turn to shrug. “You think I’m going to complain about some shopping, a day in a hair salon, and a massage? Just because I don’t usually do those things doesn’t mean I don’t like them.”

“I never said anything about a massage.”

“Oh, there will be massages. Mani-pedis, too.”

“I like the way you think, Liberty.”

We share a grin, and then she’s on the phone making plans. When she finishes, she eyes me again.

I refuse to fidget. “You’re looking at me like I’m a lump of clay.”

“Just waiting for me to mold,” she agrees with a nod. She arches a finely plucked brow.

“Nothing too outrageous. I still want to look like me. Only…better.”

She chuckles. “I understand completely. We’ll bring out the best version of you.”

“And then get massages.”

“That’s the real carrot, isn’t it?”

“Yep. I’m all over it like a starved bunny.”

Even though she’s smiling slightly, her gaze turns cool and cautious. “You realize Killian wants to pay for this.”

“I figured. If he’s offering, I’ll accept.”

Brenna sits back, crossing her legs. How she manages to make that look sexy and casual is beyond me. At this point I have a girl crush. “You know,” she says, “I expected you to resist Killian footing the bill. Cry independent woman and all that.”

“In the course of a month, Killian has torn apart my lawn with his bike, thrown up all over my favorite shirt, and eaten my food almost daily. I wasn’t too happy about the first two, but feeding him was my pleasure. I’m guessing this is Killian’s pleasure. Refusing a gift he’s offering would be petulant. And I sure as hell don’t have the money for what you have planned.”

“You’re slightly odd, you know that?”

“Says the pot to the kettle. Now tell me, is that your natural hair color or did you get it done at the salon we’re going to?”

The limo turns up Fifth Avenue, and a shaft of sunlight slides through the windows. Brenna’s red-gold hair gleams brightly. “Only my stylist knows, hon. But I do have some ideas for you.”

“I’m all ears.”

“I’m going to enjoy this,” she says with satisfaction.

Five minutes later, the limo pulls up in front of a salon. We’re whisked into a lounge area that is cordoned off from the main salon. There, a ridiculously gorgeous woman with brilliant pink hair, wearing what has to be the perfect little black dress, offers us a beverage.

I look around with wide eyes as I sip my chai-matcha tea—honestly, they must have a barista on staff. The space is all white, so pristine it seems to glow.

Lady Pink returns within a minute. “If you ladies will follow me.”

“They’re ready for me?” I slant Brenna a look. “Did you have an appointment already set up?”

Brenna matches my stride. “Of course I did. I’m a planner.”

“And I am apparently predictable.”

“Hardly.” Brenna’s sleek ponytail sways with a shake of her head. “Besides, if I needed to reschedule, they’d work around me. Even you have to realize the power Killian’s name wields.”

“At a salon?”

Brenna smirks. “Do you know how important that man’s damn hair is? That close crop you did on him nearly broke the internet.”

I can only gape.

“I know,” she says, amused. “Young girls were crying over the loss of his beloved flowing locks, as if it signified the coming of the apocalypse.”

“I was under the impression his hair was overgrown.”

That snags her attention. “It was. But he usually wears it chin-length. You really didn’t know who he was when you met?”

I resist the urge to squirm under her stare. She might not look very much like Killian, but clearly their interrogation skills were inherited from the same ancestors. “He was the last person I expected to find on my lawn. I guess my brain never connected any dots.”

My sneakers slap against the concrete stairs as the salon hostess guides us up to the next level. She looks down her nose at my Chucks but apparently knows better than to risk more than that. I shake my head and pull my attention back to Brenna.

“But honestly, the only place I might have seen Killian is on an album, and he isn’t on a single Kill John cover. None of them are. Why is that?”

“In the beginning, it was a statement. No pretense, just music. Now it’s tradition.” She waggles her perfect brows. “Of course it also helps add to their mystique and unattainability. But that was my doing.”

I’d guess Killian doesn’t care about that one whit, but she appears so proud that I nod.

My stylist is Lia, who immediately begins running her fingers through my hair while peering at me in the mirror. Until now, haircuts for me have been taking the scissors to my split ends. Who knew someone massaging my scalp and simply playing with my hair would be so relaxing. But my lack of styling clearly shows, because Lia and Brenna start discussing their plan of attack.

“We’ll shape around your face and give your hair some movement,” Lia explains.

“She’s got great summer highlights,” Brenna adds. “But maybe add a bit of richness to her base color?”

One hour later, my hair is wrapped in tin, and I’m stuck under a heater while two women do my nails. Brenna has been dancing around me, almost giddy.

“Next we’re getting your brows tinted a shade darker and shaped. And then we’ll go shopping for clothes. No, lunch first. Then clothes.”

“Don’t leave out my carrot,” I remind her.

“Oh, the massages we save for last. We don’t want to ruin our chill.” She gives a happy sigh. “I might even throw in a facial. Yeah. That sounds heavenly.”

It’s hard to resist her enthusiasm. In lots of ways, she’s a female version of Killian with her easy charm and bull-in-a-china-shop method of taking over. In some ways, that helps. It isn’t in my nature to make easy friends or do small talk. With Brenna, I simply sit back and let her roll.

“Oh,” she exclaims, “I forgot about the shoes! And—you think I’m crazy, don’t you?”

Caught giving her a bemused smile, I can only shrug. “I kind of envy the way you enjoy your excitement. I’m more contained, and sometimes I’d rather not be.”

The manicurists leave, setting my hands under mini dryers. My nails are now a dusky, pale blue. After my hair is done, Brenna and I will get pedis to match. I’ve never had one, and suddenly I find that sad. Living under a rock was a waste of life.

Brenna toys with a hair clip. “I’m not always like this.” She leans in, her eyes wide behind her retro glasses. “Most people think I’m a bitch.”

“I get that from people too.” Mainly because I have no idea how to talk to others without wanting to swallow my tongue.

Brenna’s nose wrinkles. “Damned if you’re too quiet, and damned if you’re too confident.”

“Sounds about right.”

“My friends are all guys.”

“I don’t have any friends,” I counter.

We both laugh, each of us almost shy.

“Killian is not only my cousin,” Brenna tells me, her expression wide open. “He’s one of my closest friends. He’s clearly nuts about you. Honestly, I’ve never seen him write a girl notes before. The fact that he cajoled Scottie into delivering them is nothing short of miraculous. I swear, Kills must have some major dirt on him.”

She’s rambling, which is kind of sweet. But I won’t say that; I’m pretty sure she’d be mortified.

At any rate, she keeps talking. “What I’m trying to say, rather badly, is that I hope we can be friends too.”

Either it’s a sign of how lonely I’ve been or I’m hormonal, because I damn near get weepy and have to blink a few times before answering. “I could use a good friend.”

* * *

Killian

Truth? I don’t have to be playing for an audience to get a hard-on over music. It just has to click, and I’m lit up.

That said, Scottie set up a gig at the Bowery Ballroom. It was our first time out in over a year. We’d grown used to stadiums, fifty-thousand fans at least. Singing for five hundred?

It’s golden. My body throbs with the sound, sweat coating my skin. Lights burn my eyes, turning the crowd into a moving haze, limed in brilliant reds and blues.

I’m full-on pumped when we start playing “Apathy”.

It isn’t planned. I’m not even sure who decided to do it. One second we’re playing random notes, the next we’re a cohesive unit, hammering out the song that made us stars.

I lean into the mic, singing the lyrics, my guitar pick flying over the strings. In that place, there is no thought, no fear, nothing but rhythm and flow. Nothing but life.

I hit the high note in the song. Sound vibrates in my chest, throat. My guys are around me, supporting the song, elevating it to a new level. The Animal roars, cheering, a mass of bodies pulsing up and down. They’re in it with us, feeding us love and energy.

And I’m home, back in that place where everything makes sense.

Until I look up, and I see her in the wings. Liberty. Watching me in my element. It’s like I’m hit with an electric current. I sing for her, play for her.

Libby’s eyes hold mine, a smile lingers on her lips. I can’t help grinning back. Fucking hell, she’s beautiful. I’m so happy to see her, it’s all I can do not to walk off the stage and grab her.

We finish the song, and the Animal howls.

It wants more. Always more.

But we’re done for now. Bowing, I toss my mic to a stage hand and jog off.

Whip gives a shout, twirling his sticks on his fingers. “That’s what I’m talking about.”

The guys laugh and talk as they move on to the dressing room. Press waits, along with record execs and fan club members who won the meet-and-greet lottery. Someone hands me a bottle of water and a towel. I’m operating on auto, my body humming so hard my fingers shake.

Cold water goes down my burning throat. But I’m looking at Libby.

She hangs back with Brenna, about twenty feet from me, just inside the edge of the stage. The same push-pull I’m feeling is reflected in her eyes. The need for contact, the awareness that we can’t do anything about it here because she won’t let my guys know about us.

I resent the hell out of that. But she’s here, and that overrides everything else.

And no one has noticed her. The only people left around us are the stage crew. Brenna gives me a wink and follows the guys backstage.

My entire body throbs, amped up and jittery. Holy hell, she’s beautiful. Did I ever think of my Elly May as plain? Her skin is golden from endless summer days on the beach. Her hair, in shades of honey brown and pale blond, flows around her face like shining ribbons.

Then I notice her dress. And my brain skids to a halt. Fuck me sideways. My dick, who’s already rising to his happy stance, jerks against my jeans.

The pale gray dress isn’t short; it comes to her knees. It doesn’t show cleavage, because it’s one of those halter tops that exposes her arms but fastens around her neck. And yet it’s fucking indecent. Because it’s thin silk and shows the shape of her, clinging with loving care to the points of her perky tits. Everyone that looks at her knows exactly what she has to offer.

Mine. All mine.

I can’t wait any longer. I stride toward her, loving the way she stands straighter, her pink lips parting, her eyes wide. I’m close enough to smell her scent, something warm and floral from her day at the spa. I lean down and give her a quick, impersonal kiss on the cheek, when I really want to claim her mouth.

“Killian.” Her voice is breathless, happy. Eyes the color of blue-green frost shine up at me.

Emotion swamps me. It’s like nothing I’ve felt before, both leaching me of strength and giving me a rush of pure lust.

My fingers tighten at my side. I want to touch her smooth skin, slide my hand underneath the edge of her top. “Come with me.”