Libby

I ride to Whip’s apartment with Killian. Michael drives as usual, and I learn that he’s worked for Killian for five years. Today’s car is a sleek silver Mercedes sedan with a cream leather interior that’s butter soft beneath my roving palm. A palm that’s damp. I’d rather the car turn around, but I have to face the rest of Kill John sooner or later.

“Why the limo yesterday?” I ask because I can’t listen to my running thoughts any more.

Killian catches my hand and holds it in an easy clasp. If he feels how clammy I am, he’s nice enough not to mention it. “It was your first time in New York, and you were having a Pretty Woman moment. That definitely calls for a limo.”

“It would be smart not to mention Pretty Woman in that context,” I tell him dryly.

His cheeks flush. “Shit. Right. You are a powerful, modern woman. If anything, I should be the prostitute here—”

“Not helping.”

“Right. Right. No payment for sex of any kind.” He lifts my hand and kisses my knuckles. “But lots of sex is still on the table. Hot, dirty, sweaty—”

I grab the back of his neck and haul him down to silence him with my mouth. He likes that, and practically climbs on top of me as he kisses me back.

Making out like teenagers in the backseat, this is what he does to me. We’re both breathless when we pull apart. “If we keep this up,” he murmurs, “I’m going to ask Michael to circle the block.”

“No,” I squeak out in horror. “He’d totally know what we were doing!”

He gives me a dry, slightly pained look. “I’m sure he had no clue what we were up to last night.”

“Don’t tell me that,” I wail, covering my face. “God, I’ll never be able to look him in the eye again.”

Killian just laughs, pulls my hand away, and gives me a sweet kiss.

When we pull up, I keep my head down and mutter a quick “Thank you” to Michael as he holds the door for me.

Whip lives in a loft in Tribeca. According to Killian, half of it has been sound-proofed and converted into a stage and a small recording studio.

“Nothing too fancy,” Killian had said as we got dressed to go. “Just convenient for when we want to mess around with new sounds or practice.”

After Killian punches in a code, we take an old-fashioned service elevator to the top floor. It opens onto a light-filled space with worn wood floors and exposed brick walls.

I follow Killian farther into the loft on legs that feel like noodles, my pulse thrumming in my neck so hard I’m sure it’s visible. When he stops short in the entrance and turns my way, I almost stumble into him.

Killian braces my shoulders, then ducks his head to meet my eyes. “Hey. Listen to me.”

“I’m listening.”

His dark eyes shine with emotion. “You are Liberty Bell. The woman whose guitar playing and voice brought me to my knees. You were born for music.” His fingers squeeze just enough to hold my attention. “Nothing anyone says can take that away. You belong here.”

My eyes smart. “Stop,” I whisper. “You’re going to make me cry.”

His smile is tilted and brief. “Kick ass, Elly May.”

A laugh bubbles in my chest. “Kick ass, lawn bum.”

With a quick kiss to my forehead, Killian sets me back and walks on into the loft. “Yo!” he calls out, his voice echoing in the cavernous space. “Where’s everyone at?”

We move past funky ‘50s modern furniture, a kitchen with navy cabinets and copper appliances, and through a pair of glass doors.

A group of guys stand around an open space with a small seating area and a low stage, set up with a drum kit and several guitars to the side.

They all turn when we enter, and I swear I’m about to stumble to my knees, I’m so nervous. Two of them are tall and lean like Killian—one with dark hair and blue eyes who looks like he could be related to Killian, and another with brown hair and green eyes. His expression is guarded, his body tense.

Another guy is built like a football player and has sandy hair and a big grin.

“Killian,” says the big guy. “You brought a friend.”

Killian’s tone is easy. “Guys, meet Libby.”

The one who looks a lot like Killian is Whip Dexter, the drummer. He shakes my hand in a bruising grip and gives me a friendly smile. “Heard your demo tape. You’ve got a great voice.”

Blush. “Thanks.”

The big guy, who is Rye Peterson, the bass player, nods in agreement. “I hear you play the guitar as well.”

“Yep.” I’m holding the case of my old Gibson, my palm so sweaty I’m in danger of dropping the damn thing.

“Glad to have you join us,” Rye says. “It’s gonna be fun, kid.”

Kid. Okay. I can handle “kid.”

Jax, the sullen one with brown hair, is the last to saunter over. All the guys are good looking. But Jax would be perfect in an Abercrombie and Fitch catalogue. He’s got that all-American, pouty perfection about him. I suddenly remember that the press has called Jax a devil in an angel’s body, and Killian an angel disguised as the devil.

I can see what they meant. Jax appears wholesome, polished—the kid you send to Harvard and he returns to run for office. Killian looks more like the guy waiting on his motorcycle down the street for your daughter to crawl out her window.

Personality wise, I know Killian is kind and honest. Apparently everyone else does too.

As for Jax?

He gives me a long look, and I’m clearly found wanting. “Liberty Bell, was it?”

“Pretty hard name to forget,” I say, not liking his tone.

“True.” He glances at Killian, and the ice in his gaze melts a little. “You ready?”

Like me, Killian is carrying his guitar. He sets the case down and rolls his shoulders. “Thought we’d show Libby how we do things, and then try a few songs with her first.”

“Good plan,” Whip says. “Show the newbie the ropes.”

Jax’s expression is a parody of confusion. And he makes his opinion perfectly clear. “We said we’d hear Liberty play, and then decide—not that she was automatically in.”

A small shock ripples through me. At my side, Killian tenses. “No,” he says patiently. “We agreed she was playing.”

Whip frowns and glances from Jax to Killian and back again. “Man—”

“We always hold an audition,” Jax snaps. “For every opening act. Always.”

“She isn’t an opening act,” Killian shoots back through gritted teeth. “She’s playing with us.”

“All the more reason she should fucking audition.”

Rye holds up a massive hand. “Come on, now, assholes. I want to jam. Not listen—”

“Why are you afraid to let her do this?” Jax cuts in, not taking his eyes off Killian.

Killian’s cheeks darken, and I know explosion is imminent. I step between them. “It’s fine. I’m happy to try out.”

A growl of protest sounds in Killian’s throat, and I shoot him a look. “Seriously.”

“Protective, are we?” Jax asks him.

“What do you want?” I ask Jax before Killian loses it.

Jax finally meets my eyes. I expect anger or dislike, but see none of that. If anything, his expression is perfectly polite, as if I truly was just another act trying to secure a place in their tour. But then it fades, and a glimmer of something—not hate, but something dark and unhappy—glints in his eyes.

“I heard you’re a fan of grunge.” He gives me a lazy, tilted smile that really isn’t a smile at all. “Why don’t you sing us ‘Man in the Box’?”

The entire room seems to stutter to a halt. “Man in the Box” is a classic Alice in Chains song. Layne Staley owned that song with his intense, deep-throated growl, much the way Janis Joplin owned “Piece of My Heart” with her razor’s-edge voice. To try to sing it is to risk looking like a total idiot.

Something everyone in the room clearly understands.

Killian slams his fist against his thigh. “What the fuck, Jax? Stop being such a dick and—”

“No,” I cut in. “It’s okay.” I grab my guitar. If Jax wants to haze me, I’m not going to back down. “I’m good.” I give Jax a level look. “Nice choice.”

His gaze slides away as he crosses his arms over his chest. “Just get on with it.”

“Dick,” Whip mutters under his breath.

My hands shake a little as I walk up to the mic. Killian looks like he wants to take a swing at Jax, but he keeps his attention on me, and when our eyes meet, he gives me a small nod. I almost smile at his support, but neither one of us wants to give Jax ammunition.

Rye makes a noise of annoyance and moves to my side, picking up his bass.

“No helping her,” Jax calls.

“Fuck you,” Rye says blandly. “It’s our band, J. Not yours. And I’m playing for Liberty.”

I give him a small smile then move in close. “Let me get through the first refrain,” I murmur. “I’ll stop. Then we both start up.”

Rye’s hazel eyes brighten. “You got some ideas, don’t you, sweets?”

“Yeah.” I’ll do the song my way, but I’m sure as shit not going to have Jax accuse me of punking out. Part of me wants to howl with laughter. It seems just yesterday, I was afraid to play in front of Killian. Now I’m going to sing in front of Kill John, and I’m not scared—much. I’m pissed.

Taking a cleansing breath, I start in on the opening lick. It isn’t easy, and I haven’t played this song. But I’ve heard it enough, and can feel my way through it. I don’t go hard and fast like the original, but softer, slower, playing the opening riff over and over until I have the proper rhythm and feel. When I sing, it isn’t with anger but with pain. I sing it my way, a lament.

I hear a noise of approval. I don’t look. I don’t look at anyone. My heart beats hard in my chest. I finish the first refrain of the song, then abruptly stop. Glancing at Rye, I nod, then my eyes meet Jax’s.

I give him a big smile. He blinks.

And then I hit it hard, fairly screaming into the mic. Do I sound like Layne Staley? Not even close. But that isn’t the point. The point is to act like I do. Fake it till you make it.

I see Killian begin to grin. Whip pops up and runs to his drums. He starts to play. Me, doing a song with Rye Peterson and Whip Dexter. Chills dance along my arms as I sing.

I close my eyes and lose myself to the music. My throat is raw, sweat running down my back.

Suddenly there’s another guitar, the sound so strong and perfect, my eyes snap open. I expect to see Killian by my side, but it’s Jax.

I stutter a lyric. And he gives me a look, a ghost of a smile twitching on his lips before it’s gone. He sings backup, adding to the sound, making it better.

Killian jumps up and whoops, raising his fists.

We finish the set, and I’m left panting and feeling like I’ve swallowed razors.

Jax looks me over, his expression blasé as ever. “All right.”

“That’s it?” Rye says, giving my shoulder a hearty slap as Killian jogs over. “Naw, she killed it. Acknowledgment, Jax. Give it.”

Jax snorts. “The point was to see if she’d try.” He gives me a rare friendly look. “You did.”

“You’re still a dick,” Killian says. A brief touch to the small of my back is all he gives me. It’s more than enough right now, even if I want to turn and fling myself on him. His deep voice affects me as it always does. “She’s in.”

Jax nods, focusing on putting his guitar down. “Guess so.”

A wave of dizziness threatens to topple me. Holy shit; I’m playing with Kill John. What the fuck am I doing?