Libby

Seattle. It’s cold. It’s rainy. It’s beautiful. It’s also the last stop on the US leg of the tour. From here we go overseas—, to Berlin first. I have no idea why we’re jumping all over the place, but Brenna has explained it has to do with concert promoters and venue schedules. I really don’t care; going to Europe is exciting, and I can’t wait.

For now, though, it’s Seattle. Once we check into our hotel, the guys and I pile into a van Whip rented. He’s driving, and for once, it’s just the five of us. No crew, no managers, assistants, or journalists. It’s kind of nice.

First stop is Caffe Ladro, where I’m served a latte so pretty with its little stacked hearts on the foam that I almost don’t want to sip it. But I do, because the roasted-coffee scent is making my mouth water. It’s rich, creamy, dark, and damn delicious. I don’t feel even a little embarrassed when I moan.

The guys chuckle, but are equally engrossed with their own drinks.

A couple of scones and a second round—this time in to-go cups because, damn, that’s good coffee—and we head out to Aberdeen and Kurt Cobain Memorial Park. Cobain’s ashes were scattered, so this is the closest thing the guys can get to a grave site, and they want to pay their respects.

A soft mist falls when we finally find the park. It’s tiny and forlorn, not much to it. Frankly, the place depresses me. A homeless man shuffles by, headed for the bridge by the river as we stand in silence around a stone guitar memorial marker.

Killian’s arm wraps around my shoulders, tucking me close, with Jax on my other side, huddled up as we all are. I’m fairly certain Killian finds the place equally sad. But it’s Jax’s expression that catches my attention. He appears haunted and faintly green around the mouth.

I know Cobain was his idol. There are similarities between them—both left handed guitar players, both shot to fame with dizzying speed, and both unable to handle it. Unfortunately Cobain, unlike Jax, succeeded in ending his life.

I have no idea what Jax is thinking, but I can’t stop myself from taking his hand in mine. He stiffens at the contact, sucking in a swift breath. I’m not surprised. We haven’t spoken much since he found out about my relationship with Killian. He hasn’t been rude or shunned me, but he’s definitely retreated further into his shell.

Not looking up, I give his hand a squeeze, try to tell him I’m here, that I’m his friend if he’ll have me.

His cold fingers lay still for a moment, then slowly, he squeezes back.

“‘Love Buzz’ was the first song I learned to play on bass,” Rye says suddenly. He laughs. “Didn’t even realize Nirvana was doing a cover until years later.”

“If they loved a song, they’d play it,” Killian says. “No pretension about only doing their own songs. It was all about the music.”

Jax’s smile is barely a curl of his lips. “Remember that phase when we tried to sing like Kurt?” He glances at Killian. “And you lost your voice?”

They all laugh as Killian winces. “Ah, man. I sounded like a bull being castrated.”

I snicker at that. Especially since Killian’s voice is closer to Chris Cornell’s. “In college, someone fed me ‘special brownies’” I tell them. “I had no idea what they were. I ended up dancing around the dorm, singing ‘Heart-Shaped Box.’”

“I’d pay money to have seen that,” Killian says. “Big money.”

“Apparently, I had food on the brain, since I kept singing, ‘Hey, Blaine, I’ve got a blue corn plate! Falling deeper in depth on piles of black rice.’”

The guys crack up. I join them until our laughter drifts off.

We stand silent for a minute more, lost in our thoughts. Then Jax lets me go, and we head back to the van. On the way I notice Killian’s bloodshot eyes. I’d been so worried about Jax, I hadn’t thought about how it would be for the rest of them. They very well could have done what I did for their friend.

But Killian gives me a small, quiet smile. “Thank you,” he says, glancing at Jax, then kissing me softly. “He needed that.”

Hours later, my subdued mood hasn’t lifted as we attend Kill John’s record label party at the hotel’s rooftop pool area. The views of Puget Sound are breathtaking, the food excellent. The people? Loud and plastic comes to mind.

“You’re with me tonight, kid.” Whip appears at my side and pulls me into a hard half hug. I almost choke on my salmon puff.

“To what do I owe this honor?” I ask as I wipe a crumb from my lip.

His pretty profile is stern as he surveys the crowd. “The piranhas are out in full force tonight. A guy could get eaten alive.”

There are a lot of gorgeous women here, and a lot of suits, as Killian calls the record label execs. I don’t know which makes Whip more wary. I’m definitely not liking the way the suits keep looking at me as if I’m a stray that wandered into the party uninvited. Though it’s probably all in my head.

“You need to be my beard,” Whip tells me for clarification.

“You’re bi?” I ask, because I really don’t know.

He glances at me, blue eyes twinkling. “Well, as a teen, I thought a little variety would add to my sexual mystique. But, alas, dicks do nothing for me. I’m all about the kitty.”

I’m rolling my eyes when another male hand wraps around my wrist. This touch I know well.

Killian gives Whip a look. “Dude, get your own woman.”

“I tried. You cockblocked me.” Whip winks at me.

“What happened to that reporter you were all over at the movies?” I ask.

“You saw that?”

“Everyone saw that,” Killian and I say in unison.

Whip makes a face. “Turns out she thought the best way to get info out of me was to suck it through my dick.”

“Sounds labor-intensive,” Killian says with a laugh.

“More like a lost cause.” Whip’s nostrils flare then his expression clears. “But she had great technique.”

“La-la-la,” I sing. “I can’t hear you.”

Laughing, Whip lets go as Killian fits himself behind me, wrapping his arms around my shoulders.

“See,” Whip quips. “Cockblocker.”

Killian’s cheek rests against mine for a second before he gives my temple a kiss. “He thinks because we’re faux cousins I won’t kick his ass. He’s wrong.”

They’re grinning, so I ignore the boast. “Faux cousins?” I ask.

“Chicks used to think we were related because we look so much alike,” Whip tells me. “We said we were cousins. For some weird-ass reason, that got us a lot of play.” He frowns. “Women are strange creatures.”

I laugh, snuggling back into Killian’s embrace. He’s warm, solid, and all mine. “If you say so. Though I think it probably had more to do with you both being hot, as opposed to related.”

“See?” Whip says brightly. “She thinks I’m hot.”

“She thinks I’m hotter,” Killian counters. “Don’t you, babe?”

“Scottie’s really the hottest of you all,” I tell them.

Killian chuckles darkly, and his hand slips down just a bit. Under the cover of his bent arm, his fingers graze the side of my breast, his warm palm giving me a gentle squeeze. I squirm a little and feel his grin against my neck. “If you say so, baby doll.”

Cheeky ass.

Whip rolls his eyes, but leans in and gives me a quick kiss on the cheek. “Any time you want to dump this bum, you know where to find me.”

He gives Killian a tap on the shoulder as he heads into the crowd.

“Can we leave now?” Killian murmurs. His hand is still busy, slowly fondling me, each touch getting heavier, more direct. I squirm again, my butt pushing against his rising interest. He grunts low, nudges me back.

“We can’t,” I whisper, though I really want to agree. “You promised Scottie you’d make nice with those journalists.”

Killian sighs, grinding his dick against my bottom one last time before letting me go. “Okay, fine. But we’re not staying long.”

I watch him walk away, because his ass in those well-worn jeans is a thing of beauty. I’m already regretting being good tonight.

“Wow,” says a male voice in the dark. “You’ve got Whip Dexter and Killian James wrapped around your finger. You must be good.”

The bar table next to me is tucked in the shadows, away from the bulk of the party. I hadn’t seen the guy until now.

He steps my way, clearly thinking he’s the shit. Tight black, leather pants, flowing white silk shirt. I want to ask him which ’80s hair band’s wardrobe he raided. He’s extremely good looking, in a slick, pretty boy way—dark hair falling over his brow, pouty lips, fine, almost girlish features.

I stare at him, unimpressed with the way he casually flicks his hair back from his face. “Good at what?” I mean, I know what. I just want him to say it.

“You doing them both?” He shows his teeth. “Or maybe taking the whole band on?”

“Let me ask you something. Do you actually think that’s acceptable to say to someone?”

Pretty Boy gives me an innocent smile. “Aw, come on. I’m just kidding around. Seriously. I know the score. We newbies don’t get anywhere without a little persuasion.” He offers me his hand. “I’m Marlow.”

I glance at the offered hand. “Marlow, I don’t care if you sucked dick to get invited here or not. But do not disrespect women as an opening line.” I push off from the table. “If you’ll excuse me.”

A hard hand slaps down on my shoulder, and I’m wrenched around. The guy is scary strong—something I didn’t anticipate because he looks all of a hundred twenty pounds. Angry grey eyes glare down at me. “You’ve got a some nerve,” he snarls, his fingers biting into my skin. “I’m a signed artist. Who are you? Killian James’ fucking whore.”

“Get the hell off—”

He invades my space, my back hitting the edge of the bar table. “Why don’t you play nice? Be a little friendly.”

It’s then I see how glassy his eyes are, the pupils wide. It distracts me. Without warning, he grabs my breast and squeezes. Hard.

Revulsion, rage, shock—all of it floods me. For a bright, hot second I can’t move. And then the rage takes control. My hand flies up, fingers punching into his eye sockets.

He rears back, stumbling, and I knee him between the legs. Unfortunately, my hit glances off his thigh. But he’s stunned and blinking frantically, snarling out curses.

I know when to run. My heels grind into the pavement as I pivot, my heart in my throat, flight taking over fight. I hear him coming for me.

“Fucking bitch!” Nails scratch my exposed back, catching on my halter. It rips, the sound loud against the buzzing in my ears.

My hands fly to my top, grasping my breasts to keep the fabric from falling down farther. I think I cry out. I don’t know for sure because another shout drowns out all sound.

And then Killian is there, bearing down on us like death. I sob. His expression actually scares me, even though I know it isn’t directed my way. He brushes by me, and with another enraged bellow, grabs Marlow by his neck.

The guy doesn’t stand a chance. Killian slams him to the patio pavement. He doesn’t talk, doesn’t hesitate, just starts whaling on the guy with his fists. It’s terrifying, brutal.

Around me, a crowd gathers. Phone camera flashes go off, others held up to record it all. Three more guys blow past me. Whip, Rye, and Jax.

They’re trying to pull Killian off a struggling Marlow, who gets a hit in. Not that Killian feels it. He strains against Whip and Jax’s hold. “Get the fuck off. You mother fucker…” And with that, he kicks Marlow. A security guard rushes into the fray.

I bite back another sob. Something soft and warm settles over my shoulders: a tiny beaded shrug jacket. At my side, a woman with heavy gold eye makeup gives me a small smile. “It’s all I have.” She puts an arm around me, drawing the shrug farther over my exposed shoulders. “You okay, hon?”

She’s a groupie. I know her on sight. And her kindness breaks me. I start to cry again. Two other women join us, closing ranks, protecting me from the cameras.

Maybe Killian’s rage has run its course. Maybe he hears me. Whatever the reason, he throws off Jax and Whip with a snarled “I’m good.”

His gaze finds me, and the ugly expression on his face crumples as he comes. “Libs.”

I clutch his shirt as he hugs me hard, his body damp with sweat. The rest is a blur as we’re ushered back to our room. But not before I see Scottie’s expression. Shit has clearly hit the fan.

* * *

“What the bloody hell was that?”

Killian looks up from his spot on the couch and gives Scottie a cold look. “That was me kicking a shitbag’s ass.”

He hasn’t stopped shaking, and he hasn’t let me go. Even when a doctor looked at his swollen and bruised hand—and suggested Killian should have an X-ray for broken bones—he had an arm around me, squeezing me tight. The only time he released me was to pull off his shirt and put it on me.

Scottie snorts now. “That shitbag was Marlow. The label’s newest and hottest young star, for fuck’s sake.”

Lovely. The sick feeling in my stomach intensifies.

“He’s going to be singing through a feeding tube if I see him again,” Killian snaps.

“At any rate,” Scottie retorts, “I was asking Libby, not you.”

All eyes turn to me, except for Killian’s. He just cuddles me closer. “Leave her the fuck alone. She’s been through enough.”

“It’s okay, Killian.” I rub my hand down his forearm, trying to calm him. He grunts but relaxes a little.

Scottie, Jax, Whip, Rye, and Brenna are all waiting. I take a deep breath, because remembering makes me shake as well. “He came out of nowhere,” I say. “Said that I should…” I glance at Killian.

He exhales a hard breath. “Just say it, baby doll. I’m not going to hunt him down or anything.”

This doesn’t sound remotely sincere.

“He suggested that since I was servicing all the members of Kill John, I should do the same with him.”

“Mother fucker,” snarls Killian.

“Dicknozzle,” Whip mutters.

The rest are silent. Waiting for me to continue.

“I…ah…told him what I thought about that, then I tried to leave.” Cold fear trickles down my spine. I’m safe. I know this. But I don’t feel it. At my side I feel Killian tense more and more. He’s practically twitching.

I blink several times. “He…ah…grabbed my breast.”

Killian makes a sound I can’t even interpret, and I’m suddenly on his lap, wrapped up tight. I breathe for a couple of seconds before I finish the story. “This blow-up was my fault.”

“No fucking way,” hisses Killian.

“It’s never your fault,” Brenna cuts in. She’s been silent until now. But I see the way she trembles. “Never.”

“I just meant, when he did that, I poked him in the eyes, tried to ball him. That’s what really set him off. He deserved it, but I should have handled it quietly, left sooner.”

“And I would have just beat the shit out of him sooner,” Killian says, pressing his face into the crook of my neck. “Baby doll, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay.” But my eyes tear up. I’ve never been physically attacked before. I took self-defense courses during college because it seemed the safe thing to do. But reality is different, and not so easy to let go.

Scottie sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “Nothing is ‘okay.’” He pins me with an icy stare. “Are you all right?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Then get some rest.” He turns his attention to Killian. “You. I want those fingers in the splint the doctor left. Don’t give me shit, or so help me…” He holds up a hand and appears to be doing a mental countdown.

“I’ll splint the damn fingers,” Killian says, exasperated. He already has them wrapped in ice. I’m afraid to look. His whole hand was swollen, the knuckles split and bleeding, before they treated it.

Finally Scottie blows out a breath. “We need to fix this.”

“It won’t be easy,” Brenna says somberly. “The entire fight was filmed from multiple angles and is already being played on numerous outlets.”

“Fuck,” sneers Jax. He doesn’t look at me, though I feel the weight of his disappointment in the air.

It doesn’t matter that we’re here because a self-centered prick thought it was okay to put his hands on me, or that I defended myself the best way I could. Guilt still rides me. I’m the one who was involved. Everyone here knows Killian wouldn’t have lost his shit if it hadn’t been in my honor.

I can’t bring myself to look at anyone.