Killian

I told her my name, and she didn’t recognize me. It’s been so long since someone my age looked at me as if I were a total stranger, it’s oddly unsettling now. And ain’t that fucked up? I’ve roamed far and wide to get away from fans, from people kissing my ass and wanting something from me. And now that I’ve crossed paths with a girl who clearly would just like me to go away? I’m irritated.

Snorting, I take a sip of scalding hot coffee and lean back in my old-fashioned rocking chair. From my seat on the porch, I have a good view of Liberty’s house. It’s a two-story, white clapboard. The type you’d see in an Edward Hopper painting. Driving past, you’d suspect a little old lady was inside rolling out pie dough. I bet Liberty makes awesome pie, but she’d probably brain me with the roller for pissing her off before I even got a taste.

The scar my bike slashed along the grass is an ugly reminder of what I did the other night. Driving drunk. That isn’t me. I’d been the one to keep the guys in check. Keep them away from falling victim to the hard stuff—from becoming clichés, as Liberty put it.

Something strong and ugly rolls in my chest. All my efforts hadn’t helped Jax. Images of his limp body flash before my eyes in vivid color: graying skin against white tiles, yellow vomit, green eyes staring at nothing.

My teeth clench, my fingers aching from the force of my grip on the mug.

Fucking Jax. Idiot.

Hurt makes it hard to breathe. My body twitches with the need for motion. Go somewhere else. Keep moving until my mind is blank.

A slam of a screen door has me flinching, and hot coffee spills over the rim of my mug.

“Shit.” I set it on the floor and suck on my burnt finger.

Across the way, Liberty stomps down her porch steps, heading toward a high-fenced-off vegetable garden. A smile pulls at my lips. The girl never just walks. Wherever she goes, it’s like she’s embarking on a mission of doom.

She moves through a patch of sunlight, and her hair turns the color of brown butter. I have the urge to capture the moment, write down a lyric. Panic at the thought has me rising and pacing.

I should go into the house. And then what? Lie on the ancient couch covered in ugly blue roses? Drink the day away?

Crates of my stuff have arrived. Including three of my favorite guitars. Scottie, the rat bastard, sent those along even though I never asked for them. Does he think I’m going to compose? Write a song? No fucking way. Shit. I have no idea what I’m doing here. Scottie’s grand idea of me hiding out on an island almost nobody has heard of is stupid. That’s what I get for listening to him while I was drunk.

Maybe Scottie has psychic abilities, because my cell starts ringing. And only a handful of people have this number. My eyes are on Libby kneeling between rows of green things when I answer the phone. Only it isn’t Scottie.

“Hey, man,” Whip says.

I haven’t heard his voice for nearly a year. The familiar sound is a kick in the head. I sag back into my chair. “Hey.” I clear my throat. “What’s up?”

Jesus, don’t be about Jax. My fingers go cold, blood rushing to my temples. I take a deep breath.

“Is it true you’re slumming it somewhere in the wilds of North Carolina?”

I let out a snarl. “Is he okay?”

There’s a pause and then Whip curses. “Shit, man, I wasn’t thinking. Yeah, he’s fine.” Whip makes an audible sigh. “He’s a lot better. Seeing a counselor.”

Good. Great. Nice that Jax has called to tell me as much. I rub my hand over my face, closing my eyes. “So what’s going on, then?”

“Just been thinking.” Whip’s voice goes distant. “We’ve all been scattered to the four winds. And…hell, just wanted to talk. See where you were at.”

Jax is the one who scattered us. He broke us that day, as effectively as if he’d thrown a boulder into a window. And while Jax and I usually played the roles of mom and dad in the group, Whip has always been the anchor, our glue. He’d throat-punch me if I said it to his face, but Whip is also the most sensitive. I know he’s hurting.

I glance over at Libby again. Her plump ass sways as she pulls on weeds. The sight almost makes me smile; she’d hate knowing I’m watching her. I find my voice then. “Have you talked to the others?” I ask Whip.

“Been hanging out with Rye. We’ve come up with some material.”

This is new. It’s usually Jax and I who write. I sit up a little straighter, trying to focus. I need to be supportive. I know this. But it’s hard to muster any enthusiasm. Even so, I say what needs to be said. “You record anything I can hear?”

“Yeah, sure. I’ll send it to you.” Whip pauses, then causally adds, “Maybe you can fine-tune it. Give us some notes.”

I don’t know how I feel about this. I’m not pissed. I like that they’re composing. But something rolls inside of me: avoidance, the desire to get away, and with it, the need to end the call.

But Whip isn’t finished. “Or maybe come back and work with us.”

I’m on my feet again, walking to the porch screen. I rest my forehead against its fragile wall. “Not yet. But soon, man.”

“Yeah. Sure.” Whip sounds about as sincere as I do.

“I’ll be in touch,” I say. It may or may not be a lie. I haven’t picked up my guitar in nearly a year, and have no desire to try now.

“Right.”

The silence, when he hangs up, rings in my ears. I don’t know how to be myself anymore, don’t know how to be part of Kill John. How do we go on? Do we do it without Jax? With him? And all the time looking over our shoulders for fear he’ll try it again?

Part of it isn’t even about Jax. I’m tired. Uninspired. It makes me feel guilty as hell.

Though I’m on a porch, the walls press in on me, taking my air. I should go inside, do…something. My feet take me the opposite direction, off my porch and straight to Liberty.

She’s hunched over a row of herbs and doesn’t look up when I lean my wrists against the top of the fence, which is at chin level. I watch her work, not minding the silence. It’s amusing the way she ignores me, because she doesn’t do a good job of it. Her whole placid, I-don’t-give-a-fuck-that-you’re-here expression just tells me she very much gives a fuck. Only she doesn’t want to.

I grin at the thought. There’s something so normal about it all. “You know, I’ve had girls on their knees before me plenty of times. But they usually do it with a smile.”

She snorts. “I’d be more impressed if you were the one used to being on your knees. I like givers, not takers.”

Jesus. I can just imagine her, plush thighs spread wide, using that bossy tone to tell me what she likes best as I eat her out. I shift my hips, drawing them away from the fence. No need for her to see the growing bulge in my pants; I’m not entirely sure if I’m attracted to her or have suddenly become a masochist. “What about give and take? You down with that?”

Even as I joke, a twinge of guilt hits me. When was the last time I gave, anyway? Because she’s right; I got lazy, sat around like a king having girls suck me off while I thought up song lyrics or planned the next album. Reached a point where I did not give a ripe grape what those girls did or where they went once I got off.

Liberty glares up at me now. “What exactly are you doing here anyway? Don’t you work?”

God, I want to laugh at that. I bite my bottom lip. “Don’t you? Isn’t it, like, a Tuesday?”

“It’s Wednesday, and I work from home, thank you.”

“Doing what?”

“If I wanted you to know, I would have said.”

“Are you a deejay?”

“A deejay?” She gapes up at me. “Are you serious? Where would I even play? At the church?”

I actually flush. I don’t think I’ve flushed with embarrassment in my entire life. Glancing up at the sky to see if any pigs are flying around, I mutter, “You have all those records.”

“Ah.” She gives me a tight nod. “Those were my dad’s. He was a deejay in college.”

“It’s an impressive collection.”

“It is.”

“And the guitar?”

Her shoulders hunch. “Also my dad’s.”

Now I know how reporters feel when they interview me. I empathize. This girl has me beat on evasive maneuvers.

“You’re really not gonna tell me?” I don’t know why I’m pushing this. But her determination to shut me down amuses me.

“Guess not.” She pulls out a pair of scissors and snips off bunches of sage, thyme, and rosemary. My grandma used to have an herb garden. A small box set up in her kitchen window back in the Bronx. When I was a little kid, I’d beg her to let me cut what she needed, and she’d remind me not to bruise the leaves.

I shake off old memories before they choke me. “Fine. I’ll just leave it to my imagination.” I scratch my chin, now beard-free and smooth—damn thing itched too much to keep in this heat. “I’m gonna go with phone-sex worker.”

Libby tucks her herbs in her basket and leans back on her heels. “That’s just ridiculous. Do I sound like a phone-sex worker?”

“Actually? Yeah.” I clear my throat because I can practically hear her cream-and-ice voice doling out demands. “Yeah, you do.”

She scowls at that, her eyes finally meeting mine again. Whatever she sees in my expression has her frown deepening and her color rising. She quickly turns back to her gardening. “I’ve got work to do. You gonna stand there watching all day? Or maybe there’s a bottle you’ll be wanting to find your way to the bottom of.”

“Cute. And no. No more binge drinking for me.”

She makes a dubious sound.

I should go. I glance back at my house. It sits like a lump against the land, all forlorn and silent. That ugly itch feeling rises within my chest again. I have to fight not to scratch at it. Libby isn’t looking, though; she’s yanking weeds. Sighing, I clear my throat. “Can I help?”

* * *

Libby

He’s not leaving. I’m not sure what to do with that. It kills me to be inhospitable to him. With every short word I throw him, I can feel my grandma rolling in her grave. I was raised to be polite above all things. But Killian sets my teeth on edge for a whole host of reasons.

I’d expected to see him again, sure. We’re neighbors after all. But I didn’t expect him to immediately seek me out and want to remain in my company. And though I haven’t been welcoming, that doesn’t seem to bother him. He kind of reminds me of those boys in grade school who get a kick out of tugging girls’ pigtails.

And the bald truth is guys who look like Killian simply don’t bother with me. They never have. So why now? Is he bored? Slumming?

Whatever the case, I’m both unsettled by his presence and annoyingly curious about the guy.

Killian, on his hands and knees, weeding, should be diminished in size. If anything, he seems larger now, his shoulders broader as they move beneath a faded Captain Crunch T-shirt. His coffee-dark hair falls in tangles around those shoulders, and I have the urge to offer him a haircut. I don’t mind longer hair, but Killian’s is just a hot mess. I swear the man doesn’t own a brush.

But he has shaved. The sight initially threw me because I’d been expecting that backwoods beard when I heard his voice earlier. But instead of a fuzzy face, I was greeted by the smooth, clean sweep of his jaw, a stubborn chin, and a big, dimpled smile. How is anyone supposed to resist that?

“How did you learn the difference between weeds and plants?” His black velvet voice envelops me, but he doesn’t look up from his task. The little furrow of concentration between his brows is kind of endearing. “Because it all looks the same to me.”

“My grandma taught me.” I clear my throat and rip at a particularly tenacious weed.

“Grandmas are good like that.”

I can’t imagine him hanging around a grandmother. Or maybe I can. She’d probably serve him milk and cookies and chastise him about taking better care of himself. I point out another weed. “Eventually it gets easier to spot them.”

“If you say so.” He doesn’t sound too happy but keeps working.

We’re silent again, going about our business.

“Top-secret spy?”

I jerk my head up at Killian’s question. “What?”

He waggles his dark brows. “Your job. Still trying to figure it out. You a spy?”

“You found me out. Now come with me.” I incline my head toward the house. “I have something to show you inside.”

White teeth sink into his plump lower lip. “Unless it involves spanking, I’m not going.”

I snort, despite myself.

“Sex-toy tester?”

“Ah. No.”

“Erotica writer?”

“Why are all the options suddenly sex-related?”

“Because hope springs eternal.”

“Better hope I don’t accidentally, on purpose, nut you.”

“All right, all right. Home shopper?”

“I hate shopping.”

“Yeah, I can see that about you.”

My head jerks up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He shrugs, completely unrepentant. “A girl who stomps around in worn out Doc Martens isn’t usually the type to squeal over a new sale.”

I sit back on the heels of said Docs. “Okay, I’m not big on fashion. But that doesn’t have to mean I’m not a shopper.”

“You just said you hate shopping. Like, just said it.”

“Yeah, but you shouldn’t be able to tell simply by looking at me.”

His nose wrinkles as he scratches the back of his neck. “I’m confused.”

“Maybe I’m addicted to buying dolls. Maybe I have a whole room of them at the back of the house.”

Killian gives a full-body shudder. “Don’t even joke about that. I’ll have Chucky nightmares for months.”

I think about a room of dolls staring at me and shudder too. “You’re right. No dolls. Ever.”

He winks at me. I have no idea how he manages to do it without looking like a smarmy ass, but it’s cute instead. “See?” he says. “Not a shopper.”

“And you are, what? A detective?”

He sits back on his heels too. “If I was, I’d be a pretty shitty one since I can’t figure out what you do.”

We stare at each other, his dark gaze drilling into me, waiting. It’s surprisingly effective, because I swear, I’m starting to sweat.

“Fine,” I blurt out. “I’m a book cover designer.”

He blinks as if surprised. “Really? That’s…well, the last thing I’d have guessed, but totally cool. Can I see your work?”

“Maybe later.” I go back to weeding, though really, I’m hacking the same spot over and over. There isn’t anything left but a dark scar of soil. Smoothing a hand over the cool earth, I eye him. “And what do you do?”

He’s good; he barely flinches before covering it with a wide and easy smile. “I am currently without employment.”

I’m about to ask what he did before, but something brittle and pained lingers in those coffee-colored eyes of his, and I don’t have the heart. Yesterday he was drunk on my lawn. I don’t think life is going his way at the moment, and I have no desire to pick at that wound.

He covers the silence by pointing at a green vine. “Pull this?”

“No. That’s a tomato vine.”

It becomes apparent that Killian isn’t comfortable with long silences. “So was this place ever a working farm?”

I’d think he talks to hear himself, but he looks at me with genuine interest every time he asks a question. I take a moment to look at the land around me. Collar Island is part of the chain known as the Outer Banks. While the northern end has a town and multiple grand vacation homes, the southern tip—where my grandma’s house is located—is fairly isolated. Nothing but a few scattered houses and waving green and tawny grass, surrounded by sandy beach and vivid blue ocean.

“Back when my grandparents were young,” I say. “They farmed rotating vegetable crops. Same with the owners of the house you’re staying in. Now I just attend to the land nearest the house and let the rest grow free.”

“Beautiful place,” Killian admits. “Kind of lonely, though.”

Can’t say much to that. So I merely nod.

We go back to work. Which is good, fine. Until Killian reaches behind his head and pulls off his shirt to tuck it in his back pocket.

I’ve already seen the man naked. But that was different. I was too pissed and too busy trying to get him clean to fully notice the particulars. Now he’s in the full sun, his tan skin already glistening with a fine sheen of sweat. He’s lean and strong, his muscles a work of art. The massive tattoo that covers his left shoulder and torso is actually a vintage map of the world, like a spread-out globe.

“You looking at my art, Libs?” He sounds amused.

I meet his eyes and find them glinting, those ridiculously long lashes practically touching his cheeks. No fair that a dude has such pretty eyes.

“I am. I figure you put pictures on your body, it’s fair game for anyone to study them.”

His grin is quick, devilish, the little dimples on the sides of his mouth going deep then fading with his smile. “Didn’t say I minded.” He sits back on his heels so I can see it all.

Unfortunately, I find myself wanting to study his lower abdomen, where the muscles are like stepping stones leading the way down to Mr. Happy.

Damn it. I am not attracted to this guy. Nope. I’m just undersexed and need to get me some. Soon. But not with Killian. I cannot forget how I met him. Alcohol addiction is my hard line in the sand; it destroyed everything I loved.

Ignoring my inner argument, I take in his tattoo. It’s done in clean, sure lines, more of an impression of the globe instead of being heavy with detail. And it is beautiful.

“Does it have any meaning?” I ask. “Or was it for fun?”

Killian tosses a dark lock of hair back from his face. “Started off as a way to cover up a mistake.”

He leans in, bringing the scent of clean sweat and heady male pheromones with him. Hell. There really isn’t any good way to describe that fragrance other than delicious and addictive. I brace myself as he points to a spot above his nipple where there’s a compass rose. “I wanted to cover a name. Darla.”

“Love gone bad?”

He gives me a wry grin. “That would at least be romantic. But no. It was high school graduation. Me and…” His face goes blank for a second, a haunted look flashing in his eyes. But he blinks, and it’s gone. “My friends and I got wasted and hunted down one of our other friends who was practicing to become a tattoo artist. I was the guinea pig.”

“And he put ‘Darla’ on you?”

“Yep.” Killian sits back and starts to weed again. But he’s still grinning.

“Who was Darla?”

He laughs. “That’s the thing; she was just a name he thought would sound funny. I might have kept it. But, shit, it was ugly—all lopsided and fucking loopy.” Killian shakes his head. “Looked like some third grader did it.”

I can’t help but laugh too. “Nice.”

Killian’s expression goes soft, his gaze running over my face. His smile grows.

“What?” I ask, thrown by the gleam in his eyes. It makes my breath catch.

“You’re pretty.”

He says it so matter of fact, I snort. “You sound surprised.”

Killian leans in just a little. “Truth? I am. You’ve been scowling at me so much… Ah, there it is again. Glaring hate-fire at me.” The calloused tip of his finger traces the top of my cheek, and my lower belly clenches in shock. His voice grows thoughtful. “But when you smile? You kind of glow.”

“Like a light bulb?” I retort, trying not to duck my head.

His brow quirks, his eyes glinting with suppressed humor. “Fine. You’re radiant. That clear enough?”

Words stick in my throat. It hits me that a man has never called me pretty before. Not once. How could that be? I’m not ugly. Objectively speaking, I know I’m pretty, or can be. I’ve had multiple dates, a boyfriend briefly in college. I’ve been hit on before, sure. But I’ve never been complimented in such a simple, honest way. The knowledge sinks into my skin like an itch, and suddenly I don’t want Killian to look at me.

My spade plunges into the earth with enough violence to send soil flying. “So how did this Darla tat go away?”

Killian frowns down at my spade for a second before he eases back to his usual cheekiness. “My mom was so disgusted with it, she gave me the money to get a new one to cover it.”

“I’d have thought she’d want you to get it removed.”

“Naw.” He tugs out a weed. “She didn’t object to a tattoo, just that it was poorly done. And there’d still be a scar. Mom isn’t big on scars. Anyway, I got the compass rose. The map came later.” He glances down at himself. “Kind of like, ‘Hey, Kills, here’s the world. It’s all yours if you don’t fuck it up.’”

The regret in his voice, though he’s clearly trying to hide it, hits something in me. I take a breath, my gaze wandering to the clear blue sky overhead. The world. I’ve seen so little of it. Just this small blue corner of North Carolina and the slightly bigger swath of land when I went down to Savannah for college. Twenty-five years old, and I’m a hermit of my own making.

My chest closes up, and I have to fight to breathe. I have an overwhelming urge to run into the house and curl up in my nice, cool bed where it’s dim and silent.

“This is surprisingly relaxing,” he says.

Killian’s comment catches my attention.

“What? Weeding?”

He glances at me from under the fans of his lashes. “Yep. I like doing something constructive.” Killian stops and rubs the back of his neck. “You got any fences to mend or wood to chop? Something like that?”

“You need hard labor to forge you into a better person?”

“Yeah.” He smiles. “Yeah, I think I do.”

“And you want me to…what? Mr. Miyagi you?”

His laugh is a rolling wave, deep and warm. “Fuck yeah. Paint the fence. Sand the floor.”

“And when you’re done, we can go down to the sea, and you’ll balance on one leg.”

“Shit, that would be epic.” Killian spreads his arms wide, doing a half-assed crane move. It does nice things to his torso, which I promptly ignore.

I stand instead, dusting the loose soil off my knees. I grab my basket of veggies. “Come on, then. You can mow the law if you’re really serious. That’s about as Mr. Miyagi as I can get right now.”

Killian hops up with ease. “Killian-san ready for duty.”

I roll my eyes, pretending that I find him annoying. But I don’t. And that scares me.