Libby

Boston, Fenway Park. Full house. But don’t worry, Killian told me earlier, it only seats about thirty-seven thousand people. Only. Ha.

Said people are now chanting something that sounds a lot like “Kill John.” The floor beneath my knees vibrates with heavy bass as Not A Minion—the opening act—does their finale.

Where am I?

Crouched over a toilet, heaving my guts out.

I slump back, fairly disgusted that I’m on this nasty floor, but too weak to get up.

A faint knock sounds on the door.

“Go away. Forever,” I add with emphasis.

But the door opens. Footsteps echo. A pair of worn, black boots appear on the opposite side of my stall. I would think it’s Killian, but I know his stride. The man walks with a swagger, as if he’s making room for that heavy, long dick he’s packing in his pants. This walk is much cleaner, but just as confident.

However, the last person I expect to hear is Jax. “Do I need to throw you a life raft? Or is your head finally out of the toilet?”

“Har.” I wipe my mouth and curse the gods that Jax, of all people, has found me in such a low state.

Slowly, as if expecting another round of vomiting, he opens my stall door. I glare up at him, misery weighing me down. His expression, as usual, is placid. He hands me a frosty bottle of ginger ale. “Drink up, chuckles. You’re on in twenty.”

I take the proffered bottle with gratitude. The soda goes down cold and wonderfully refreshing.

“I want to die.” I glance at him. “I don’t even care if lobbing death jokes your way is in poor taste. That’s how serious I am.”

He laughs, short and dry. “I like you more for not curbing your jokes for me.” He offers me a hand, and I take it, letting him pull me up.

I keep gulping the ginger ale as I make my way to the sink. Jesus. I look strung out—totally haggard and slightly green. Setting aside the soda, I wash my hands and pat cold water on my sweaty face. “So why are you here,” I ask him. “You lose a bet? Draw straws?”

A soft snort echoes in the room. “I volunteered.”

I stare at him in the mirror. “Well…that’s new.”

Jax’s reflection shrugs. “The rest of them would just baby you. We don’t have time for that.”

Time. Right. My time is almost up. The sound of Not A Minion finishing up and the subsequent roar for Kill John is hard to ignore. The whole room hums with suppressed energy, as if a great beast is waiting to be let out of the gate. The Animal. That’s what Killian calls the crowd. I understand that now. Too well.

Cold sweat breaks out along my back.

“I can’t do it,” I blurt out. “I’ll barf on stage. I know it. I told Killian I was defective this way. Shit. Shit.”

Jax leans a shoulder against the wall and watches me. After a moment, he pulls out a packet containing a tiny toothbrush and a little tube of toothpaste and hands it over. “You know why I have these things?”

“You’ve got magic wizard pants on? Is there a tent in that pocket too?”

“Not now,” he says with a small smile, “but maybe later when a couple of eager female fans drop on my lap.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Gah. I set myself up for that. Unclean!” I shove my new toothbrush in my mouth and brush with vigor.

He chuckles. “I have these things because I was just in the little boys’ room doing the same.”

I freeze. “You?” I squeak around the brush in my mouth, toothpaste foam bubbling on my bottom lip.

“Me,” he says, frowning at my display. “Every freaking show.”

I quickly rise and grab a paper towel to pat dry. “Seriously?” I mean, Jax Blackwood having stage fright?

He shakes his head as if I’m being ridiculous. “It happens to a lot of performers. Barbra Streisand quit doing live shows because she had it so bad.”

“I have to pause here,” I say. “You, Jax Blackwood, Mr. Too Cool Rocker, just referenced Barbra Streisand.”

He pulls a face. “Smart ass. She’s a legendary singer. Of course I know who she is.” His lips twitch, but then he’s calm again. “Would it be better if I’d said Adele? Because she’s been known to puke beforehand too.”

“Marginally,” I grump.

He rolls his eyes. “If you go out there and hurl on stage, we’ll talk. Until then, buck the fuck up, drink your soda, and be on cue. Got it?”

“No.”

His eyes narrow to icy green slits. “Killian put his ass on the line for you. He believes in you, which means I have to too. Do not make him look the fool.”

Of all the things Jax could have said to snap me out of my fear, that was it. I kind of hate him for finding my weak spot so easily. All I can do is salute, unable to resist sticking one finger up slightly higher than the others. “Got it.”

“Good. Twenty minutes!”

Yep. I’m going to die.

* * *

Killian

I love playing at Fenway. It’s historic, filled with quirks. Legends have performed here, and it’s imbued with the soul of baseball. Even though I’m standing under the burn of electric lights, I swear I can smell baseball—a faint aroma of hot dogs and beer, grass and sun. The stadium isn’t huge, but it feels that way. Walls of fans rise almost straight up around us. The floor is a vast sea of writhing bodies. In the distance, I can just make out the baseball diamond, protected from fans by metal fencing.

My body vibrates as I finish singing and step back to take a drink of water. My hand shakes just a bit. I’m nervous. Not for me. For her.

Whip and Rye keep up the beat, doing a jam solo that will lead into the next song, “Outlier.” It’s Libby’s first song with us.

I see her hovering in the wings, her face pale as death. My poor girl, torn up by stage fright. Jax offered to talk to her. Seeing as he’s been a grumpy pain in the ass about her until now, I was more than happy to let him go. Maybe they can form a friendship. Something I’d love.

I catch her gaze and give her a slight nod and a smile. You got this, baby doll.

Like a good soldier, she straightens her spine, slips her guitar strap over her head, and takes a visibly deep breath. God, but she glows with an inner light as she strides out on stage.

The Gibson L-1 open body practically dwarfs her small frame. She’s wearing another silky sundress, this one white with big red poppies all over it. Chunky black boots grace her feet, just like the first time I met her.

Rye picks up a fiddle, and Jax switches out his Telecaster for a mandolin. Last week, we toyed with “Outlier” and “Broken Door,” finessing the sound. Now it’s perfect. John, who’s in charge of all my equipment, hands me my Gretsch, and I walk to the mic.

“We’re gonna do things a little different tonight. Get a little soulful.”

The Animal howls its approval.

I grin into the mic. “And this lovely lady to my right,” I say as Libby walks up to the mic next to mine, “is the talented Ms. Liberty Bell. Let’s give her a proper welcome.”

She trembles as the Animal screams, catcalls, and hollers, punctuating the night air. She doesn’t look at me, doesn’t do anything but stare out at the sea of humanity with wide eyes. And for a cold second, I fear for her. Have I pushed her too far? Have I fucked everything?

But then Jax starts picking on his mandolin, and Rye starts up on the violin: go time. Whip ticks out a one, two, three, and Liberty explodes into action, hitting her mark with perfect precision.

Her voice is clear and utterly beautiful. It breaks my heart and makes it swell all at once.

Jax sings backup. And then it’s my turn to join in.

Libby and I harmonize. As she turns, the harsh stage lights set her aglow. She looks at me and smiles. Her joy is fucking incandescent. It sets me off, the surge of pure emotion stronger than anything I’ve ever felt on any stage.

Here is where she’s meant to be.

The song ends too soon. My need to kiss her is so strong it hurts. A vibrating roar of approval surrounds us. She beams as she takes her bow and exits. I don’t want her to go.

The rest of our show goes by in a blur until she returns for the last song. We’ll do an encore later, but for now, we’re ending with “In Deep.” It’s a love song with a sarcastic bent. Libby and I will play eighty percent of the song ourselves with the band coming in for the finale.

The second she’s back by my side, my body tunes into hers. Looking more confident now, she plucks the opening tune—light, playful.

I don’t face the crowd. I turn to her. I play and sing for her. And she sings back to me, her eyes shining bright. This. This is what it’s supposed to be about.

We finish on a lingering note, and then Libby and I exit. The rest of the guys will play on for a few minutes. I need those minutes. I want to talk to her, find out if she feels as amped as I do.

But Libby apparently has other ideas. She doesn’t look my way as she walks off stage, her pace so quick it’s practically a jog. Her hair whips around her head as she wrenches off her guitar and thrusts it in John’s waiting hand. I toss him my guitar as well, not slowing down. I’m so pumped, my heart races, my cock is a steel bar, bent painfully against my jeans. It wants out and in Libby.

But that’s not going to happen now.

Past working crew, loitering execs, and God knows who else, she moves, never stopping, not making eye contact with anyone. I don’t bother talking. She can’t outrun me—my longer legs keep me in pace with her frantic strides—and eventually, she’ll have to stop.

Right before she hits the ladies room, she announces in a loud voice, “I’m going to throw up.”

Shit.

She storms into the restroom, and I follow—like hell am I going to leave her to deal with this alone again. The second I step through the doorway, I’m caught up in a tiny whirlwind of hot female flesh.

Libby slams into me, knocking me back against the door. Her mouth is on mine before I can take a breath. Hot and wet and demanding, she devours me.

My restraint shatters. On a groan, I kiss her back. It’s a messy clash of lips, tongue, teeth. Fuck if my knees don’t go weak. I slump down the wall, my hands grasping her plump ass. With an impatient, angry little sound, she climbs up my body, wrapping her legs around my waist.

Lust rages through me. I spin her round and her body thuds into the door. My hands are sliding up her thighs, pushing between us to get at her core. “Jesus,” I grit out. She’s fucking soaked, wet thighs, hot, swollen pussy.

Her underwear snaps in my hands.

Libby whimpers, thrusting her hips into mine. “Fuck.” It’s almost a sob. “Fuck… I’m…I need…” Another sob breaks free, and she sucks on my lower lip, licks my mouth.

“I know,” I say, yanking at my jeans with clumsy hands. “I know.”

I don’t know how I manage to get a condom on. Blood rushes in my ears, and my heart is about to pound out of my chest. I’m in danger of coming. Our bodies, slick with sweat, slide against each other.

“Now, Killian. Now,” she breathes into my mouth. Her body shudders. “Oh, fuck, I need you now.”

“I got you.”

One hard thrust, and I’m halfway inside heaven. She’s hot as a furnace and so tight my eyes squeeze shut. Another thrust and she slides up the door with the force. Groaning, I grab her shoulders, pull her down onto me as I shove my dick all the way in. So fucking good.

Libby’s panting hard, her head falling back with a thud as she wails. Her fingertips sink into the nape of my neck. “More.” It’s barely audible. But I hear it.

I pump into her, mindless and driven with the need to fuck. My balls slap against her ass. My head sinks down to rest on her shoulder as I brace my arms on the door and pin her to it with the force of my thrusts.

The instant she comes, her tight channel milking me, I lose it. An orgasm rips through me so hard everything goes white. I stay there, ass clenched, body bowed into hers, legs shaking for one long moment. And then I release on a sigh.

Exhausted, I press my cheek to hers, and she cups the back of my head.

“Fuck,” I say, ragged.

She giggles, snorts, and turns her face into the crook of my neck. We both stand there, weakly laughing like loons, my dick still deep inside her.

The outside world returns too quickly, and I hear Jax’s voice, amplified over the mic, saying, “Goodnight, Boston!” Time’s up.