Libby

Late at night, when we finally slip into bed, Killian holds me for a long time, his chest to my back. I drift in the warmth of him, body and soul at peace. And he breathes me in, slow and deep as if he’s memorizing my scent.

“I could have killed him,” he whispers in my hair.

In the dark, my hand finds his forearm, pressed across my chest, and I stroke his skin, tracing the muscles beneath it. “But you didn’t.”

His breath is soft and low. “I totally lost my shit. Didn’t think of anything but beating his ass.”

“It’s over now.” Under the cool of the covers, with his heat along my skin, I’m safe. And though Killian is more than capable of protecting himself, I wish he felt safe as well.

His fingers curl around the curve of my shoulder. “I’ve never been needed by anyone but the guys. We became each other’s family. I watch out for them.”

I don’t say anything, simply run my fingers over the strong bones of his wrist, along his inner arm where his skin is like silk over stone.

“I failed them, Libs. I should have known Jax was losing his grip.”

“Killian—”

“I should have kept us together after he tried to end it instead of drifting away.”

The covers rustle as I turn to face him. “Almost every night for a year, I went to bed thinking I should have tried to get my dad into rehab. I should have said something instead of looking the other way.” I cup Killian’s cheek, rough with the day’s growth. “Half the time I couldn’t look in the mirror because I thought, would my dad have been happier, would he have drank less, if he’d never given up the life to have me?”

Killian’s eyes widen as if he’s in pain. “No, Libby. No one who knows you would ever consider you a regret.”

I sigh, my thumb touching the corner of his mouth. “That’s the problem, though. Logic tells you one thing, but you still feel another. You can tell me I’m wrong about my dad. I can tell you you’re wrong about failing the guys. But believing is harder, isn’t it?”

His lips press against my brow. “I don’t want to fail you, Libs. And right now, I don’t know how avoid doing that.”

“I feel the same,” I whisper.

He moves over me then, settling his body on mine. There, in the dark, he makes love to me. It’s almost desperate, the way we touch—searching kisses, fumbling caresses. And it’s heartbreakingly tender. Every touch counts, feels like the end of something, the beginning of something else.

I’m terrified, and I don’t know why. Maybe he is too, because he doesn’t let me go. Not when we reach our climax, and not when we drift off to sleep in the waning hours of the night.

In the morning, I’m alone. Killian has gone to get his hand X-rayed just in case there are fractures.

I eat breakfast in my room and don’t expect visitors. When Jax shows up, I’m wary. He barely looked my way last night, as if he couldn’t stand the sight of me.

“You want some coffee?” I ask as he follows me into the suite’s living room where the room service cart is set up.

“Yeah, sure.” He taps his thumb against his thigh.

We’ve been traveling together for a while now, but we’ve never really been alone except for that first night when he came to check on me and my sad case of stage fright. We’re not friends, but I’ve never considered him my enemy. Unfortunately, I have no idea if that’s true for him or not.

In silence we sip lukewarm coffee until I can’t take it anymore. “You here to bawl me out or something?”

Jax smirks. “You have a bit of a dramatic side, don’t you?”

“Oh, please, you looked like you wanted to spit nails last night.”

His mouth twitches. “Last night was fucked up. On all counts.”

I run a thumb around the thick edge of my cup. “It was at that.”

Jax sets his cup down. “Despite what you may think, I like you, Libby. You’re talented as hell. You belong in this world as much as any of us do.” Shock courses through me, but he doesn’t stop there. “And I’m sorry as hell that dickhead put his hands on you. He deserved a beat down.”

“Why do I feel there’s a ‘but’ coming along?”

His green eyes lock on mine. “The record label is going to give Killian hell. Right or wrong, what he did looks bad for the band. And for you.”

“I know this.”

“I know you know. But do you understand the power you have over Killian? It’s pretty apparent, he’ll always choose you over anything else.”

“What do you want me to say?” I ask. “I’m sorry this happened. I wish it hadn’t. But I can’t change Killian’s reaction.”

Jax rubs his fingers over his forehead then peers at me. “And in the future? When other assholes come out of the woodwork? Because they will. Half the public already blames you. For the simple fact that you’re a woman, and Killian’s now acting unhinged.”

“Great.” Though I’m not surprised. Victim-blaming is alive and well in modern society.

“Yeah, great,” he repeats with a sigh. “He cannot handle it—not when the spotlight of judgment is on someone he cares about. He couldn’t handle it on me, and he absolutely won’t be able to take it on you.” Jax kneels next to me, his eyes tired but intense. “There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t feel the repercussions of what I did. I feel guilty as all fuck for the way I hurt them. But especially for the way it caused Killian to break down. Because he was the one who tried to shield me from the press and take it all on his shoulders.”

After last night’s confession, I know more than anyone how much it still hurts Killian. My throat clicks as I swallow. “This is why you didn’t want me here?”

Jax nods. “I didn’t know what would happen. But I knew there’d be something.” He laughs sadly. “There always is on a tour. And I knew Killian wasn’t ready. He doesn’t have his walls up anymore.”

No, he doesn’t. I don’t either. Both of us are walking around exposed and vulnerable. I feel naked enough as it is. But the idea that I’m also Killian’s weakness is intolerable. You’re supposed to protect the ones you love, not leave them open to pain.

“Promise me something,” I whisper, because my voice is fast fading. “Be…kind to him. Take care of him. He needs it.”

Jax nods, tension working between his brows. When Jax leaves, I head to another room.

Scottie answers on the second knock. It’s a betrayal, what I’m about to do. But it doesn’t stop me. “Can I come in?”

* * *

Killian

“We are not amused, Mr. James.”

Sitting at a glossy conference table in a cold hotel meeting room is not my idea of fun. Listening to the duo I like to call Smith One and Smith Two is giving me heartburn. My two least favorite record label execs sit across from me, both of them in identical black Armani suits and sharing the same reproachful expression. They only need sunglasses and ear pieces to complete the Agent Smith look.

As soon as I calmed down last night, I knew this meeting was coming. You cause a scene at an industry party, you will be hearing about it.

Back when Kill John first started, we’d been their bitch—attending parties and functions when they wanted us to, touring when they demanded it, every damn aspect of our lives under their control. Those days are gone. You put out a diamond-status album like we did with Apathy, and the tables turn. Kill John no longer kisses ass, we get our cocks sucked.

Doesn’t mean certain execs don’t forget that once in a while, especially when they smell blood in the water—something Smith One clearly has been waiting for. “First we had to deal with John Blackwood’s drug habit—”

“He didn’t have a fucking drug habit,” I snap. “He was clinically depressed, and I’ll thank you to shut the fu—”

Scottie holds up a hand. “What happened with Jax isn’t pertinent to yesterday’s events.”

“I beg to differ,” Smith One says. “It is yet another pileup in the car wreck that is Kill John lately.”

A red haze swarms over my vision. “Metal Death left a bathtub full of actual shit in a hotel room, but you’ve got a problem with me defending a woman?”

“Property damage can be quietly taken care of,” Smith One retorts. “You, on the other hand, attacked a man in a room full of reporters.”

“Details.”

“You damaged our newest talent, breaking his nose and busting open his lip, because you can’t keep your dick in your pants.”

“No,” I say with exaggerated care, “I beat the little turd because he couldn’t keep his hands to himself.” I give Smith One a smile with teeth. “You see the difference? Because it’s an important one. You go after an unwilling woman—my woman in particular—and you’re going to get hurt.”

He doesn’t miss the warning. His eyes narrow. “We’ve had to hold off our promotional plans until Marlow’s face heals. Thousands of dollars wasted in cancelled appearances.”

“You should probably talk to him about his behavior. Assign him community service so he can think about his sins.”

“You think this is funny, Mr. James?” Smith Two taps his gold pen on the table as if to get my attention. “Because I assure you the label isn’t laughing.”

“No,” I agree. “They’re sweeping an attempted sexual assault under the table. Bravo for that.”

“Not to mention,” Smith One puts in, “that you damaged your hand.”

I refuse to move my wrapped fingers from their gaze. “It’s fine.”

“It’s insured for a million dollars, Mr. James.” Smith One shoves a stack of papers toward me as if I’m going to read them. “Premiums just went up.”

I laugh, a short bark of annoyance, and then catch Scottie’s eye. Up until now, he’s been sitting back, almost lounging in his chair. Although the Smiths are wearing Armani, Scottie’s sharp tailoring makes them look like slobs, because his charcoal-grey bespoke three-piece suit is straight up Gieves & Hawkes out of Savile Row. My father shops there, and his standards are only slightly less particular than Scottie’s.

Scottie’s appearance is its own form of intimidation. The fact that nothing scares him is another.

“Marlow is a flash in the pan,” Scottie says, bored. “And yet here you are insulting your highest-earning client. I suggest you make amends for wasting his time with this meeting and direct your efforts to putting a better spin on the story.”

Smith and Smith blink in unison, and Smith One sneers. “Mr. James is under contract—”

“Mr. James has fifty-million followers on Twitter alone.”

News to me. But I join Scottie in leveling them a long How you like me now, bitches? stare. Whatever it takes to get them off my back and away from Libby.

Scottie rises. “None of whom would appreciate him being mistreated. Never underestimate the power of social media or fanatical fans. Now if you’ll excuse us, gentlemen. My client has a concert to perform.”

Smith Two’s cold eyes follow our movements. “Make all the veiled threats you want, Mr. Scott. But we will have order. No more running off the rails, or there will be repercussions.”

* * *

“Those two are a pain in my ass,” I grumble as we walk back to my suite.

“They’re right, you know.” Scottie’s laser gaze slashes my way. “What you did was stupid. On all counts.”

“What the hell?” I glare at him. “You’re actually taking their side?”

He stops short, turning to face me. We’re of a similar height and stand eye to eye. “You are under contract. They can make your life difficult, and they most certainly can blackball Liberty from gaining a foothold in this industry, if they so choose. They were interested in signing her. But now they have concerns over PR issues created by your blowup.”

My heart skips a beat, cold flooding my veins. I’m as untouchable as I’m going to get. But I cringe with regret at the thought of putting Liberty’s future in jeopardy.

“Setting that aside,” he continues, “you’ve managed to bring Kill John back into the limelight, though not as a band united, but as the butt of a sad joke where Killian James flies into a jealous rage because Marlow, the new hot—younger—rising star, got handsy with some tart.”

“Hey.” I step closer. “Don’t call Libby that.”

“I’m not calling her that. They are.”

“You think I should have just let that shithead off?”

“No. If it were me, I’d have done the same. I’d like to rip the tosser’s tiny balls off and cram them down his throat. But it doesn’t change the fact that we have to fix this. And quickly.”

“Shit.” Hands on hips, I duck my head and try to calm my breathing. “How?”

Scottie doesn’t miss a beat. “Take her off the tour.”

“No.” My loud reply echoes in the hall. “She’ll think we’re punishing her.”

“That’s merely a matter of your fear and her ego at risk. The reality is she’ll be miserable with all this added speculation, the two of you constantly under the microscope. However, if she were on her own…”

“On her own?”

“People already love her. Brenna’s staff is fielding hundreds of requests a day for more Liberty. It’s her moment to break out. So let me break her out while she’s hot.”

I don’t want to agree. Everything in me screams in protest. If she goes, I’ll lose her. My fear is that simple. But it isn’t my call to make. It isn’t even Scottie’s; it’s Libby’s.

I know this, and yet the idea of sending her out to the wolves suddenly chills me. I want her to shine, and I want to wrap her up and tuck her into my side.

“This morning, she sought me out to talk,” Scottie says. “She agreed to let me manage her. She also asked me what I thought she could do to make things easier for you.”

It shouldn’t feel like a betrayal, but it does. Not that she wants to try or that she was looking out for me, but that she discussed these things with Scottie first, not me. I don’t have any experience in relationships, but I’m fairly certain confiding in the other about life-altering decisions is a key component.

My head aches something fierce; my guts are rolling like I’m hungover. I want more time alone with Libby, away from the world. But that’s not going to happen. I want to do right by her, but I’m bumbling my way through. “What did you tell her?”

“I told her to get off the tour.”

“Jesus, be a dick, why don’t you?”

“I’m being realistic. And I think she understands that.”

My jaw aches from grinding my teeth. “If she wants to do this, I’m not going to hold her back. I’ve already told you that.”

“Yes, I know. The problem is, mate, she doesn’t want to leave you.”

I’d be happy about that, except I have a bad feeling she’s holding on out of misplaced loyalty. The whole situation is a shit cracker on top of a shit day. And it isn’t even noon. “She’s tough, Scottie. But not hardened. I don’t want her crushed before she has a chance to bloom.”

“I’m planning to stick with her, if that makes you more comfortable.” Scottie’s gaze is level, calm. “Jules can manage the day-to-day tour details here.”

Jules, Scottie’s assistant, is great. But I really don’t give a fuck about the tour at this moment. Clearing the thickness out of my throat, I search for words. “Protect her.” I press my hand to my eyes to ease the hot throb of pain behind them. “That’s all I care about.”

Silence follows. For once, the ice man is gone. In his place is the Scottie I met years ago as a young punk hungry for fame, the one who looked after Jax when he tried to take his life. This Scottie is the man you’ll follow anywhere because you know he’ll have your back.

Those eerie blue eyes of his seem to burn with determination. “There are no guarantees in life. I cannot promise you the world won’t try to chew Liberty up and spit her out. But the woman gives me shit on a continuous basis. And I’ve made grown men cry.”

Despite my crap mood, I feel a smile forming. “My favorite was when the owner of The Lime House blubbered.”

Scottie’s eyes narrow with remembered glee. “Complete tosser.” His expression evens out. “As you say, she is tough. And she’ll have me on her side.”

Which in Scottie terms is to say she’ll have the best in the business at all points. It still sits heavy in my gut that she won’t have me. Not if I do what needs to be done to get her to go.

My headache threatens to crush my skull. I’m going to have to let Libby go. Set her free.

I swallow hard and nod. “I’ll talk to her.”