Libby

I’m curled up on the couch in our suite, playing the guitar, when Killian finally returns. He leans against the door for a long minute, head tilted back, gaze on some distant point. The lines of his body are tight with tension, making him appear almost gaunt. I want to go to him, hold him close. But he pushes off and heads my way.

“Everything all right?” I ask, setting the guitar aside as he hunkers down before me, sitting on the low coffee table. Bluish smudges mar the skin beneath his eyes. There’s a scrape along his jaw, presumably where Marlow punched him, and his hand is splinted. Guilt is a punch in the heart.

Killian sighs and leans forward to rest his head on my shoulder, his hands going to my hips. Immediately, I wrap my arms around his back and stroke him. We sit in quiet until he takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “Shit day, baby doll.”

“Yeah,” I agree, my throat thick.

He kisses the side of my neck, a soft press of lips, then sits up straight. His face is somber. “Talked to the record execs.”

I sit up straighter. “They’re giving you trouble, aren’t they?”

“They tried.” He shrugs. “They were pissed about the fight. But that’s to be expected.”

“I’m so sorry—”

“No,” he cuts in. “Don’t start that again. We both know who is to blame, and that fucker isn’t coming anywhere near you again.”

“Doesn’t make it any better, though, does it?”

Killian’s sigh is tired and low. “Guess not.” He snorts with disgust. “They want me on my best behavior from now on.”

My fingers feel cold, and I rub my damp palms along my thighs. “Killian—”

“You talked to Scottie.” Pain shadows his eyes, making them dull. He doesn’t ask about what. It’s obvious he knows.

I clear my throat. “You’re upset.”

He smiles, but it isn’t with humor. “No, Libby. I’m proud. This is huge. It’s the next logical step, and you’re taking it.” His big hands curl around my knees, giving a small squeeze. “It’s huge. I’m happy for you.”

“You don’t exactly look happy,” I point out. My heart begins to pound with a sick dread, and I don’t even know why.

Killian’s gaze slides to the side, his teeth catching his lower lip. “I just wish you had come to me instead of him.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” I touch his hand and find it cold. “I wanted a different perspective. And you kept telling me everything was fine, not to worry. But it isn’t fine. And I do worry. I want to help you.”

Killian takes that in with an expression I can’t fully read. Regret, maybe? Hurt, definitely. But his voice is even when he finally speaks. “Scottie told me he thought you should start working with him now. Said it was your time to break out.”

“He did,” I say slowly. “But the tour is still going.”

Killian grips the back of his neck, his arm flexing. He won’t meet my eyes. “The tour is moving to Europe. No one will question if you aren’t there.”

No one will care. Because I am not really a part of Kill John anyway. I know this. I never wanted to push my way into their band. It still doesn’t stop the shards of pain from stabbing their way into my chest.

I need to get a grip. I am the one who went to Scottie. He told me that leaving the tour was best. But for some ridiculous reason, I thought Killian would put up a fight. That he wouldn’t want me to go. Pride. Stupid pride.

“No, I suppose not.” I hate that my voice breaks.

He nods, the action slow, as if it’s taking effort. “Scottie can get you set up in L.A. By tomorrow.”

My insides swoop. “Tomorrow?”

Holy hell, I’m being handled, a problem swept under the rug. It’s one thing to take control of the problem, but to have Killian actually agree with Scottie is unsettling.

Still, I have to ask. “Is that what you want?”

Killian looks at me sharply. “It isn’t about what I want anymore.” He lets his hand fall, and for a moment, I think he’ll reach for me. But he rests it on his thigh. “It’s about what’s best for you. For the band. It would be better for you if you do this now.”

“But is it what you want?” I snap, unable to let it go.

Killian seems to brace himself. When he lifts his head, his eyes are clear. “Yeah, Libby, it’s what I want. I think you should go.”

Nausea rolls in my belly. God, how many times had my mama warned me? Musicians don’t stick when life gets hard. And if they do, they regret it. I lurch to my feet.

He tries to grab my wrist. “Libs—”

I brush him off with a tight smile. “I’m okay. I have to stand. My legs are falling asleep.” I pace to the window where rain streaks down in rivers, the landscape blurry and gray. “It’s a good plan,” I manage. “The best plan.”

He’s silent, and I risk a look. I wish I hadn’t. Pity etches his features. Fuck that. My fingers curl around the heavy drapes. He’s sending me away. After all his cajoling, after outright ordering me to join him, when the shit hits the fan, he fucking sends me away.

“I could come with you for a bit,” he says. “Help you get set up.”

Jax’s warning runs through my mind. Killian will put me first. Even though it’s clear he wants me gone, his loyalty will always drive him into doing the noble thing. I’m the problem here. I refuse to add more to it by tearing him away from his life, his obligations.

Killian had the courage to push me toward a life I didn’t want to admit I craved. I can do this for him now and walk away with dignity. The lump in my throat reaches epic proportions. I swallow convulsively, willing myself not to cry. “And leave the tour?” I choke on a sharp laugh. “No. That’s ridiculous.”

He frowns. “Libby, if you need me—”

“I don’t.” I know he cares. But I’m done being his problem to solve.

He recoils as if I’ve slapped him. That burns too. I’m not the one backing off. He promised everything would be okay if we stuck together. And now this.

“Okay, then,” he says slowly, the frown growing deeper.

I want to rage and fight. But pride forces me to remain calm. I refuse to be any man’s regret. I sigh and run a hand through my hair. My head hurts. My heart aches. “Killian, I’ll be fine. It’s like you said; this is just the next step.” Where I leave you. I don’t want to leave you.

“And your tour won’t last forever. I’ll just wait in L.A….” I trail off, not really knowing what else to say. Everything is jumbled and stuck in my chest.

His body is stiff as he stands, setting his hands low on his hips. “Look…You’ll be busy. I’ll be busy.” He takes a breath, like he’s trying to force his words out. “You can take this time to settle down, see what you really want.”

“What I really want?” My lips feel numb. He’s not just sending me away. He’s letting me go. And here I was worried about setting him free. I want to laugh. Or cry. It’s a toss-up.

“Yeah,” he croaks. “Without me hovering or holding you back. You can… You can figure out if this is the way you really want to live.”

Somehow I find the strength to nod. “Yeah, you’re right. Everything has been going full-tilt. Half the time, it didn’t even seem real.”

He blanches at that but makes a noise of agreement. It’s so stiff, his manner so impersonal.

I find myself babbling on, making excuses for both of us. “And it would be stupid to hold each other back when we don’t know where we’ll end up.”

Lie. Lie. Lie. I want to beg him to just hold me, tell the world to fuck off. But he’s already backing up.

His gaze is clear. “This is good, Libs,” he tells me, his voice flat. “You’ll see. You can take the time now and find out if this is the life you want, without me interfering. And I can…” He shrugs. “I can do the tour like a good little rocker and stay out of the news.”

I flinch. It’s my fault he was in the news. “So, that’s it then.”

Killian’s dark eyes hold mine. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

* * *

Killian

I let her go. It needed to be done. For her sake. I tell myself these things as I make an excuse to get the hell out of the room, claiming I need to do a sound check. She doesn’t stop me. That hurts just as much as anything. Maybe I expected her to tell me it was all a mistake, that she was only saying what she thought I wanted to hear, that she needed me.

But she let me leave. Are we broken up? I’m not even sure. I was trying to be supportive, to get her away from this mess. But if feels like something else. Like we’re done.

Taking the elevator down, I can’t look at myself in the door’s reflection. My entire body hurts, my heart screaming at me to get the hell back in that room and stake my claim.

She doesn’t need me.

She made that clear.

No one in my life has. Not my family, not Jax when he was hurting so badly he’d rather end things than reach out to me, and not Libby.

What the hell is wrong with me that I need to be needed?

By the time I reach our practice space, set up in some conference room, rage pumps through my blood. I said what I had to say to get Libby to go. Only now do I realize I’d wanted her to fight me with the same conviction she fights everything else. I wanted her to choose me. How fucking selfish is that?

I did the right thing here. She’ll be out of the tour’s harsh glare. People won’t see her as my girl, but a talent in her own right.

I plug in my guitar. I’m shaking so hard, I drop my pick twice.

“Fuck it,” I snarl.

“Someone is in a mood,” Whip says from the door. He walks in and takes a seat at his kit. “What crawled up your butt?”

“Libby isn’t going to Europe with us.”

“Why? Because of last night?” He shakes his head and taps on his cymbal. “That’s bullshit. And you’re okay with this?”

No, I’m not fucking okay. I’m barely holding it together.

“She wants it. Scottie’s taking her under his wing.” The words taste like ash in my mouth.

Whip gapes at me. “And she said this? She said, ‘Killian, I want to ditch your ass and go off with Scottie to find my fame.’”

“No,” I mutter. “She didn’t say it like that.” I turn away from him and grab a fresh pick. “She…I gave her a push.”

“Man, I don’t think—”

“It’s done.” I turn on an amp and flick the volume up to full. “You gonna play or continue to piss me off with questions?”

“By all means,” Whip says, twirling his drumsticks. “Let’s play.”

But it’s no fucking good. I don’t get further than a few chords before the rage surges up once more. My fingers fumble on the strings. I can’t play. I don’t want to fucking play. This time, the rage chokes me. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I’m barely aware of ripping the guitar strap off over my head. The Telecaster in my hand smashes into the floor with a satisfying crack and a deafening buzz of reverb.

Guitar destroyed, chest heaving, I don’t feel better. Not even a little bit.

Whip comes to stand by my side, surveying the damage. “Guess we aren’t playing today. Come on. We’ll medicate with single malt like proper rock stars.”

Libby wouldn’t like me drinking. But Libby won’t be around by tomorrow. I press my fingers to my aching forehead. “Yeah, a drink sounds about right.”

* * *

I come back to Libby in the middle of the night, and she’s asleep. I curl myself around her anyway; she feels so good I almost can’t stand to touch her anymore, not when she’s leaving.

The thought hits me like a comet, and my insides flare. I must make a noise because she stirs, her voice soft and muffled with sleep. “Killian?”

She turns in my arms, her body warm, her fingers tracing my brow. I was going to let her sleep, but I can’t. My hand slides to her cheek.

“Give me this,” I whisper. “Before you go. I need this.”

I find her mouth. I’d say kissing her is like coming home, but I’ve never had a true home. I don’t know if the sense of rightness I feel with her means home or not. Right now it’s something stronger, tinged with desperation. I’m desperate for her. The way she tastes, the way she moves, the little sounds and sighs that only she makes.

There’s no one else like her. There never will be. I know that now. Maybe I’ve always known that, but now it feels like I’ve discovered something too late.

Libby moves against me, waking up in my arms, and she kisses me back, her hands roaming over my arms, neck, back, like she can’t find a place to land. We go slow, lingering, memorizing each other. I angle my head and open her mouth wider with mine, get deeper, take more. I need it all.

The bed creaks as I roll over and fit myself between her willing thighs. She gasps in my mouth, and I swallow her breath. I want it all, and it isn’t enough right now by half. Breaking away from her lips, I lean back so I can pull the shirt over her head. It’s my shirt. The ratty old thing I wore at the beach when we first met. It has to mean something that she’s always wearing it.

I’m pulling at straws. And she’s naked beneath me. My hands ghost over her satin skin. Perfect.

In the dark, I trace the topography of her body with my fingers and lips, kissing my way down her graceful neck, along her collarbone. I take my time on the little places I’ve often overlooked—the center of her chest where I can feel her heart beating, the soft, fragrant curve along the side of her breast.

The skin on her inner arm is like fine silk; she shivers as I run the tip of my tongue in patterns down to her elbow. Libby sighs my name, her fingers combing through my hair and massaging the tight spots on my nape. Beneath me, her thighs are parted wide, her body pliant. The wet heat of her sex press against my chest, calling my attention.

I slide farther down, licking and nipping my way along. I love the way she squirms. I know how much she gets off on the anticipation of me reaching my destination. It’s a little game we’ve played many times: how long can we draw it out, touch each other and yet not touch those places we want it the most.

I press my lips against the hard curve of her hipbone, my arms wrapped tight around her waist. Fuck. No one knows me better than this woman. And I’d bet my life I know her better than anyone on Earth. And I’m sending her away. She’s going. It’s so fucking wrong, it’s choking me.

I try not let it show. But I can’t stop the tremor running through me.

“Killian?” her vanilla cream voice slides through the dark.

Tell her. Tell her what she is to you. She’s your lodestone. You have a fucking map inked on your body, but you are completely lost without her right next to you. Tell her.

I suck in a breath and surge down. My mouth finds her slick, swollen flesh, and I latch on, feasting like it’s my last meal.

Libby gasps, her body arching off the bed. In the gloom, her skin is a pearly cream, her sweet little tits pointing up and shaking as she writhes. I hold her hips down and eat her out with no finesse, just greed. And she whimpers and cries.

Good. Remember that. Need it. Crave it. I know I will.

I don’t let her come. Not yet. When she quivers against my tongue, her clit swelling, I lift away. Libby cries out, her arms reaching for me.

“Shhh,” I whisper, crawling over her. “I got you.”

Her damp breasts cushion my chest as I settle over her, needing that skin-to-skin contact. The throbbing tip of my cock finds the slick notch of her pussy, and I push in, no hesitation—a little mean about it, even. We both need that.

The first thrust is always the most painful. Because it never fails to punch me in the heart, the fucking perfection of her, the tight, hot, wet clasp. Like home. Yeah, she’s my home. My everything.

She never shies away from me, but raises her hips, spreads herself wider, as if she needs to take every inch I can offer. Her legs wrap around me, her hands grasping my shoulders. “Killian.”

We move as one, pulling apart, sliding back together. It’s slow torture. Every time I ease back, I feel cold. Every thrust in, I want to grind myself there, imprint myself from the inside.

My arms bracket her slim shoulders. In the dark, I find her. Her eyes glint as she stares up at me, and we slowly undulate. Her air becomes mine.

Tell her. Beg her not to go.

I dip my head and kiss her, kiss her until I don’t feel anything but her mouth, her body. Kiss her until I can’t think about tomorrow.

I’m probably crushing her. There isn’t any space between us. But she’s wrapped tight around me, not letting go. Her lips consume me, her sweet pussy milking my dick as she comes. And I want to shout. It can’t end. Not yet.

But then I’m coming too, so hard my body shakes. I don’t make a sound. I can’t. I’ll be begging her if I do.

I fall asleep wrapped up in her, my fingers clinging so hard to her shoulders that my knuckles ache.

In the morning, she’s packed before I’m out of bed. The sight of her bags settles like lead in my gut as I pull on a pair of jeans.

“You’re leaving now?” I ask, stating the obvious. But, Jesus, she’s fast.

Libby shifts on her feet, as if she’s already imagining walking out the door. “Your plane leaves tonight, anyway. Scottie got us a flight out early.”

Right. Because he’s now the one she plans things with. He’s her manager. He should be planning her life right now. He does the same for me. A green tinge of jealousy clouds my vision.

“Okay, then. I guess you gotta go.”

Libby nods and grips her rolling suitcase. “Have a safe flight.”

“Yeah, you too.” Fuck, we’re already talking like strangers.

She glances at the door and a small smile tugs at her pretty lips. “Seems we’re destined to always be leaving each other.”

So stay. Tell me you can’t live without me the way I can’t live without you. But she doesn’t. And I don’t either. I should. My heart tells me I’m a fool not to tell her how I feel. But I’ve pushed and cajoled Libby too much already. She needs this, and I refuse to stand in her way just because I’m hurting.

If you love someone, you set them free. Isn’t that how the saying goes? That, if it was meant to be, they’ll come back. Doesn’t help me for shit right now, though.

“Well…” I make an abortive move to go to her just as she leans in to hug me. We meet in the middle, our lips brushing, her nose bumping into mine. It’s quick, almost impersonal. It fucking sucks.

“Call me,” I tell her.

Her gaze is on the floor. “I will.”

One last awkward hug, and then I step back, stuffing my hands into my pockets. I’m not proud of that, but I know I won’t be able to let her go if I don’t distance myself first. I don’t watch her leave, just turn away and head for the bathroom. But I hear the door click and the hollow sound of an empty room loud and clear just the same.