Libby

As I board my plane, I’ve realized two things: I let Killian go without a fight. And he did the same with me.

At the time it all felt very self-sacrificing. Now I feel as though I’ve swallowed razor blades. Why didn’t we just talk to each other? Why did’t I put up a fight? Why didn’t he?

Self-doubt is not my friend, and it’s whispering in my ear. Did Killian regret putting so much on the line for me? Getting his band and himself in hot water again because of me?

I lean my head against the small plane window and close my eyes. When has taking a break ever resulted in something good? Isn’t it just another way of saying goodbye?

The plane takes off, and I feel like I’ve left a large chunk of myself behind.

LA is…not what I expected. Oh, I thought there would be sun, sea, and palm trees. And LA has that in spades. What I did not realize is that a good chunk of LA is made of long, slightly downtrodden strip malls.

That all changes when Scottie checks us into the Hotel Bel-Air. The place is gorgeous with its fragrant gardens, soaring stucco architecture, and swank black-and-white color scheme. It has to be expensive as hell, but Scottie made clear that he’s footing the bill until we sign a deal with a record company. And Scottie does not stay in dumps. Or so he tells me when we part ways to settle into our rooms.

My room has its own garden terrace with a Jacuzzi plunge pool, living room, and a fireplace. Instantly, I want to take a picture and show Killian. He’d love this place. It occurs to me that he’s probably stayed here many times.

But I don’t. I need to make a clean break with this. Go cold turkey. If I keep calling him, I’m going to want to be with him even more. I’m going to end up saying something stupid like, “please take me back!”

I put my phone away and take a long bath. I decide then and there that if I ever have the money to build a dream house, I’m designing it just like this place. I’m just not entirely sold on the location.

After room service of a spectacular lobster Cobb salad, I meet Scottie in the lobby.

The man looks right at home here in his cream-colored three-piece suit, gray silk tie, and sky blue shirt. He’s wearing loafers and sunglasses. All of this would look ridiculous on a mere mortal, but not Scottie.

“Are you sure you’ve never modeled for Dolce & Gabbana? Because you look exactly like that model—”

“Don’t say his name,” Scottie snaps, glaring at me over his shades. “Ever.”

“You’re just giving me ammunition,” I reply in a sing-song voice as he guides me out to a waiting Mercedes sedan.

“I’ve filled an entire cemetery with musicians who have tried to tease me, Ms. Bell.”

He doesn’t appear serious. Of course with the sunglasses on, it’s hard to tell.

Our destination is a recording studio, and I try not to gape as I spy not only a few famous movie stars walking by but two of my favorite singers chatting in a glass-and-steel break room inside.

“This way.” Scottie ushers me into a smaller, private booth where a man waits for us.

He looks to be in his mid-forties, balding (with gray frosting what hair is left) and icy blue eyes. Those eyes lock on me, and I can see their keen intelligence. He stands as we enter.

“Scottie. Good to see you.”

They exchange handshakes, and then the man turns his attention to me.

“This is Ms. Liberty Bell,” Scottie tells him.

“Love the name.” He shakes my hand. His grip is fast and brutal. His smile is genuine. “Did you two come up with it?”

“No, sir. My parents had that honor.”

“Honey-sweet voice as well. Excellent.”

I might be offended if it wasn’t clear he was figuring out how to market me.

Scottie gestures for me to take a seat, and the two men follow suit as soon as I do.

“This is Hardy,” Scottie says to me.

“As in ‘Hardy Jenns. With two Ns’?” God help me, I flipped him off. Wincing. I lower my finger. “I’m sorry—”

“Let me guess,” Hardy interrupts with a wry smile. “You hate when it does that.”

I smile too. “It’s bad form to mix movie quotes.”

Scottie looks at us with his usual put-out expression. “When you’re done with your ’80s movies fun, I’d like to get on with this.”

Both Hardy and I blink in shock.

“Hell, Scottie,” Hardy says with a laugh, “I had no idea you’d lower yourself to watching ’80s movies.”

“Mmm…” Scottie hums, deadpan. “And sometimes I listen to rock music. Fancy that.”

Hardy leans closer to me. “Warning: taunt the tiger too much and he’ll swipe.”

I like Hardy, with his easy humor and kind eyes. He’s nothing like what I’d heard from my parents about record producers being egotistical artists who liked to browbeat musicians.

The thought amuses me, and I actually turn my head, some deep-seated part of me expecting Killian to be at my side so I can share a look with him. But he isn’t here. His absence is a cold blast against my skin, and my smile dies.

Thankfully neither of the men who actually are in the room seems to notice.

“Hardy is an excellent producer, and we’ve been discussing your options.”

“I’ve seen clips of you with Kill John, Liberty—”

“Call me Libby. Please.”

“Well, Libby, you have a voice and natural sound that guys like me dream of developing.” His icy eyes light with excitement. “I’ve got a few ideas I’d like to run by you.”

“I’m game if you are.” That sounded all right, didn’t it? On the inside I’m shaking like a leaf in a storm. If I can get through this without giggling like a fool, I’ll be happy.

Scottie is texting, but he glances at the door when it opens, and three more men enter.

“Ah, yes.” Scottie puts away his phone. “Your backup band. Tom plays guitar, Murphy on bass, and Jefferson on the drums.”

The guys file in. They’re all older than me, clearly seasoned musicians. Guys like my dad, who worked the industry but never tried to make a bid for stardom. Instantly, I feel a measure of comfort. Glancing at Scottie, I’m guessing he knew exactly what he was doing when he hired them. And I have the urge to kiss his handsome cheek. If I didn’t know it would make him uncomfortable as hell, I would.

“You look like your mother,” Tom says as he sits down.

Surprise tingles over my skin. “You knew her?”

Of the three men, he’s the oldest, probably in his forties. “I knew both your mom and your dad. Marcy and George were true talents.” His brown eyes grow solemn. “I was sorry to hear of their passing.”

“Thank you.”

Murphy and Jefferson take a seat as well.

“Marcy and George,” Jefferson says. “And your name is Liberty. That some sort of George and Martha Washington joke?”

“You know, you’re the first person who actually got that,” I say with a laugh. “Most people focus on the whole Liberty Bell thing.”

“I’m named after Thomas Jefferson,” he says. “So I get the torture too.”

“Shit, at least you weren’t named after the place where you were conceived,” Murphy adds. The tall, wiry guy grins at me from behind a mop of blond hair.

We all think about it for a second, and then I groan in horror. “Oh my God, they didn’t name you after a Murphy bed, did they?”

His cheeks go ruddy. “Fuck yeah, they did. Why they had to share that little factoid with me is the real question.”

“And yet you shared it with us,” Hardy says.

“My pain is now yours.”

Laughing, we move on to discussing Scottie’s grand plans for me, which include developing some new songs, recording, and, in the meantime, doing the publicity circuit with appearances in small clubs and on talk shows.

It sounds exhausting and exhilarating. The guys Scottie’s hired are supportive and clearly talented. It’s a dream come true. But the hole in my heart still bleeds steady and cold. I tell myself I’ll get over it, but it feels like a lie.

* * *

Killian

The Animal is gone. In its place is an ocean of people. And endless sea of writhing bodies, screaming for Kill John, screaming my name. I have to answer. They’re waiting for it.

“Hello, London.” My voice echoes into the sea, and the sea roars back

They want me, adore me. For the first time in my life, I don’t care.

***

“Hey, it’s Killian. Apparently, my mother hen tendencies are strong. You said you’d call. You didn’t. Let me know you’re okay. That’s all I want, and I’ll get out of your hair.”

***

“Hey. It’s Libby. You didn’t answer, so here goes. My backup band is great. The guys are nice. Not as great as your guys, but I like them. I did my first talk show appearance. Felt like a complete fake. Then again, the actress who went on before me was so out of it, an intern literally had to snap his fingers in her face to get her to react. Once on, though, she was on. Host’s breath smelled like tapioca. Which is weird. I’ve never even had tapioca. How do I know what it smells like? But it was the first thought that popped into my mind when I caught a whiff. Anyway, going to bed.”

***

“Damn after parties are too loud. Sorry I missed your call, Libs. Had my volume up full blast and still didn’t hear it. Whip recorded your show on the bus DVR. You were awesome. Don’t like how Tapioca Breath was staring at your tits, though. Next time I’m on that show I might have to accidentally step on his balls. Libby, I really…”

***

“Your connection is shitty. All I heard was something about Whip, awesome, and balls. Then it went dead. I’m not sure I want to know. Lie. I do. Tell me you haven’t moved on to balls. Oh, and say hi to the guys. I’ve got to go.”

***

“Service to the US sucks here. I can’t get a call through half the time. And—would you guys shut the fuck up? I’m on the phone. Sorry. I’m trying to find a private place here. I’d call you when I get back in my room, but the time difference sucks too. I’m pretty sure you’re asleep right now. Shit. It’s breaking up…I…”

***

“It’s a lost cause trying to connect, isn’t it? Why don’t we try to talk when things calm down? And…well, if we’re really taking time to figure things out, maybe we shouldn’t be talking so much right now, anyway. Not that I don’t want to talk to you. I just…we’re both busy. I’m babbling so I’m going to hang up now. Take care, Killian.”

***

I listen to her final message three times. It doesn’t get any easier to hear. I’ve lost her. What I don’t know is if it’s because I sent her away or if she simply realized that she doesn’t feel as strongly for me as I do for her.

I want to ask—no, demand—that she tell me. I want to lay it all down and hash this shit out. But I can’t do that over the phone. And I can’t leave the tour. I can’t do that to the guys.

My thumb taps the edge of my phone as I think of what to say.

I’ll let you go for now. But text me if you need anything. K?

When she doesn’t answer my text, I chuck my phone across the room. The door to the dressing room opens before impact, and the phone smacks the center of Jax’s chest. He frowns down at the phone that’s clattered to the floor before looking back up at me. “Fans are waiting for the meet and greet.”

As if to punctuate his words, a group of women bursts in behind him on a wave of giggles. Their smiles are eager and all for me. All blonde, all gorgeous, they’re whispering in a language I don’t understand. Norwegian. We’re in Norway.

I rub the aching spot over my chest. Fuck. I need to let this thing with chasing Libby go. She’s busy building her life. The life I sent her to lead. My life is here. Doing what I’ve always done. I’ve survived just fine for twenty-six years without her. I can survive now.

“Right.” I find a smile and paste it on. I won’t touch them. The idea makes me ill. But I can play host. I can do that much for the guys. “Welcome, ladies.”