“Heligoland.” Whip gestures to my shirt with his chin. “Fucking love that album.”
I find space on the couch between him and the wall. Killian’s dark eyes are on me, a smug, satisfied smile lingering there. I’d be annoyed, but my smug, satisfied lady bits refuse to be hypocritical.
“Can’t sleep?” he asks me. His big hand is wrapped around the neck of his guitar, a gorgeous 1962 Gibson J-160E. John Lennon played that model. And now Killian James, capable of making that beautiful instrument sing, does too.
Those long fingers have played my body just as well. I press my knees together. “Too jittery.”
“You’ll get used to it,” Rye says. He’s holding a pair of maracas, which makes me smile. He smiles back. “You know, by staying up all night.”
The guys laugh.
Jax peers at me. “Didn’t hurl on stage.”
“Yay me,” I deadpan. “Thanks, by the way. You saved my bacon.”
“Mainly, I saved the rest of us from having to smell your breath,” he says with a shrug, but the corners of his eyes crinkle with humor. “I’ll ask Jules to keep extra ginger ale and toothbrush kits in stock.”
Jules is one of the assistants and is riding on another bus. So many buses. A bus for roadies. One for Brenna, Jules, wardrobe coordinators—that the guys have a wardrobe kind of made me snicker, but it’s basically the shit job of doing their laundry—and press coordinators. One for the Not A Minion. And one for Scottie. Yes, he has his own bus. The guys, however, have always travelled together and stick with that tradition. And none of the other buses is as nice as ours with its black-and-cream leather interior, full kitchen, bath, and dozens of luxury perks—well, maybe Scottie’s is too, but he won’t let me in to check.
Killian hands me a bottled lemonade from the ice bucket at his side. There are also beers in it, but he knows me well. I take a long drink, refreshed by the sweet-tart flavor.
“So,” Whips asks, tapping a quick beat on the small djembe drum he’s holding. “How did it feel busting your rock concert cherry?”
I grin around my bottle and absolutely refuse to look at Killian. Memories of our bathroom visit are like handprints on my skin. “Once I got on stage, it was…perfection.”
Whip laughs. “Yeah. It’s something, isn’t it? And you did good. Better than you think.” His blue eyes crinkle with glee. “I remember our first big gig.”
“Madison Square Garden,” Rye puts in, chuckling.
“We’d done dozens of smaller clubs,” Whip explains, “but finally we had hit our stride and were on a major tour. So there we were. Opening night. Jax is puking up a lung behind a set of speakers, sending roadies scattering like roaches in the light.”
I laugh, and Jax shakes his head.
Whip continues with a big grin. “Rye’s pacing back and forth, babbling about how he can’t remember any of the music.”
Killian flails his hands as if to mimic Rye, and his voice rises to a falsetto. “‘What’s the opening song?’ ‘What do we play after?’ ‘How do I fucking play my fucking bass?’”
Rye’s cheeks pink. “Fuck, it’s so true. I was a total blank.”
“And you?” I ask Whip, because he’s telling the story.
“Oh, I was a hot mess. Poked myself in the fucking eye with my stick.”
“What?” I laugh.
“Seriously.” His eyes gleam. “I don’t even know how I did it. But the motherfucker was so swollen, I couldn’t see out of it.”
“Oh, God.” I wipe my own eyes, now blurry with tears, then catch Killian’s smiling gaze. “Where were you in all this?”
“Oh, Killian was right in the center of the storm,” Whip says. “He just stands there, hands on hips, looking at us. And then yells…”
At once Jax, Rye, and Whip shout, “That’s it, I want my mommy!”
Killian laughs, ducking his head.
The guys crack up.
“It was so fucking random,” Rye says, practically choking. “We all stopped our shit and just gaped at him. Pulled us together in an instant.”
Killian catches my eye, and I smile. Happiness and a tender, finer emotion swell in my chest. I adore this man. Everything about him. As if he reads this, his expressive eyes darken, and I feel his care, his need as clearly as if his arms were wrapped around me.
I blink and look away, not wanting the others to see what has to be clearly stamped on my face. “Well,” I say, “I guess my vomit session wasn’t so bad after all.”
“You were golden, Libs,” Killian tells me, his deep voice encouraging. “And it will only get easier.”