Idol(80)

I feel her tense and cup her cheeks. Her eyes are wide and panicked. It pisses me off and makes me want to cuddle her, protect her from the world. Only I’m the source of her pain. Which is a kick in the gut. It turns my voice raw. “You want me, but you want to hide us?”

“When you put it that way, you make it sound petty.”

“Well, excuse me for stating the facts.” Irritation crawls up my spine.

She flinches, her fingers wrapping around my wrists. She holds me there. “Words are simple, Killian. Real life is a bit more messy.”

“Bullshit. Why are you resisting this? Because I gotta tell you, it hurts.”

“Jax is just starting to respect me.”

“Jax can go fuck himself,” I snap, then sigh. “Baby doll, you have his respect. It’s not going to go because we’re together.”

“You sure of that?” She doesn’t sound remotely convinced.

I open my mouth to answer, but it gets lodged in my throat. Because who the fuck knows with Jax anymore? Libby’s eyes narrow.

“You can’t even deny it,” she points out.

“Look, maybe I don’t know exactly how he’ll react.”

“And the reporter who asked me if I was fucking you?”

“What?” A lick of anger flicks against my neck. “Who the fuck asked you that?”

“A reporter in Chicago. She asked me flat out if I was fucking you. She wondered why else I—‘a nobody’—would be on tour with you.”

“All right, what’s this chick’s name, because I’m not having that shit.” In fact, I’m rethinking having any fucking reporters at our after parties. Not if they’re going to harass Libby.

“It doesn’t matter,” she says in a weary voice.

“Of course it does—”

“No, Killian. It doesn’t. Not if that’s what they’re all thinking. Getting them fired or cussing them out will only fan the flames.”

“Shit.” I pace in front of her, grasping the back of my neck. “It’s a bunch of bullshit, you know. Anyone who hears you knows you’re talented. Scottie wouldn’t want you as a client if you weren’t. Trust me on that one.”

“I do.” Libby approaches, eyes wide and pained. Her palm rests on my chest a second before she wraps her arms around my waist, and because I can’t stand not touching her, I hug her close. She nips at my neck then sighs. “I hate it, you know. You think it’s easy for me to hide how I feel?” She laughs but it doesn’t sound happy. “God, it’s the worst kind of torture. Even worse than back when we first meet and I was trying to keep my cool and not jump your hot bones.”

My eyes close again, and I rest my cheek on her head. “That so?”

“Mmm-hmmm… Because now, I know what I’m missing.” Her fingers steal under my shirt and stroke. “You are the best part of my day, Killian.”

My throat locks up with embarrassing swiftness, and I hold her tighter.

Delicate fingers run along my back. “Nothing would make me happier than being able to claim you in public. But that joy would be blackened if, in return, we have to deal with ugly speculation.”

I think about how I would have reacted if I’d heard the reporter ask Libby those questions. I would have lost my shit. I know it. And the knowledge sinks like a stone in my gut. Gone are the days of wild, out-of-control rocker behavior. You cause a scene, you’re gonna pay. Record label lawyers breathing down your neck about breach of contract and behavior clauses, press replaying your actions in slow motion over and over. It isn’t pretty.

One of the absolute worst parts of Jax’s suicide attempt were the clips of him being wheeled into an ambulance, which played on a seemingly endless loop, along with the smug-as-fuck reporters discussing why he did it and whether he’d ever recover his career. Was it the band’s fault, or was he was just trying to get attention?

Turning away from the life was the only recourse any of us had to maintain our sanity and dignity.

I take a heavy breath and let it out slow. “Okay, we don’t have to make it public yet. But the guys? They can keep secrets. Hell, we’re trained to close ranks. No one will know shit unless we let them. And I’m tired of hiding this from my friends. I’m tired of lying. It isn’t exactly admirable, either.”

She lets me go and runs her hand through her hair. “I know. But the guys won’t look at me the same way.”

“I disagree. But, hell, it shouldn’t matter what they think.”

She snorts, her lips twisting. “No, it shouldn’t. But it does. And I’ve yet to come across anyone who truly doesn’t care what the people they work with think about them.”