“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.”