It takes too long for him to answer. And when he does, his voice isn’t strong. “I don’t intend to.”

I snort, anger racing hot through my veins. “That’s comforting.”

“I’m being honest. I’m getting help. That’s all I can do.”

Turning to face him is worse. He looks calm, composed, while I’m ready to jump out of my skin. “I don’t know if I can do this again,” I tell him. “If it’s touring, the life, that set you off, I don’t want to do it. I’ll be worrying that I’ll find you again, drowning in your own vomit.”

A vivid image flashes in my mind. But it isn’t of Jax. It’s of me, of Libby hosing me down, putting me into a bed and ordering me not to mess it up. Guilt and loathing snake down my insides.

Jax glares at me. “I deserve that. But let’s get one thing straight: You, Killian fucking James, aren’t God. You can’t fix everything or protect us all.”

“The fuck?”

“Don’t give me that. You’ve always been like this, taking all our shit on as your own. Thinking you can fix everyone’s life and make it better. You can’t. Just yours.” He stands and slaps the ice pack on the table. “What I did was fucked up and shitty. I’m getting help. That’s all I can say. Either you can deal with that or you can’t. Your call.”

He heads for the small studio he has in the apartment, not looking back.

Left alone, I turn back to the window. Far below, traffic is a constant stream, people darting around on the sidewalks. Always trying to fix people’s lives and make them better? Is there anything wrong with that?

I think of Liberty being here with me, what she would say right now. But she’s silent in my head. Instead, I see the fear and frustration in her eyes when I tried to get her to agree to perform with me.

“Fuck,” I whisper. Pulling out my phone, I text her. Her replies are stilted. Mine are too. Each exchange falls like a stone in my gut. I’ve damaged something between us. My thumb caresses the screen. I want to go to her. But I’ve got work to do here too.

Tucking the phone in my pocket, I grab my guitar and go to play with Jax.

 

Libby

 

He’s gone. And it’s as if the sun has died. My orbit is off, everything dark and silent. It hurts to breathe, hurts to move. I knew he’d eventually go; I knew it would hurt. But I still wasn’t ready for this. Nothing is right anymore.

I try to work. I have the creativity of wet cardboard. I kind of just sit, limp and staring. I finish up my projects—I won’t be surprised if my clients complain about the uninspired work I’ve sent them—and turn away new jobs. I have enough money saved to take a vacation of my own.

Only what I’m really doing is walking from window to window, jumping at every little sound and catching my breath whenever a car drives along the road, which isn’t often. Because I live in Nowhereville.

As soon as Killian left, I knew I’d made a mistake. I should have gone with him. I should have told my fears to shut up. But hindsight really is a bitch. Only now do I see what I’ve become.

A person can get…stuck, for lack a better word, in a life. It’s surprisingly easy, really. Hours bleed into days; days fade into months. Before you know it, years have passed, and you’re just this person, someone your younger self wouldn’t even recognize.

My parents died, and somehow, so did I. Friends drifted away—no, I drifted away from friends. I can’t pretend differently. I drifted away from everything—wrapped myself up in Grandmama’s old house and a job that meant I never really had to leave home, and just hunkered down. It wasn’t even a conscious decision. I simply retreated and never reemerged.

Killian wanted to drag me by my ankles back into the world of the living. Worse, he wanted to push me into its spotlight. Now he’s gone.

And I let him walk away.

“I’m an asshole,” I say to the room. Silence rings out.

I used to love silence. I hate it now. Hate. It.

“Fuck it.” I’m not sure I like this development of talking out loud to myself. But I have bigger things to worry about.

I’m lying on the floor, wearing Killian’s dirty Star Wars T-shirt like some lovelorn idiot, so I use my phone to open a search engine. I have no idea where Killian stays, but at least I can get to the correct city.

I’m scrolling through flights to New York when my phone vibrates with a text.

You were right. I needed to face Jax on my own.

I stare at the screen. Frozen. This is good. Why doesn’t it feel good?

Little dots pulse at the bottom of the screen as he writes. Another text pops up.

We’re cool now. I actually want to get back to work.

Swallowing hard, I force myself to write.

I’m glad. Everything will be okay. You’ll love it.

I don’t know what else to say. I am happy for him.

He answers.

I miss you. Promise me you’ll come to a concert.

No more requests to come play with him. Blinking hard, I stare out the window where the sun shines bright and hot. My vision blurs, and I blink again.

Of course I will.

A tear runs down my cheek. I ignore it.

He writes again.

I want to apologize. I tried to push you into something you weren’t ready for. It was selfish. I’m sorry.

He’s being sweet, and yet my throat hurts from trying not to sob.

It’s okay, Killian. I know you meant well.

Jesus, we’re texting like strangers. I try to think of something light, something that sounds like us. Anything. But then he texts.

Gotta go practice. Talk later?

Perhaps we will. But I know for sure what we had isn’t the same anymore. My hand trembles as I type.

Sure. Have fun. :)

The little smile emoticon stares back at me like a mockery. I turn off my phone and toss it aside before Killian can answer. Lying on the floor in the sun, I close my eyes and cry. I missed my chance and only have myself to blame.

Chapter Twelve

Killian

 

The VIP section can either be an oasis of calm or a pulsing storm of frenetic energy. When you’re famous, you quickly learn that it’s your call how the night will go. You want privacy? You get it. You want a group of women willing to ride your dick and moan your name? Sure thing.