I eye that hand of his. Big, broad, the fingertips and top edge of his palm are calloused. A musician of some sort. Probably a guitarist. I run a thumb over my own rough fingertips. He’s waiting again, his brows knitting as if I’ve insulted him by not taking his hand.

So I do. It’s warm and firm. He gives me a squeeze strong enough to bend my bones, though I don’t think he knows how hard his grip really is. Definitely a musician.

“Pleased to meet you, Liberty Bell.” His smile is nice, boyish almost, beneath his thick beard. Earlier, I thought he was in his thirties. But now I’m guessing he’s more my age, mid-to-late twenties.

I let his hand go. “I wouldn’t call our meeting a pleasure, exactly.”

“Oh, now, you have to admit I have great aim.” He gives me a nudge as I roll my eyes.

“Let’s never speak of that again.”

“Speak of what?” His tone is light as he follows me outside.

I head toward my truck, but he stops me with a touch to my elbow. He’s focused on Mrs. Cromley’s house across the way. Mrs. Cromley died six months ago, and her nephew, George, took over the place. Haven’t seen him yet, but I know he’s a forty-something with a wife and kids. I doubt he’ll move in; the house sits at the edge of nowhere, and our little island of the tip of the Outer Banks doesn’t even have a school.

Then again, Al’s Grocery van is idling out front, and two big boxes are on the porch. Killian looks around, taking in the rolling grass turning toasted brown as fall sets in, the crest of the hill, and the small sliver of blue where the Atlantic Ocean crashes to the shore.

Killian scratches his jaw as if his beard itches. “That house over there. That George Cromley’s place, do you know?”

A sinking sensation pulls at my gut. “Yeah,” I say slowly.

Killian nods and catches my gaze. His smile is just as slow and smug as usual. “Then I guess I won’t need a ride into town after all, neighbor.”

Chapter Three

Killian

I told her my name, and she didn’t recognize me. It’s been so long since someone my age looked at me as if I were a total stranger, it’s oddly unsettling now. And ain’t that fucked up? I’ve roamed far and wide to get away from fans, from people kissing my ass and wanting something from me. And now that I’ve crossed paths with a girl who clearly would just like me to go away? I’m irritated.

Snorting, I take a sip of scalding hot coffee and lean back in my old-fashioned rocking chair. From my seat on the porch, I have a good view of Liberty’s house. It’s a two-story, white clapboard. The type you’d see in an Edward Hopper painting. Driving past, you’d suspect a little old lady was inside rolling out pie dough. I bet Liberty makes awesome pie, but she’d probably brain me with the roller for pissing her off before I even got a taste.

The scar my bike slashed along the grass is an ugly reminder of what I did the other night. Driving drunk. That isn’t me. I’d been the one to keep the guys in check. Keep them away from falling victim to the hard stuff—from becoming clichés, as Liberty put it.

Something strong and ugly rolls in my chest. All my efforts hadn’t helped Jax. Images of his limp body flash before my eyes in vivid color: graying skin against white tiles, yellow vomit, green eyes staring at nothing.

My teeth clench, my fingers aching from the force of my grip on the mug.

Fucking Jax. Idiot.

Hurt makes it hard to breathe. My body twitches with the need for motion. Go somewhere else. Keep moving until my mind is blank.

A slam of a screen door has me flinching, and hot coffee spills over the rim of my mug.

“Shit.” I set it on the floor and suck on my burnt finger.

Across the way, Liberty stomps down her porch steps, heading toward a high-fenced-off vegetable garden. A smile pulls at my lips. The girl never just walks. Wherever she goes, it’s like she’s embarking on a mission of doom.

She moves through a patch of sunlight, and her hair turns the color of brown butter. I have the urge to capture the moment, write down a lyric. Panic at the thought has me rising and pacing.

I should go into the house. And then what? Lie on the ancient couch covered in ugly blue roses? Drink the day away?

Crates of my stuff have arrived. Including three of my favorite guitars. Scottie, the rat bastard, sent those along even though I never asked for them. Does he think I’m going to compose? Write a song? No fucking way. Shit. I have no idea what I’m doing here. Scottie’s grand idea of me hiding out on an island almost nobody has heard of is stupid. That’s what I get for listening to him while I was drunk.

Maybe Scottie has psychic abilities, because my cell starts ringing. And only a handful of people have this number. My eyes are on Libby kneeling between rows of green things when I answer the phone. Only it isn’t Scottie.

“Hey, man,” Whip says.

I haven’t heard his voice for nearly a year. The familiar sound is a kick in the head. I sag back into my chair. “Hey.” I clear my throat. “What’s up?”

Jesus, don’t be about Jax. My fingers go cold, blood rushing to my temples. I take a deep breath.

“Is it true you’re slumming it somewhere in the wilds of North Carolina?”

I let out a snarl. “Is he okay?”

There’s a pause and then Whip curses. “Shit, man, I wasn’t thinking. Yeah, he’s fine.” Whip makes an audible sigh. “He’s a lot better. Seeing a counselor.”

Good. Great. Nice that Jax has called to tell me as much. I rub my hand over my face, closing my eyes. “So what’s going on, then?”

“Just been thinking.” Whip’s voice goes distant. “We’ve all been scattered to the four winds. And…hell, just wanted to talk. See where you were at.”

Jax is the one who scattered us. He broke us that day, as effectively as if he’d thrown a boulder into a window. And while Jax and I usually played the roles of mom and dad in the group, Whip has always been the anchor, our glue. He’d throat-punch me if I said it to his face, but Whip is also the most sensitive. I know he’s hurting.

I glance over at Libby again. Her plump ass sways as she pulls on weeds. The sight almost makes me smile; she’d hate knowing I’m watching her. I find my voice then. “Have you talked to the others?” I ask Whip.