“What I really want?” My lips feel numb. He’s not just sending me away. He’s letting me go. And here I was worried about setting him free. I want to laugh. Or cry. It’s a toss-up.

“Yeah,” he croaks. “Without me hovering or holding you back. You can… You can figure out if this is the way you really want to live.”

Somehow I find the strength to nod. “Yeah, you’re right. Everything has been going full-tilt. Half the time, it didn’t even seem real.”

He blanches at that but makes a noise of agreement. It’s so stiff, his manner so impersonal.

I find myself babbling on, making excuses for both of us. “And it would be stupid to hold each other back when we don’t know where we’ll end up.”

Lie. Lie. Lie. I want to beg him to just hold me, tell the world to fuck off. But he’s already backing up.

His gaze is clear. “This is good, Libs,” he tells me, his voice flat. “You’ll see. You can take the time now and find out if this is the life you want, without me interfering. And I can…” He shrugs. “I can do the tour like a good little rocker and stay out of the news.”

I flinch. It’s my fault he was in the news. “So, that’s it then.”

Killian’s dark eyes hold mine. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

Killian

I let her go. It needed to be done. For her sake. I tell myself these things as I make an excuse to get the hell out of the room, claiming I need to do a sound check. She doesn’t stop me. That hurts just as much as anything. Maybe I expected her to tell me it was all a mistake, that she was only saying what she thought I wanted to hear, that she needed me.

But she let me leave. Are we broken up? I’m not even sure. I was trying to be supportive, to get her away from this mess. But if feels like something else. Like we’re done.

Taking the elevator down, I can’t look at myself in the door’s reflection. My entire body hurts, my heart screaming at me to get the hell back in that room and stake my claim.

She doesn’t need me.

She made that clear.

No one in my life has. Not my family, not Jax when he was hurting so badly he’d rather end things than reach out to me, and not Libby.

What the hell is wrong with me that I need to be needed?

By the time I reach our practice space, set up in some conference room, rage pumps through my blood. I said what I had to say to get Libby to go. Only now do I realize I’d wanted her to fight me with the same conviction she fights everything else. I wanted her to choose me. How fucking selfish is that?

I did the right thing here. She’ll be out of the tour’s harsh glare. People won’t see her as my girl, but a talent in her own right.

I plug in my guitar. I’m shaking so hard, I drop my pick twice.

“Fuck it,” I snarl.

“Someone is in a mood,” Whip says from the door. He walks in and takes a seat at his kit. “What crawled up your butt?”

“Libby isn’t going to Europe with us.”

“Why? Because of last night?” He shakes his head and taps on his cymbal. “That’s bullshit. And you’re okay with this?”

No, I’m not fucking okay. I’m barely holding it together.

“She wants it. Scottie’s taking her under his wing.” The words taste like ash in my mouth.

Whip gapes at me. “And she said this? She said, ‘Killian, I want to ditch your ass and go off with Scottie to find my fame.’”

“No,” I mutter. “She didn’t say it like that.” I turn away from him and grab a fresh pick. “She…I gave her a push.”

“Man, I don’t think—”

“It’s done.” I turn on an amp and flick the volume up to full. “You gonna play or continue to piss me off with questions?”

“By all means,” Whip says, twirling his drumsticks. “Let’s play.”

But it’s no fucking good. I don’t get further than a few chords before the rage surges up once more. My fingers fumble on the strings. I can’t play. I don’t want to fucking play. This time, the rage chokes me. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I’m barely aware of ripping the guitar strap off over my head. The Telecaster in my hand smashes into the floor with a satisfying crack and a deafening buzz of reverb.

Guitar destroyed, chest heaving, I don’t feel better. Not even a little bit.

Whip comes to stand by my side, surveying the damage. “Guess we aren’t playing today. Come on. We’ll medicate with single malt like proper rock stars.”

Libby wouldn’t like me drinking. But Libby won’t be around by tomorrow. I press my fingers to my aching forehead. “Yeah, a drink sounds about right.”

I come back to Libby in the middle of the night, and she’s asleep. I curl myself around her anyway; she feels so good I almost can’t stand to touch her anymore, not when she’s leaving.

The thought hits me like a comet, and my insides flare. I must make a noise because she stirs, her voice soft and muffled with sleep. “Killian?”

She turns in my arms, her body warm, her fingers tracing my brow. I was going to let her sleep, but I can’t. My hand slides to her cheek.

“Give me this,” I whisper. “Before you go. I need this.”

I find her mouth. I’d say kissing her is like coming home, but I’ve never had a true home. I don’t know if the sense of rightness I feel with her means home or not. Right now it’s something stronger, tinged with desperation. I’m desperate for her. The way she tastes, the way she moves, the little sounds and sighs that only she makes.

There’s no one else like her. There never will be. I know that now. Maybe I’ve always known that, but now it feels like I’ve discovered something too late.

Libby moves against me, waking up in my arms, and she kisses me back, her hands roaming over my arms, neck, back, like she can’t find a place to land. We go slow, lingering, memorizing each other. I angle my head and open her mouth wider with mine, get deeper, take more. I need it all.

The bed creaks as I roll over and fit myself between her willing thighs. She gasps in my mouth, and I swallow her breath. I want it all, and it isn’t enough right now by half. Breaking away from her lips, I lean back so I can pull the shirt over her head. It’s my shirt. The ratty old thing I wore at the beach when we first met. It has to mean something that she’s always wearing it.