“Marcy and George,” Jefferson says. “And your name is Liberty. That some sort of George and Martha Washington joke?”

“You know, you’re the first person who actually got that,” I say with a laugh. “Most people focus on the whole Liberty Bell thing.”

“I’m named after Thomas Jefferson,” he says. “So I get the torture too.”

“Shit, at least you weren’t named after the place where you were conceived,” Murphy adds. The tall, wiry guy grins at me from behind a mop of blond hair.

We all think about it for a second, and then I groan in horror. “Oh my God, they didn’t name you after a Murphy bed, did they?”

His cheeks go ruddy. “Fuck yeah, they did. Why they had to share that little factoid with me is the real question.”

“And yet you shared it with us,” Hardy says.

“My pain is now yours.”

Laughing, we move on to discussing Scottie’s grand plans for me, which include developing some new songs, recording, and, in the meantime, doing the publicity circuit with appearances in small clubs and on talk shows.

It sounds exhausting and exhilarating. The guys Scottie’s hired are supportive and clearly talented. It’s a dream come true. But the hole in my heart still bleeds steady and cold. I tell myself I’ll get over it, but it feels like a lie.

Killian

The Animal is gone. In its place is an ocean of people. And endless sea of writhing bodies, screaming for Kill John, screaming my name. I have to answer. They’re waiting for it.

“Hello, London.” My voice echoes into the sea, and the sea roars back

They want me, adore me. For the first time in my life, I don’t care.

***

“Hey, it’s Killian. Apparently, my mother hen tendencies are strong. You said you’d call. You didn’t. Let me know you’re okay. That’s all I want, and I’ll get out of your hair.”

***

“Hey. It’s Libby. You didn’t answer, so here goes. My backup band is great. The guys are nice. Not as great as your guys, but I like them. I did my first talk show appearance. Felt like a complete fake. Then again, the actress who went on before me was so out of it, an intern literally had to snap his fingers in her face to get her to react. Once on, though, she was on. Host’s breath smelled like tapioca. Which is weird. I’ve never even had tapioca. How do I know what it smells like? But it was the first thought that popped into my mind when I caught a whiff. Anyway, going to bed.”

***

“Damn after parties are too loud. Sorry I missed your call, Libs. Had my volume up full blast and still didn’t hear it. Whip recorded your show on the bus DVR. You were awesome. Don’t like how Tapioca Breath was staring at your tits, though. Next time I’m on that show I might have to accidentally step on his balls. Libby, I really…”

***

“Your connection is shitty. All I heard was something about Whip, awesome, and balls. Then it went dead. I’m not sure I want to know. Lie. I do. Tell me you haven’t moved on to balls. Oh, and say hi to the guys. I’ve got to go.”

***

“Service to the US sucks here. I can’t get a call through half the time. And—would you guys shut the fuck up? I’m on the phone. Sorry. I’m trying to find a private place here. I’d call you when I get back in my room, but the time difference sucks too. I’m pretty sure you’re asleep right now. Shit. It’s breaking up…I…”

***

“It’s a lost cause trying to connect, isn’t it? Why don’t we try to talk when things calm down? And…well, if we’re really taking time to figure things out, maybe we shouldn’t be talking so much right now, anyway. Not that I don’t want to talk to you. I just…we’re both busy. I’m babbling so I’m going to hang up now. Take care, Killian.”

***

I listen to her final message three times. It doesn’t get any easier to hear. I’ve lost her. What I don’t know is if it’s because I sent her away or if she simply realized that she doesn’t feel as strongly for me as I do for her.

I want to ask—no, demand—that she tell me. I want to lay it all down and hash this shit out. But I can’t do that over the phone. And I can’t leave the tour. I can’t do that to the guys.

My thumb taps the edge of my phone as I think of what to say.

I’ll let you go for now. But text me if you need anything. K?

When she doesn’t answer my text, I chuck my phone across the room. The door to the dressing room opens before impact, and the phone smacks the center of Jax’s chest. He frowns down at the phone that’s clattered to the floor before looking back up at me. “Fans are waiting for the meet and greet.”

As if to punctuate his words, a group of women bursts in behind him on a wave of giggles. Their smiles are eager and all for me. All blonde, all gorgeous, they’re whispering in a language I don’t understand. Norwegian. We’re in Norway.

I rub the aching spot over my chest. Fuck. I need to let this thing with chasing Libby go. She’s busy building her life. The life I sent her to lead. My life is here. Doing what I’ve always done. I’ve survived just fine for twenty-six years without her. I can survive now.

“Right.” I find a smile and paste it on. I won’t touch them. The idea makes me ill. But I can play host. I can do that much for the guys. “Welcome, ladies.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Libby

I’m tired. So tired I don’t remember where I am half the time. Everything is nebulous. I’m living in this strange cloud filled with too many strangers and too many fake smiles—my fake smiles. I hand them out like a politician passes out buttons. And I feel just as slick doing it.

I have been completely on my own for a while now. But not since my parents died have I felt so utterly lonely. It doesn’t matter that I’m surrounded by people, my schedule full. I don’t have the one person I want at my side. Hell, I even miss the guys. A lot.

My backup band is great. But they aren’t true friends. When the job is done, they head home to family. And Scottie is a man unto himself. In a strange way, he’s a lot like me. Not shy, not antisocial exactly, just self-contained and private. I certainly can’t throw stones his way. But he doesn’t make for an ideal companion.