I don’t leave a message. I want to talk to her.

Sitting my ass in a chair, I start to text her, only to see one from Brenna.

What the fuck was that? Idiot. (!!!!) >:-(

I read it twice before holding up the phone to the guys. “Why the hell is she yelling at me?”

“Dude.” Rye shakes his head. “I told you not to choose that song.”

“What’s wrong with ‘Darling Nikki’? It’s my favorite song on Purple Rain—an album we talked about when we first bonded over music. She played Prince tonight. I played Prince tonight. I’m supporting her. How can it be more clear?”

“A.” Rye holds up a finger. “That is way too esoteric.”

“It’s supposed to be,” I protest. “It’s a message to her, not the rest of the world.”

“B,” he says over me. “‘Darling Nikki’ is what Prince sings to Apollonia when he’s basically calling her a whore.”

Whip nods. “Yeah, the lyrics pretty much say she’s only good for freaky sex.”

I stare at them, incredulous. “Why didn’t you all tell me this before we did the fucking song?”

“You were pretty insistent,” Rye says with a shrug.

“And you knew the lyrics,” Whip points out calmly. “You just sang them.”

“Of course I know the lyrics. It’s the context I didn’t get.”

“Context is everything, man.”

I press the heels of my hands against my eyes and try not to shout. “Shit. Shit. Shit.”

Jax hands me a water. “Relax. If she knows you as well as I think she does, she’ll get your message.” He fights a smile. “Convoluted as it was.”

“Shit.”

* * *

“Libs, if you get this message, call me. Please. Baby doll. Please. I need to talk to you. I…ah…that song was for you. Shit. Not to call you a whore— I mean, never! Okay? It was because I am so proud of you. I wanted to tell you— Just call me, okay? Please.”

* * *

“Libs. I’m getting a little concerned. Where are you? Pick up your phone.”

* * *

No texts either? You’re killing me here.

* * *

“Ellie May, pick up the damn phone. Call me back. I’m getting on a plane and tracking you down. Or I would if I could fucking find you. Damn it, I told you I’d get shit wrong. I want to make them right. Please let me.”

* * *

“I need you, all right? That’s what it comes down to. You’re it. My present, my future, my everything. Not my whore. I haven’t even seen the damn movie! Okay, just… yeah. Call me.”

* * *

 

Libby

 

New York City. One redeye flight, and I’m here. I feel like I’ve been run over with a sand truck. Gritty-eyed and sore, I sit passive as a makeup artist works on my face. Someone else is blowdrying my hair, attempting to give it some waves around my face. Good luck with that.

I’d rather be anywhere but here. But Brenna, now crowned Official Pain in My Ass, booked an interview with Vanity Fair. I could cancel, she told me. But it would look bad. Especially considering the little gossip column that showed up on TNV last night.

I don’t have to look at it again to remember it. The fucking thing is burned in my brain:

Last night on the Late Night Show, the new darling of the music world, Liberty Bell, performed an absolutely cheeky rendition of Prince’s “Cream.” Not much by way of news unless you consider that, only an hour later, rock god and rumored boyfriend of Ms. Bell, Killian James, countered with a cover of “Darling Nikki” during Kill John’s concert in Madison Square Garden.

One must speculate, is James declaring their supposed fling officially over? Thanking Bell for a good time? Or is he asking her for another go? Whatever the case, we are certain Killian’s loyal fan base is waiting with bated breath to find out if their sexy idol is once again single and free.

Well, I can’t exactly blame them for interpreting Killian’s message that way. But it stings to know people are all up in our business, judging us. I feel naked down to my soul.

It will be over soon. I haven’t turned on my phone yet. I know Killian has been trying to contact me. But the conversation we need to have can’t happen over the phone.

Frankly, I’m sick of phones and texts. I avoided social media and casual texting all these years for a reason. I don’t want cold and impersonal. I don’t want to hide behind a screen. I need personal contact, face-to-face communication.

The makeup artist finishes, and an assistant with a Bluetooth headset has me sit on a chrome-and-leather chair.

“There’s water just here,” he tells me as if I can’t see the ice bucket at my side. “The green one is excellent. Imported from Japan at over four hundred dollars a bottle.”

I refrain from pointing out how crass it is to tell me that, and choose the slightly less ostentatious bottle of Bling H2O with the logo bedazzled onto it.

A reporter comes in, her hair brilliant blue, her smile welcoming. I steel my spine and grit my teeth. Just get through this, and you’ll be free to go. Get through this.

“There’s been so much written about your involvement with Killian James. But you and James have been rather closed-mouthed about the topic.” The reporter gives me a slight but encouraging smile, her blue hair slipping over one eye. “Given last night’s performance, would you care to offer us a little bite?”

“There isn’t much to tell that the world doesn’t already know.” Not really true. But true enough.

The reporter’s smile has an edge to it now—a barracuda searching for blood in the water. “Oh, now, I’m not so sure about that. After all, we don’t know your side of the story.”

Nothing to lose. And everything to gain. “What do you want to know?”

Chapter Thirty-One

Killian

 

“You ever think about it?” I whisper. She sits before me, skin gilded in the evening light, eyes glazed, frosted jewels. So fucking beautiful it breaks my heart. “What it would be like? You and me?”

“Yeah.”

I breathe in her scent. Touch her skin. “You can have the world. Just reach for it.”