“I don’t need the world,” she whispers in my ear.

“What do you need?” I’ll give her anything. Everything.

Soft hands on my neck, gentle lips mapping my skin. “You.”

“Dude, we have to get out there.” Rye’s voice comes to me at a distance.

I stare down at my phone, rubbing my thumb over the screen.

“Dude?”

“Killian,” Jax says, sharper. “Snap out of it.”

I run a hand through my hair. It’s longer now, in need of a trim. “She isn’t answering me. I don’t know where she is. Brenna won’t tell me.” We’re back at the Bowery Ballroom where we started our tour. Memories of Libby flood in, and I swallow hard.

A hand lands on my shoulder. Jax’s eyes meet mine in the mirror. “As soon as the show is done, we’ll pile up on Scottie and make him cry uncle.”

“Yeah,” Whip agrees behind me. “That shithead definitely knows where she is.”

I’m pretty sure we could break Scottie’s legs, and the man still wouldn’t talk. He’s like ice that way. From outside the dressing room door comes a steady chant for Kill John. The air hums, but I don’t feel the familiar crackle of anticipation.

“Come on, man.” Rye slaps my other shoulder. “Get off your ass. Moping is a destructive and unattractive quality.”

This from the guy who stayed in bed for a week when John Entwistle died, crying that The Who would never be the same again. But he’s right. I pull myself together because my guys need me.

One more show and I’m free. Just get through this.

Libby

The last time I saw Kill John perform, I was in the wings, watching them from behind. Being in the audience is an entirely different experience. On stage, the crowd’s energy comes at you like a wave. In the audience, I feel the full force of Kill John’s power. And it is awe inspiring.

Killian’s deep, luscious vocals blend with Jax’s brutal melody. Together they are rage and yearning. Whip beats on his drums with perfect timing and rhythm, while Rye’s funky base supports it all. That is the technical aspect. But the real truth of their music cannot be defined. You have to feel it.

I’m swept up by it and find myself dancing with the crowd. Scottie assigned me protection in the form of a massive bodyguard named Joe. He’s at my side now, blocking people from crushing too close or stepping on my toes. It’s sweet, but not necessary. The club is small and not so overcrowded that I can’t move.

Kill John finishes up “Oceans,” and a sweaty Killian pulls off his damp shirt. Predictably, whistles of approval break out all over. His lips twist but he doesn’t acknowledge them as he gulps down some water.

Standing midway to the stage, I can see him clearly enough to note the shadows under his eyes and the lines of strain around his mouth. And though no one else would notice, I can tell the guys are concerned. It’s in the way they watch him, Rye and Jax’s bodies angled slightly toward him like shields.

While the crowd shouts requests, the guys make a few adjustments, Jax and Killian getting different guitars and Whip picking up a new set of sticks. Killian’s movements are unhurried, almost languid.

“Play ‘Oceans’ again,” a guy right behind me yells loud enough to blow my hair forward.

The request is ridiculous enough to grab Killian’s attention. He lifts his head, a smirk on his face as if he’s going to say something, but then our gazes clash. I know the second he realizes it’s me. Because everything freezes. His expression wipes totally blank, then shatters, his lips parting on a breath, his eyes going wide.

I feel that look down to my toes. It wrenches my heart. I know there and then that he’s hurting as much as I am. It’s all there in those coffee dark eyes. Everything that’s passed between us—every look, word, touch—is all there. Tears blur my vision, and I offer him a watery smile.

He twitches as if he’s fighting not to hop off the stage. But then a slow smile spreads. He barely nods. I wonder if he’s having as hard a time functioning as I am.

When he turns toward his guys, his movements are jerky. One by one, three sets of eyes focus on me. Whip’s expression is one of relief. Rye’s smile is wide and bright. Jax stares at me for a long moment and then gives me a small chin tip.

My heart thuds as Killian turns back to the mic. His gaze locks onto me. “I met my best friend on the lawn of a farmhouse. I’d lost my way, my music. She helped me find it again.” I choke back a sob, clutching my arms around my chest, as Killian keeps talking. “Back then, she asked me to sing one of my songs for her. I wouldn’t do it. Truth is, I wanted her to like me more than she liked my music.”

The crowd awws, and he gives them his cheeky smile. “I know. I’m pathetic, aren’t I?”

“I love you, Killian,” shouts a woman at the back. “Have my babies!”

“No,” cries a man near the stage, “have mine!”

Killian chuckles low in the mic. “Sorry, guys. I’m taken.” While the crowd moans, he grins and switches out his Telecaster for a big acoustic Gibson J-200, plucking a few chords. “Thing is, I still want her to like me. So I’m not gonna play a Kill John song right now. I’m gonna play an old favorite of mine. And maybe I’ll get the message right this time.”

There’s a wolf whistle in the crowd.

Jax leans close to his mic. “You’d better, or we’re benching you for the rest of the game.”

People laugh again, but I’m stuck on the happy grins Jax and Killian exchange. Gone is the underlying tension that’s seemed to ride them, replaced by an easy joy and appreciation for each other that brings a lump to my throat. The band is in perfect sync as they start to play “Trying To Break Your Heart” by Wilco.

A half-laugh, half-sob breaks free. His choice is quintessential Killian; he’d never go for a straightforward, saccharine love song. But this song, with its twisted lyrics and gently teasing remorse, makes perfect sense to me. The music is lilting and bittersweet and full of possibility.

Tears blur my vision, and I’m laughing again. Laughing and crying.

He catches my gaze, and his eyes soften. Through the lyrics, he tells me how much it hurt to let me go. How much I hurt him. How much he wants me back.