Idol (VIP #1)

  Idol

  a VIP novel

  Kristen Callihan

  Contents

  Idol

  Copyright

  About the Author

  Also by Kristen Callihan

  Author Note

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Epilogue

  Thank You!

  Sneak peek of MANAGED * book 2 in the VIP Series

  Playlist

  Acknowledgments

  Idol

  Libby

  I found Killian drunk and sprawled out on my lawn like some lost prince. With the face of a god and the arrogance to match, the pest won’t leave. Sexy, charming, and just a little bit dirty, he’s slowly wearing me down, making me crave more.

  He could be mine if I dare to claim him. Problem is, the world thinks he’s theirs. How do you keep an idol when everyone is intent on taking him away?

  Killian

  As lead singer for the biggest rock band in the world, I lived a life of dreams. It all fell apart with one fateful decision. Now everything is in shambles.

  Until Liberty. She’s grouchy, a recluse —and kind of cute. Scratch that. When I get my hands on her, she is scorching hot and more addictive than all the fans who’ve screamed my name.

  The world is clamoring for me to get back on stage, but I’m not willing to leave her. I’ve got to find a way to coax the hermit from her shell and keep her with me. Because, with Libby, everything has changed. Everything.

  Copyright © 2016 by Kristen Callihan

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Managed excerpt 2016 by Kristen Callihan

  Cover design by Sarah Hansen, Okay Creations

  Digital Edition 1.0

  All rights reserved. Where such permission is sufficient, the author grants the right to strip any DRM which may be applied to this work.

  Those who upload this work up on any site without the author’s express permission are pirates and have stolen from the author. As such, those persons will likely end up in the level of hell where little devils shove stolen books into said persons’ unmentionable places for all eternity. Ye’ve been warned.

  About the Author

  Kristen Callihan is an author because there is nothing else she’d rather be. She is a RITA award winner, and winner of two RT Reviewer’s Choice awards. Her novels have garnered starred reviews from Publisher’s Weekly and the Library Journal, as well as making the USA Today bestseller list. Her debut book FIRELIGHT received RT Magazine’s Seal of Excellence, was named a best book of the year by Library Journal, best book of Spring 2012 by Publisher’s Weekly, and was named the best romance book of 2012 by ALA RUSA. You can sign up for Kristen’s new release e-mail HERE

  @Kris10Callihan

  KristenCallihan

  www.kristencallihan.com

  [email protected]

  Also by Kristen Callihan

  THE GAME ON SERIES

  The Hook Up

  The Friend Zone

  The Game Plan

  DARKEST LONDON

  Firelight

  Ember (novella)

  Moonglow

  Winterblaze

  Entwined (novella)

  Shadowdance

  Evernight

  Soulbound

  Forevermore

  Author Note

  To see where you’re going sometimes you have to look at where you’ve been. Killian and his band have their own idols who helped forge their sound. To that end, most of the music mentioned in this book is not of this past decade, but older. Some of you might discover new songs, and some of you—like me—might take a trip down memory lane.

  Also, Collar Island, where Libby lives, is a made up location. Mainly because, that way, I could shape the place and the people who live there with impunity. However, if you’re curious about how it might look, Bald Head Island, NC is the closest equivalent.

  Thank you and happy reading!

  Love,

  Kristen

  For Cobain, Bowie, and Prince —rock idols who helped shape the soundtrack of my life. They were taken from us too soon.

  Prologue

  Music can be your friend when you have none, your lover when you’re needy. Your rage, your sorrow, your joy, your pain. Your voice when you’ve lost your own. To be a part of that, to be the soundtrack of someone’s life, is a beautiful thing.

  —Killian James, lead singer and guitarist, Kill John

  The Past—

  Killian

  The Animal is a temperamental beast. It can love you one moment, then hate you the next, and you never know what side of it you’re going to see until it’s upon you. If it hates you, there’s nothing to do about it but endure and hope you survive without being completely shredded until you can safely make your escape. But when it loves you?

  Damn, but it’s the best feeling on Earth. You crave that time with the Animal. Live for each encounter. It becomes life. Your purpose. Your entire world. And because you become so dependent on it, you come to hate it a little bit as well.

  Love. Hate. No down time. No middle ground. Just highs and lows.

  It’s out there now, waiting for me. Growling with a slow, gathering rumble. I feel it in my bones, in the subtle charge that lights the air, and in the tremble beneath my feet.

  My heart rate begins to rise, adrenaline already kicking in.

  “You ready to dance with the devil?” Whip asks no one in particular. He’s chugging a bottle of water, his free hand tapping an agitated rhythm on his knee.

  Devil, Animal, Mistress—we all have our name for it. Doesn’t matter. It owns us, and for a time, we own it.

  The roar grows louder, followed by a thump, thump, thump. My name. It’s calling for me.

  Killian. Killian.

  Panting, I rise. A shiver licks over my skin, my balls drawing tight.

  I answer its call, and a wave of sound and sheer energy crashes over me as I walk into the light.

  Hot, blinding.

  The Animal screams. For me.

  And I am the one who controls it. I raise my arms, walk up to the mic. “Hello, New York!”

  The answering cry is so loud, I rock back on my heels.

  A guitar is placed in my hand, the smooth neck both a familiar comfort and an adrenaline kick. I settle the strap over my head. Whip’s drums start up, a pulsing beat, and my body moves with it. Jax and Rye join in, their riffs weaving an intricate pattern. Harmony. Poetry of sound. A scream of defiance.
<
br />   I begin to strum, my voice rising. Music flows through my veins. It pours out of me like lava, igniting the air, inciting a riot of eager screams.

  Power. So much power. The Animal responds, its love so potent that my dick gets rock hard, the hairs on the back of my neck lift. Everything I am, I put into my voice, my playing.

  In that instant, I am God. Omnipotent. Endless.

  Nothing—nothing—on Earth gives a charge like this. Nothing compares. This is life.

  But that’s the thing about life; it can change in an instant.

  All it takes is one instant.

  For it

  to all…

  End.

  The Future—

  Libby

  “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?”

  Curled up on a leather-and-chrome hotel room chair, my back to the New York City skyline, I almost smile at the question I’ve heard about a thousand times now.

  But training kicks in. A smile would convey either acquiescence or that I’m being obnoxiously coy. I don’t want to give up a “little bite,” and despite what critics say, Killian and I have never been coy. We’ve just never wanted to let the public in. The Killian I knew was mine, not theirs.

  “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.”

  I resist the urge to pick at the cuff of my white cashmere tunic. God, the sweater—hell, my underwear—cost more than I would have spent in a year before he walked into my life.

  I turn my head and catch a glimpse of water bottles nestled in a silver ice bucket: a dark green bottle, one that’s gold, another bedazzled with crystals. Earlier an assistant proudly proclaimed that the green one, supposedly from Japan, cost more than four hundred dollars a bottle. For water.

  Suddenly, I want to laugh. At the craziness of my life. For going from tap to designer water. For the fact that this penthouse suite is my new normal.

  And then I want to cry. Because I would have none of this without him. And not a single fucking bit of it has any meaning without him to share it.

  Emptiness threatens to swallow me whole. I’m so alone right now that part of me wants to grab this woman’s hand just to feel contact with another human being.

  I need to talk. I need to be heard. Just once. And maybe, just maybe, I won’t feel like I’m falling apart anymore.

  I take a breath and flick my gaze back to the reporter. “What do you want to know?”

  Chapter One

  The Present—

  Liberty

  There’s a bum on my lawn. Maybe I should use a better term, something more PC. Homeless person? Vagrant? Nope, I’m going with bum. Because I doubt he’s actually homeless or without means. His current state seems more a choice than a situation.

  The big black-and-chrome Harley that’s smashed into my poor front fence is proof enough of some wealth. Fucker tore the hell out of my lawn on its way down. But it isn’t the bike’s fault.

  I glare at the bum. Not that he’d notice.

  He’s sprawled on his back, arms akimbo and clearly down for the count. I might wonder if he’s dead, but his chest lifts and falls in the steady pattern of deep sleep. Maybe I should worry about his health, but I’ve seen this before. Too many times.

  God, he stinks. The cause of his stench is obvious. Sweat soaks his skin. Vomit trails down his black T-shirt.

  My lip curls in disgust, and I swallow rapidly to keep from gagging. A snarl of long, dark brown hair covers his face, but I’m guessing the dude is youngish. His body is big but lean, the skin on his arms firm. Which somehow makes him all the more depressing. Prime of his life, and he’s fall-down drunk. Lovely.

  I pick my way around him, muttering about drunk-driving assholes, and then march back with hose in hand, taking careful aim. Water shoots out at high speed, hitting its target with a satisfying hiss and splatter.

  The bum jerks and rears up, sputtering and flailing around, searching for the source of his torment. I don’t let up. I want that stench gone.

  “Get off my lawn.” Because he’s filthy all over, I aim lower, drenching his pants and crotch.

  “Mother fucker!” He has a deep voice, and it’s raw. “Would you fucking stop?”

  “Yeah…no. You smell like shit. And I sincerely hope you did not actually shit yourself, bud, because that is a seriously low point to come to.”

  I draw the jet of water up his lean body to his head. Long, dark hair whips in all directions as he sputters again.

  And then he roars. The sound rings my ears, and really ought to put the fear of God in me. But he’s too weak to stand. One muscled forearm swings up, though, slapping the wet hanks of hair back from his face.

  I get a glimpse of dark eyes blazing with confused rage. Time to wrap this up. Letting go of the spray nozzle, I lower my weapon. “Like I said, get off my lawn.”

  His jaw ticks. “Are you fucking insane?”

  “I’m not the one covered in vomit and laid out on a stranger’s property.”

  My lawn bum glances around like he’s just realized he’s on the ground. He doesn’t spare his clothes notice. Seeing as they’re soaked to his skin, he’s probably well aware of their state.

  “Here’s a tip,” I say, tossing down my hose. “Don’t be such a cliché.”

  This gives him visible pause, and he blinks up at me, water running in rivulets over his cheeks and into his thick beard. “You don’t know me enough to slap a label on me.”

  I snort. “Literally fall-down drunk, crashing your bike—which I somehow doubt you actually ride other than on weekends. Over-long hair, a face that hasn’t seen the business end of a razor in weeks—again, probably because you want the world to believe you’re a badass.” I glance at his arms. Strong, ropy with muscles. “The only thing I don’t see are tattoos, but maybe you’ve got ‘Mom’ plastered on your butt for color.”

  An indignant sound leaves him. Almost a laugh but too full of anger to fully get there. “Who are you?”

  It’s impressive, the layers of disdain he manages to get into that one question. Especially given the state I found him in. Humility certainly doesn’t stick to this guy. Unlike his smell, unfortunately.

  “The person whose land you fucked up. I’d slap you with a bill, but I don’t want to come too close to the stench.” Wiping my wet hands on my jeans, I give him one last glare. “Now go on and get before I call the police.”

  It’s safe to say I’m worked up now. I march back up the long drive to my house instead of walking with quiet dignity as I’d planned. But it feels good; my pace is freeing. I’ve been so quiet these past few months. So contained.

  So maybe I have something to thank Mr. Arrogant Drunk for.

  However, my charity does not extend to him following me. Which he does. I see him rise in my peripheral vision. He wobbles, then steadies before peeling off his shirt and slapping it to the ground.

  A strip show. Great.

  I pick up my pace, cursing that my driveway is so long—at least two hundred feet from curb to doormat.

  Another movement and he’s flung a boot my way. I glance back, slightly alarmed. And there go his pants. Six-feet-something of sinewy, pissed off, naked male starts stalking up behind me. There are the tattoos I’d guessed at. Or rather, one massive one of swooping, intersecting lines that covers his upper left arm and torso.

  I concentrate on that instead of the heavy length of his dick hanging between his legs, swaying like a pendulum with each step he takes toward me.

  I glare over my shoulder. “You
come any farther up my drive and I’ll shoot you.”

  “You would have a shotgun, wouldn’t you, Elly May,” he snaps back. “Talk about a cliché. All you need is a pair of overalls and a piece of straw to chew on.”

  I can’t help myself, I spin around. “Are you calling me a country bumpkin?”

  He halts too. Hands low on his hips, utterly unashamed of his nakedness, my lawn bum stands there, glaring at me like he owns the world. “Are you saying you aren’t, Huckleberry Pie?”

  Heat swims over my skin. I stride right up to him—well, not too near; I’m still afraid of the stench. Up close, I can admit that he isn’t bad looking. Past all the scruff, bloodshot onyx eyes, and pasty morning-after complexion, he has blunt but even features, and lashes long enough to make a girl envious. This just makes me angrier.

  “Listen, buddy, stalking a woman while naked can be construed as an act of sexual intimidation.”

  He snorts. “That speaks volumes for your sex life, Elly May. But don’t you worry. Even if I had the slightest interest in doing you, I have a nice case of whisky dick working, so nothing’s getting up right now.”

  “Happens a lot, does it?” I wrinkle my nose, refusing to look down. “And you talk about my sexual deficiencies.”

  A glint comes into his eyes, and I could swear he wants to laugh. But he smirks instead, his lip curling in annoyance. “Give me an hour and some coffee, and then we can talk about it all you want.”

  “Next thing you know, you’ll be demanding breakfast too.”

  A cheeky smile lights him up. “Well, now that you mention it…”

  “You know what pisses me off the most?” I snap.

  His thick, dark brows scrunch up as if he’s confused. “What?”