“It’s the adrenaline.” His lips quirk. “Happens when you make good music. And, Liberty Bell, we made some fucking good music just then.”
Heat invades my cheeks. “It was you.”
“No,” he says softly. “It was us.” He glances at the guitar by my side. “Want to go again?”
Do I? I’m not sure. It feels dangerous in a way, addictive. Once I give in, will I be able to go without?
Killian looks at me with calm eyes, and yet he’s leaning in, his body tight. Waiting. I can’t resist him. I’m beginning to think I never will.
I pick up my guitar. “Sure. You know Pearl Jam’s ‘Indifference’?”
Happiness gives his dark eyes light. “Again with Eddie?” He shakes his head, but his dimples are out. “Fight it if you must, Libs, but you know you like me better.”
I more than like him. That’s the problem. “Any time you want to play one of your songs, just let me know,” I tell him blithely. “And then I’ll reassess.”
The long fall of his hair hides his eyes from me as he strums out a few chords, but there’s a smile in his voice. “Maybe someday soon.”
Those words sound a lot like hope.
Chapter Seven
Killian
It’s the middle of the night when three things happen: my room lights up with a flash of lightning, followed by a tremendous crash of thunder, and Libby screams bloody murder. I lurch up from a full sleep as if yanked, my balls crawling halfway up my ass in fright, my heart threatening to beat out of my chest.
For a bright, sharp second, I sit panting, my eyes wildly searching the darkened room, trying to figure out what the fuck is going on. Then I remember the scream. Libby.
Another round of lightning and thunder brings on another scream. The fact that I can actually hear her screaming all the way in my house is enough to stop my heart.
“Jesus.” Terror mixed with rage has me leaping out of bed and reaching for the only weapon I have, my Gibson. It’s not much, but it’s solid, and I will bash the fuck out of anyone who hurts Libby.
I race out of the house and into a storm so violent, I can barely see. Icy rain lashes at my skin as I run, my feet pounding through sandy mud puddles.
I nearly face-plant when another spectacular flash of lightning arcs through the night. But a desperate wail from inside Libby’s house has me charging forward.
“Libby!” I don’t hesitate kicking her door in. Darkness greets me. Libby is still screaming, and the sound shreds me. My bare feet slap over the floorboards as I run to her room.
I scream too—a fucking beast of a roar, adrenaline and sheer rage lighting me up. I swing the Gibson over my head like a club, ready to caveman-bash someone’s head in, only to stop short when I finally enter her room.
Libby is sitting up in bed, her eyes wild, screams pouring from her. Nobody else is there.
For a second I just stand, guitar overhead, my hair dripping, my chest heaving. Then my wits return, and I slowly lower the Gibson.
“Libby?”
I don’t know if she can hear me over her cries. They’re coming faster now, and she’s rocking back and forth. The sound unhinges me, cuts into my heart. All the hairs stand up on my body as if in protest. This isn’t natural.
“Libby.” I set the guitar down and ease toward her. “Baby, stop.”
She doesn’t hear me. I don’t think she sees me.
Night terrors. It hits me like a brick. Mom told me I used to have them, and she said it was almost impossible to soothe me when they hit. I don’t remember them for shit, but she told me it was awful. I fucking believe her now.
Ignoring Libby’s frantic shrieks for the moment, I go to close the front door. When I return to her room, she’s still going at it, but I head for her window, which she’s left cracked open. After closing it and the drapes, I move to the bathroom and turn the light on, leaving the door open just enough to give her bedroom a bit of illumination yet not tear her out of sleep.
Maybe it’s the light or the diminished sound of the storm, but Libby suddenly takes a deep breath and then sobs.
“Libby?” I whisper, walking slowly. “Baby doll?”
Her body shudders, and she blinks. Another rasping sob leaves her. “Killian?” Her voice is toast. “What are you doing in my room?”
I approach her like I would a ticking bomb. My heart still hasn’t calmed, and I’m starting to shiver. But I focus on her. “You were screaming, Libs. I thought you were being attacked.”
She puts a trembling hand to her forehead, blocking me out. “I…the storm…” She curls in on herself, clutching her legs to her chest.
I can’t wait any longer. I sit next to her and draw her close. She’s covered in sweat and like a furnace in my arms. “It’s okay, Libs. I’m here.”
“Jesus.” She rests her clammy hand on my arm. “You’re soaked. And freezing.”
I secure my grip on her because she’s warm and soft, and, yes, I’m fucking freezing. But the truth is I need to hold her right now, need to feel the physical proof that she’s safe and solid.
“Don’t know if you noticed,” I say with false lightness, “but it’s raining cows and chickens out there.”
Her snort buffets my skin. “Cows and chickens?”
“This here is farm country, Libs,” I drawl. “Ain’t no cats and dogs filling these skies.”
I can feel her smile against my chest. “We’re more about produce than cows. Did you see any falling tomatoes?”
“I might’ve been slapped upside the head with some flying arugula. It was too windy to tell.”
As if to punctuate my words, a gust of wind slams into the windows, and the whole house seems to rattle.
Libby snuggles closer, and her warm hand smooths over my skin. “And you ran out into this veggie storm without getting dressed?”
“It sounded like you were being murdered,” I grumble. “What was I supposed to do?” Hell, I’m pretty sure I’d walk through fire to get to her if she screamed like that again.
“So you charged into a possible murder attempt armed with a guitar and naked.” She stiffens. “Are you naked? I can’t remember.”
“But you remember the guitar?”
“I thought you were going to brain me with it.”
“Nice. Some thanks I get for my mighty heroics.”
“Let’s focus on the important part here. Please tell me you aren’t naked.”
I grin. “I won’t tell you that.” I have on boxer-briefs, but it’s fun to tease.
Neither of us moves. Me, because I’m pretty much frozen solid. And Libby? Despite her professed fear of my nakedness, she wiggles against my side, like she’s antsy.
“You’re fighting the urge to look down and check, aren’t you?” I say in the dark. My dick stirs, like he knows he’s about to become a conversation piece and wants to look his best.
“I’ve already seen the goods, Kill.” So very deadpan.
I give her shoulder a squeeze. “Which means you know exactly how good they are.”
Well, not exactly. She’s seen me at my worst. My dick twitches again as if to protest this injustice and demand another viewing. I tell him to calm the fuck down; it’s not going to happen.
Already Libby is pulling away, her body stiff. “You should dry off. Your skin is like ice.”
“Yeah.” I run a hand through my wet hair. I’m shaking, which can’t be good. But I don’t want to go. I have to, though. I’m no longer needed. Swallowing back a sigh, I stand, noting the way she turns her head so she can’t see. Adorable. I know she wants to check. I fight a shiver. “I’ll let you get back to sleep then.”
“No,” her voice is almost a shout, and I halt.
She doesn’t look up, but her hand lifts, imploring me to stop. “Could you…I mean, you can dry off in my bathroom, maybe? And just…” She makes a choking sound. “I mean, it’s raining.”
A smile pulls at my lips. “You want me to stay, Lib?”
God, ple
ase let me stay. I’m so damn cold. And my bed is empty.
“Yeah,” she whispers.
I almost dive under the covers right then and there. But I can’t. “Libby, babe, I gotta be honest. I’m not naked, but all I have on are boxers. I might wake up with morning wood. Hell, I might get contact wood too.” I’m actually in danger of getting hard just being in bed with her. “I don’t want you kicking me in the nuts if I do.”
The corner of her cheek plumps on a grin. “Killian can’t control his dick. So noted.”
“Oh, I have excellent control. I am the master of—”
“Your teeth are chattering,” she butts in blandly. “Just dry off and get in the damn bed.”
She doesn’t have to say it twice. I hustle my ass into the bathroom and scrub myself down with a towel. Five seconds later, I’m sliding under the blankets and wrapping myself around warm, sweet Liberty.
Libby
Killian is ice cold when he gets into bed with me, and yet it’s all I can do not to fling myself against him. The night terror still sits upon my heart, sending tremors through my body. For the first time in years, I didn’t wake up and find myself alone in the dark. A lump swells in my throat at the thought of Killian charging into the storm, armed only with his beloved guitar.
At my side, he shivers and burrows under the blankets. I fight a smile as I help him cover up. His feet find mine, and I yelp.
“Crap, you are cold.” It’s no small thing to help warm the ice blocks his feet have become.
“Didn’t know how cold I was until you mentioned it,” he mutters, then sighs as I tuck the blanket around his neck.
I should be unnerved that he’s lying in bed with me, our noses almost touching. But I’m so glad he’s here that I can’t think of anything else. The storm is raging outside, each boom or crack making my back tense. But here, with Killian, I feel secure.
“I’m in love with your pillow,” he says conversationally. “Have I told you that?”
“No.” I fight to relax, but the tremors in my belly won’t die down. “Weirdo.”
He sighs again. “It’s just so fucking comfortable. Why is it so comfortable?”
“It’s a memory foam and gel pillow. I paid two hundred dollars for it. Don’t judge. My bed is my sanctuary.”
His eyes are dark stars in the night. “Why would I judge? I’m all for spending quality time in bed.” White teeth flash. “In fact, I’m going to order a case of these babies in the morning.”
I start to laugh, and then, to my horror, a sob bursts out.
“Hey,” he croons. “Hey, come here.”
Killian pulls me close, tucking me under his chin. I feel the shape of him against my belly, but for once I don’t think of sex. He’s like an anchor, a solid wall between me and emptiness. His arms are strong, and he holds me tight.
It’s been so long since I’ve felt the basic human contact of a hug, I come completely undone.
I can’t stop the great, ugly sobs that come out of me. “I’m just so…alone. They’re never coming back. And I know, I’m an adult, I shouldn’t be freaking out like this. Plenty of people don’t have parents. But they were the only ones who knew the real me. And now there’s no one else.”
“There is,” he whispers fiercely. “You have me. You have me, Liberty.”
But for how long? And in what way? I can’t ask. I’m too far gone. The stress of waking up in another dark storm, the loneliness, all the shit I try so hard to ignore crashes over me. I cry until I can’t cry any more. It’s messy and loud. And he holds me the whole time, stroking my back, murmuring nonsense words in my ear. He is warm and smooth and alive.
I fall asleep at some point, worn out and weak. When I wake up, it’s morning, and I’m alone. My throat is sore, and my eyes burn. The bedroom is hot, the air heavy and oppressive. I stumble to the bathroom and wince when I catch sight of my puffy eyes and blotchy skin.
A cool shower does a lot to revive me. I brush my teeth and put on a tank and shorts. My wet hair keeps me fairly comfortable, but it’s too hot. And too silent. I realize the power is out and sigh, shuffling my way to the kitchen.
I stop at the sight of Killian’s broad back as he stands before my counter. Shirtless and wearing army green shorts that cling to his trim hips and tight butt, he moves with grace. I take a moment to admire the way the muscles on his back bunch and flex beneath taut, tan skin, and how his long bare feet flex when he shifts his weight to grab a couple of forks. Weird that I notice his feet, but seeing them seems intimate somehow.
He must feel my stare because he turns and gives me a soft look. “Hey. Power is out. I made fruit salad—if you can call chopped peaches, oranges, and one banana fruit salad—because that’s all there was.”
He’s adorable. Still, I hover by the kitchen entrance. I think of how I lost my shit last night. No one has seen me that way since I was a kid. Not even my parents. Maybe he gets my embarrassment, because he sets down a big bowl of roughly chopped fruit and holds out a fork.
“Today, we shall eat from the trough. Later we shall play Fun with Water Hoses.” His gives me a cheeky smile. “You have no idea how much I’m looking forward to payback.”
“Yeah, I bet.” I take a bite of sun-ripe peach. “Never mind the fact that I was performing a community service.”
“Don’t worry, Elly May. I’ll be kind. Ish.”
We grin at each other like idiots, and then his phone rings, the muffled sound coming from his pocket. His smile fades as he reaches down to turn it off.
“You’re not even going to look and see who it is?” I ask.
He shrugs and stabs a peach chunk with his fork. “Don’t need to. That’s my manager’s ringtone, Scottie.
“And you don’t want to talk to him?”
“Not particularly.” He spears another piece of fruit like he’s hunting game. “He just wants to talk business and…” Killian gives me a large, kind of fake smile. Anger and irritation flicker in his eyes. “I’m on vacation.”
“Well, all right then.” I try for teasing, but my mouth is stiff.
A lead weight settles in my gut. His manager wants him to go back. That much is clear. No matter how much Killian wants to enjoy his vacation, real life is still waiting for him. And eventually, I’m going to lose him to it.
“Thanks, by the way,” I rasp, hating the soreness in my throat.
He shakes his head. “It’s a horrible fruit salad, babe. And we both know it.”
“No, I mean for being there… Here.”
Killian looks at me for a moment, his brows drawing close; then he rests his hand over mine. It’s warm and heavy, his grip gentle but strong. “Thanks for letting me.”
Jesus. I’m in danger of clinging to his hand and blubbering. I need to get a grip. I lift up a slice of mangled orange. “You know, it’s ideal to include at least a little of the fruit with the rind.”
His lips twitch. “How about the seeds, Martha Stewart? Are they okay?” He flicks one at me before I can answer.
As I prepare to launch a banana in retaliation, relief eases the tightness in my chest. This, I can handle.
Chapter Eight
Libby
Usually after a storm, things cool down; the land gets to breathe a bit. Not so here. Heat settles like a thick blanket, smothering everything in its wake, turning the world humid, heavy, and slow. With the power out, there’s not a thing to do but wallow. Even going to the beach is useless. The full summer sun scorches the sand, and as soon as you leave the ocean, you’re baking, sandy, and miserable.
I settle for lounging on the porch’s sleeping couch, the shades lowered against the sun, and every now and then stealing a lump of the rapidly melting ice I’ve filled my cooler with. Cotton shorts and a thin tank is all I can manage, and for once, I’m grateful for my small boobs because it means I can comfortably go bra free.
Or maybe not. I’m all too aware of the ribbed fabric clinging to my damp skin, outlining my shape. But what can I do?
I’m not willing to suffer this heat any further by putting on more clothes, so if Killian happens to get an eye-full, so be it.
He isn’t looking at me anyway. He’s sprawled out on the floor, plucking away at his guitar, and taking sips of the lemonade I fixed. The slow twang of his guitar lulls me, and I drift in and out.
“If the power doesn’t come back on by tomorrow,” Killian says, pulling me from my daze, “we’re going to a hotel in Wilmington.”
I don’t bother opening my eyes. “It’ll come back on.”
He makes an annoyed noise. “We should have gone this morning.”
“Didn’t know it would take so long then. Besides, the sun’s setting. It will get cooler.”
Killian hums, which might mean an agreement or the vocal equivalent of an eye roll. I don’t care. I’m too hot.
And the heat is getting to me. I should be listless. But I’m not. I’m restless. The thick, heavy heat has settled on me, too, caressing my skin, drawing my attention to it. I’m aware of the way my chest rises and falls with each breath. Perspiration trickles down my spine, and the ice I’m slowly rubbing over my sternum melts in rivulets that slip between my breasts.
But it’s not the weather. Not really. It’s Killian sitting across the way, wearing nothing more than a pair of low-slung shorts and a sheen of sweat on his toned chest. It’s the deep, rolling sound of his voice, so gorgeous it pulls at my nipples and touches that achy spot between my legs.
I shift, hating the heat that throbs there, luscious and needy. I have to fight the urge to arch my back and thrust my nipples outward, calling attention to them. Begging.
Killian sings a low, soft song I’ve never heard before. I focus on the lyrics. It’s about a man, aimless and jaded, finding solace in a woman’s smile. It’s about sex—lazy, languid sex—that goes on for days.
I want to tell him to sing something else. And yet I don’t want him to stop.
But he does. He stops and starts, and I realize he’s composing. Tingles run over my skin.