Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 103602 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103602 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
Well then.
I hate that my fingers shake as I take it from him and open the smooth, creamy paper. Killian’s penmanship is slanted and messy. And my heart instantly squeezes. Damn, I miss him.
Libs,
You gave Scottie shit about this, didn’t you?
I pause, and part of me itches to look up to see if Killian is hiding somewhere in the room. It’s silly, but Jesus, sometimes the man spooks me. I push aside the thought and keep reading.
You don’t know how much it kills me to miss seeing Scottie choking on his disdain.
I fight a smile. He’d have loved the singing telegram part.
You don’t know how much it kills me not seeing you, Liberty Bell.
The note ends there, and I snort, not at all amused.
“If he wants to see me,” I can’t help but complain to a silent Scottie, “then why the hell isn’t he here? And what the hell is this little—”
With a long-suffering sigh, he holds out another note. I pluck it from his grasp.
I can’t be there. I’ve committed to practice and have been threatened with bodily harm if I try to sneak out. Have a little pity and read the damn notes, okay?
Lips twitching, I look up at Scottie. “Give me the next one.”
Grumbling under his breath, Scottie pulls out a larger tri-folded paper.
I can’t be there, Libby. But you can be here. You know you can. Come to me, Libby. Get on a plane and be with me. I miss you so much, I can’t even call you. Because hearing your voice, hearing you say no, you won’t join me, would rip my guts out.
So, like a coward, I sent Scottie and Brenna. (Plus payback’s a bitch, and Scottie was due. He’s dying right now, isn’t he? Go on, laugh. It will make it worse for him.)
I do laugh, because I can hear Killian’s voice in my head, cajoling and teasing. He wants me. A shuddering breath escapes me, and I blink to clear my vision.
These songs I wrote with you, they’re our songs, not mine. I wrote them because of you. I’m not going to sing them with anyone else but you.
Come on tour with me. Meet the Animal firsthand. She’ll purr for you, Libs, I promise.
Say yes, Liberty. Say it. Come on, just one little word. Part those pretty lips and say it. Y-E-S.
Okay. I’m not going to write any more. Except for one last thing.
The letter ends, but Scottie is already holding out another note, this one a bright, obnoxious yellow. I have to bite my lip at his pained expression, and I take it in silence.
Killian’s scrawl is deep and thick in this one.
If you don’t get your sweet butt on a plane, I’m going to send Scottie and Brenna to your house every other week until you or they crack. I’ll do it, baby doll. Don’t think I won’t.
Yours,
K
“He’s deranged,” I mutter, lovingly folding up the paper and toying with the edges.
“As you say,” Scottie deadpans. His gaze bores into me. “Well?”
A scattered stack of papers litters my lap. I rest my palm on their cool surface and sigh. “I’m calling him.”
From the kitchen, I hear a long groan.
“Fucking hell,” Brenna shouts. “If I have to keep coming back here, you’d better start making cookies!”
Chapter Thirteen
Killian
“I miss fucking.” With that little tidbit, Whip tosses a drumstick in the air, watches it twirl, and catches again.
“Not interested in helping you out there,” I say, lounging against the couch as I down a bottle of ice-cold water. I don’t tell him that I miss it too.
We’ve just finished an intense session, playing for a few hours. It felt good. Really good. Sweat slicks my skin, my blood is humming, and I’m keyed up. If Libby were here… But she isn’t. Scottie has to be at Libby’s by now. I shift in my seat, acid rising in my stomach.
“If you miss it so much,” Rye says from his perch on a speaker, “go out and fuck someone and spare us your whining.”
Whip gives him the finger while still tossing his drumstick. “Can’t. I’m traumatized.”
At this we all sit straighter.
“Holy shit,” Rye drawls. “Sir Fucks-a-lot has gone cold? Say it ain’t so.”
Whip shrugs, concentrating on his stick. “Ran into some gritty kitty. Put things in perspective.”
Rye and I shudder in sympathy.
“What the fuck is a gritty kitty?” Jax asks. He rarely talks now, but his brows raise in interest.
I wonder if that’s why Whip brought this up, because it isn’t like him to talk about personal stuff. And then I instantly resent the thought. We’re trying to get back to that place where we aren’t worrying about Jax and his moody ass—so different from the way he used to be—but it isn’t easy. It sits on us like a stone.
I’ve got to guess it sits on Jax too.