–Skye: No. Way.
–Me: Way. You owe me two tequila shots.
–Skye: How do you know? Who did you try it with?
–Me: My next-door neighbor.
–Skye: The one who’s using your shower? Give me more details.
–Me: Yes. He came by to make me breakfast again.
I added the last bit for an extra friendly taunt and to steer Skye from asking for more information about how the catch-the-girl experiment had gone. She had a thing about men cooking breakfast.
–Skye: Why can’t I have that too?
–Me: You have a husband.
–Skye: He doesn’t make me breakfast, though.
–Me: Make him borrow some hot water, then.
I smiled as I sent that last message. Skye often complained her husband didn’t always understand romance or what she wanted. But I’d met her husband, and the man was solid. A good, salt-of-the-earth American man with a heart of gold who was blind to every woman except Skye.
That was worth more than anything. Ask my mom, and she’d say the same. Or not, I thought with a scowl. If Mom agreed with me, she would’ve dumped Dad years ago. Probably when I was in junior high—or even earlier.
I shook off the annoyance and exasperated resignation over my parents’ marriage and started to work. I didn’t stop until I’d wrapped up four more chapters. I needed maybe two or three more chapters to finish Molly and Ryan’s story. It was amazing how fast the writing went. Normally, I would have needed the two whole weeks.
It probably meant the book was either smoking hot or a complete mess. I’d know when I sent it off to my editor for feedback. It wasn’t possible for me to go over what I’d written so far and tinker to make sure the story was as good as I hoped, as I didn’t have the luxury of time. Also, I hadn’t given myself enough distance from the work to be able to judge my writing objectively.
Since I was way ahead, I decided to take a break and look up Killian’s band. Although he’d played me that supposed hit from last year, I was distracted by his nearness and hadn’t paid as much attention as I should have.
But now that I knew more about what he did, I was curious about his career. He’d asked me twice if I knew who he was, and that meant he was somebody well known, whether I recognized him or not.
Let’s see… I typed in “Killian Axelrod,” and Google came back with over a quarter of a billion articles and photos.
Okay, so he really was famous. His band, Axelrod, had sold tens of millions of albums. And he was rich, too. Net worth estimated to be north of five billion. Damn. Did music pay that well? His band had taken off five years ago. That was a billion or so dollars per year. It almost made me wish I sang better.
Interestingly, though, his band mates didn’t seem to be as wealthy. Did he get all the profit because he was the lead vocalist? Or maybe it was something else. I couldn’t imagine them giving Killian billions while they took comparative peanuts. I took a quick look at the profiles of the other three members, including that Dev guy Killian had mentioned. It turned out to be short for Devlin. The band also had a guitarist named Max and a bassist named Cole. Hmm. What the heck was a bassist? The picture showed Cole holding a guitar, just like Max. Ugh, bands were so confusing.
Google also gave links to Axelrod’s music videos on YouTube. I clicked on one of them and recognized the opening immediately. It was the one Killian played during breakfast. Chin in hand, I let the music flow over me. The vocals were hauntingly sweet, with a hint of masculine rasp that tickled my senses. A tingle ran down my back as he sang, and I listened to the whole thing, mesmerized. I closed my eyes to better immerse myself in the sound.
YouTube automatically played the next song, “Eat Your Heart Out, Baby.” Here, his voice was edgier—sharp enough to cut—as it sang of stark anger and pain due to infidelity. Shivers went down my back, and I nodded to the lyrics. Yeah, I totally felt this, deep in my soul. Not just because of my parents, but because one of my exes from college had cheated on me. He’d been dating two other girls at the same time, and actually thought he’d be smooth enough to get away with it. Asshole.
As YouTube played more and more of Axelrod’s music, I realized none of the songs felt recycled or the same. But they all had one thing in common—the most amazing vocals with good color to it. I was certain “color” wasn’t the right term, but I couldn’t think of any other way to put it. It was what made Killian’s voice husky in one song and mellow in another. Depending on the lyrics and mood, he sounded different. At the same time, there was something distinctive about it that said it was him. Like the way I recognized an author’s writing, whether she was writing romantic suspense or romantic comedy. Even when he spoke, it was there—a sexy resonance that made my mouth dry.
As the songs continued, I opened a new tab and looked through his pictures. Some were staged for promotional photoshoots or magazine covers. Photographers generally emphasized his piercing blue eyes and chiseled looks. Many of them also had him in a shirt with buttons undone, showing off his spectacular chest and abs. My fingertips prickled as I remembered how hot and hard his muscles had felt when I laid my hands on him. I put my fingertips over my mouth, as though that would help me taste him.
You are a sad, sad woman…
Ignoring the judgmental voice in my head, I scrolled and noticed many pictures of him with a mic or guitar. Other shots were candid and likely snapped with somebody’s phone—at parties and tours. Many of the latter showed him with at least two or three hot young women hanging on him like jungle vines. Something sour and bitter rose within me. The pictures reminded me of my dad—and his women. Dad was more discree
t—he was married, after all—but if he were single, he would’ve flaunted his popularity. As a matter of fact, he was probably sad and morose that he couldn’t show off all the women he’d been cheating on my mom with. Just thinking about it made me want to puke. Ideally on his face.
I looked back at the pictures of Killian surrounded by fawning women. A seed spewer and his farm. Men had an innate urge to spurt their seed everywhere. There was a reason porn often had men ejaculate all over the women, ruining the sole purpose of seed spreading. It was like a farmer who threw all the seeds into a stream next to his land, missing the fertile field ready to accept and nurture and grow those little kernels.
For some reason, the image was beyond irritating.
I closed the laptop, not wanting to see the photos anymore. The living room plunged into an abrupt and heavy silence as the music cut off, and I let out a tight breath. Why did I care who Killian was seen with? A handsome, young, single man with fame and fortune was bound to wrap his arms around every female shoulder he could. Then if the vaginas attached to said females were in a consenting mood, he’d also stick his dick into them. It was par for the course.