1
The throbbing beat blended with screams from the crowd, a crowd hidden by bright lights. Sweat and cologne and beer filled Killian Desmond’s nose. Familiar sounds. Familiar scents.
Home.
Did he love this life or hate it? Who cared? He’d never known another. Back to back with his brother Elliot, he shredded his electric acoustic guitar, improvising for the fans. The strings bent to his callused fingertips, note after note falling from his guitar.
Elliot kept up. Elliot always kept up. Others might get lost in Killy’s musical fantasies, but El gauged Killy’s intentions by the way he moved, held his shoulders, or gestured, like pausing to flip his sweat-dampened hair out of his eyes.
The drummer and keyboardist faded away, letting El set the tone with a deep bass beat.
Killy strutted to the front of the stage. Hot lights illuminated him from behind, shining on sweat-soaked skin. “What you wanna hear?” He didn’t need the words to know they’d be sticking to their prearranged lineup. At their manager’s urging, he’d saved the best for last.
“Highway!” roared through the arena.
He grinned and cupped a hand to one ear. “What’s that? I can’t hear you.”
“Highway!” roughly six thousand voices cried out in unison, louder this time.
“Aw, c’mon, now,” Killy teased. “We’ll play whatever you want, but you gotta tell us.”
The thunderous chant of “Highway! Highway! Highway!” threatened to blow the roof off the building.
Strolling over a few paces and throwing an arm around his brother, Killy said, “Well, I reckon we better do as they say.”
“Since when have you ever taken orders?” Elliot shot back.
Faster than most could follow, Killy slung his guitar back into place and launched into their best-known riff.
The screaming nearly deafened him. He tried again. On his sixth attempt the crowd settled enough to begin.
He grinned. Adoration and energy flowed from the crowd, straight into his veins, to gather strength and escape through his fingers and his voice.
His deep growl purred through the arena, pouring out the melody he’d written in a single night in a hotel room God knew where. High on life, cheap vodka, and the rush of their first big show, he’d settled onto the bed in the dark, except for the flickering image of a black and white movie on the TV, sound turned down, and began strumming.
The words flowed out of him unbidden, leaving him raw, shaken, and in possession of a number one hit.
He didn’t sing or playHighway—the melody made him its bitch, possessing him, demanding release into the world.
Who was he to refuse?
“Some were born to sand and wind, on the sea they make their home
Some may live a hermit’s life, on a mountain all alone
Or in a glass and metal cage, high up in the sky
Packed in tight with a thousand souls, all trying to get by
Nine to five may work for some, but that don’t work for me
Saddled to day in day out, no, I need to be free
Living a life all on my own, free of family, lover or friend
On the highway I was born, it’s there I’ll meet my end.”
Alone, just him and the highway, until the chorus.
