His heart hammered. What was happening? Oh, God, he shouldn’t have come here. What if something happened and Killian thought he hadn’t bothered to show up?
He didn’t for a moment believe his lover didn’t want to see him.
More screaming, more grabbing at his clothes. He heard a rip but kept going. Someone yanked his guitar case. He hauled back. “No! Hands off the bass!”
He fell, buried under a sea of humanity, his instrument clutched to his chest.
Another hand. Stronger, not grabbing, but lifting. A mass of muscles beneath a stretched-to-the-limits T-shirt. A whiff of sweat and cologne. “Just what the fuck is going on?”
“I… I…” Before Mike’s brain cells kicked back into gear, two more Titans appeared, forcing the fans back.
He sucked in a breath. Air! He could breathe again.
The wall of muscle gripping his arm lowered his head, putting them eye-to-eye. “I asked…” His eyes went wide. “Mr. Rose? Sir, what are you doing out here? Shouldn’t you be getting ready for the show? Hey, guys!” He shouted over his shoulder at the other guards. “It’s Mike Rose, the bassist. We need to get him inside.” Arm wrapped around Mike, the Abrams tank in a “Security” T-shirt escorted him toward the door, and inside. He slammed the door behind him.
The other guards stepped up to lock the shield between Mike and the mob.
Outside the door the crowd chanted his name.
His savior turned, pulling Mike’s tattered shirt up over his shoulder. The ripped fabric fell again. “Sir, are you all right? Do you need medical?”
Mike shook his head. Everything would be okay if he could just see… “Killian. I need to see Killian.”
“Right this way, sir.” The man angled toward a door marked “Auditorium”.
Mike needed this guy’s name. He owed him a Lamborghini or something.
“Wait a minute.” Another mass of muscles with “Security” stamped across his chest stepped into their path. “Their manager says Mike Rose isn’t allowed on the premises.”
“He’s their damned bass player,” the future luxury car owner spat.
“I don’t care, I was told—”
Mike’s new second favorite person brought himself up to his full way-plus-six-foot height, staring down the obstacle who now appeared tiny. “You mean that Gus guy, likes to strut around like he owns the damned place? I don’t give a rat’s ass about him, but I ain’t about to piss off Killian Desmond.”
After a moment the problem stepped aside.
“Come with me.” The guard led the way to the auditorium.
Still clutching his guitar case like a lifeline, Mike stopped inside the doorway. Technicians scurried around the stage, preparing for the night’s show. In the center stood Killian, speaking to a small, dark-haired woman. “I tell you, we aren’t playing without him.”
The words that kept Mike from turning tail and fleeing the crowd, coming straight from his lover’s mouth.Thank you, thank you…
Killy turned, eyes widening when he saw Mike.
For a long moment they stared at each other. Mike didn’t know who moved first. Killian jumped from the stage and Mike charged down the aisle.
They met in the middle.
Killian tangled his fingers in Mike’s hair and kissed him like he meant it. Guess after that nobody’d know how close Mike came to getting snatched bald.
Thank God. Killian. And Killian wanted him. Knowing that for sure—worth running the gauntlet. Everything would be all right now.
Mike paused long enough for his brain to catch up to events and returned the kiss, wrapping his arms around the man he loved. Relief. So sweet. Gus lied. Killy wanted him.
He snarled in frustration at the instrument between them. Killian placed the guitar case on a nearby seat. “Let’s try that again.”
Killy. Here. Now. Kissing him. Nothing else mattered. Would ever matter again.
