Killy raised his palm in a “stop” gesture. Time to do what he should have done to begin with. “Keep Elliot in your sights,” he told Ace. “You got your .38, right?”
Ace patted a bulge in his black leather jacket that the arena probably didn’t know about. The South Georgia boy never went anywhere unarmed.
Killy nodded. “I’ll be right back.”
He followed the screaming to an office where Rob sat in a chair, ranting and raving. “You!” He screeched, hopping up to face Killy. “I ought to…” Two armed security guards intercepted him, forcing Rob back.
Killy came close enough to jab a finger in Rob’s chest. “If you ever come near my brother again, I’ll fucking kill you. You got that?” Wide-blown pupils said Rob’s drug of choice sat behind the wheel right now. He might not even remember their encounter in the morning.
Killy would be sure to remind him.
He spun on his heel and stalked off. He’d wasted enough time on this piece of shit already.
Ten minutes later he’d rounded up everything that mattered, gave the roadies instructions, and hauled his guitar out to the bus, where Elliot, Ace, and the driver waited. The roadies could pack up the rest and follow in a few hours.
“Let’s go.” Killy plopped down in a seat behind the driver. What a fucking clusterfuck. Never again. They were Trickster, for crying out loud. The country’s best drummers would kill or die to join their group. A few weeks and they’d be rehearsing new material. Elliot would find someone worth his time, since he seemed to think he needed to be a part of a couple.
“Where’s Rob?” the bus driver asked.
“He ain’t coming.”
If only Elliot could be more independent, like Killy. But no, the world didn’t need two Killian Desmonds. He glanced to the back of the bus from time to time, but Elliot seemed okay, playing cards with Ace.
“I bet you can’t wait to get home,” the driver said.
Small talk. Yeah. Killy needed small talk. If he tried to write music, he’d only incriminate himself if Rob wound up dead, because all Killy could think about right now was a million ways to do him in.
Which sounded like a hell of a song title.
A million ways to kill your ass
Drop you off a bridge
Choke your neck until you’re blue…
They had a long ride to Nashville, where they’d meet up with Gus after he cleaned up Rob’s mess, and catch a flight back to L.A. What was the point, though? None of them had anyone waiting back home for them.
Not that Killy wanted a commitment. His last fuck-buddy relationship went south when the guy started getting greedy with Killy’s time and money, and resented staying in the shadows to protect Killy’s straight alpha male image.
Gus’s idea. Not Killy’s. He couldn’t give a flying fuck what anyone thought of him.
Nope. Not even a little, though his manager made sure he attended events with an attractive woman on his arm.
Although Gus hadn’t minded telling the world about Elliot and Rob, and had pointed out more than one fanfiction story featuring the two of them. Usually some sentimental romance, sticky sweet and gag-worthy.
Killy had caught Elliot reading some of those stories, bittersweet smile on his face and a shimmer in his eyes. If only Elliot and Rob’s lives together resembled the fans’ opinions.
Killy needed no one. Still, the thought of lights on at the house he and Elliot bought after their first album sold would be nice, and someone waiting besides the housekeeper.
The house, the home their mother promised them for years. The real family.
Nope, not going there. Debbie Desmond lived her life on her own terms, and not even motherhood gave her reason enough to give up the drugs and the road.
She’d made some damned fine music though, and taught her kids to play guitar, sing, and roll joints one-handed up a wall. While other mothers might have a favorite blouse or trinket, his had a favorite bong, proudly displayed on the tour bus.
Killy snorted to himself. He had no room to judge, not with following in her footsteps on the drugs, sex, and rock-n-roll circuit. Though he hadn’t used the heavy stuff around Elliot, who feared he’d lose Killy too.
At least Killy and Elliot had gotten a house, even if Killy didn’t stay there often. The garage made a good place to keep his cars, and the bedroom—once featured in a magazine—gave fans fantasy material of spreading out on the bed with him.
