If he ever worked up enough caring to give a shit.
“You know as well as I do what he was to me. For three years I bought him cars, jewelry, whatever the fuck he wanted. I owe him nothing.” He’d not bothered to attend Killy’s memorial service, even discreetly, being “too grief-stricken.”
Or rather, that’s what he’d said in his tabloid interview, for which he’d been paid one hell of a lot of money. Too much. Way too much. And garnered more than fifteen minutes of fame. The world gathered ‘round the asshole, patting his shoulder and saying, “Poor thing,” while Johnny embellished their association from on-again-off-again-not-really-friends-with-benefits—the benefits definitely swaying to Johnny’s side—to engaged. No telling where he’d gotten the damned diamond ring he’d been flashing.
Like Killy would spend money on something so gaudy.
Then again, he’d spent money on Johnny…
Their relationship had definitely been off long before Trickster’s last tour. Catching the guy on his knees at a party, sucking dick while someone else plowed him from behind—bareback—pretty much put the last nail in the coffin of an extremely fucked up arrangement.
Good riddance.
Several others came forward, men and women, claiming to have been involved with Killy. He might’ve fucked one of them on the bus after a show once, but the rest were strangers. Three different women claimed to have his child.
Hoping to cash in on his bad luck. Assholes. At least the DNA tests disproved the fatherhood claims. Killy wasn’t qualified to be responsible for a houseplant, let alone a living, breathing human being.
The whole bisexual persona Gus promoted by omission of facts helped Killy’s career. Or so he said.
Gus patted Killy’s shoulder. “It’s still too new, too raw. Think about things for a while. Get back to the studio when you’re ready. But remember, the public has a short memory. You don’t want to give them time to forget you.”
Time to forget you.That’s exactly what Killy wanted.
“I’ll think about it.” He wouldn’t, not really, but right now he’d say anything to get Gus to leave.
Gus’s scowl pulled back into a smile. He’d probably heard the words as“Sure! Whatever you say!”“I knew you’d come around. I have to go, but call me if you need anything, okay?” The pat to Killy’s shoulder made him flinch.
Killy waited until Gus backed out of his driveway to get up and retreat inside the house. He still had some soreness, but got around well enough, as long as he didn’t look in any mirrors, especially not with his shirt off.
An empty space stood on the hall wall, where once a portrait of the band hung. He needed out, to get away—to outrun the memories.
But where to?
He packed up all he wanted to take with him, clothes, books, toiletries. No. This wouldn’t do. He put back the expensive jacket and shirts a stylist bought for him in favor of his own worn jeans and T-shirts. Boots. Mustn’t forget boots.
He yanked the sheet off the pretentious floor-to-ceiling mirror in his bedroom. A stranger stared back at him, nearly gaunt, with dark shadows in his eyes. No one ever accused Killian Desmond of being a ray of sunshine, but now, if he met himself on the sidewalk, he’d cross the road to safety.
They’d buzzed his hair in the hospital to stitch his scalp, and the short bristles prickled the fingers he ran over his head. A Frankenstein mass of healing injuries crisscrossed his head, and the scar across his right cheek, from his ear to his jaw, took away the pretty boy looks magazines used to crow about.
If Gus wanted him on magazine covers, he’d wear a bag over his fucking head.
He’d nearly lost his right ear, skillfully reattached by a gifted surgeon.
Like what a man looked like really mattered outside of a one-night fuck.
The scars extended across Killian’s throat and over his chest—an ugly mess of ropey, uneven flesh, quickly covered by a T-shirt. Barely over an inch higher and he’d have been beyond saving.
Looks didn’t matter when his face would no longer grace album covers.
But why had he lived when the others died? Elliot should’ve been the one to survive, with his kind heart. He’d been a much better man than Killy. Even Ace would’ve made a better choice, or the bus driver, with a family, complete with grandchild on the way.
If a higher power existed, they had a sense of humor. Of the five men on the bus at the time of the crash, only Rob deserved to live less than Killy.
Killy shook his head, balling his fists against his temples. No! He’d managed to block those thoughts, except when his own screams woke him up at night.
Away. He needed away. Away from the spotlight, away from the hassles.
Away from himself.
