He traipsed through the house, running his hand over the baby grand’s keyboard, picturing Ace sitting there, Elliot on the floor, bass in his lap.
Even though he hadn’t spent much time here, every inch of the house held some kind of memory, like the kitchen, definitely Elliot’s domain and not Killy’s. Opening the cabinet showed him more memory-inducing items: the almond butter his brother insisted on, a jar of honey for Elliot’s tea.
Killy drank coffee.
Elliot’s favorite cup sat on the counter, a misshapen rainbow-colored monstrosity hand-crafted and given to him by a young fan. Killy reached out a hand, pushing the object toward the edge. No. He cradled the cup in both hands. El loved that cup. He couldn’t destroy something that had once brought his brother joy.
The guest room held a few of Ace’s things, where he’d stayed over during all-night jam sessions.
Elliot’s bathroom held further relics of the past: El’s razor, a bottle of his favorite cologne, a parade of shampoos and bath washes.
Killy opened a bottle and took a whiff, the scent bringing back images of lazy Sunday mornings when he’d come downstairs to find Elliot, hair still damp from the shower, creating some kind of masterpiece recipe he’d seen on TV.
Lastly, he stepped into a room he’d avoided since his release from the hospital.
Elliot’s room hadn’t changed. Killian had forbidden the housekeeper to enter. He and Elliot had remodeled the house to have two master suites, Elliot’s a mirror image of Killy’s.
Concert posters covered the wall in the alcove Elliot used for the business end of Trickster. A framed photo of Killy, Elliot, and their mother sat on the desk. Debbie Desmond, rock star and drug addict, who’d lived life in the fast lane, dragging her kids with her, and died there.
Elliot favored their mother, with medium brown hair, dark eyes, light skin, and a few freckles across the nose. “Girl next door” the reporters called her, before premature age lines framed his mother’s mouth. Her squinting in the sun accentuated her crows’ feet. A strand or two of gray sprinkled her hair. She’d been in her early forties, but appeared older, thanks to her drug use.
Not much of Mom showed in Killy’s looks. He’d taken after his father.
Now Elliot shared another trait with their mother. Killy blinked against the sting in his eyes and heart. Prozac helped him get through his days, and he refused anything stronger than a joint if not handed out by his doctor.
His mother died of tainted heroin, his brother from meth, though he’d never touched anything stronger than wine. As careful as he’d been about his health, someone else’s meth habit took Elliot’s life.
Drugs took two family members from him, but Killy wouldn’t follow. When he’d wanted to die, he’d been in the hospital, too weak to hang himself, too chickenshit to cut himself, and too closely watched to save up painkillers and overdose.
What he wouldn’t give to go back in time, lie undiscovered for a few minutes more, or have whatever hit him move higher.
Dead. He should be dead.
The moment had passed. He owed it to his mother and brother to keep living, to not piss on the gift of life they no longer had. But he’d live and die on his own terms, or maybe simply ride off into the sunset. He ambled through the room, running his fingers over the book on Elliot’s nightstand, fluffed a pillow, picked up the shoes by the bed and put them in the closet. Meticulous Elliot always put his things away.
Then again…
Killy put the shoes back where he’d found them. Who was he to second-guess his brother when Elliot left them there?
About to exit the room, the remainder of his heart on the verge of shattering, he returned to the desk for the photo. He’d take something of his family with him. Killy turned off the light and closed the door.
Looking back wouldn’t show him Elliot sitting on the bed, smiling and happy as he hadn’t been in some time. Killy should have done more.
He hauled his prizes to the garage. What car to take? The Porsche? Too flashy. Too much of an attention getter. One by one he bypassed his and Elliot’s cars, until arriving at the farthest bay and a beast of days-gone-by Elliot always teased him about. Why hadn’t he gotten rid of the thing, or restored it like he’d planned?
He’d won the damned thing in a poker game, and never got around to getting rid of the piece of shit, and had only accepted his winnings because the loser was a sonofabitch in need of a lesson.
Once upon a time red paint gleamed from the El Camino, now the color had faded. No one would look twice at this vehicle, except to feel sorry for the driver or lay down on the horn for him to get out of the way.
Where could he go?
Papa Amos. He’d visited the hospital a time or two, but he wouldn’t talk to the press. He might not ever make father of the year, but he had Killian’s back.
With the where, the who, the how, and the why decided, now for the what.
He hadn’t done much rodeo riding lately, but he’d probably still qualify. One load shoved into the El Camino, he backtracked to his far too-opulent room for funds.
A handful of folks knew he still lived: doctors, nurses, Gus, his lawyers…
