Fuck. Whoever might be looking for him could track his credit card spending. He’d take one for emergencies. The rest of the time he’d use cash.
Money. Plenty in the bank, being squabbled over. His lawyers knew how to handle the bullshit. They’d better, for what he paid them.
So, one credit card. He carefully chopped the others into pieces and dug into his home safe. Two thousand dollars wouldn’t keep him indefinitely, but maybe he’d be okay until he decided what to do with his life.
He’d need his laptop. What else?
Ah.
He loaded up his favorite guitar and saddle. If nothing else, he could work a few bars and rodeos for cash. Live the life of a drifter, like he wrote about in his songs.
One long last soak in a tub big enough for five, a walk around the house, carefully avoiding his brother’s room, and he climbed into the El Camino.
His last act as Killian Desmond, rock star, was to place his cellphone under the El Camino’s rear tire and back out of the garage.
8
Mike sighed and shrank back in the library chair, staring at the borrowed computer.
Raptured Roses won the Dove award for Best Worship Song.
The song written by Mike.
His name wasn’t mentioned, except in the acceptance speech. “This is for Mike,” Reverend Rose said, holding the trophy aloft. “He’s gone to sing with the angels now.”
What the fuck? More digging brought up an obituary.
Dated the night he’d left.
“Michael Joseph Rose, beloved son of the Reverend Thaddeus Rose and his wife Sara, was killed when a drunk driver crossed the center line and struck his car. In addition to his loving parents, he leaves behind three brothers…”
What? He read and reread the article, how he’d been killed on his way back from school, how the church took up a love offering. Hell, they’d even faked a funeral.
Did his brothers really think him dead?
He staggered out to his truck. How the fuck could his own mother allow this charade? His eyes blurred and he swiped angrily at the tears sprinkling his cheeks.
For years he’d tried to be good, live like his mother instructed. And what had it gotten him?
Alone. Unloved. Unwanted.
What would it feel like to be wanted, even for a few hours?
The guys on the last construction site had joked about a bar in town, flopping their hands, jutting out a hip and speaking in a high falsetto. Mike never joined in their laughter, but he had taken notice.
He drove past the place three times, working up the nerve to stop. On his fourth pass he screwed up his nerves. To be safe, he parked the Bronco out back instead of in front where it could be seen from the highway—not that he cared if anyone saw him. He’d picked up his paycheck that afternoon, and wouldn’t be returning to the construction site.
The parking lot steadily filled in the hour he sat there, men coming and going. Kissing next to a car, or doing even more.
Yeah. He’d come to the right place. No hope for it. If he expected anything to happen, he’d have to go in. If he even made it past the door with a driver’s license that clearly displayed his underaged status.
He rounded the building just as the entry line started to thin.
About to take his place at the end, the beefy bouncer smiled and waved him forward. “You’re Elbert’s brother, aren’t you? Go on in. He’s waiting for you."
It couldn’t be this easy. “Thanks, man.”
Mike stepped through the doors into the country-western themed club, nodding to the Stetson-topped waiter who smiled. "You’re new here, ain’t ya?" White teeth flashed against tanned skin. The man must put a lot of time and effort into how he looked, with firm muscles, and colorful sleeve tats. Dark hair fell in waves around his ears. “What’ll you have?”
