Bi-male, 35, wife out of town, want to get fucked. Safe or BB, whatever.
Oh, hell no. Killy’s standards didn’t allow fucking the stupid. The second response was a little more to his liking.
Gay male. 22. Versatile. Can host for NSA, possibly more.
Infinitely better, even if “possibly more” wasn’t an option. The guy included a nude picture, taken from the neck down. Not bad, not bad at all. Not a gym rat, though; those long, lean muscles looked to be earned the hard way. His erection jutted proud and tall against a background of dark treasure trail. The face didn’t really matter with a body like a god. Yes, very nice indeed. Killy dashed off a quick response.
Parking lot, Rarin’ Stallion, 11 pm. ’68 Red El Camino. Come early, watch show.Nothing stoked fires hotter than bringing out a potential fuck’s inner groupie.
With something promising waiting a little more than twenty-four hours away, no need to go prowling the truck stop for some fat, balding trucker with a beer gut and a taste for cock. Instead, Killian turned in early. He might need the rest.
* * *
Mike woke up around midnight, needing a drink of water. He tried to stay away from his computer, he really tried, but in the end checked for messages from the anonymous Craigslist guy.
Oh, man. Was this for real? He blew out a breath. What a coincidence. The Stallion? Really? Was this the guy Ted hired?
Maybe he should cancel the date. Although he didn’t plan on staying here long, if this town had a gay scene, he’d not been able to sniff it out. Ted and his narrow-minded buddies finding out Mike liked cock might mean he’d have to leave in a hurry. None of them struck him as being open-minded.
Then again, maybe the guy didn’t want to be outed either. Was Mike asking for too much to hope to have found someone who wanted to stick around a while?
Constantly moving wasn’t conducive to finding a lover to hold every night. While no one could accuse Mike of being a horndog, his hookups few and far between, he’d never quite given up on the dream of waking up to the same man every morning. Puttering around the house together.
Like his father and mother, before his dad died. Had she truly been happy a single day since then? He recalled the cold man she’d married because “he’ll make a good father for my boys.” She’d paid a price for her perceived stability.
At least this hookup seemed to be a musician.
Someone to make beautiful music with?
Yeah, right. What an idiot if he still believed in happy-ever-afters. With any luck the guy wouldn’t suck too badly onstage, and really good in bed.
Tomorrow couldn’t arrive fast enough.
12
Killy entered Wyoming at dawn, heading for a mid-sized town he’d never seen before. Strike one more off the list of places he’d been to and probably wouldn’t do again. A deserted, early-morning side street presented an eerie blast from the past. The Rarin’ Stallion bore a striking resemblance to Tails, the second-rate club where his and Elliot’s hastily thrown together band had played their first gig without Mama.
And where they’d found Rob, the psychopath drummer who’d blown their world apart.
What a dive. He’d bet good money that the run-down club came complete with a cheap ’70s disco ball.
No one greeted him when he sauntered through the front door, guitar case slung over one shoulder. The scent of stale beer and greasy French fries made the three cups of coffee in his stomach roll.
Decent-sized dance area, bar located to the back, smallish but workable stage, and fuck it all, a disco ball. He’d played better venues, and he’d played worse.
A bad rendition of Trickster’sFour on the Floorassaulted his ears.
Ace must be rolling in his grave at the horrible keyboarding.
The men onstage didn’t look much like a rock band—they’d appear more at home sucking back brews in a fishing boat, with their John Deere ball caps and T-shirts touting everything from country music to the NFL.
The lead singer better not quit his day job.
The keyboardist hit another sour note and they all stopped to stare at Killy.
“Damn! You’d even look like Killian Desmond if you’d let your hair grow longer and add some blue streaks. And if you didn’t have that scar across your face.” The lead singer and manager for Triksterz scrutinized him with squinted eyes. If the smarmy little toad were green he’d look right at home catching flies with his tongue.
Bet no one’s ever tossed panties and hotel keys on the stage at your ugly ass.
