Killian ran his hand over his scrubby, dirty-blond buzz cut and trailed his fingers lower across the ragged reminder of the night spent in hell. The deep gash marring his right cheek permanently puckered the corner of his mouth. “I hear that all the time.”Because it’s true,went unsaid.
The homely little front man made introductions all around, winking when presenting Killy as “Killian Desmond.”
The guys smiled, laughing and nodding at the joke, all except for a tall, cool drink of water with blue-black hair and brown eyes. Running an assessing gaze up and down Killian’s body, the bass player switched the neck of his guitar to his left hand and extended his right.Well, whattya know? A left-handed bassist, just like Elli— Killian stopped the memory on a dime. He’d gotten good at turning his brain off on command.
“Mike Rose. I’m fillin’ in too,” the living, breathing bass player said, in an ice-melting Texas drawl. Like Killy would remember the name a split second later. Names were for people he’d know longer than a day. He dubbed the guy “Texas.” A pity, though. The man exuded sex appeal. No doubt he had women and men both waiting around after shows, just hoping to be the night’s lucky pick.
They shook hands, Killy taking in Texas’ knowing smirk. So, out of four members of a Trickster tribute band, one shared a common interest with the real deal: a definite liking for the male gender. The handshake continued longer than necessary. Locking gazes, they performed a silent, more intimate introduction, one best continued later in private. Maybe Killy ought to ditch tonight’s faceless hookup for this sure thing.
Formalities over, he released his guitar from its holding cell, plugged into an amp, tuned up a bit, then launched into one of the riffs that had made him famous. The other musicians hesitated a moment, staring at him with their mouths hanging open.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” from the leader urged them to action. “Let’s tryOverkill.” Killy started in on the lead vocals. The strutting little peacock shot him an evil glare.Oh shit. Did he mean….
Fuck if he didn’t. When the chorus started, “I’m the lead singer, dammit” made summoning motions with his hand for Killy to join the duet. For the first time in his life, Killy sang Elliot’s part, though much lower pitched since no way in hell could he ever hope to match his brother’s vocal range.
“You never did do things by halves
Gave an inch you wanted miles
Wanted to keep me night and day
But aren’t these handcuffs overkill?”
Elliot sang and Killian growled—at least according to the critics. Killy hadn’t sung harmony even while writing the blamed song, always commanding the melody.Turn it off, Killy. Don’t think, don’t feel…Damn, but he needed more Prozac.
He no longer found humor in the song, written to poke fun at a date gone bad, when Ace had to scream for help after a fan got a little overzealous in the “you’re mine” department. An embarrassed hotel manager freed him.
Ace. God, Killy missed him.
Why the fucking hell did he torture himself like this? Oh yeah. Green stuff to buy food and gas and keep him away from the life he avoided at all costs.
“Now let’s doHighway,” the front man said after the first song faded.
Fuck. “Don’t know it,” Killy snapped.
“You what? You said you knew Trickster’s music.” The man posed with hands on hips, still clutching the microphone he’d be better off without.
“I do. Just notHighway.”No way in hell, no way in hell…
“Well, fuck.” The guy glowered. Let him sulk.
* * *
That can’t be Killian Desmond, that can’t be Killian Desmond.Yet Mike had heard that hoarse rumble so many times, knew every note, twist and turn in Trickster’s music. Yeah, Killian used to wear his hair long, with blue streaks, and no photos showed the wicked gash across his face.
Any truth to the bus wreck rumors might explain the scar, though.
Even so, Mike’s heart stuttered the moment the man opened his mouth to sing. Roughest voice in the business, electro-acoustic guitar, the same approximate height, a bit thinner, and same confident swagger from the videos.
The magazines had things all wrong. Killian Desmond wasn’t dead, and for some reason a rock star with tons of money planned to play backup to a tribute band torturing his old songs.
No. Couldn’t be. Mike, being stone cold sober, couldn’t blame his delusions on beer. Deep in his heart, his very soul, he recognized the man he’d mourned three years ago.
How he’d longed to see Killian fronting Trickster in concert. To be on stage, playing with him? This had to be a dream he’d soon wake up from. Every fiber of his being stilled, awash in cold from the inside out. Was this the man he’d made a date with?
Not merely play on stage with the man, but play in bed as well? Fuck.
Reel yourself in, Mike!He struggled to breathe.Think of something—anything—else.
