Driving his Bronco down a lonely road. Writing song lyrics at two in the morning.
Songs like…
Refusal to singHighway? What was that all about?
Mike closed his eyes and breathed in a deep breath, much like he’d done while fighting stage fright when he’d first started performing in public. Then he’d had his family around him. Now?
Strangers.
Or rather, strangers and a man he felt he knew intimately. Mike poured his soul into his songs. Anyone looking would easily find his life played out in the words.
If Killy did the same, Mike knew him better than anyone else in his real life.
But just Killian here. Where were Elliot, Ace, and Rob? Had stories of their dying been some big publicity stunt?
Nope. Couldn’t be.
He stole a look at Killian in profile, the ragged, uneven scar across his face, the short hair not quite hiding more scars. Maybe the accident had actually happened, but Killy’s death hadn’t.
Maybe he’d lost his brother for real. Oh, man, that would have to hurt. Mike lost his too, only not permanently, though as long as the Reverend Rose had a say, they were lost to him. The hole in his heart throbbed.
“Any day now, man. We’re waiting on you!” Ted snapped, glaring daggers at Mike.
Wait! What? Oh. All eyes focused on him. The side of Killy’s mouth lifted in what might have been the beginnings of a smile, or simply what the scar tissue ordered his face to do.
Face flaming at getting caught daydreaming, Mike held his peace during the guitar intro, and stepped right in with the bass when needed.
His questions could wait until later.
Or never. If the man currently curling his notes around one of Mike’s favorite songs was hiding from the world, Mike wouldn’t expose him.
* * *
The band themselves weren’t half bad. Not as good as Trickster, but they didn’t suck completely. Too bad the lead singer couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket. The drummer wasn’t star quality, but decent for a bar band. The keyboardist had damn well better improve by tonight. The bassist? He’d made a wrong turn somewhere to wind up with these losers. The man could play. Sing too.
They wrapped up rehearsal, the leader satisfied to have found “a last-minute replacement that won’t make us sound too bad.” If they weren’t paying, Killian would have walked.
Why did he ever answer that ad?
And why didn’t he ask more questions when the arrogant prick said, “We’re a tribute band, almost as good as the real thing.”Just play the gig, take the money, and run.
“Be back here at eight,” the commandant of Triksterz ordered as the band made their way outside. “We’re on at nine, off at eleven.”
As if Killy didn’t already know, having been told fourteen times already during rehearsal. The rest of the band crawled into their vehicles, leaving him alone in the parking lot. Or rather, he thought he was alone until a libido-stroking drawl sounded behind him. “It’s a bit early, Mr. Red El Camino in The Rarin’ Stallion parking lot, but I’ve never really lived my life on much of a schedule anyhow.”
Killy turned around, and fell into a pair of mahogany-colored eyes; a dark crow’s wing of an eyebrow cocked a question. Oh, damn. He pictured the strapping body he’d seen on the Internet. His cock stiffened in his jeans. Oh yeah. They sure knew how to grow them in Texas.
He lit a cigarette and popped the top on the bottle of beer he’d sneaked from behind the bar. Didn’t that just beat all? Nine hours to kill, and he’d just been offered the perfect way to do them in. What a coincidence, bumping into his after-work appointment early.
“I don’t do one-night stands,” Killian said, to get things out in the open from the get-go. Saved him awkward moments later. He took a long pull of his brew, letting the ice-cold beverage clear the dryness from his throat.
He eyed Texas up and down, measuring him for size. Yes, a nice, comfortable armful, this one: all rugged masculinity, wrapped in faded jeans and a worn work shirt. The growth of beard and mustache neatly trimmed around his mouth checked off an item on Killy’s “can’t resist” list.
The catch of the day smiled, showing even, white teeth, and tilted his Stetson back with the bottle of Bud fused to his hand. Seemed Killy wasn’t the only one who’d done a little pilfering in the bar. “You don’t strike me as the long-term type, and that’s not what your ad said.”
Killy gulped from his beer again. “No, not long-term and not short-term either. I just don’t stick around the whole night, is all.”
His comment brought the most genuine laugh Killy’d heard in a long, long time. He’d have been tempted to join in if his confession wasn’t the God’s honest truth instead of a joke.
