“Where’ve you got to go that’s so all-fired important?”
“Nowhere, anywhere.” No matter how hard he tried to keep himself to himself, every month or so the pull of people lured Killy in. A cold beer, a conversation with something besides his truck, and a hot body to sink his cock into…. Like filling the El with gas, sooner or later he’d have to stop and tank up. Then hit the road again.
Even from a distance of five feet, he swore he heard the man’s heartbeat, recognized the want in those intelligent eyes, and smelled the heady combination of soap, sweat, cologne, and man. The mix shot an arrow straight to his groin.
Tonight’s special? Cowboy, with all the trimmings.
For the second time that day, Texas studied Killy’s lanky frame. The humor fled his face. “Umm… can I take you to the diner first before we, well, you know?” The fidgeting, and the bashful gaze connecting before darting away, hit another one of Killy’s hot buttons. Shy? How charming. Beneath a layer of faded denim, Killy’s cock hardened even more.
With last night’s burger a distant memory, Killy nodded. “I reckon I could eat.” The El was too loaded down for a passenger, so he crossed the cracked asphalt to a rusted-out Bronco sporting a Texas license plate, following a firm ass. Threadbare jeans left little to the imagination. Tex rounded to the driver’s side.
A knot formed in Killy’s gut. “Mind if I drive?” He’d made progress in three years, but still couldn’t handle someone else behind the wheel.
“Gonna kidnap me, haul me off somewhere, and have your way with me? No need for all that; I’m willing.” Dimples framed a devilish grin.
“Nope, I just prefer to do the driving.”
“Then I reckon you’ll have to make it up to me, the not-kidnapping thing, ’cause let me tell ya, ever since you walked into the bar I’ve been fantasizing. And oh, hell yeah, you can do the driving.” He winked. “Now and later.”
In his ad reply Texas gave his age as twenty-two; right then he looked young and mischievous, totally unlike the timid innocent he’d appeared a moment ago. Killy liked a little spirit in his fucks. Fun times on the horizon.
13
Mike swallowed hard, tamping down anxiety. He’d never been one for idle hookups, so never grew comfortable with men in the moments leading up to sex. Most of his encounters were with closeted men he met on various jobs, who took days, if not weeks, to relax enough around him to show their true selves.
Yet Killian Desmond sat next to him now in the Bronco, offering so much more than Mike ever dreamed possible. In a short span of hours, he’d found out his idol still lived, shared a stage with the man, and soon he could share his body.
What should he say? What should he do?
Should he ask the question fighting to be asked? What if Killian shut him down, lied, or worse yet, ran again because he’d been recognized?
Having grown up fairly well-known in his hometown because of his rodeo-riding father, and in the gospel music circuit later on, he’d learned to appreciate privacy. And as a gay man in the same circuit, doubly so. He’d not out Killian on either front, though all the magazines and Internet articles he’d seen suggested this man took both women and men to bed.
His ad asked specifically for a man, though Mike quit looking once he’d sent his reply.
“Turn right here,” and “take the next left” were the only bits of conversation in the ten-minute ride to the café.
Should he say something? Could he even get words out if he tried?
All too soon they arrived at their destination. Since the guy called himself Killian Desmond, he wouldn’t object to Mike calling him that, right?
“Killian, I…”
Too late. The driver’s door closed with Killian on the other side.
Heart hammering, Mike following him into the café. At least if he distracted the guy with food, he could stare at the face and body he’d fantasized about without seeming too stalkerish.
Right?
* * *
Mr. Texas Drawl directed Killy to a diner on the edge of town, a holdover of ’50s architecture. No matter where Killy went, like a magnet drawing steel, he always managed to find a clone. They all looked the same, and served the same fare. Sitting inside, he could be in Houston, Jacksonville, or even upstate New York. The sensory ghosts of bacon, coffee, and eggs lingered in the air, the smell from the early morning entrees gradually giving ground to the scent of burgers, fries, and burnt grease.
God, but the place brought back memories. Him and the band wolfing down breakfast while they talked about their last show, compared notes on the groupies they’d brought back to their rooms, or, in Killian’s case, scribbling out song lyrics on a napkin.
His heart gave a dangerous squeeze. No, he wasn’t here with his band, though he had come with a talented musician. Once more he pushed memories to the back of his mind and plastered on a practiced smile, usually reserved for rude fans or paparazzi.
A booth in the back gave them privacy, and they placed their orders. Killy waited for the inevitable, “Are you really him?”Regardless of how he answered, the asker’s eagerness eventually succumbed to logic. Killian Desmond died three years ago. All the papers said so.
