The bassist didn’t disappoint, though he fidgeted for long moments before blurting, “You’re the real deal, ain’t ya?” He slapped a hand over his mouth. “Oh, damn. I’m so sorry. I had no right to ask. Feel free to tell me it’s none of my business.” A flashfire of pink colored the man’s face all the way up to his ears.
Sound bored; don’t let him know he hit a nerve.Even so, Killy’s heart sped. “Does it make a difference?”
Texas shrugged. “Not really. But if you are, I’m left to wonder why you don’t want to be.”
Don’t want to besummed Killy’s life up pretty well. “It’s a long story that’d take longer’n I got to tell.”
Head cocked to the side, Texas’s expression changed from curious to puzzled, eventually settling into accepting. Killy’d love to have been privy to the man’s inner dialog. “For the record, I’m glad you’re not dead. Are the others still around, or just you?”
Casting wary eyes right and left bought Killy some time. Should he answer truthfully, or hand out the normal bullshit? The other Triksterz band members had made it quite clear they thought him an imposter. Not even a flicker of doubt showed in this man’s eyes. No need to lie. No one would believe this guy anyway. Judging by how comfortably the other three band members talked with each other while ignoring both guitar players, Texas didn’t fit in any more than Killian did.
Besides, the burden had been building inside for three long, silent years. Only a handful of people knew the truth, and making money hand over fist ensured their silence. Time to roll the dice and take a gamble. Killy whooshed out a breath. “Just me.”
He expected, “I knew it!” and excitement. Instead he got, “Then I’m really sorry about the others. It’s hard to lose a brother.”
“You’ve no idea.”
The anticipated,“What really happened?”didn’t come. Rather, “Sorry about your mother, too.”
That wound, neither ragged nor fresh, didn’t weigh nearly as heavily on Killian’s mind. He’d tried, and failed, to stop Mama’s downward spiral. At least he’d tried. His brother’s death, however… He waved a dismissive hand. “That’s the way it goes with addicts. Every fix is practice for that final one.” Bad drugs from an unknown source had put an end to“One day we’ll settle down, live like a real family.”
While Killian and Elliot mourned, Mama’s manager painted over “Debbie Desmond” on the tour bus with “The Desmond Brothers.” Once able to think clearly again, Killy and Elliot presented a united front against the bastard who’d run their lives for far too long. They informed him in no uncertain terms that his client was dead and his services no longer needed. Then they’d hired their own manager and repainted the bus,Tricksterrising from the ashes of a family’s crash and burn.
“Why do you let folks believe you’re dead?”
“’Cause I am, as far as they’re concerned, I’ve always been Debbie’s boy, or one of the Desmonds. I’ve been working on it three years now and still haven’t the foggiest notion who Killian Desmond is.”
“You didn’t change your name. Why not? If you’re hiding.”
Killy drawled his words, fighting to keep any emotion out, not show how much the past hurt him. “Hiding in plain sight’s been working so far. It ain’t broke, I ain’t fixing it.” Besides, Killy’s last name alone remained of the world’s most dysfunctional family. He’d be damned if he’d give that up.
Tex dropped his line of questioning, changing the topic to something far less uncomfortable. “You still writing songs?”
“Here and there. Not that they’ll ever get recorded. Those days are over and done.” Give him a few idle minutes and a notepad, and words seemed to find their way from his fingers to the paper. There was no off switch to the part of him that lived for making music, the only thing keeping him from trading his half-life for no life.
Their meals arrived and Killy wolfed down his burger and fries in silence, trying to puzzle out the enigma sitting across from him. The guy bore all indications of being a fan, yet didn’t stare at him in idolizing fascination. No, he treated Killy like an ordinary man.
Killian liked ordinary.
Texas paid their tab, climbed into the Bronco’s passenger seat without question, and gave Killian directions. They drove a few miles and turned off the paved road. Row after row of single-wide mobile homes sat baking in the sun, not a tree in sight to offer shade. How the hell did folks even tell ’em apart?
Bile rose in Killian’s throat. In his worst nightmares, this would be his life: working nine to five, then coming home to the same run-down place every day.
Was that even living?
14
Mike had wanted a place he could bring someone to, but this was Killian Desmond! Going to the rathole trailer in the middle of a trailer park.
If he’d dared fantasize about his idol, he’d have imagined taking him someplace opulent. Would Killian laugh? Refuse to come in?
Maybe Mike should have sprung for a hotel room, or found out where Killian was staying, if he’d found a place yet. With all the small-town gossip going around, word would be out about the hookup before the hookup even took place.
As much as Mike wanted the next few hours, maybe the world could open up and swallow him now. How embarrassing for a man like Killy, who’d once had the world at his feet, to witness the differences between their realities.
He hadn’t flinched yet. Good sign, although Mike had to bite down hero worship to make conversation. Killian Desmond! In his Bronco! Not dead, very much alive, and with any luck, would soon be naked in Mike’s bed.
Naked. Oh, crap. Mike’s mouth went dry. He’s seen Killian shirtless in magazine spreads, with sparse chest hair and a sprinkling of treasure trail disappearing so provocatively beneath the waistband of his low-slung jeans.
