Could he convince Killian to let him be that someone, at least for a little while? He never said how long he intended to stay. Would Mike be overstepping to want more than a single fuck?
But no, Killian expressed quite clearly his intentions of not sticking around. Those words came from the Killian who’d won Grammys, but what about Killian the man, who drifted from place to place in a battered El Camino?
Mike held no illusions of a permanent place in the man’s life, but if Killian slept better in Mike’s arms, he could use them as long as needed.
The sun began slipping beneath the horizon, darkening the room little by little. Soon they’d need to go back to The Stallion, play onstage together.
Maybe, if things went right, he could convince Killy to stay a day or two. Maybe even three.
Long enough for Mike to make a difference.
Eyeing the clock until he couldn’t wait any longer, Mike eased out of the bed, took a brief shower, then checked on his guest again.
Killian lay peacefully asleep, hugging a pillow to his chest. Mike couldn’t help a smile.
Staying as quiet as he could, he dressed and plodded to the kitchen. Did he even have anything to eat?
What would Killian even want? He found a box of pancake mix, a half-gallon of milk, and he had enough syrup for the two of them, but not much more.
He made pancakes and coffee, loaded up a tray, and took his guest breakfast, or dinner, in bed.
Killian jerked awake when Mike turned on the light, blinking blearily. He sighed, rubbing a hand over his eyes.
Yeah, Mike knew the feeling of waking up in a strange bed. “I brought you something to eat.” He fluffed a pillow and helped Killian upright.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Killian said, though he didn’t hesitate to take a sip of coffee, moan his appreciation, then hand the cup back to tuck into his pancakes. He paused mid-bite. “Aren’t you eating?”
“I’ll have mine in a minute.” Mike would rather play cup holder anyway.
“What time is it?” Killian asked between bites.
“Seven-thirty. We’ll need to leave soon.”
Killian grunted and kept eating. “These are good.”
“One of the few things I know how to make.” Mike had taken the odd job here and there at restaurants, but he’d usually bussed tables, not cooked, or cooked food that didn’t require much in the way of skill.
Mike took the empty plate and stood. “Take a shower if you want. I’ll get ready to leave.”
Though he had the best intentions of taking care of Killy, platonically if need be, he couldn’t help admiring the man’s ass when he strode toward the bathroom.
Mike might have fallen from grace in the eyes of his family, but he’d sign on to be Killian Desmond’s guardian angel any day.
Even if only for a short while.
* * *
Killy switched off the Bronco.
“You sure you’re up to this?” Tex asked from the passenger seat.
A few more cars filled the parking lot—not a crowd, but more than just the band. The night air thudded with a hard bass beat, and the neon lights shining from the bar’s windows called like a siren, sending music singing through Killy’s blood.
The music. Always the music. No matter how hard he tried, he could never completely escape the pull of drums, keyboards, and guitars.
Another night, another show, then move on. Somehow, after an afternoon with Tex and waking up to a smile and a mound of pancakes, moving on didn’t sound as good as it had earlier. But to get there, he first had to play his band’s old songs.
Killy huffed out a sigh. His band’s songs. Not someone else’s, like he’d done for the past few years. For some reason, his mouth shut off the automatic, “I’m fine.” Instead, he tried some honesty. “No, I’m not. But what can I do?”
