“Yes.”
Say no more. Killian stalked over to Ted. “What you gonna do about this?” he yelled over the abuse, waving his hands toward the crowd. The pink-haired bartender berated the man who’d started the booing, but other sharks caught the scent of blood.
Soon, bottles and chairs would break if Killian didn’t do something.
Ted glared at Killian. “Think you can do better?”
“I know I can.” Killy snatched the mic from his hand. Ted sputtered, but ducking a hurled missile gave a few precious seconds to plan.
Tex stepped close. His breath gusted over Killian’s cheek. “I think it’s time to wake ‘em up, don’t you?” Sounded like something Elliot might say.
Killy picked a few notes. No one turned toward the stage, and no one shut up. Hell, he couldn’t hear himself think in here, and if he’d brought a pistol, he’d shoot that damned disco ball off the motherfucking ceiling. He picked a few more notes. Still nothing.
I’ll fix their asses.
Nothing sent crowds from near-comatose to on their feet better thanHighway. But fuck, Killy could use a beer or two, or six or seven, before playing a song so bound and determined to crush the remaining shards of his heart.
Music raged inside of him, a tsunami pulling back from shore. When the tide turned, he’d be swept away. Given the choice between flailing in the water and riding the waves, he’d ride. He took a deep breath, willing the familiar stage rush to get him through the next few hours.One, two, three, four… breathe in, breathe out.
These folks didn’t deserve the best he had to offer, but the song wanted out.
Strum, strum, strum, strum!He hit the opening riff and stopped. In the suddenly quiet room, a pool ball clicked against another. Every eye focused on Killy, like a thousand times before. He’d lived for the attention, the adoration, the music. Now he couldn’t care less if thousands heard him or one. His soul had started spewing back at the diner, and if he didn’t get the rest of the poison out, he just might lose his mind.
“I think you’ve made a point,” Tex murmured.
Not a damned one of these sons of bitches deserved the sacrifice Killian made, gifting them with a song he’d once vowed to never play again. In his mind Ace filled the void, a run on the keyboard echoing off the walls.
Let’s do this,Elliot whispered from Killy’s memories.
He turned and nodded to his band…not his band…whatthefuckever.
This one’s for you, boys.Now to show the people of wherever the hell he was how real men rocked. He fired the riff again, quicksilver fingers dancing on his guitar strings. Tex joined in. The keyboard player missed his cue but made a quick recovery, and the drummer came in on time. Good. Killy might not have to hurt them.
Killian opened his mouth and out came the familiar words, sung by rote. What the fuck?
No, no, no, no, no! This wasn’t the song he’d written; this was the poor excuse for a ballad cover bands destroyed in hopes of one day getting it right. Once more he stopped.Get the mood right, motherfucker, or get off the stage.He might as well be lip-synching if he couldn’t pour more emotion into the words.
He stared out over a spellbound audience who didn’t have sense enough to know how badly he’d screwed up. Idiots. They stood in the palm of his hand, his to toy with as he did his guitar.
Tonight, he’d take them to Heaven or send them to Hell. Spin the wheel folks, which will it be?
He owed it to himself, Trickster, and hell, even his guitar, to do right by the memory of days gone by. He alone survived to carry on the legacy. And carry on he would.
Once more he nodded to the now-silent band. Tex raised an eyebrow in question, but kept his comments to himself. Good man. No time for talking now.
Killy fired the riff directly at his audience. They screamed and clapped. He played through the first verse, the lump in his throat holding back his words. Beside him Tex improvised, throwing in chords Killy hadn’t written, right where they needed to be.
On the second time around, he threw back his head.
He didn’t sing. No, he cut his heart open and bled his soul onto the stage. Every word slashed like a razor. Nobody fucking booed him!
The club, the people who’d nothing better to do than stand around and listen, even the tacky disco ball, disappeared.
Highwaywasn’t a ballad of remorse and regret, but an anthem of triumph, a man’s exultation in living by his own rules. The tempo slowed; the chorus approached.
“…And on the highway I was born, it’s there I’ll meet my end.”
The purest, sweetest tenor wrapped around Killy’s voice, caressing, teasing, scraping away the rough edges until two voices became one. He kept his eyes to the front, for fear he’d turn around and see his past staring over his shoulder. He finished the chorus with chills on his arms.
