The stage seemed tiny in comparison with his usual venues, the lights stationary, and no special effects. With Trickster, he hadn’t played for less than a crowd of three thousand people, usually more, in years.
In the old days he’d be picking out the night’s entertainment at this point. A woman lifted her T-shirt to bare her breasts while a tight cluster of women around her reached for him. Without thinking, he turned to find Tex staring at him. The man quickly looked away.
A smile lifted one side of Killy’s mouth.No, thank you, ma’am. I’ve got it covered.
“Highway! Highway!” An entire roomful of people took up the chant.
He glanced over at Tex. “They’re starting to sound a little restless.”
Tex grinned and chatted back, playing off Killy like Elliot used to. “Well, I reckon we better give ‘emHighway.”
Killy unleashed his soul, wrapped up in music.
Before closing his eyes, he watched Ted stomp out the door.
17
Highway. Mike playedHighwaywith Killian Desmond! He must not have sucked too badly, since Killian grinned at him a time or two.
Killian grinned. Seeming truly happy for the first time since they’d met. Granted, they’d known each other less than a day, but after what he’d been through, Mike gathered Killian didn’t smile often.
He did so now, a beautiful thing that made him appear younger, more carefree—except for the scar giving him a “scathed by the world” vibe.
Back to back onstage, Killian’s playing and vocals permeated Mike’s being through their physical connection. From time to time his movements reminded him of the soreness in his body, the afternoon they’d shared.
He’d try not to make too much of the memory, but he soaked up every note.
His voice and Killy’s blended so perfectly, more so than he ever had with his mother or brothers. Then again, toward the end with them he’d stopped singing from the heart. He saw so clearly now when he’d turned down a fork in the road he’d not noticed.
When he’d started the journey to becoming himself.
Now, he wasn’t himself, he was part of something else, two bodies, two voices, perfectly in tune. Peace. Total, complete peace.
But he’d needed his three years of self-discovery to make this happen.
Then a song faded and Killy kept going, never even noticing the others backed off. Until then Mike had never before witnessed someone so connected with the music, and awe filled him. What he wouldn’t give to be a part of that.
When Killy fell to his knees, Mike’s heart skipped a beat. He offered his hand, his arm, his shoulder, anything the man needed to pull him back from the brink.
Something profound happened tonight, a breaking and remaking of a man. Piece by tarnished piece Killian shed onto the stage, his despair falling to the floor like rain.
The music washed the fragments clean, and one by one he reclaimed them.
Mike watched a miracle, a rebirth, and all he could do was add his harmony, his bass, his support.
* * *
The rest of the band picked the night’s partners and left. Tex and Killy grabbed two barstools and jammed. Folks came up and took their picture or dropped tips on the stage, but Killy didn’t care. Nothing existed outside the music and the man at his side. No matter how complicated the chord, give Tex a second, and he’d add counterpoint.
“Last call!” the bartender shouted for the third time.
Fuck. Time to go. Killy pocketed more cash from the owner than he’d expected, not to mention tips. “Since you’re lead singer,” Merle told him, adding a wink. A night’s wages, and possibly more to entice Killy back.
Without thinking, Killy followed Tex to the Bronco. Oh. Here’s where they’d part company. Time to return to his sad little life, in a world where he used to be Killian Desmond.
“Come back to the trailer with me?” Tex’s eyes glittered in the dark parking lot, only a few street lamps driving back the gloom. A scattering of cars remained beside the Bronco and the El.
Tex didn’t move, the tension in his body nearly palpable. Did he sense the end of their too-brief connection too?
