Maybe Killy could stay a while longer. Then again, what good would it do to postpone the inevitable?
Torn. He’d never felt so torn.
“Look, we’ve been playing for hours, and you’re rushing on adrenaline,” Tex said, in that no-nonsense way of his. “When you crash, it’s gonna hurt. You need some sleep.”
Killy didn’t resist the hand on his shoulder when Tex helped him into the Bronco. He breathed out a deep breath. It wasn’t a sigh of relief. Not at all, though Killy’s heart felt a little lighter.
He lay back in the seat. Hell, letting the man drive once wouldn’t hurt. Tex secured their guitars in the back, climbed behind the steering wheel, and fired up the engine.
Watching Tex perform brought a question to Killy’s mind. He’d not met many so comfortable on a stage in front of crowds, and he’d known thousands of professional musicians. In their brief time together, they’d only talked about Killian’s past. What about Tex’s? “Where’d you learn to sing and play like that?”
A quiet mumble barely reached his ears. “I was in a band once.” At the next red light Tex exhaled hard and leaned over to dig a CD case out of the glove compartment. He flipped on the overhead light and passed the case to Killy. “My dad taught us to play. Mom taught us to sing.” The softness around his eyes and the near smile on his face vanished. He returned his attention to gazing through the windshield, a muscle twitching in his jaw. “After Dad died, Mom remarried. My stepfather was a preacher who found a way to make his wife and four stepsons earn their keep.”
Killy stared at the CD case. Raptured Roses? What kind of name was that? Oh, gospel band. No wonder he hadn’t heard of them. Five smiling faces graced the front cover, an older couple and three young men, one probably around thirteen, the other two likely in their late teens or early twenties. Three, not four, and none were Tex.
Killy flipped the case over to read the back and read aloud. “Reverend T.S. Rose, with his wife and three sons…”
This time, there was no mistaking Tex’s snort. “I buy their CDs ‘cause it’s the only way I still get to see my brothers.”
What the fuck?“It’s hard to lose a brother”Tex had said. He knew firsthand. Maybe not the way Killy did, but the results were the same.
Not that Tex would be the first gay man tossed out by family. Must’ve been hell hiding that part of himself from the preacher. No way would Killy’s family, as fucked up as they were, have ever turned their backs. No fucking way. Tex had not one, but three brothers, and a mom, still alive, but just as gone to him as Elliot was to Killy.
“How long you been on your own?”
“Since I was nineteen.” Tex didn’t offer more; a growl in his voice said now wasn’t the time to push. “You and your music have kept me from being lonely during the worst times in my life.”
Nineteen, huh? That would have been about the timeHighwaywent gold, and not long before… Had the man clung to Trickster to get him through being cast out?
If Killy guessed right, they’d been alone about the same length of time. Too damned long.
They didn’t speak the rest of the way to the trailer. What could he say?
They hadn’t drunk much at the bar, and burned off any alcohol playing. Still, Killy barely kept his eyes open by the time Tex shut the engine off and led him inside. He peeled his clothes off and collapsed onto the bed. The moment Tex’s mouth found his, all weariness fled.
Killy jerked, old habits kicking online at the brush of lips. Tex withdrew, a flush creeping up his cheeks. “Sorry. I forgot.” Instead of kissing, Tex stroked Killy’s arms with callused hands, his hairy chest tickling Killy’s nearly hairless pecs.
Something slow and sensual played on the portable CD player by the bed. Tex kept time with the music, running his lips around Killy’s jaw to get to his ear, but avoided his mouth. He caught Killy’s earlobe between his teeth, nipping hard enough to cause a gasp. With teeth and tongue he worked Killy’s throat and Adam’s apple, worshipping the expanses of skin, taking his time.
An unrestrained madman on bass, a thoughtful lover in bed, a decent cook—at least pancakes—and a caring man to boot. What was the guy’s angle? What was he after?
No need to fret. In the morning, the detour ended with Killy’s return to the road.
Maybe.
A hand on his ass brought Killy out of his musings. He spread his thighs without thought. How long since he’d bottomed? Nothing registered now but Tex warming him up. He grabbed the man by the wrist. “No.”
Without questioning Tex put the condom he’d held to his own cock on Killy’s. “It’s not that,” Killy said. Why explain? What did it matter? “I just haven’t done this in a while.”
Tex pulled his lips back in a smile. “Rain check?”
“Sure.” Wait. Killy couldn’t promise a rain check. In a few hours he wouldn’t be here.
Oh, but the twin swells of cowboy ass called to him, and a ride so much wilder than a bronc. He buried his face in the furry mat on Tex’s chest, inhaling sweat, cologne, tobacco smoke, and stale beer. Smelled like home. He pushed his cowboy back on the mattress and knelt between his knees. A little warm up, a little slicking up, and drive home.
Home. Where was that?
For now, home existed in a man’s hairy arms, sinewy muscles holding him close. In pants and grunts, and muffled curses. In the step, shuffle, turn of the mating dance. Killy sang the melody with his body, playing Tex with every stroke, every grunt, every out, out, out, too far, now back in.
