When had Killian turned into his brother’s babysitter? Not too long ago he’d have stuck around after the show, found some willing body for the night. Or a couple.
Compared notes with the guys the next morning over coffee and laughter.
Remember that guy from Omaha?Or San Diego. Or Atlanta. Though sometimes Ace hooked up with women instead of men. Or both.
Now? Now Killy fought hard not to lose his brother to the downward spiral. What could he do? What could he say? He slammed his hand against the wall, making a well-dressed woman jump and take a few steps back. There had to be some way to get through.
Before he lost another Desmond.
2
The music pounded through Mike Rose, from the soles of his boots to the tips of his fingers. He didn’t have to turn around, his memories provided a clear enough image: David, banging away on the drums, flipping his head to get the fall of black hair out of eyes nearly as dark, Joshua on lead guitar, head down to keep from noticing the crowd, Simon, recently able to see over his keyboards without standing on a box.
He gave his youngest brother an encouraging smile. Simon smiled back.
The bass became a living thing in Mike’s hands, and he focused on the notes, the rhythm, not necessarily the words sung by his mother and stepfather, until time to join in on the chorus.
Easy enough to imagine a packed arena with his eyes closed, playing with the band of his dreams. Not that he didn’t love his family—this just wasn’t his preferred style of music or his preferred venue.
Here he was, stuck under a steeply pitched roof, crammed onto a small platform instead of a proper stage—a platform his stepfather might wear a hole in one day. The scent of lemon furniture polish and way too many colognes teased his nose, overlaid with the scent of old wood.
In his dreams he played for thousands, not the six hundred or so packed elbow to elbow in his stepfather’s church.
He opened his eyes to clapping and cheering, so deep in his daydreams that spotting stained-glass windows, a group of suited men and women in dresses—and not teens in jeans and T-shirts—almost jarred him into missing a note.
Almost. He recovered, and nearly lost another note at the sultry smile turned his way, framed by the face of an angel set on a way too tempting body. Probably no one else knew Keith wasn’t merely overly enthusiastic about Raptured Roses, or the sermon Reverend Rose planned to deliver.
A flash fire spread up Mike’s cheeks. Keith. In the audience. What was he doing here? He normally didn’t come to hear Mike play.
“Church ain’t my thing, man.”No, church wouldn’t be the ideal place for a guy more comfortable on a skateboard than in a suit, or swilling down beer instead of the grape juice offered during communion.
Not that Mike blamed him. Who under the age of thirty would be in church on a school night for revival?
Mike and his brothers, that was who, though the younger Roses didn’t seem to mind. He hadn’t either when he’d been their ages, but now, a few weeks before his nineteenth birthday, he’d rather be hanging out with friends—what few he had. Being a preacher’s kid, even a stepchild, kinda kept everyone at bay, too worried Reverend Rose might lecture them on the evils of the world.
Mike didn’t need a lecture. He’d memorized all the major ones by now, about drugs, sex outside of marriage, the dangers of alcohol, how rock music was of the devil. iPods might have gone out of fashion, but the one Mike found at a church yard sale contained plenty of his favorite tunes. As long as he kept the device hidden.
Funny, though, a member of his stepfather’s congregation loading an iPod with hard rock music.
The song ended. Mike and his brothers put their instruments down and crowded onto the front pew, playing the role of obedient sons. Mike cast a glance over his shoulder at Keith. How he wished he could go and sit in the back with the guy, but his stepfather would never allow him to make a decision on his own.
And if the authoritarian found out Keith wasn’t “just a friend…” Serpents twisted in Mike’s guts.
No, we don’t handle snakes at my church, he responded each time Keith teased him. Though he did handle something possibly more dangerous: his truth.
Once again, his conscience warred inside him. He’d sat through his share of sermons on the evils of homosexuality. No matter how hard he tried, how much he prayed, nothing changed. The nice girl his mother wanted for him would never happen. Instead…
He took a peek at Keith again while the congregation closed their eyes in prayer. Bouncing one leg, he waited for the sermon to end. Twice his mother glared at him to be still, but he couldn’t. Too much waited for him at the end of this hour.
She treated him like a twelve-year-old, though he’d legally voted in the last election and signed up for the draft.
The slowest hour in history crept by.
The sermon wound down and the hymn of invitation began. Each person who stood and walked down the aisle to pray with Reverend Rose added another few minutes to Mike’s agony.
Man, did Mrs. Jackson need praying over again?
Finally, the last prayer ended and the congregation shuffled toward the exits. Mike darted toward the back of the church.
