Tex rocked against him, adding harmony with his hands, drawing Killy close, legs hooked around Killy’s thighs. A chorus of squeaky bed springs joined in, and “Oh!” and “ah!” and “oh my God!”
They’d met less than a day ago, yet in perfect accord they came together in a carnal two-step, dancing like old lovers, long experienced in the perfect place to caress or bite.
Killy fought to hold on, to prolong the moment. Tex felt too good, loved too hard. Like on the stage, he didn’t just play, everything he did he gave his all.
Lucky Killy. With a cry he came hard.
Tenor joined his bass, echoing off the walls.
Leaving in the morning might be the hardest thing Killy ever did.
18
Mike woke up to gentle snoring from the pillow by his head and smiled. Killian said he never stayed all night, and yet he had. A twang of guilt hit him that maybe he should wake his guest up, but after last night, and possibly many nights before, the man needed his rest.
Mike turned onto his side, elbow on the mattress, and rested his head on his hand. The room smelled of sex and sweat. The perfect scents to wake up to in the morning,
Killian Desmond, in his bed. He resisted sliding a hand over the scars on the man’s chest. He’d been a rising star, with sold-out concerts, magazine spreads, music videos, and legions of fans. Now he lay in a near-stranger’s bed after singing his heart out in a seen-better-days bar with a crowd so unworthy of his talents.
Where would he go after leaving here? Personally? Professionally? His music needed more audience than a few drunken cowboy wannabes. What would it take to put the pieces of this man’s life back together?
Mike had no aspirations that Killy might keep him around. Killy’s rock stardom and Mike’s gospel circuit weren’t a good match. But they’d certainly done well last night.
He closed his eyes, reliving the moments. Back to back with Killy, feeling the music releasing from his body. Sharing something far more intimate than sex.
Words formed in his head, shaping themselves into a whole greater than the individual parts.
The world may have broke you
Made you less whole
But I’ve got your back, babe
A pen. He needed a pen. And paper.
And his guitar. The music was on him, and he’d long learned that when a song wanted out, if he ignored the call, it would go away.
He pulled on last night’s jeans and left off his boots to keep from waking Killy. He strode barefoot out to the Bronco for his Dad’s well-used acoustic guitar. Ouch! Not such a good idea.
“Sorry, old girl,” he told his bass, running reverent fingers over the case. For composing he needed the acoustic.
Stepping gingerly over gravel with bare feet, he made his way back inside the trailer and settled into a kitchen chair.
The pain of loss cannot compare
To fleeting moments of joy
You’ve given to me too much of one
And not enough of the other
Mike picked a few notes and scrawled on a paper bag he’d brought takeout in two nights ago. Rummaging around in his bedroom for a notebook might wake Killy.
Hmmm… About those lyrics. No, “joy” didn’t work. He’d think of something better later.
Nothing good could come of us
Worlds collide and then fall apart
