You hit me when I hurt the most
Dum, dum, dee, dum…
Mike read back over the start of his song. Dang. Anyone listening would think he wrote of a love gone wrong, not Killy’s life. No, not only Killy’s life.
His own. And probably many more who might identify with the words forming in his brain.
Okay, throw out rhyming patterns. His brain commanded a new approach.
Nothing good could come of us
Worlds collide and fall apart
You hit me when I hurt the most
And you didn’t even care
Life. He wrote about life putting two young men through the wringer, aging them before their time and leaving them disillusioned. No matter how dark his songs might be, he liked to end them on a positive note, giving the listener hope.
He nearly wrote “God” instead of “fate”, but then he’d wind up writing a Raptured Roses song and not a Mike Rose one.
But then fate smiled on me one day
I took life in my own hands
Bent and twisted it to my will…
He almost penned “I found a brand-new band”, but that was wishful thinking. For one night only he’d belonged. How would he end this song?
Where would he go from here? Soon, Killian would leave. From what he’d said he didn’t plan to stick around for another show.
Sharp claws gripped Mike’s heart and he rested his guitar on his knee. Why was he so upset? He barely knew the man. Yes, he’d been lonely and Killy helped lift the burden for a while, but was he idolizing the man?
No. Whether he knew it or not, Killy needed Mike. He foundered in deep waters with nowhere to turn. Mike might not have the most stable life, but he’d been praised before for providing an anchor, a rock, as he’d been for his brothers.
And his mother, after his father died.
What would happen to Killian if he went on alone, with no one to love or care for him? For that matter, what would happened to Mike?
Could he somehow convince Killy to stay, at least a little while, give his wounds some time to heal? Being constantly on the move didn’t provide the stability needed for recovery. Maybe a survivors’ counseling group, like Mike’s old church used to have.
No. Killian made his plans perfectly clear. One night only, or rather, not even a night, then on to wherever.
But he had stayed the night. Had he really intended not to?
So many questions, so few answers from the man right now sleeping so peacefully in his bed. Mike couldn’t give Killy much, except a bit of calm in life’s storm.
* * *
Killy awoke to the soft strumming of a guitar. A voice as rich as chocolate crooned about lovers done wrong. Singing? Guitar? Oh shit! Morning. Killy had stayed all night.
He followed the tune into the kitchen.
“Good morning. Sorry, did I wake ya?” Tex sat on the edge of a kitchen chair in just his jeans, a beat-up acoustic in his hands. He never missed a lick and moved on to the next chord.
“What’s that you’re playing?”
“A little something I’m working on.” He went back to picking.
