Tex didn’t treat him any differently. Didn’t ask for more information on the way back to the trailer to get ready for the night’s show.
While Tex opened a can of chili for dinner, Killian sat in the single living room chair and fired up his laptop. E-mail after e-mail from Gus, entitled. “Where are you” and “Answer me, dammit!”
The most recent caught his eye. “You need to see this.” Against his better judgement, Killian clicked the link.
His heart sank at the familiar scene. The Rarin’ Stallion as a backdrop, a young woman with a microphone smiled at the camera. “I’m here in Casper, Wyoming, where rumors have been flying about a local performer.” The scene cut to grainy cellphone footage of Killy and Tex, back to back on stage.
No. Not Tex. Mike. The guy’s name was Mike. No matter how hard Killy fought not to remember it, he’d never forget now.
The scene cut back to the reporter. “Is this man a brilliant impersonator, or was the public misled about the death of Killian Desmond, lead singer for rock band Trickster.” An image appeared onscreen of him and Elliot, in the same pose as him and Tex. The two images appeared side by side.
No mistaking. Even without the long hair. The body language matched. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!”
“What’s wrong?” Tex… Mike… yanked the pot off the stove and hurried to peer over Killy’s shoulder.
Killy replayed the clip.
“Shit,” Mike said, resting his head on Killian’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”
Numb. Totally numb. Well, he couldn’t run forever, and now he’d been found out.
“Go, take a shower.” Mike kissed the side of Killian’s head.
21
Killy wandered down the hall.
This was crazy! They hardly knew each other! But Mike fully understood that this interlude couldn’t end yet. Not now. Killian hadn’t been in a hurry to leave, hell, he’d stayed weeks. At least they’d made some damned good money. Enough to tide them over a while.
Them? What was he thinking?
Mike’s heart pounded harder than the water hitting Killy’s back in the shower. He could join the guy, and might have, if he didn’t have better things to do.
Either way, if they left together or left alone, Killian couldn’t stay here another day, not with reporters on his heels. And Mike couldn’t handle visions of Killian in his bed and home. What was it about the guy?
Killian needed him, in a way no one had in a long, long time, if ever. Mike might not be able to make the man’s life perfect, but Good Lord willing, he’d make the burden lighter.
Or die trying.
Together or alone, he had to leave.
What did he need?
Money first. He got paid by the night at the bar, so they didn’t owe him anything, and he’d taken his instruments with him. He tucked his father’s guitar in the back of the Bronco, securing the bag with his new songs underneath.
No, not his songs. His and Killian’s.
May they be the first of many.
Next, he packed his few clothes in a duffle bag, and what didn’t fit got shoved into pillowcases, along with his sheets.
He folded his homemade quilt. There’d never be another, as his grandmother had died a year after she made it. He’d hang on to the relic until bare threads remained.
Please, please, please, let Killian buy in to his idea. The thought of parting ways for good made his insides ache.
He’d never wanted anything as much as he wanted to see where this road might take him. He packed Killian’s belongings separately. If only he could pack them with his, safe in the knowledge they’d go the same way.
First to convince Killy.
