“No!”
“Do your best to take anything I say and try to make me look bad?”
“No!”
Killy nodded. “Because of those reasons, and the fact you coulda outed me long ago, you’re the right man for the job. I’m counting on you to get this right.” Hell, Caleb nearly caught Killy in the act a time or two, by stumbling into the wrong barn stall at the wrong time.
“Podcast, you say?”
“Yeah. Prerecorded so I’ll be long gone before it airs. No more hiding out, but I’m living on my own terms now, and don’t want anybody getting it into their heads to try and stop me.”
“Who? Who might try to stop you?”
“Lots of people whose names I’ll reveal on the podcasts. Do we have a deal?” What he had to say about Rob would definitely put a damper on the Cassens’ lawsuit.
“A deal. Oh, my God. Yes. Anything you say. Yes!”
In the end they packed up their meals and ate in Caleb’s motorhome, complete with his mobile studio.
As on the stage, Killian cut himself open and bled out his soul, this time in words, not music. By the time he stumbled out of the studio, the sky had begun to lighten around the edges, and he found Mike asleep on Caleb’s couch, where he’d retreated to after Killy and Caleb introduced him to the world.
He looked so peaceful asleep, eyes hidden by darkly-lashed lids, a splash of freckles across his nose. Young. So damned young.
And still innocent in many ways.
May Mike never regret Killian’s selfish moment of wanting to no longer be alone, to keep Mike with him, a kindred spirit, fellow music lover, and master of the road. The closest he’d ever come to finding someone who understood the Killian Desmond fans didn’t get to see.
He strolled outside for a cigarette. They’d hole up today, get some rest, and be gone before the first podcast aired tonight.
Sounded like a plan.
He’d soon unleash some harsh truths on an unsuspecting music world.
23
Mike sat on an uncomfortable chair, curtains open enough for him to watch night settle over the mountains. He strummed his guitar softly, stopping every few minutes to jot down words. Killy stirred in the bed, having slept most of the day after staying up with the reporter all night.
Wow. The truths the man told, some Mike already knew, other things he didn’t. One fact remained perfectly clear: Killy had experienced too much crap for one lifetime, and he’d not yet hit thirty. How had he stayed sane?
The part about the drug use shook Mike up. He’d never been around heavy abusers, and it sounded like Killy had done his share of illicit substances.
Haddone. He’d learned so much about Elliot Desmond last night, the reporter kindly pausing whenever Killy needed time to compose himself. Mike felt so helpless, the only comfort he had to offer was a hug, a supportive hand to the shoulder.
Running to the fridge for more beer.
The man had been through so much. Life owed him a bit of happiness.
“Good mawnin’, sunshine,” he drawled, glancing over his shoulder as Killy blinked open bleary eyes.
“We need to get moving.”
“I already packed. I left you a change of clothes and all you’ll need for a shower.” Having gotten some sleep last night left Mike restless, plus dealing with everything he’d learned about his lover. They really hadn’t known each other when they climbed into the same vehicle and started out.
They’d known enough. He’d love to pull the covers back and enjoy Killian’s body, but they’d probably stayed too long already. They needed to be safely on their way to L.A. by the time the first podcast came out.
Running water announced Killy’s whereabouts, and Mike lay back on the bed, soaking up the warmth and scent left behind. Was he doing the right thing, a little nobody like him throwing his lot in with a former rock star?
Time would tell. It wasn’t like he’d been doing much else.
