The manager from hell let out an annoyingly superior sigh. “What happens when you have a fight, huh? Or you take groupies to your bed, which you will. Will you publicly fight? Break up the band? Thatismy concern. Think your public will still love you if they know you have a boyfriend?”
“They already know I’m gay, thanks to the asshole who made a few bucks off my death.” Killy might take that grudge to his grave. “Besides, I came out publicly on the podcasts.”
“You what? Oh, hell no! You call that reporter right now. Threaten legal action if he broadcasts those lies.”
“They’re not lies if they’re true, and I told the truth. I’m tired of hiding. I’ll hardly be the first openly gay musician. Hell, I’d love to have the career of some of them. Look, you’re the one who wanted me in a band again. You’re getting your wish. Now, butt out. You run the business end, the band and the music are my responsibility.”
“Used to be mine ’til you sobered up.”
“Oh, hell, you didn’t!” Killy balled his hands into fists. “Yeah, I partied too much, and I should’ve kept a closer watch on my bandmates. That’s the reason I’m being careful now, hand-picking who I surround myself with, who I make music with. Besides, Mike is a talented songwriter in his own right.”
“I don’t think your fans wantAmazing Gracesung at your concerts.”
Rage bubbled up in Killy, hot as lava. He stopped. He felt! Something besides despair and depression. He felt! For that he’d cut Gus some slack.
“Look, keep your snide comments to yourself. I’m reforming Trickster, with Mike on bass. If it helps your spin-doctor visions you can talk up how he’s a left-handed bassist too, like Elliot.” As much as using that angle pained Killy, he refused to lose this fight. “You can suggest drummers and keyboardists, but the rest is up to me.” As an afterthought, he added, “And Mike.”
“I see that I can’t talk you out of this. Fine! I’ll call you when I’ve arranged some auditions. But don’t come running to me when a lover’s spat has you starting all over from scratch.” Gus clicked his way across the marble floors in expensive loafers. So small a man shouldn’t have been capable of slamming a door so forcefully.
* * *
Mike jumped back when the little man with the big voice stormed past. The thunderclouds on Killy’s face when the guy wrenched the door open didn’t bode well for somebody.
The moment the door closed, Killian scrubbed his hands over his face and let out a growl. “I’m so sorry you had to hear that. You gotta know I don’t feel that way.”
“He’s right, you know. I’m a nobody. Several big groups broke up in the last year. You could take your pick of bassists.” But where would that leave a washed-up former gospel singer with no family, no home, and no prospects for either?
“I already have.” Killy lifted Mike’s head with two fingers under his chin. He brushed his lips over Mike’s and Mike winced. He didn’t want the job out of pity, or for the added benefits.
Killy pulled back. “Damn it, Mike! Don’t start. You know good and fucking well how we are on stage together. I could go a million years without finding something close to the chemistry we had at The Stallion. You know it.”
True. Magic happened when they hit the stage together. Mike’s voice came out smaller than he meant. “We’ve only played together publicly a few times. That’s not a lot to go on.”
“And it gets better each time.” Killy balled his hands into fists. “Damn it all to hell! Gus did this. He came in here and made you feel less. Let me tell you, I hit the stage as a kid, been there ever since. I’ve seen musicians come and go. You”—he punctuated the word with a finger to Mike’s breastbone— “are one hell of a bassist, pretty damned good on acoustic, an amazing backup singer, and you write music. You’re so close to perfect, you’re scary. I never cared what anybody else said. As far as Killian Desmond and Trickster are concerned, I’m the motherfucking expert, got that? If I say we have the best damned bassist for the group, you can take it as law.”
Mike nearly barked out, “Yessir!” Instead he simply nodded. May he never let this man down, the near stranger who put so much faith in him.
“Now!” Killy smacked his hands together. “Time for the tour.” His smile fell. “Fuck.”
“What?”
“Gus is the reason I bought this particular house, this over-the-top status symbol.” He blew out a breath and ran a hand through his hair. “He really does run my life… Ran my life.” Glancing around the shiny glass and chrome surroundings, he added, “This house isn’t me. He thought it’d look good in magazine spreads. Elliot didn’t mind so much, but he was never a complainer. Me? I hate this damned place so much. You just don’t even know.”
Why did a man like Killy live somewhere he didn’t like, when he could afford dozens of houses? “Then why don’t you find a house you do like?”
“’Cause living in a cabin by the lake in the Colorado mountains doesn’t go well with a rock star image.” Killy did a pretty good impression of the man who’d recently walked out the door.
Mike couldn’t help a smile. A cabin in the mountains? Fresh air? No other people for miles and miles? Sitting on a front porch, or by a stream, working on chords and melodies all day? “Sounds good to me.”
“Maybe one day, when I get old and gray and no one wants to hear me sing anymore.”
Killy crossing the floor and motioning for Mike to follow stopped him from saying,“I’ll never get tired of you.”
“Got the kitchen over here, formal dining room that I’ve actually been in twice in six years.” He stalked through the room and through another doorway. “Music room.”
Wow! So many instruments: guitars, violins, old fashioned bass, and a baby grand piano. Even at home Mike hadn’t seen such a shrine to music. Thirty-six guitars? Really? He strolled through the room, longing to more closely inspect the bass and run his fingers over the piano’s keys.
Killy sidled up beside him, stroking a few notes from the instrument. “You play?”
