“Nah, but we need a drummer. The job’s yours if you want it.”
“How do you know my playing ain’t gone to shit? You haven’t heard me in a while.”
“It hasn’t.” Anyone with Jake’s talent and drive only got better with time. And sobriety. “We got rehearsal at my house Tuesday afternoon. Be there.” He wrote his address down on a sheet of paper in case Jacobi had forgotten. Two days gave Jake time enough to figure out his options.
Him not shooting them down immediately gave Killy cause for hope.
That and him spending the next three hours proving he could still play.
When they got back into the Bronco, Killy smiled and clapped Mike on the shoulder. “Looks like we got ourselves a drummer.”
As soon as they hit the road, Killy let the lyrics he’d been holding back flow freely, tapping out a beat on his thigh with his hand.
“Times long gone, just let ‘em go
Not getting any younger, I told you so,
Years are gone, they won’t come back
I’ll never get another chance
Ain’t no chance to right the wrongs
Not much time left to write my songs
I’m only living on borrowed time
No way to change this life of mine
I remember well when I went wrong
When I first felt I didn’t belong
Time moves so fast, was once so slow
Time’s long gone, just let it go.”
29
Mike pulled over at a scenic outlook, killed the engine, and stared through the windshield. He’d never been much for profanity until he’d left home, but sometimes the only fitting phrase was “shit’s getting real.” The past few days were a blur, like stepping out of his perfectly ordinary life into someone else’s reality. Too much, too fast, leaving Mike off kilter. “Pretty country up here. I can see why Jake gave up L.A.” The more Mike learned about the city, the more he agreed with Jake.
“Yeah. I’ve never been much for country living, since I pretty much grew up on a tour bus, going from city to city.” Killian stretched out in his seat as much as the Bronco allowed. “I still see the appeal. Especially being away from people.” He scrunched his face. “They can be real assholes sometimes, you know?”
Killian smiling his way caused a lurch in Mike’s heart. He’d not gotten all quivery inside since his teenaged years. “We’re really doing this, aren’t we?” Too much to take in, belonging to a band already well on its way to stardom three years ago. What if Mike couldn’t play rock? What if fans hated him?
What if Killian hated him?
No, they’d played together at The Rarin’ Stallion. Night after night of pure amazing. Hours he’d relive in his mind over and over and over. When he’d met Killian, heard the story of what really happened to the band.
The first time they’d made love. Only, back then they’d only intended a one-off. Or Killy had.
Then they’d played together, and when the show ended, they remained. Too much in his head, too much in his heart. For a man who’d once made money expressing his feelings through song, right now, words wouldn’t come.
He stroked his hand down Killian’s jaw, fingers catching against a two-day growth of beard. Cupping Killian’s chin in his hand, he leaned in and touched their mouths together. In all the chaos, all the turmoil, Killy remained a fixed point on the horizon, unmoving, solid, steady. Able to easily navigate the world he’d brought Mike to.
Killian opened to him, taking what Mike meant as a gentle kiss to another level. They’d been so busy the last few days, no time spent getting to know each other better, falling into bed at night too tired for more than a quickie or a blow job—if that.
The rathole trailer in Casper might have been a piece of shit, but it had offered a safe place, away from the world, for two tortured souls to hide from their pasts.
