Maybe Killy should make Annie’s day, hand her a credit card and Mike’s sizes, and send her out to do some shopping, insisting she get something for herself too.
Yeah, he’d do that. Right now, he’d keep himself busy enjoying the view.
Why the ever-loving hell did seeing Mike’s bare feet make Killy want to lean him over the counter?
Treading gently, Mike entered the room, brows raised in question and steps hesitant.
“C’mere, you.” Killy lifted his arm for his lover to slide beneath, and pressed his lips to Mike’s temple.
“Some practice room you got.”
“Mostly me and Elliot came here. Rob showed up a few times, and Ace too. I figured I’d put the space to good use again.” Besides, holding practice here might let him fly beneath Gus’s radar. There’d be hell to pay when his manager found out he’d picked his band without Gus’s input, though contracts had yet to be signed.
Didn’t matter. Unless they both sucked canal water, which he doubted Valerie and Jacobi capable of, they had a band.
He had to let go to fix more coffee and make Mike a cup, pushing Ace’s cup away and choosing plain white ones. He’d also need a “Mike’s cup” for down here. What would he like? Something cute, like the smiling sloth on Elliot’s or, more like Ace’s, which said in big block letters, “Don’t let the bastards wear you down.”
“The others won’t be here for a while yet. Annie’ll let them in.” Killy took a few sips of coffee, placed the cup on the counter, and picked up his practice instrument. After three years of neglect, the thing probably sounded like shit.
But no, after a bit of tuning, sweet notes poured out. Killy grinned and strummed a few chords.
“Let me go get my bass,” Mike said, turning to leave.
“No!” Killy called out without thinking. “Use that one.” He froze. Had he honestly intended to let someone else use his brother’s guitar? Or, one of his brother’s guitars.
Well, why not? They both played left-handed, and what better tribute to Elliot than for someone who loved music as much as he had to put the things to use. Besides, Elliot owned twenty.
Mike strapped on the bass and tuned up. He flicked a gaze to Killy and backed away.
“What’s wrong?”
Mike sighed. “I… No, you’ll think it’s stupid.”
Killian snorted. He’d only known the man a few weeks, but hadn’t seen a single hint of stupid. “I highly doubt it. What?”
“I kinda sorta wrote a song in the shower this morning.” Mike’s Adam’s apple bobbed with his hard swallow.
“You’ve written dozens just since I’ve known you.” Was a damned good songwriter in Killian’s opinion, even if Killy hadn’t yet worked up the nerve to listen to one of Mike’s Raptured Roses CDs. Knowing about Mike’s family, how they’d betrayed him, didn’t incline him to listen with an open mind.
Mike ducked his head, a fall of hair hiding his expressive eyes. “This one’s for you.”
Oh? In all his life, no one had ever written a song about Killian before, though his mother once told a reporter her ode to cocaine was actually about her sons.
Yeah, right.
“I want to hear it.”
“Really?”
Why did Mike find that so hard to believe? One day soon Killy would hunt down the folks who’d made Mike doubt himself and unleash a torrent of swearing like they’d probably never heard before. Heh. He’d been told his swearing would set fire to someone’s ears one day. Dare he hope it’d be the elder Roses?
“May I?” Mike nodded toward an acoustic on a stand, strung for left-handed playing.
Killian handed him the seen-better-days guitar.
Mike sat on a couch against the far wall, with an audience of one for a solo debut. It took him a few minutes to tune the long-unused instrument.
Mike gave Killy a sheepish smile, closed his eyes, and raced his fingers over the guitar strings. Damn, what a riff. The notes died down, joined by Mike’s pure tenor.
