Killy didn’t like favors—either owing them or calling them in, but there was one thing Caleb could do. “While you’re on the rodeo circuit, could you keep an eye on my dad? He’s not getting any younger.”
“As long as I don’t have to go out drinking with him again, will do.” Caleb’s chuckle wafted over the phone. “He could drink ten cowboys under the table, and probably has.”
Yeah, true. Still, too bad Papa Amos hadn’t been around when Killy met with Caleb. He’d like to have introduced the old fart to Mike.
Killy ended the call and let out a breath. The final podcast was gonna change a lot of people’s world view.
* * *
Mike sat next to the sound engineer in the control room. “Back off on the fade at the end ofTransition, and maybe up the bass at the start ofHolding On.” He slid his fingers over the control panel to demonstrate.
The woman followed suit, never questioning Mike’s judgement. Out of necessity he’d learned soundboards as a teen, running the sound booth at his stepfather’s church. Being scolded in an eerily calm voice when he’d made a mistake taught him not to make mistakes.
“Mr. Rose, what are you doing?”
Mike glanced up. “Sir?”
Gus stood with his hands on his hips, tapping the toe of a shiny loafer. “Your job is to sing and play bass. We’ve hired professionals to record and mix.”
Oh. Heat flared up Mike’s cheeks. He hadn’t considered that things worked differently in this world, and his opinions wouldn’t matter. Back home he’d been a big fish in a small pond. Now, he’d barely be considered a minnow, surrounded by larger, hungry fish.
Mostly piranhas.
Killian stepped up behind Gus, sipping from a water bottle. “I happen to agree with him. There is too much fade. Upping the bass sets the tone forHolding On.”
Gus spun. Though Mike couldn’t see, he well imagined a lead-melting glare. “Since when did you give a rat’s ass about anything happening after you leave the sound booth?”
Killy pointed the top of his water bottle at Gus. “Listen, you were the one who’s been pleading with me to come back. I’m back. I’ve also grown up one hell of a lot in the last few years, enough to take more of an interest in my career. Something you also used to beg me to do.”
“Take an interest, yes. Meddle in things you shouldn’t? No. Now. Get back in there and try out that new track you’ve been bragging about.” Gus pointed toward the sound booth.
The new track. The air left the room, and tight bands squeezed Mike’s chest. His song. Killy actually wanted to record one of his songs.
Almost made up for being told to butt out of production.
The sound engineer gave an apologetic shrug, but didn’t readjust the controls from where Mike set them.
Killy downed the rest of his water and tossed the bottle into the recycle bin. “C’mon, Mike. Let’s go show them how it’s done.”
* * *
The band members laughed and joked on the way to Killy’s after the recording session, flying high on a good session. Mike held his breath, waiting for the band’s, and the manager’s, reaction to his contribution. So far no one commented, though the sound engineer gave a discreet thumb’s up as they left the studio.
Even Killy stayed silent. He’d said he loved Mike’s one and only attempt at a love song, thought Mike hadn’t exactly used the word “love”.
A love song for Killian. Yes, Mike did love the guy, but friend love, or romantic love? Easy to confuse the two—especially when the lanky guitarist felt so good in Mike’s arms.
Still, he felt so out of place riding in the back of a limo with people whose names and faces graced the covers of magazines. He’d watched videos with Val and Jacobi, familiarizing himself with their styles, their strengths and weaknesses while performing.
Just as he had his brothers, adjusting song choices and chords to suit their playing and voices.
Over pizza and drinks in the garden they relived the high points while gathered around a wrought-iron table. The air was warm, but not hot, a soft wind brushing Mike’s skin. The sun sank lower on the horizon, finally disappearing from sight.
At last Gus let out a breath sure to measure on the windspeed charts at the local airport. “I’ll give it to you straight.” He placed his wine glass on the table, addressing Killian and ignoring Mike. “Look, I get what you’re trying to do, but the label execs expect certain things from you. Syrupy love songs aren’t a part of the Killian Desmond image. I’m already doing damage control over those gawdawful podcasts.”
Syrupy love songs?
Ice crept through Mike’s insides, the vise around his heart winding tighter and tighter. Wouldn’t Killian say anything? Those weren’t simply words on a page. Mike cut his soul open and bled out his feelings. Sure, neither he nor Killian had ever spoken words of love, probably wouldn’t, because those, too, weren’t a part of Killian Desmond’s image.
