Why, oh why hadn’t Mike simply kept his overemotional ramblings to himself? Killy hadn’t withdrawn after the barely hidden open declaration of love in three quarter time, had even recorded the song to include on the album.
It seemed the revamped Trickster was only “Killy Desmond and whoever else is on the stage.”
At last Killian reacted, placing his back against the chair and stretching his long legs out in front of him. “I’m Killian Desmond. Nobody gets to tell me what my image is. I’ve spent too much of my life playing by someone else’s rules. That’s why I left. Do you honestly believe I came back for more of the same? Besides, this isn’t Killian Desmond we’re talking about, it’s Trickster. Me and three others.”
Suddenly Mike could draw breath again.
Until Gus snapped, “Doesn’t a recording contract matter to you? Your last one expired while you were gone, and they’ve not been open to offering another.”
Killy took a long, casual sip of his beer. “Apparently, not nearly as much as it does to you.” He set the beer down on the table with athunk. “I made a career out of knowing what people want to hear. I trust my instincts over any record producer’s. If they don’t like it, well, how often do bands literally come back from the dead? We could fill the album with kids’ songs and it’d still go platinum.”
From anyone else the comment might seem arrogant. Killy spoke in matter-of-fact tones, a businessman, not a rock star with an overinflated ego.
“But—”
Eyes narrowed, Killy leaned in close, eye to eye with his manager. “That song stays on the album. Bump any of the others you want. That one stays.”
Never looking away from a battle of wills, Killy reached out and took Mike’s hand. “Screw them trying to make me out as a womanizer too. In the past I let you arrange dates for me with this or that model. Helped her career, kept homophobes buying tickets. Dying teaches a man a thing or two, like I don’t give a rat’s ass what anyone else thinks. It’s my life, and if I never sell another album, once the lawyers put an end to the squabbling, I’ll still have more money than I could possibly spend in a lifetime. Turns out I owe my financial planner one hell of a bonus. He made me a whole lotta money while I was gone.” He brushed his lips over Mike’s knuckles, keeping firm eye contact with Gus.
Gus turned away.
What? Killy would put his career on the line for Mike’s song? Yes, the pressure on his heart eased at the words, but he couldn’t let the man he loved make such a decision.
Loved.
Fuck. He loved Killy. And as more than friends. Friends’ opinions mattered, but had never kept Mike holding his breath, hungry for acceptance. And though Killy hadn’t laughed at the song, his scoffing at love had been quoted often enough in magazines. Mike squeezed Killy’s hand. “It’s all right. If the song doesn’t work—”
Killy swiveled his head and fixed Mike with the intense, blue-eyed gaze Mike so loved. “It’s a damned good song, and it makes a good fit with the others. Brings the tempo down a bit, gives listeners a chance to catch their breath.” He grinned. “Also gives horny couples on a dance floor a chance to bump and grind. And a reason to.” Killy stood and pulled Mike up to stand in front of him. “That song is gonna get more people laid….”
Gus rose, smoothing his hands over his shirt. If looks could kill Mike might soon be a puddle of goo on the ground. “Can’t we talk about this?”
“Nothing to talk about.” Killy swept Mike into his arms, lips turned up in a smirk. Humming “Our Song” in Mike’s ear, he swayed them back and forth, holding Mike close.
Never before had Mike slow danced with a man, yet he found himself moving perfectly in time with Killian, like they’d practiced their steps forever.
Nothing else existed in the universe, just Mike, Killy, the stars somewhere overhead, hidden by the bright city lights, and the music.
Closer and closer they moved, until Killy parted his lips and sealed his mouth to Mike’s, keeping time with his tongue.
As good as Killy was with words, he spoke far more eloquently with music and his body.
Mike didn’t need declarations or words so easily proved to be lies. With every breath, every movement, every note he played, Killian said what mere words could never adequately express.
Mike looked out over Killian’s shoulder.
Gus, Val, and Jake were gone, leaving them alone.
Just the two of them.
The way Mike wanted things right now, until he got better at navigating the glitz and glamor of Killy’s world.
32
Wow. What a huge auditorium. At least 6,000 seats. Anaheim must be a good concert venue.
“It’s not as big as you’re used to, but it’s a start.” Gus wore jeans and a Trickster T-shirt, one of the new ones they’d hawk at the show tonight. Even in dressed-down mode, his designer jeans, diamond rings, and high-maintenance grooming screamed of money. Manicured nails, perfectly styled hair. So different from the band’s more relaxed appearance.
But… Not as big as who was used to? No one but Mike stood around with their mouths open, so maybe he alone in the group hadn’t played large venues.
