The band members looked like poor relations next to the well-dressed manager—or a street gang, with Killian’s scars, Val’s spikey hair and leather neck and wrist bands, and Jacobi’s six-six body-builder frame. They all pulled off a bad-assed vibe—except for Mike.
Mike sported a bit more scruff than usual at Killy’s suggestion, and jeans a whole lot tighter than he’d ever worn before. If he moved wrong his junk might be history. Even with Killian’s coaching, and new clothes purchased by Annie, he felt out of place next to folks who appeared so comfortable.
She’d spent one hell of a lot of money to make him look like he’d just pulled an all-nighter in a club somewhere, judging by the torn jeans, faded T-shirt, and new boots that already appeared scuffed.
Still, he and Killian were nearly late, due to how well Killian said he liked Mike’s packaging. So much so that he’d stripped Mike out of his clothes and made him get dressed all over again—after a shower for two.
Mike forcibly pushed aside reminders of how he’d once sold CDs and other Raptured Roses merchandise at his stepfather’s bidding, instead of paying other people to handle such matters.
How were his brothers? His mother? Did they ever think of him, miss him? Or did they believe him dead, a sexual deviant not good enough for them to acknowledge?
A sinner. He’d carefully avoided scouring the Internet for news until avoidance became second nature.
He followed behind Killy and Gus, tuning out their hushed conversation. This was it, their first performance as the reformed Trickster.
The crowds hadn’t yet arrived, though plenty of crew roamed around, more than Mike had ever seen at a Raptured Roses concert, hauling cases and equipment here and there.
Before they stepped inside the building Killy put a hand on Mike’s shoulder and gave him a bittersweet smile. “I played here once, a long time ago.”With Elliotwent unsaid.
Poor guy mourned his brother like Mike mourned his own, but for different reasons.
Maybe together they’d heal, or at least offer a comforting shoulder when needed.
In a numb dream-state Mike readied for the concert. Killian refused a stylist, preferring to be himself. After their sound check, they munched pizza before the show, lounging in chairs or on the couch backstage. All chilling, except for Mike, whose stomach rolled at the thought of food.
Jake spun drumsticks in his fingers, idly chatting with Val, Gus hung in a corner on his cellphone, one finger stuffed into his free ear.
With every growl and glower, or stark indifference, he spoke of his disdain for Mike. Why? What had Mike ever done to the guy?
“You’re gonna be fine,” Killy told him from his spot on the couch next to Mike. He patted Mike’s leg and leaned in closer. “Just remember The Stallion, and what we’ll do after the show.”
Yeah. Imagining The Stallion, their night of triumph, their first performances together, set his nerves at ease.
Briefly.
Chanting filled his ears the moment he stepped into the hall from the dressing room, shaking him up again. “Trickster! Trickster!”
“Ready?” Killy asked.
No. “Yeah. Let’s do this.” Mike tried to smile, he really did, but fell short of genuine.
Killian put their foreheads together. “I’ll be right there. You’re gonna be fine. We’re gonna be fine. Let’s go kick some ass.”
Val gave him a brief squeeze around the waist and Jacobi murmured, “You got this,” in passing.
The clapping and cheering grew louder, though Mike couldn’t make out what the announcer said.
Then he found himself on stage, strapping on his guitar, the keyboard and drums playing the entry to their first song.
He wasn’t alone. His brothers weren’t at his back, but Killian trusted Val and Jake as musicians. They’d yet to show how well they did in front of a crowd as part of Trickster. Mike trusted Killian.
He joined in the moment Killian did.
Only four verses, but the pauses between words stretched the song to three and a half minutes.
“Wrapped up in silver
Forever I roam
