“But you could have handled it better, had a more experienced reporter—”
“Who’d have twisted my words all to shit. I trust Caleb. He got the story.”
Gus’s defeated sigh wafted through the phone. “Time for damage control. I’m planning a press conference in two weeks. Until then, it’s business as usual. And Killy?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you promise to be on your best behavior?”
“Sure. My notion of my best behavior.”
Gus groaned. "Agh! You’re giving me gray hair faster than I can color it!”
Everybody knew Killian’s best behavior wasn’t good. But if he had to do this thing, he’d make the most of it.
He’d learned a thing or two while dead.
* * *
Killy took a long drag from his cigarette, easing back into the patio chair. One day, he might get used to spending time in his back yard. Especially since Mike liked the outdoors. Poor guy wasn’t much of a city boy. L.A. wasn’t his town.
But Killy could get used to the outdoor sex too.
Soon enough they’d be on the road. He’d asked Gus to plan in a few free days. Maybe they’d find some hiking trails or go horseback riding. They’d recorded several tracks in the studio, though Gus still hadn’t come through with a recording contract.
Not the end-all-be-all, but still, he’d earned some damned good money over the years. He’d been researching, and while new artists might need a boost from an established label, he’d been around long enough to sell albums on his name.
Time enough to plan the future later. Right now, something else needed arranging. He punched in the number he’d found on the Internet, sipped from a tumbler of liquid courage, and let out a deep breath.
The phone rang twice, and a man said, “Rose Ministries. How may I help you today?”
“I’d like to speak to T.S. Rose.” No need to add “please.” Anyone who’d turn their back on a wonderful man like Mike didn’t deserve respect.
“This isReverendThaddeus Rose.”
Pretentious much? “Are you the man with the wife and stepsons who sing?”
The suspicion left the man’s voice. “I am. Would you like to arrange a performance at your church?”
“To do that, I’d have to have a church first. Listen, I’m calling to ask about the oldest, the bass player. I believe his name’s Michael.”
“Oh, yes.” The man would have made a great actor, with all the angst he forced into his tone. “Tragic thing that.”
“Tragic? What thing?” Didn’t take a genius to figure out the next part.
“Michael’s death hit the whole family hard.”
“Death? Michael’s dead?” Dead? He’d told people Mike died, just to keep from having to admit he’d kicked the guy out? Those religious types had rules against lying, right?
“Yes, I’m afraid he is.”
Killy’s blood couldn’t decide whether to freeze or boil. He’d play along, let the liar dig himself deeper. He faked a sympathetic tone, tapping the fingertips of his free hand on the tabletop. “How did he die, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Michael was coming home one night from his classes at the local university. Hit by a drunk driver. It’s unthinkable when a life is cut short so young. But he’s in Heaven now, singing with the angels.”
Taking a glance at the back door to ensure Mike hadn’t dressed by now and decided to come outside, Killy put a stop to the ridiculous lies. “Are you sure about that? Last I saw of him he was very much alive, and buck naked in the shower. My shower.” Let the man stew a minute.
“I…I beg your pardon. Who is this?”
