“Name’s Killian Desmond. The man who just washed Mike’s back for him. There was no drunk driver, and you ought to be ashamed of yourself. A preacher and all telling such lies.” Killy took another pull from his cigarette and washed the smoke down with a mouthful of Jack.
The man not good enough to be Mike’s stepfather stayed quiet, but didn’t sound like he’d hung up. “Nothing to say for yourself?” Killy prodded. C’mon. After this conversation, Killy needed to punch someone, even if only verbally over the phone.
“What do you want?” Reverend Rose hissed, not so professional now.
“Not one damned thing. Him neither. But you need to know, if you’ve been telling your followers or whatever they’re called that he’s dead, you better tell ‘em not to watch TV or listen to the radio in the near future, or they’re gonna believe more than the guy in the Bible came back to life. Just sayin’.”
He hung up. Someone wouldn’t be sleeping tonight. His work here was done.
For now.
If Killian had to own up to the awful shit he’d done in the past, so would the Roses.
34
Days and nights went by in a blur, writing songs, playing sold out gigs, and practicing with the band. Valerie was quiet, but like Killy said, when she spoke, you’d better listen.
Jake was so laid back he practically moved in reverse. But good. Damned good, even if they had to arrange schedules around his AA meetings, and Jake might have to hunt down the occasional meeting while they toured.
Hanging with the band? Good.
Hanging with Killian, better than good.
Talking to the press. Soooo not Mike’s thing. They sat in a conference room at the hotel they’d stay in tonight. Another great performance. Could he hope the press conference would be the same?
So far Gus managed to shield them from the fallout from the podcasts, much to Mike’s surprise. Maybe he had Killian’s best interests at heart after all.
Mike grew up trusting, exposed to neighboring farmers and honest folks. He’d learned a lot since leaving home—mostly that it didn’t pay to blindly believe in the goodness of others.
Still, Gus wouldn’t shield Mike from the press, though he had promised to vet the questions. Nothing about Mike or Killy’s personal life. Val said she’d trained reporters not to ask about hers, as she had no problem giving more information than anyone wanted about polyamorous relationships.
Jake said he’d cross that bridge when he got there.
They all gathered at a table, Gus, Killy, Mike, Val and Jake.
If Mike remained still, the reporters might not notice him, might not ask him questions.
The music, singing, playing? That was what he lived for. Talking to fans? Nope. The reverend never let him and his brothers answer questions, not unless backed into a corner by someone who directed an inquiry at one of the younger Roses and had enough pull in the gospel music industry to get their way.
He snapped back to attention, drawn out of his musings by his name.
Killian smiled and slapped him on the back, the tension in his body giving away how much he, too, hated this. With the reporter in Denver, Killy called the shots, feeding the questions he wanted to answer. These vultures sought dirt.
“Mike here’s the reason I came out of retirement. We played together, I heard his music, and wanted to record again.”
A man sitting in the front row didn’t bother raising his hand before blurting out his question. “Is it true Rob Cassen killed the band?”
The hand on Mike’s shoulder clenched nearly painfully. Was this guy for real? What kind of person asked such a callous question?
Gus grabbed the microphone. “Due to ongoing legal proceedings, we’re not at liberty to discuss the band’s accident at this time.”
What? First Mike heard of that.
A woman raised her hand and smiled when Gus pointed at her. “Mr. Desmond, do you think you’ll ever record some of your mother’s songs with Trickster?”
Mike could have answered for Killy.
“No, ma’am. Those songs were written for Mom, me, and Elliot. I’m not playing them again without my mother and brother.” Muscles jumped in his jaw, and he didn’t let up on squeezing Mike’s shoulder.
