He’d told Mike the story, of how Debbie Desmond’s label prohibited Killian from performing her songs, and though he’d finally won the rights, he wouldn’t let the assholes earn a dime from him playing them.
It wasn’t like Killian didn’t have enough material of his own for three or four more albums.
Mike almost wished they’d ask him a question and let Killy catch his breath.
Instead, the drummer and keyboard player told how honored they were to be a part of Trickster, especially Val, who’d shared a history with the band and always wanted to be a permanent member.
Only a few more minutes to go. So far, Mike managed to avoid anything but the simple, “Where are you from?” or “what instruments do you play?”
The man who’d upset Killian earlier spoke up without being called on again. “Mr. Rose, is it true you once played with gospel group Raptured Roses until your family disowned you?”
What? Mike cut his gaze to Gus. He’d promised this wouldn’t happen.
Yet he sat there, doing nothing.
The world tunneled around Mike, his heart pounding. No! He didn’t want to talk about his family. “No comment,” he finally said. He could do that, right?
The man wouldn’t shut up. “Is it also true that rather than acknowledge you, your father made an announcement to the band’s fans that you died?”
“Stepfather,” Mike said, in a daze.
Killian jumped to his feet. “That’s enough.” His glare should’ve sent the man up in flames. “Play nice, if you want to keep playing.”
The man ignored him. “Mr. Rose, would you answer the question?”
Mike stood on shaky legs. His family might have turned their backs, but he’d never hurt his mother or brothers. Ever. Biting back a growl, he managed to answer in a nearly-civil voice. “If you want to know about the music, where I’m from, what the band’s working on, I’ll answer anything you want, but I will not bad mouth anybody or feed into drama, understand? My personal life is personal.”
“But…”
“Enough!” Killy growled at Gus, “Get him the fucking hell out of here!”
The man didn’t stop yelling hurtful questions until security shoved him out of the room.
The damage was done.
Mike’s eyes stung. Why? Why did they have to go and ask questions he didn’t even want to think about?
Suddenly Killian’s snark made sense. He’d dealt with this kind of treatment his whole life. Maybe the preacher had done him a favor by not letting Mike field questions.
He sat through the rest of the torture in silence. If someone asked him a question, Killy answered. In the end Killy cut the meeting short, despite Gus’s objections, and escorted Mike from the room, to a shouted, “Is it true you and Mike are a couple?”
* * *
Mike sat in a rented room far grander that any he’d been in before, holding a bottle of water he hadn’t bothered to drink from. At one time he’d hurt badly enough to want to strike out at his family, but not now. He’d gotten on with his life, and refused to let a grudge hold him back.
He still wrote music, still played, and he’d found Killian, the band. Did he miss his mother and brothers? Very much so, but not enough to hurt them by dragging them through the mud. His daddy raised him to be better than that.
Besides, his brothers likely had no idea what happened all those years ago when Mike disappeared. Did they really think him dead?
“You okay?” Killy crouched beside Mike’s chair.
Mike nodded, not yet trusting himself to speak. If he stayed quiet, he might hold himself in check. If he started talking, let the poison out, he’d start crying.
He’d cried enough.
“I’m sorry about that.” Killian plucked the bottle from Mike’s numb fingers and set it aside, then took both Mike’s hands in his. “That asshole had no right. I’ve asked Gus to find out who he’s with. They’ll never be invited to another of our press conferences.”
“I thought Gus talked with them, told them what they could and couldn’t ask.”
