Make another call.
Ever since his return he’d butted heads with Trickster’s manager more and more. Gus had been fine for an up and coming band with more talent than brains and in need of guidance. At the time, Gus had been in the music management industry for more than twenty years and brought much-needed experience.
Especially when Killian wanted someone else to handle all the business, leaving him free to do whatever the hell he pleased. Making music wasn’t enough anymore. He wanted creative control to try new things, see where the band could go.
And Gus no longer had their backs, if he ever had. He believed even negative publicity got their name out there. So many past articles published about Trickster’s less than stellar antics. At the time he’d thought a roadie or someone sold the story. Had Gus been behind the exposure?
If so, Gus just numbered his days with Trickster. After Killian found a way out of his contract. Did he even have a contract? He’d returned to a shitstorm. He needed help, someone who knew the ins and outs of the business, had the backbone not to roll over and show their belly anytime the shit hit the fan.
For Mike’s sake, please let the God that Mike believed in—and Killy wasn’t sure about—help him.
35
Mike didn’t speak much on the ride back home, and he showered and went to bed in the guest room before Killian settled for the night.
Killian stood at the bedroom door, watching Mike by the scant illumination coming through the window from the security light. “Can I come in?”
Mike sighed. “It’s your house.”
Ow. Direct hit. “You’re living here. It’s your home too.”
Mike sighed again and patted the bed.
Killian didn’t blame Mike for being hurt or wanting some time alone. Having someone else control your life like a puppeteer sucked. The difference between them was that Killy was used to it. Mike too, in a way, but he’d fought hard for his freedom, to be in control of his life.
Concert money had started rolling in. Would Mike move out? Get his own place?
Killy hoped not. He’d spent too much time alone already. If not for Mike, he’d still be solitary. He and Mike just… clicked.
And Killy had followed the path of least resistance for too many years. He climbed under the covers, still dressed, and wrapped an arm around Mike, fully prepared to jump back if Mike fought the intimacy.
Instead, Mike put his hand over Killy’s. “I’m sorry I lashed out at you. I’ve handled this whole thing badly.”
“You handled it better than most would have.” Killy planted a kiss on Mike’s shoulder. “Personally, I’d have gotten wasted and trashed a hotel room.” He’d meant it as a joke, until realizing the truth in the words.
He’d been a bad, bad boy once upon a time.
“I’m starting to think I don’t belong here.”
What? No! “You belong with me.” The words felt strange leaving Killy’s mouth, but damn, they tasted of truth.
Mike turned his head enough to press his lips to Killian’s. “I… I want to be with you, am never happier than when we’re together. It’s the sharks I’ll never adjust to. I feel I’m in over my head. Drowning.”
“I’ll save you.”
“Promise?”
“Always.” Killy would kill to keep his promise.
Which strengthened his resolve to make some changes. He’d been drifting in more ways than one, coasting through life, never appreciating his talents, the stardom so many others worked for their whole lives and never achieved.
What his brother didn’t live long enough to truly enjoy.
* * *
Killian left Mike sleeping and slipped out of the house. If his efforts failed, if no one knew, who’d care?
Of all the cars in the garage, besides Mike’s Bronco, the Corvette was the least flashy, least likely to draw undue attention. The drive to his meeting place didn’t take long. He pulled into a parking garage and walked the two blocks to his destination.
