Mike had a handle on sound and record production. Valerie’s earlier bands multitasked as roadies, manager, and whatever else they needed. Jake knew the value of not making enemies in the industry, at least since he’d sobered up, leaving him with plenty of contacts.
Gus fought hard to keep Killian dependent on him. In reality, Killian hadn’t needed the man in a long, long time. He’d go home, talk things over with Mike. With Val and Jake already on board, making a change wouldn’t take very long.
The pit dropped out of Killian’s stomach when he spotted a familiar Mercedes parked in his yard. He entered the house through the garage.
No Bronco. Where was Mike?
And what the hell was Gus doing here? Had he somehow gotten word about what Killy planned? He stormed into the living room where Gus waited, wineglass in hand. “Where’s Mike?”
“Oh, he said he’d meet us there,” Gus said a little too quickly. “I thought I’d pick you up in case you wanted to ride back with him tonight.”
Gus, being thoughtful? “What’s up? And don’t try to lie to me.”
“Nothing. Why do you think I’d lie? I’ve never lied to you before, have I?” Gus gave a shark smile.
Not that Killy could prove in a court of law, but he’d not been paying much attention to his manager’s wheeling and dealing back in the day.
“Okay, give me a half hour.” He shot upstairs, turned on the shower, and texted Mike.“Where are you?”He showered and dressed. Still no answer.
Gus smiled when Killy returned downstairs, donned his sunglasses, and led the way to his Mercedes.
Killian settled himself into the passenger seat and texted Mike again.“Everything okay?”
Gus craned his neck to see Killy’s phone. “What are you doing?”
“Texting Mike.” He almost snapped,“What damned business is it of yours?”Talking with Christy had him thinking over past situations, how the band had always given Gus his way. According to Christy, talent agents and managers’ job were to do what the client wanted, offering advice, but not running their lives.
Once upon a time Killian might have needed micromanaging. Not now. He frowned. Mike normally answered texts quickly. Maybe he was busy. Still, the squirming in the pit of Killy’s gut gave him bad feelings.
Especially coupled with Gus’s overly perky mood.
He’d been there when Killy and Elliot crawled out of the wreckage of their mother’s overdose, when Mom’s manager would’ve put them on the same road to Nodamnwhere she’d traveled.
In hindsight, pure dumb luck drove the band mostly, and a diehard fan base.
Killian pulled up a drafted e-mail on his phone and hit “send.” Please let Christy back up her words with action.
“Oh, look. We’re here.” Gus pulled up next to the coliseum’s rear entrance and let Killy out. “I’ll be along in a bit.” Allowing no chance to reply, he stomped the gas and squealed tires.
Killy glanced right and left, but no one seemed around, until he tried the door. He took the opportunity to send a quick text.
A security guard opened at his knock. “Mr. Desmond? They’re waiting for you.”
According to Christy, her management company saw to sound checks, meaning Killy wouldn’t have to arrive as early. And this venue only held eight thousand. Tickets sold out, so why wasn’t Gus booking bigger shows?
What if, like Christy said, Gus simply didn’t have the clout in the industry to manage a band at Trickster’s level? They had number one hits, and a platinum album. A Grammy. A far cry from the nothing band playing seedy bars they’d been when they’d first met him.
The guard handed Killian over to a young woman with a shy smile and pink hair. “This way, sir.”
Familiar voices pointed him in the right direction. He needed to see Mike. Make sure all was okay. They’d had a few stormy days, but soon Mike would never have to deal with assholes again—they’d pay people to handle bullshit for them.
He stepped out onto the stage where Valerie and Jake gave their instruments the once over. Valerie waved. “Hey, Killy. Is Mike with you?”
“No. Gus said he was here.” Tight bands constricted Killy’s heart, the sense of wrongness started when he’d first laid eyes on Gus today increasing.
“Haven’t seen him.” Jake twirled a drumstick between nicotine-stained fingers.
Fuck. Killy texted again. Nothing.
