Chapter 2
CHAPTER 2
“ D ude, have you lost your mind? You can’t be serious!”
Kit paused in the middle of his packing and glanced over at Steph, reading both disbelief and concern in her wide, blue eyes. He knew she was protective of him, as her “baby” brother, even though he was only two years younger than she was and had been performing in front of stadium crowds for years. Yet she also knew of the pain he kept carefully hidden, and she was probably right to question his sanity. Hell, he questioned it himself, but it didn’t change what he was about to do.
“This might be my only chance to finally get closure,” he said, reaching for a stack of t-shirts and tucking them into the smallish suitcase. He’d planned to spend a few weeks at his parent’s house, visiting with them and Steph and her kids, but that had all gone out the window when he’d heard that the bassist for the F-Holes had been injured. He’d not even given it any thought before he’d contacted Sultana’s manager and basically forced him — under protest — to go through Headcrash and get Kit the substitute position. Now, less than two days after arriving in New York from London, he was packing light and heading to Philadelphia as fast as he could. He would send for whatever else he needed later. Assuming, of course, that Luka didn’t send him packing within five minutes of his arrival. Given Luka’s stubbornness, Kit’s tenure with the F-Holes was more than a little in doubt.
“You’re more likely to get a punch in the face or maybe a concrete block to your head,” Steph pointed out. “Luka had one hell of a temper, even as a kid, and it only seemed to get worse as he got older. Or else why would he have done a stupid-ass move like cut out on Sultana, just when you guys made it big?”
Kit winced. He’d never explained, even to Steph, what had gone down at the end. It was mostly from guilt, since he knew what had happened had probably, to Luka, seemed like the biggest betrayal possible. But Luka had refused to give Kit a chance to explain, and Kit, in frustration and shame, had said some things that had only made everything far worse. Luka had stormed out of the apartment they shared with the other members of Sultana, and refused all overtures Kit had tried to make. He’d dropped out of the band, blocked Kit and the others everywhere — cell phone, social media — and he’d even changed his email address. The most shocking part had been when he’d started going by his real name again, instead of the stage name he’d used with Sultana — and which he’d selected to be a rejection of his parents’ attempts to control him. But no matter what Kit had tried to do, Luka had refused to talk to him or see him. The only glimpses Kit had had of him in the last four years had been when Luka had started his new band, and Kit had managed to get to one or two F-Holes shows despite his packed schedule with Sultana. He’d considered trying to get backstage to talk to Luka, but he’d always chickened out. Not because he feared Luka’s temper, but because Luka had every right in the world to never want to talk to him again.
And that was something that had been tearing Kit up inside since the night it had happened.
But now that an opportunity had fallen into his lap, Kit had to take it. It was that or continue to live with the hole he’d been carrying around inside himself for the rest of his life.
“It’s complicated,” he’d said.
Steph rolled her eyes. “That’s what you always say! Yeah, I get it, but whatever went down, if Luka is still mad after this long, it’s a him problem, not a you problem.”
“Maybe.” Kit shrugged, and he could tell she wanted to know more, but he couldn’t tell her. It was between him and Luka, and that was where he was going to keep it.
“Okay, fine, have it your way.” She stood up from the bed, crossing to him to hug him tightly. “If it matters, my fingers are crossed for you. I know how you felt about him for all those years. Hopefully you can get whatever you need to move on and finally be happy.”
Kit hugged her back. “Thanks.” He knew she worried about him, but Kit didn’t really want to move on. What he wanted was Luka back in his life, and he knew this might be his one opportunity to finally make things right.
Two hours later, he was on a plane, taking the short hop to Philadelphia. He was met at the airport by Carter Morton, head A as far as he was concerned, they were fellow musicians.
“It’s not pity, trust me,” Kit replied. “I love your music, and honestly, you’re doing me a huge favor.”
“How so?” Kris asked, inclining her head and raising a brow. Her blue-eyed gaze was direct, and Kit could immediately sense that if anyone in the band was going to see through any bullshit, it would be her. He doubted that much escaped her notice.
“I’m a workaholic, I guess,” Kit replied, smiling sheepishly. It was even true, if not the whole truth of the matter. “I was already wondering what I was going to do to keep from going stir crazy in the next few months. The moment I heard you needed a bassist, I jumped at the chance. I guess I don’t do relaxation very well.”
“We’re just happy to have you, man,” Andre said, and the others nodded. “I guess it was lucky for all of us that you could step in.”
“Seems like,” Kit replied, but he was distracted by movement behind the others. Greg was approaching, and he had Luka with him. Kit wasn’t sure if the manager had scolded Luka or simply told him he had to be civil, but whatever the reason, Luka was there, keeping his distance by remaining behind Jo’s wheelchair. His expression was blank, and he didn’t meet Kit’s eyes.
“Welcome to the F-Holes,” Greg said. He was more welcoming than Luka, but his gaze was assessing, as though he knew — or at least suspected — that Kit had an ulterior motive. “Thanks for helping us out.”
“Yeah, thanks,” Luka echoed. The total lack of emotion in his voice made him sound robotic, and it was in stark contrast not only to the cheerful tones of the rest of the band, but to the passionate fury Kit remembered all too well from their last meeting. He’d always loved Luka’s sexy voice, and he would almost rather have had the anger back than this complete lack of anything at all. Seeing Luka without his normal intensity somehow seemed wrong.
Kit caught Kris giving Luka a puzzled look, and Kit hoped he wasn’t going to earn even more hatred from Luka by causing dissension in the band. Then Luka finally glanced at Kit, almost looking through him, and Kit almost shivered in reaction, so icy was the expression in Luka’s usually warm hazel eyes.
“Of course,” Kit managed to get out, and it was he who looked away first. Maybe this hadn’t been such a good idea after all, but unfortunately now that he’d stuck his nose in, it was far too late to pull it back now. Drawing in a breath, he steeled himself for what was apparently going to be a siege. “I brought my bass, and fortunately, I’m familiar with your standard set.”
“Really?” Andre grinned. Either he hadn’t noticed Luka freezing Kit out, or he was used to Luka’s moods and was able to ignore them.
“Yeah, really.” Summoning up a smile, Kit looked at the rest of the band, ignoring the six foot two, dark-haired elephant in the room and focusing on the more positive members. He did want to be a help, and having them on his side could only be helpful. “I’ve been to a couple of your shows, and Carter hooked me up with the live recording of Tuesday’s show. You guys were killing it.”
“Thanks!”
“It felt like we were!”
“Yeah, it was going great — the crowds were loving it!”
The rest of the band babbled excitedly, but Kit noticed Luka had walked away. As Kit watched, Luka picked up an instrument case, then moved to the side of the room, where several amps were located, no doubt for performers to warm up. While he continued to chat with the others, he was always aware of Luka, the way he got out his electric cello, plugged it in, then donned headphones. Within moments, Luka was lost in his own world, just how Kit remembered from all the years they’d been roommates. When Luka played, he shut out everything — especially his pain. From the way Luka was sawing at the strings, he was probably riffing on Mussorgsky or Shostakovich, something dark and atonal that matched his expression. Then he saw the way Luka was bowing, the way his fingers moved against the strings and awarded himself a mental point as he recognized the song: “Night on Bald Mountain.” That wasn’t good at all.
Time seemed to ripple and flow backwards as Kit watched. How many times had Kit seen Luka exactly this way, eyes closed, shoulders hunched forward as though he was bent under a massive weight? In high school, it had been the burden of his parents’ expectations, added to the confusion of discovering his sexuality. Then, in college, it had been the pressure of his mother’s disappointment and grief from his father’s unexpected death. Luka had been haunted then, beaten down and nearly defeated in knowing he could never earn the approval he’d sought. Kit had tried to help as best as he could, the supportive best friend, even though he’d wanted to offer more. If Luka had been able to see beyond his pain, how could he have failed to see that Kit stood ready to hand Luka his heart?
But Luka, as always, had shut himself away with his music. Kit had done what he could, but he’d known that Luka didn’t trust easily, and he would only let Kit in so far. Best friend, comrade, bandmate — these were the safe lanes in which Kit could travel through Luka’s life. Somehow, even when they’d be young and hormonal, Kit had known that to press for more before Luka was ready would be a mistake.
It wasn’t all one sided, of course. Luka had been a caring friend to him in return, always ready to talk about Kit’s problems, his doubts about his musical ability, his dreams of the future. They had a great deal in common, from their tastes in music to a love of old movies and classic cars. There was just a part of Luka that no one seemed able to touch, something he guarded, no doubt so that he couldn’t be hurt. So Kit had bided his time, hoping that as their fledgling band, Sultana, was starting its journey toward stardom, that Luka would finally bring down the walls that he kept around his heart and let Kit in.
Only things had exploded in Kit’s face, and he’d lost everything because of his own stupidity.
“All right, everyone, Luka has the right idea,” Greg said, pulling Kit out of his memories as he apparently decided to roll with the circumstances, since he couldn’t change them. “Warm up, and then we’ll meet out on the stage in fifteen for sound checks.”
The rest of the group went off to get their instruments or grab something to drink, and for a moment, Kit thought about going over to Luka. He was anxious to talk to Luka, really talk, but he knew it wasn’t time yet. He was going to have to be patient — not really a strength of his, and definitely not one of Luka’s — and wait for the right time. At some point, Luka was going to have to acknowledge him, and Kit was going to have to bide his time until then. There was simply no way to be in a band together, out on tour, without ever speaking.
But looking at Luka now, lost in his music and as remote as the moon, Kit wondered if Luka would somehow find a way.