Chapter 17

Restless itch

Need to scratch my sin

Fingers in deep

Don’t let it end

Confused and alone

Someone’s puppet again

—Scratch My Sin

“DID YOU have to bring all of Sinner’s Gin with you to look at these?” Kiki grumbled, passing a stack of booking photo slips over to Forest.

“No, just the ones that are alive,” he muttered under his breath. “They wanted to come. It’s for support.”

“They’re signing autographs.” She rolled a chair over to the desk where he sat, staring at the musicians standing at the edge of the bull pen. “Shit, now Damie’s autographing some chick’s boobs. They’re going to get my ass kicked.”

Forest glanced over his shoulder at the guys who’d brought him in. Damie looked like he was eating up the attention, and Miki had what Forest now knew was his “public” face on, an inscrutable, polite mask he donned to work through a crowd of grasping people. He met the singer’s eyes and winked, getting Miki to crack a wry smile at him.

It’d been almost three weeks since the stolen van crashed through the Amp, and in that time, the shift in his life was nearly too much for Forest to wrap his mind around. The band—the band—was his lifeblood. Spending hours with Miki and Damie playing made him almost forget someone was trying to kill him. At first, he’d wondered if the two guys were merely humoring his presence so Connor didn’t worry about him being alone, but they’d clicked. He endured Damie’s boisterous ego and laughed with Miki when the guitarist went off about music in general.

And the playing—God, the music they made—it flowed through his soul and filled him. Then there was Connor.

He tugged at his jeans, silently scolding his quickly hardening dick. Shit, even thinking about the man gave him a hard-on. Not something he wanted to deal with in the middle of the day without Connor around to help him get rid of it.

“Perv,” Forest scolded his cock. “You’re at a goddamned police station.”

His cock ignored him, continuing its merry little happy dance as if to remind him cop was now on the list of erotic words that got Forest horny.

“Fucker,” he muttered halfheartedly.

“Hey.” Miki pulled up a chair and sat by Forest’s elbow, peering over his arm to look at the photos. “These the guys Frank had a beef with?”

“Some,” Kiki replied. “Mostly people he knew back in the day—when he was more of a druggie. Or at least getting popped more for possession.”

“He was a stoner, sure,” Forest murmured, staring at the photos. “But nothing hard. Nobody gets killed over pot.”

“Ackerman, people get killed for stealing someone’s pen,” she replied caustically. “Take your time and just look through the photos. See if you recognize anyone who’d come by the Amp recently. It’s a long shot, but something might hit you. You wait here. I’m going to get Mr. Rockstar out of sight before my captain spots him and I get chewed out.”

He sat, listening to Miki hum and sing next to him. The man was never quiet, not really. He vibrated with sound, a thrumming soul only silent when he was asleep. And, as Forest discovered one day when Miki’d passed out on the couch, he sang then too.

“I like that,” Miki said softly. “What you just tapped out. Here, write it down.”

“You write it down,” Forest said, ruefully discovering he’d started drumming on the tabletop in time with Miki’s humming. Passing over a pen and notepad from a stack on Kiki’s desk, he waved the photos in the air. “I’ve got homework. Jesus, Frank knew a lot of lowlifes. This is going to take forever.”

They worked in silence, Miki scribbling down music while Forest stared at faces he didn’t know. He pulled out five shots of maybes, then glanced over to where Damie still stood, talking and smiling at the small cluster of people around him.

“He really likes that, huh?” Forest murmured to Miki.

“Yeah, D’s always been the rock star. Even before he was one.” Miki’s mouth tugged into a smirk. “He used to pour on the charm to get laid. Now he’s getting laid, and there’s nowhere for it to go. Going to explode if we don’t do something about it soon.”

“Eh?” Forest cocked his head, not following what Miki was saying. “I don’t get it.”

“We’re going to have to get up on stage soon.” Miki stopped writing long enough to look toward Damien. “He kind of needs that. Always has. So, there it is. Got you now on drums. All we’re missing is a bassist. ’Cause yeah, I can play one, but I’m fucking mediocre. I don’t want to sing in front of crappy music.”

Forest let the man’s words sink in, and he swallowed. “Wait, I’m your new drummer? For a band?”

“What the fuck do you think we’ve been doing these past few weeks?” he growled under his breath. “Knitting? Yeah, you’re our fucking drummer. Shit, Forest. Dude, what the fuck?”

“I didn’t really….” He trailed off. Leaning back in his chair, Forest let out a long whistle. “Fucking hell. I’m your drummer.”

“Nice of you to catch up,” Miki grumbled. “I don’t think it’s going to be a huge long touring shit. It’s like we’re starting at square one again, and I… can’t deal with that crap again. Hell, I’d be fine if I never crawled back up on stage, but it’s kind of fun once you get there. I’m okay with hitting a few big cities. And studio shit—that I love. You up for that?”

“Yeah, I um… yeah,” Forest babbled quickly. “What about if Con and I… you know. I mean, he’s Kane’s brother, and if we go south and….”

“If you say we’d dump you or you guys might break up, I’m going to punch you in the face.” Another pause in Miki’s writing and then a furious scribble as he crossed out something he wrote. “The band’s the band. Nothing touches that. ’Sides, you and he are probably going to have the whole kids, minivan, and one-point-five dogs thing. Now shut the fuck up, keep looking at the photos, and give me a damned pencil. This pen’s for shit.”

“Yeah, I’m good with that,” Forest replied softly, passing Miki a pencil. “But I’m not driving a minivan.”

HE WAS sick of looking at photos. He was tired of trying to stare at men’s faces and find some feature to trigger his memory. Even worse, Forest was beginning to think he was looking at the same five guys, just from different angles or maybe even with fake mustaches. Covering one man’s upper lip with his finger, Forest chuckled at the heavy walrus whiskers he’d given a bony criminal’s face.

“Hey, baby.” Connor slid up behind Forest, leaning over the chair. “How’re you doing?”

The man’s Irish was as hot as his kiss.

And the station’s noise dropped to a stony quiet—becoming so still he could hear Con’s heartbeat.

Forest’s heart, however, came to a dead stop.

He was so shocked he couldn’t even enjoy the kiss.

And it’d been a hot kiss.

Hot enough to start Forest’s heart up again despite the shocked still hum reverberating through the station.

He drowned in Connor’s deep blue eyes, unable to look away, and whispered, “Dude, you just came out to the cops.”

“Yeah, well—I’m not going to hide you, Forest,” Connor murmured, pressing his mouth against Forest’s lips. The man was big, made bigger by his SWAT uniform, unrelieved black and form-fitting body armor. “I’m my father’s son—my mother’s son. I back down to no one, especially if they come after someone I love. That’s the way of it, a ghra. I’m a Morgan.”

Halfway through their next kiss, the station began to thrum again, a cacophony of voices, clinking cups, and mumbled profanities about shitty technology and wayward criminals. Forest savored the affection, flicking his tongue briefly past the part of his lover’s lips to tickle at Con’s teeth. Laughing, the man pulled back—just in time to get smacked on the shoulder by his younger sister.

“Lieutenant, keep your hands off my witness,” Kiki ordered.

“I haven’t even begun to get my hands on your witness,” Connor promised. “How long have you been at this? And where are the Toxic Twins?”

“They went to the Sound. The drumsticks we have at the warehouse are shitty.” Forest held up a photo of a graying, gaunt man. There was something definitely familiar about him, but for the life of him, he couldn’t place where he’d seen the guy before. Passing it over to Kiki, he said, “I know him, but I can’t tell you where from.”

“You sure?” Kiki sat down on the edge of the desk, pushing her brother aside. “Think back over the past month or so. Maybe even before Marshall died. Could you have seen him then? Maybe at the coffee shop?”

“Shit, I don’t know.” He took the photo back and stared hard.

It was like he could almost hear the man’s voice, a bitter, scalding high-pitched whine. Closing his eyes, Forest tried to imagine what the man could have been talking about—money? Drugs? None of that connected the dots, and he opened his eyes, shaking his head. He was about to toss the photo onto the desk when he remembered where he’d seen the man before.

“This guy—he was arguing with Frank. In the Sound, like a few weeks before—the fire? Maybe? I don’t remember. I thought he was bitching about a studio session because he kept going on about lost time.” Forest met the siblings’ confused looks with an exasperated roll of his eyes. “Lots of people book studio time but never show up. Thing is, their deposit is nonrefundable, so they come in to bitch about it. Happens all the time. I just kept setting up and let Frank handle it.”

“This is Gary Rollins,” Kiki said softly, and Forest’s breath caught. “You know who that is, right?”

“Yeah,” Forest replied. “Shit, he looks so old. It’s only been like ten years.”

“Old’s what happens when you go to prison as a pedo.” Kiki shrugged.

“Who’s Gary Rollins?” Connor cocked his head, studying the photo intently. “Name sounds familiar.”

“He tried some shit on me when I first moved in with Frank. A couple of years later—my head wasn’t on straight, and I got into the car with him behind the Sound, but Frank saw him. Pulled him out through the car window and beat the shit out of him.” Forest whistled under his breath. “Fuck, I was—like fourteen? Fifteen?”

“Underage enough to be tagged for a pedo. I remember now. Complaint was filed against Frank for assault.” Connor frowned, picking the photo up to study it. “Good for Frank.”

“Rollins pressed charges against Frank, but the pedo charge stuck on him,” Kiki informed them. “He was caught with another teenager about a year later, and that sent him up. He got out about six months ago. Went straight into a halfway house, and about a month ago, Rollins slipped his leash, along with a couple of the others living there. No one knows where they are.”

“So he’s a good bet, then,” Connor supposed.

“Yeah,” his sister said. “He knows the Sound. Probably knows the coffee shop too. Had a confrontation with Marshall—maybe about ending up in jail. Marshall catching him with Forest started his record. Anything after that would put him behind bars.”

“Hey, Morgan!” a uniform shouted from across the bull pen, and both siblings looked up. He pointed to Kiki and said, “Dispatch just came over with a 911 coming out of your murder scene down at Chinatown—possibly shots fired. They’re sending a unit over but thought you should know.”

Dropping his hands from Forest’s shoulders, Con frowned. “Wait, did you say the guys went down to the Sound?”

“Yeah. But—” The memory of Frank’s shooting hit Forest, and he paled. “Fuck. I’m stupid. I shouldn’t have asked them to go down there. Fuck.”

“I’m heading down there.” Kiki pushed off the desk and reached for a phone. “Get some backup. If it’s Rollins, then let’s nail the bastard. Don’t worry, kid. Miki and D will be okay. Miki’s a tough shit.”

“I should have thought—” Forest began, but Connor shook his head, brushing his mouth with a gentle kiss. “Con, if they get hurt….”

“No, babe.” The man stopped him before he could say more. “This is not on you. Don’t ever think you brought this down on any of us.”

THE VERBAL scuffle’d been brief. There wasn’t enough time to deliberate. Duarte came back from testifying in court just soon enough to be pulled into the unmarked he shared with Kiki. Over the inspectors’ protests, Connor snagged Riley to take Forest home, then, after ignoring his sister when she argued against his coming, drove his Hummer to the Sound.

It was a very long ten-minute drive. Riding in the wake of Duarte’s insane driving, Connor flipped on his emergency lights and followed close on the unmarked’s tail. Streams of cars wove in and out of Chinatown, pulling up as close to the curbs as they could get to make way for the police, but the narrow streets left little room to maneuver.

Connor tried Miki’s number, but it went to voice mail, just as it had the first ten times he’d tried. Kiki’s voice was flat over the radio, informing the dispatchers of their ETA. His scanner crackled with information as dispatch cut into the chatter, giving the responders a timeline for everyone’s arrival. Then in the middle of the muted noise, Con’s phone chimed in, and he hit the answer button, his heart sinking when Kane’s voice cut through the calls.

“What the fuck’s going on, Con?” His brother was furious. “Where are you? Dispatch said something about Miki, and I can’t get him on the phone. No one’s telling me shit. What the fuck….”

“Supposed shots fired down at the Amp.” Con stopped his brother’s rolling profanity. “Miki and Damie were down there. I don’t know anything beyond that right now.”

“Oh God, Con….”

He didn’t hear anything else Kane said. His brother’s words were drowned out by a wave of sirens as another two police cars joined the stream. Connor rolled up the windows and cut off the undulating wails, hearing the panic in his brother’s voice as Kane continued to swear.

“I don’t know, K. It could be nothing. A backfire. Hell, it could be firecrackers. We don’t know.”

“I’m too fucking far away. Sanchez and I are near Oakland. Shit.”

“I’ll take care of this, little brother. I’ve got your boy covered. Keeks and I are heading down there now. As soon as I find something out, I’ll tell you. Okay? I’ll have Miki call you.”

“Con, I can’t… not him. Not now. I can’t deal with… shit.”

“We’re almost there, Kane. I’ve got to go,” Con said gently. “As soon as I can, okay?”

“Heh, and we’re supposed to be the ones in danger.” Kane’s bitterness held little humor. “I’ll wait to hear from you; then I’ll call Sionn.”

“I’ve got to go, K. Later.” He flicked the phone off as he took a corner, the Hummer’s tires squealing.

Something was burning. Wisps of smoke trails were beginning to seep out from between the far-off buildings, but the colors were off, more clownish than menacing. Even with the windows up, the scent of caustic smoke leaked into the Hummer’s cab, and Connor blinked, trying not to rub at his eyes.

“Units responding to hazmat conditions,” the dispatcher said calmly. “Please be advised to wear protective gear in area. Residents at scene report incendiary devices exploded, possible large-gauge smoke bombs. Caution is advised.”

He was losing sight of Kiki’s car. The smoke closest to the street’s entrance was a thin, milky orange, and it crept out slowly, swallowing up most of the unmarked’s flashing lights. Only a few sparks of red and blue in the plumes indicated where the car was heading, but Connor followed, gripping the wheel as he slowed the Hummer down to enter the cloud.

The heavy vehicle rocked when he hit a curb near the studio, and Connor corrected its swerve, taking one more turn to find himself in the middle of what looked like a war zone.

There was smoke everywhere, billowing up from the street. It choked the air, red and gray plumes thickening in the narrow space between Forest’s place and the old apartment buildings across the street. The light breeze and damp air kept the smoke low, and Connor slammed on his brakes to avoid hitting Damie’s parked Challenger. Visibility was poor—so poor he nearly missed spotting the people coming out of the apartments beyond. After throwing the Hummer into park, he shed his cumbersome outer gear so he could move easier through a tight space if he needed to. Connor opened the door, then pulled the collar of his T-shirt up to cover his nose and mouth, heading into the thick smoke.

The sting of chemicals burned Con’s eyes, but he needed to find Miki and Damien first—both for his brother’s and Sionn’s sake as well as Forest’s. He spotted the entrance to the Sound and headed over, coughing to clear his lungs of the burning smoke. Somewhere behind him, a car hit a post or one of the buildings, a terrifyingly loud shear of metal creaking through the air. The smash of glass soon followed, and then a scream rent the air as a woman began crying for help.

A fire truck crept down the street behind him, a pair of responders with face masks jumping from its open cab. Oxygen tanks rattled as the men disengaged them from the truck’s equipment well. A second later, the woman’s screaming turned to long, heart-wrenching sobs, and Connor lost sight of the men in the cloudy air.

The smoke around the Sound’s door was thinner than in the street, and Connor pounded on the frame, shouting Miki’s name. From what he could make out of the interior through the business’s wide window, the studio seemed as full of vapors as the street, and he glanced down, searching for where the plumes might be coming from. Grabbing the door handle, Connor pulled, nearly yanking his shoulder out with his frustrated tugs.

“Miki!” Tearing his shirt from his mouth, Connor shouted again. “Damien!”

He coughed, sucking in a mouthful of chemicals, but he continued hammering at the door. There was movement through the window, but it was feeble, barely a flicker of a shadow against the dimness beyond. Swearing, Con tugged his shirt off all the way and wrapped it around his arm. He tested the door again, rattling it furiously, but it refused to give.

“Fuck this.” Connor smashed in the window, ducking his head to the side to avoid the flying glass. Hitching his leg over the sill, he went in, coughing when a gust carried a fresh wave of smoke his way. Connor jumped in, then fought his way through the cloudy interior, stumbling over an upended trash can.

He heard coughing, a subtle whisper and hack under the continuing wail of sirens echoing outside. Ducking down to get as far beneath the smoke as he could, Connor moved forward quickly. Something moved to the left of him, and he cocked his head, searching for either man.

So intent on finding Miki or Damien, Connor didn’t see the stool headed straight for his face until its edge caught him across the nose, and he went tumbling over, driven back from the force of the blow. He tasted blood and sucked in more stinging air, choking on his metallic-tinged spit.

The foggy air parted, and a shadow stretched over Connor. Blinking away the tears streaming from his abused eyes, he saw someone cross behind the counter. Suddenly, Miki stood over him, brandishing a heavy barstool. The singer wound up again, obviously intent on bashing Con’s head in.

“Miki!” Connor shouted, throwing his arm up to fend off the blow. It came anyway, and Con felt his right arm shudder when the metal stool hit. A sharp pain shot up to his shoulder, and his hand went numb, his fingers tingling.

The barstool rose again, then faltered. Miki peered through the smoke, and Connor spotted a thin trickle of drying blood streaming down from a cut on the musician’s cheek. The fierce look on the man’s face eased somewhat, and he slowly tilted the stool sideways.

“Connor?” Miki’s querulous rasp was broken by a series of coughs. “That you?”

“Yeah, you stupid—” Con cut himself off, remembering the mercurial singer still wielded a lethal weapon. “Are you okay? Where’s Damie? We’ve got to get you guys out of here.”

“Yeah, I’m okay.” The stool dropped to the floor with a clatter. Then Miki bent over, grabbing Connor by the arm to help him up. “But fuck, I’m glad to see you. Damie’s been shot.”