to be dealing with the two of them for the rest of our lives. Damien Mitchell’s hooked into me deep, and I’m not fighting it any. I love the daft asshole, and pretty sure he feels the same way about me. So you might as well get comfortable sharing a table with me from now on, because those two? They’re going to be taking us on some wild rides.”
Taking a Tequila Shot
SINJUN WAS quiet.
Not unusual for Miki, but he was oddly quiet when Damie came downstairs, freshly fucked, newly showered, and ready for coffee. There was thinking going on behind his friend’s wary hazel eyes, obvious to anyone who knew him well enough to see the slightly spacey film in his gaze. Mixing coffee, cream, and sugar into two mugs, Damie padded into the living room and sat sideways and cross-legged on the sectional, mimicking Miki’s habitual perch against the padded couch arm.
Miki still didn’t look up. He continued to scribble down notes over sheet music, humming out pieces as he worked. Waiting Miki out was going to take too long, so Damien shoved a cup of coffee under his nose, jerking Miki’s attention up.
“Put that down for a bit, Sinjun.” Damien tugged at the notebook, wresting it free so he could replace it with the mug.
“Doing something here,” Miki protested, but it was a half-assed murmur and he looked glad for the coffee. Taking a delicate sip, he leaned back and sighed when he swallowed. Peering over the cup’s rim, Miki stared at Damien. “What?”
“What did you think about the drummer from Red Runners? She’s good.” He didn’t really want to talk about drummers, but it seemed like a good place to start. “Want to see if we can steal her?”
“Kind of angry,” Miki muttered under his breath. “Like, really angry.”
“Only room for one angry person in the band?” Damien nudged Miki’s knee and got the scornful glare he’d been expecting.
“I’m not angry.”
“Right, because you’re a ray of sunshine and rainbows.”
“Fuck you.”
“Proves my point right there, Sinjun.” Dude joined them on the couch, and Damien scratched at the terrier’s belly.
Since Miki’d agreed to look at musicians, they’d done rounds in clubs and bars, listening to sets and judging what they found. Some were decent. A couple were good. Most were slogging through cover tunes and eyeing pieces of ass to tumble once the set was done.
“You’re right. She was pissed off. Might have been an off night,” Damie pointed out.
“She spent five minutes telling me that Kane and I weren’t really a relationship because guys can’t love right without a chick in the equation,” he growled back. “A ménage, sure. But just two guys? No. What kind of fucked-up shit is that?”
“Yeah, I thought you were going to punch her.” He did. There’d been a split second when Damie’d thought they’d both end up in jail. Miki loved sparsely and fiercely. He knew that from experience. “And she didn’t like dogs. Pity the bassist was shit. He was cute. Stupid but cute. Like a golden retriever puppy.”
“Sionn’s going to stretch your neck if he catches you looking.” The warning was hot, a slide of anger under Miki’s whiskey-gold rasp. “Just sayin’.”
“Not for me, jerk. For the crowd. Cute’s nice to have on stage. Main reason I dragged you up there.” Damien slapped Miki’s thigh, and the sound resonated through the living room. Dude perked up his ear and lifted a lip, giving off a warning snarl. “Hey, I was here first, dog. I get to smack him.”
“So we’re back to square one on our drummer.” Miki scratched at Dude’s ears.
“Yeah,” Damien agreed. Now was the time to bring up the favor Sionn’s aunt asked of him. “Since we’re back at square one, there’s someone Brigid wants us to meet.”
A Touch of Irish
Fire and hurt brought you to me
Had nothing in me but pain
You wiped my tears, Held on to my heart
And showed me how to live all over again.
—Love and Life
FOREST’D GROWN up inside of The Sound. It cradled him in a way; drywall boxes were his pubescent cribs, while sound boards rocked his sleep with often discordant lullabies as musicians struggled to find their own place in a universal orchestra. He’d replaced every water-stained tile in the ceilings, side-eyed the wiring kraken in room three an electrician swore was legal, and sweated at least seven gallons a year behind aging drum kits for a few dollars when a band needed a percussionist.
And never once in the years he’d