us part. Even through the insanity we’re calling our home.” Brigid laughed. “Although I swear, if we don’t get this movie going soon, ye’ll be having a lot fewer children, because they’re about to kill one another for entertainment. Start the movie, Morgan.”
“Starting the movie, Finnegan,” Donal replied, then bent down to kiss Brigid to senselessness. “And for yer information, m’bride, death’s not parting us. Yer succotash might, but death? Ah’m thinking it’ll just have to leave us as we are—just as yer boys love to the edges of their hearts, it’s how I love ye. Past life and beyond, Brigid Finnegan Morgan. Past life and beyond.”
Applejack Shots and Beer
IT WAS their God-knew-how-many practice, and Forest still couldn’t believe he was sitting behind a kit, drumming for Sinner’s Gin.
No, not Sinner’s. Not anymore.
Damien’d been firm about that. The band would be different, a blend of new members and the two men who’d put Sinner’s on the map, but different. It was not how things were done. When a band resurrected from its ashes, it usually retained some shape of its former self.
This wasn’t going to be Sinner’s.
It was something new.
And Forest was as much of a part of its creation as Damien and Miki.
Miki and Damien switched off on bass, trading the instrument between them whenever they got sick of the four-stringed monster lumbering through their music. The foundation lines were kept simple and clean, crippling the music Miki’d written for their new band, but while Damien could do the runs, his fingers instinctively reached for strings that weren’t there.
Another flub and the song tumbled to a broken stop.
“Fucking hell,” Damie spat, slinging the bass off of his neck. “Sinjun, you’re killing me with this goddamn break.”
Their singer didn’t respond at first. He was too busy sucking at the back of his hand and glaring at his best friend. When he finally spoke, Forest could feel the chill in Miki’s voice ice over the room as he held up his bloodied hand for Damien to see.
“Really? The bass line’s fucking killing you?” Miki’s tone was low, a purring thread of menace compared to the bright splash of Damien’s high energy. “You bleeding yet, or just me?”
“Shit, dude, why didn’t you tell me the string broke?” Discarding the bass, Damie grabbed at Miki’s arm. They had a small struggle, but Damien was stronger, or at least more aggressive, yanking at Miki’s wrist to examine the strike. “Hey, Ackerman, can you grab me the first aid kit?”
“It’s a fucking hole. It’ll heal,” Miki groused. He wriggled, a slinky fold of bone and sinew, but his knee gave out from under him, nearly tipping him over. “Shit.”
“Yeah, give it a rest.” Forest eased out from behind the drum kit set up in the garage studio. “I’ll be right back.”
The studio was nice, a bit tight compared to The Sound but good to practice in. A converted docking bay in the old refurbished warehouse, the space’d become a second home of sorts for Forest. Miki’d given him a key, a fucking key to the place, and Forest wasn’t sure if he was going to cry or break down and give Miki a hug.
The hug was out. Maybe. He felt an odd affection for their singer. There was something wild about Miki St. John that drew Forest out of his safe, silent zone, willing to follow wherever they wanted to lead him.
For the first time in his life, Forest felt like he fit. Connor, he loved—deeply and fully—but the band… fit. Into him. Into spaces he didn’t know were empty.
He came back with the first aid kit, and Forest threw caution to the wind. After handing Damien the cold white metal box he’d unhooked from the back wall, Forest drew Miki in for a tight hug, squeezing the lanky man until he squeaked.
“Okay, dude. It’s just a snapped guitar string.” Miki patted Forest’s back. “Not like I’m going to die or anything.”
“No, you’re not,” Forest whispered into Miki’s vanilla-scented hair. “But you sure as hell are helping me live.”
THE SOUND was packed.
Overpacked, by Forest’s standards, and it didn’t seem like it was going to unpack anytime soon.
“Didn’t know there were this many fucking bassists in California,” Jenkins growled from behind the receptionist’s counter. “And you guys are going to listen to all of them? What the fuck are you thinking?”
The product of a 1970s biracial marriage, Jenkins grew up hard and fast in Oakland, picking up the sax at an early age to make himself