Tequila Mockingbird (24 page)

“I’m tired of—crying.” Forest sniffed, and his face was lost in the riotous mass of Brigid’s hair. “God, I’m so fucking sick of crying about this shit.”

“I’m guessing you’ve not really done any of the real crying you’ve needed to do,” she consoled. “A body can’t work out their grief unless they’re someplace safe. We’re like every animal God has created. We need to feel protected before we can let ourselves be vulnerable. You can be that now—with us, with me. That woman who carried you? She did it for me. It just took me a bit to find you, but I’ve got you now. I’m sorry for not being here sooner.”

He laughed, amused at the woman’s fierce growl. “How the hell would you have known I was going to have a shit life when I was born? And wouldn’t that kind of be icky with me and Con?”

“Shush, it sounded good,” she admonished with a light laugh. “There’s no saying I can’t have a hand in raising my sons’ lovers—no matter how old they are when I finally get my hands on them. At least you don’t rear back like an alley cat when I hug you. Miki nearly quivers when I grab at him.”

“Okay, that I can’t—” Forest chuckled, pulling away to wipe his face. “Why?”

“Because unlike you, Kane’s Sinjun is wary of being loved. Affection—real affection—came to him too late in life, and only then in the form of a very screwed-up Damie. So I hug him every chance I get. One day he’ll get used to it, maybe even like it, but for right now, he’s just suffering through it until I let him go.” Brigid leaned in and whispered, even though only she and Forest were around. “And sometimes I just hug him because I know it pisses him off, and he can’t say
shite
about it.”

T
HEY
CIRCLED
each other like tomcats, feeling one another out, and Brigid wondered aloud if it was even safe to leave Forest with the two musicians. Damien waved her out and promised they’d be good. She was reluctant to leave. Something very maternal hovered in her expression, much more so than normal. It gave Miki the twitches. Even Forest could see the tightness in his shoulders whenever she got within arm’s length of the singer.

Feeling sorry for him, Forest said, “I’m fine. It’s like a play date. Kids have that now, right?”

“Huh.” Brigid sounded unconvinced, but she went anyway, leaving them alone in the vast, echoing warehouse.

A small golden scruff of a dog snored from his spot on the couch, and his tail set up a short, sleepy tempo when Forest rubbed his belly. Forest tried to ignore the stacks of music sheets and worn notebooks lying on a shipping trunk in front of the sectional, but it was hard. He caught a glimpse of a rapid-fire drum line, and his mind caught at the beat, working it down to his fingers. Turning away from the crate, he left the dog lolling in pleasure and looked up, surprised to find Miki studying him.

“Hey,” he said. “Nice dog. What’s his name?”

“Dude,” Miki offered back with a shrug. “We going to do this or what?”

“Come on. Studio’s down here,” Damie said with a grin.

He trotted off through a door, and Miki followed. After a second, Forest fell into step and found himself in a garage. Two heavy-bodied cars sat side by side. From what he could see, they were older, steel muscle, and brash. They were both black, gleaming and aggressive even as they sat in silence. Miki glanced over his shoulder at Forest as if to see if the other man was following.

Nodding at the cars, Forest said, “So, you keep your balls in the garage? Nice.”

“Yeah, you’ll be okay.” Damien laughed, and a beat later, Miki joined in with a soft musical chuckle. Slapping Forest’s shoulder, Damien guided him around the cars and toward a door on the other side of the garage.

His nerves were eating him alive. Forest
knew
he’d already met the pair, but something was different this time. They were definitely road worn—a far cry from the slightly naïve-about-the-industry musicians he’d met before. If anything, Miki St. John was even more feral, taking in everything Forest did and said as Damien chattered on about life in general.

Damien Mitchell was definitely the social one of the two. His softly British-stained lilt rolled over a variety of subjects until he found something that made Forest’s eyes light up. Unsurprisingly, it was music, and even Miki’d chimed in a grunt when Forest started talking about who influenced him.

The door opened, and Forest stepped in, his heart caught in his throat at the sight of the tiny studio. It was set up for practice, nothing as elaborate as the Sound, but the sound board was fairly new—so new, it still had plastic on it. A glass wall separated the mixing room from the actual studio, and while the equipment space was functional at best, someone’d gone to some trouble to make the playing space something of a home. Old carpets covered the floor, warming the area up with color, and a suede love seat took up residence against the space’s long wall.

Instruments were everywhere, mostly on stands, but some lined the walls, signed pieces or elaborately painted. They were obviously art or memories, silent icons more precious to their owners than solely something to play. Prominent in the room was a gleaming oak drum kit, a powerful beast of a set. He approached it slowly. Tapping at the skins, Forest was pleasantly surprised to find they’d been tightened for use.

Yet even as comfortable as the space tried to appear, it seemed… lonely, as if the room was holding its breath, waiting for something, maybe even someone, to fill it with life.

“You know what you wanted to work on? Or you’re just up for some practice?” Miki said, appearing at Forest’s elbow with a set of sticks.

“Practice mostly. I just… I can’t
not
play. It’s fucking killing me,” he admitted.

“You know any of ours?” Damien’s voice had a slight challenge to it, and Forest squared his shoulders, rising to the bait.

“Sure,” Forest said, taking the sticks from Miki’s grip. “Anything you’ve written, I can play.”

“Good.” Miki reached down to pick up a bass guitar from a stand by the drums and slung it over his neck. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

C
ONNOR
PARKED
his Hummer on the curb, turning the vehicle off before swinging out of it and locking the door behind him. In the early-afternoon light, Marshall’s Amp coffee shop and its nearly windowless partner, the Sound, looked abandoned. To be fair, the entire block looked like it’d taken a beating. The older Chinese woman’s flower stall had been broken down and stood empty, shuttered tight with locking steel doors. A black ribbon taped to the stall’s wall flapped in the faint breeze working down the street, its painted gold
hanzi
cracked and faded from San Francisco’s brutal weather.

Someone’d set up a small altar of burned-down candles and rain-soaked notes against the plywood and beam patches across the Amp’s front. Rotting flowers scattered throughout the tribute kicked up a stink, mimicking the decay of the dead. If anything, the collection was more funereal than Connor was ready to deal with, especially since he still had flashes of digging through heavy bricks to find a seemingly lifeless Forest beneath the stone and grit.

He’d come by to get his own idea of how damaged the building was and if the Sound was affected structurally. Forest’s nerves were beyond razor thin, and they’d built up some tension between them when Connor forbade the man from going into the building.

“There’s too much risk,” Connor’d argued. “Someone’s trying to
kill
you, Forest, so
no
.”

Forest’s chin came up, but he didn’t argue. Thank God Brigid stepped in with an alternative plan, because Con was pretty certain Forest was about to draw a line in the sand and come out swinging. Verbally. Although from their time spent under the covers, Connor’d gained a deep respect for Forest’s sinewy strength.

The Amp was still cordoned off with crime-scene tape, but someone’d been at it, taking a chunk off the plywood. Shaking his head, Connor went to undo the padlock on the Amp’s remaining intact front door and muttered, “Fucking ghouls.”

Problem was, the padlock was already open, and Connor pushed open the door—only to find he’d stepped into another nightmare.

Death’d come again to the Amp and left evidence of its sharp scythe.

A middle-aged, slightly portly man was flung over the shop’s shot-up counter. Even from the door, Connor could see he was gone. There was no mistaking that. Even more alarming, he appeared to be freshly slaughtered, blood still seeping from his torn-apart belly to form a pool beneath him. His arms were sticky and red, causeways for his blood to travel down, and his fingers looked like talons from the long, heavy drags of red dripping from them.

Intestines trailed out of his belly wound, and his face was slack, a gray mass of skin and wrinkles. His work boots were gone, and one of his socks had a hole in it, his big toe sticking out of the gap. A wedding ring cut deep into his now swollen finger, the burnished gold nearly lost under the gore of its owner’s death.

Drawing his weapon, Connor stepped up against the wall, ducking behind the semisafety of a bank of espresso machines. His gaze flicked over the graffiti spray-painted on the back of the plywood patches, taking in the violent neon-green letters. He swore to ignore the gurgle of nerves coming up in his belly. He was used to fear. He dealt with it every day in his line of work.

Whoever was doing this needed to be stopped. For Connor, it’d become long past personal—someone was moving against his own.

It took him a second, but he then recognized the man, the main contractor Forest’d hired to fix the store. The man shouldn’t have been in there. Not dead—not like a piece of garbage left for someone to pick up. He’d obviously come to do some work, because a briefcase lay on the floor at Connor’s feet, and there were rolls of blueprints bound with rubber bands a few feet away.
Someone’d
followed the man in, surprised him, and killed him.

The problem was, Connor and the rest of SFPD were no closer to finding out who was murdering the people in Forest’s life, and if he wasn’t stopped soon, there was a good chance he’d be moving on to someone in the Morgan clan itself.

Connor stopped short, catching a hint of a sound coming from inside the Amp. Turning his head, he heard the whimpering cry of a woman. Stepping carefully around the counter so as not to disturb the body, he hefted his weapon up and entered the kitchen, waiting to hear it again. Another mewl, loud and coming from under a counter in the kitchen, drew him farther into the room. His foot came down on a piece of Styrofoam and it snapped, a loud cracking sound, and the cry came again, louder and fraught with terror.

“Jules?” he called out. “It’s me, Connor. Is that you? Come out, honey. It’s okay. I’m here.”

Nothing. Not even another whimper to draw Connor in.

“It’s all right, love. Come out. I won’t hurt you. I’m here to help,” Con reassured and spun about on his heel when a stack of boxes near the wall exploded with motion.

A woman, skinnier than Jules, darted from her hiding place, arms and legs flailing as she tried to make it to the Amp’s back door. Connor lowered his gun and sprinted after her, snagging her shoulder before she could get a grip on the heavy industrial pull built into the safety door leading out to the parking lot. Whoever the woman was, she fought hard, and her nails dug into Connor’s face and arms, scooping out small divots of flesh wherever she could get a hold.

It was like fighting a rabid dog. Her straggly hair was everywhere, a brittle blonde kraken snapping across his face as Con bent over to get a good grip on her. He tucked his gun away, then reached into the fury of fists, nails, and suddenly teeth—a shock he should have planned for but didn’t.

He hated hitting women. Years of being told he was bigger and stronger than many of his playmates hammered in the need for delicacy, especially where someone much smaller was concerned. Her clawed hands came at his face, and Connor almost gave in to his instinct to slap her away. Instead, he grabbed her wrists and hauled her up, lifting the woman clear off the ground and away from his body.

Enraged, she screamed, and he heard the sounds of spit being gathered in her throat. She hawked out her saliva into his face, as quick as a cobra, and he nearly didn’t duck in time. It caught his cheek, trailing down his neck, but he’d avoided getting her fluids in his eyes or mouth.

Snarling, Connor shook her and said, “Cut it the fuck out. I’m a cop.”

She fought on for a moment, then surrendered, her feet kicking for purchase even though the floor was nearly a foot and half beneath her. He nearly let her down when he heard the telltale scratch of another spit bomb coming his way, and Connor hoisted her even higher, slamming the captured woman up against the kitchen’s brick wall.

“Cut. It. Out,” he growled, then nearly dropped his assailant. Staring into her time-leathered face, his stomach careened down into the abyss and his heart skipped, because she glared right back, looking at him with his lover’s eyes.