Tequila Mockingbird (7 page)

“Think this is connected to Marshall’s death?” Kiki swept her hand around, encompassing the scene in a fluid motion. “Can’t be a coincidence. No such thing as those.”

“Sometimes there are,” Connor replied softly. “But in this case, no, I don’t think there are.”

Hands on my skin, their filth working in.

I can’t feel anything but pain.

Why won’t this ever end?

Too hard to breathe.

Too worn to care.

Pushing sharp knives in my soul.

Bleeding inside, still too tired to cry.

—
Bleeding Tired

H
E
WAS
scared. Down to his bones scared, and no matter how hard he wrapped his arms around himself to get warm, Forest couldn’t reach the core of cold lodged in his belly. He’d given the cop back his jacket when they’d come to the hospital, and after sitting for a few hours in one of the many waiting rooms near the surgical ward, Forest wished he hadn’t insisted the cop take it from him.

Especially since Connor Morgan seemed to disappear for half an hour at a time, only to come back with a worried look on his face.

Curling up over his thighs and hugging his shins seemed to help, but it didn’t leave Forest with much of a view other than the hospital’s black-speckled linoleum floor. Around him, families ebbed and flowed, some chattering away as if no one was dying a few feet away, bleeding out on unseen surgical tables while their loved ones shivered from the overly enthusiastic air-conditioning.

And try as he might, Forest couldn’t remember ever actually being in a hospital for anything other than the cops or CPS dragging him into the emergency room to check him over for damage. Once Frank took him in, he hadn’t seen the inside of a hospital again, although he’d seen doctors and dentists, since Frank’d taken periodic checkups quite seriously.

“Fuck, who the hell is going to tell me when it’s time to get my teeth cleaned?” he muttered at his knees, hating the tears falling from his eyes and soaking into his jeans. “Dad took care of all that shit.”

“Here, sit up and drink some of this,” Connor ordered, and a hot cup of coffee appeared under Forest’s nose. “I got you something to eat too.”

Taking the cup, Forest inhaled its steam, coughing slightly at the bitter in its aroma. He sipped at the sharp opening in the cup’s plastic lid, wincing at the sour sweetness of the hospital’s blend and Connor’s heavy hand with the sugar. Food turned out to be a couple of microwaved green chile and bean burritos, their molten innards leaking out from cracks in the tortillas and spilling onto a scallop-edged paper plate.

“I’m not hungry.” Forest wasn’t feeling the love for his stomach at that moment, especially since it’d been nearly an hour since they’d last heard from someone official about Jules’s whereabouts. He put the plate down on the empty chair next to him. It stayed there for about a second before Connor picked it back up and put it firmly in his lap.

“Eat something. Now,” Connor growled. “Actually, before I forget, put this on and
then
eat. You’re going to make yourself sick.”

The much-missed leather jacket settled on his shoulders again, and Forest numbly let Connor take the coffee cup from him. Connor’s holster was empty, a dark slash of black leather against his broad shoulders and back. The man’s chambray shirt was old, an obviously well-worn garment used to hugging the Irish cop’s muscular form. Small white patches dotted Connor’s chest, areas rubbed down from his holster, and a thumbnail-sized splash of pink on one of its tails turned out to be nail polish.

Forest wondered about the woman who’d stained Connor’s shirt, leaving behind a small territorial mark to claim him as her man. Any thought about the unknown and mysterious woman disappeared from Forest’s brain as Connor began to roll up his shirtsleeves to reveal his thickly muscled forearms and strong wrists. A satin-brushed gold ring on his pinkie gleamed dully under the hospital’s florescent lights, its wide surface engraved with fluid Celtic designs Forest thought looked like animals of some kind.

“On, Forest. The jacket,” Connor repeated. “Now.”

He was about to argue—just for the sheer fuckery of it, but one look at Connor’s face stopped Forest in midbreath, and he tucked his hands into the jacket’s sleeves, sliding it on.

The scent of Connor’s faint cologne and the musk of his skin swaddled Forest immediately, and he reluctantly took the coffee back, wishing its bitter scent wouldn’t drown the Connor out of his nose. Stewing in the lingering heat of the man’s body, Forest sighed and felt the coldness in him melt, slipping away under Connor’s ad hoc gesture.

Despite not knowing anything more than he had a few seconds ago, life felt so much better, and he risked another sip of his coffee, not even caring there was enough sugar in it to turn the burned brew into caramel. The burritos—he thought as he eyed them squatting and oozing on the plate—they would have to wait until he had enough courage to choke them down.

“Fucking pretentious shit,” Forest lightly scolded himself. “Couple years back, you’d have kicked someone’s ass to have that much food.”

He was about to thank Connor when the jacket’s inside chest pocket began to sing an almost familiar song. It took a second for Forest to realize the music was coming from Connor’s cell phone, and then another second passed by in a burning arousal when the man reached into the jacket and pulled the phone out. Forest felt every centimeter of the man’s bare hand sliding over his chest, and the pinch of his nipple where Connor’s ring rubbed didn’t seem like it would ever subside.

“Eat,” Connor ordered again. Then he sat back in the chair, thumbing the phone on to answer it. The cop listened for a second, then another, before a frown clouded his handsome face. “No, I’m at the hospital. Shit, across town. What happened?”

“If you’ve got to go—” Forest began, but Connor shushed him, waving him off. The hand not occupied by the phone settled on Forest’s thigh, inches from his already tightening cock. Suddenly developing a very healthy interest in the cooling burritos, Forest picked one up, shoved its end in his mouth, and listened to the rest of Connor’s conversation.

“Do you need me there?” Another pause, but Connor’s eyes flicked over Forest’s face. “No. It’s complicated. If you guys don’t need me… look, I’ve got to stay here, K. Talk to me. Is Mick okay? Did they get the guy?” Forest counted off five breaths before Connor spoke again. “Good for him. Tough fucking son of a bitch. The guy’ll be hurting. He’ll have to go someplace for treatment, it sounds like. Okay. You let me know if you need something, and don’t let Mum bully you into taking him to their place. Stand your ground, man, or she’ll be moving in before you can even blink. Talk to you later.”

Connor hung up his phone and sighed, rubbing at his face tiredly. Forest chewed and swallowed, the beans sticking in his throat on the way down. Connor picked a cup up off the floor and sipped, making a grimace before handing it over to Forest. “Here. I think this one’s yours. I didn’t put sugar in one. Guess I gave you the wrong cup. I can change the lid over if you want.”

“No, I don’t mind.” Forest shook his head and exchanged the coffees. He put his mouth on the lid, slightly disappointed he couldn’t actually taste Connor above the sour. “Everything okay? Do you have to go?”

“Everything’s good. My brother’s—boyfriend, I guess you’d call him—he was attacked, but he took the guy down. Beat the shit out of him with one of those sidewalk magazine racks.” Connor tapped at the bottom of the cup with his ring. “You don’t fuck with Miki. He’ll hand you your ass before you even realize your pants are down around your ankles and the wind’s bitten your balls off.”

“Sounds kinda hard core,” Forest said softly.

“Really?” Connor laughed under his breath and took a sip of his coffee. “Because I was just thinking the same thing about you,
ghrá
.”

T
HERE
WERE
rushes of people around them, intruding on their oasis. It was hard for Forest to hear the crying children wandering about the waiting area while their parents spoke in hushed tones about death and the living. He’d never sat vigil for someone before—didn’t know what he was supposed to do other than wait. And lust for the man sitting by his side.

As if Death weren’t enough to fight off, the world had to go and throw Desire into the fray as well.

Forest tried not to hear any of their whispers, but they slithered into his mind, wrapping his fears up in bloody red bows. His fingers refused to remain still, finding the different tones in the chair’s arm and then its support bars before moving on to the flat of a small table next to him.

“That’s a Celtic beat you’ve got going there,” Connor remarked, catching Forest in midroll. “I hear a lot of it with my family. Irish, you know. They like a rolling drum. Usually while yelling at one another. It’s like living in a battlefield sometimes. Did Marshall—your da have any other kids?”

“Just me and Frank.” Forest didn’t feel like dumping more hospital coffee into his belly, but the bean burrito had already started a rave in his guts, and the only thing that could possibly quiet it down was to drown it in the acidic brew. Most of the time his small talk centered on music, alcohol, and the probability of a quick fuck in a motel. He had no idea what to do with Connor Morgan, so he seized the one opening he saw available to him. “So you have a big family, then?”

Talking seemed preferable to sitting there in silence, mulling over how the other man’s palms would feel on the small of his back, and Forest already caught himself staring at Connor’s hands. A man’s ass—he understood staring at an ass—but hands apparently were his thing too.

“Huge. Legion.” Connor’s smile softened the hard angles of his face and curved his generous mouth up into a bow. “My parents took go forth and populate the Earth as their own personal motto. Didn’t mean to, but, well, apparently Da only needs to look at my mum and she gets pregnant. The one after Quinn was supposed to be the last, but that one turned out to be two, so that upped the numbers a bit.”

“So, what, four? Five?” Forest guessed.

“Eight.” He chuckled when Forest choked on his mouthful of coffee. Pounding lightly on Forest’s back, Connor worked the air back into his lungs. “After the twins there was a bit of a lull, and I guess Mum thought she’d seen the worst of it. Then bam—three right in a row. I’m pretty sure my mother said enough and was done. You’d like her. Fierce. She’s the one you go to when you want someone beaten up. My da’s the one you talk to when you’re lost. Good man.”

For all they’d been family, he knew Franklin had faults, and he couldn’t remember a time when he’d spoken of his adopted father in the hushed, rolling reverence the cop used when talking about his father.

“Shit, that’s a lot of kids.” Forest winced, hearing himself. Unable to think of anything to backpedal his awkwardness, he went back to sipping his coffee. It was cold and if possible even more bitter with each passing swallow. “Sorry. I suck at this.”

“Waiting?” Connor studied his face, and Forest shifted in his chair, uncomfortable under the man’s assessing gaze.

“Small talk,” he mumbled back. “I’m a drummer. I’m used to waiting. All we do is wait while the precious guitarists and lead singers talk about their harmony line and if the lyrics say what they truly mean.”

“Oh, I so know what you mean. I know a couple of musicians. They babble a lot. It’s like listening to two magpies discuss how they’re going to divide up a piece of bread.” Connor’s grin was a flash of bright white in his tanned face. “You’re doing fine at the small talk. It’s shite and a half waiting for the doctor to come out. Worst thing in the world, really. Even if you know someone’s going to be okay, it’s a worry.”

T
HE
WAIT
was over. For someone, anyway. The double doors blocking off access to the surgery ward opened, and a tired-looking Bengali woman in a white coat emerged. Smiling in the general direction of the waiting area, she called out in a softly accented voice, “Who is here for Jules Desmond?”

Forest stood up.

But then so did four other people at the far end of the room, including a brawny young man in old jeans and a faded T-shirt advertising an Irish pub near one of the piers. His eyes were red and a bit swollen, his nose rough from being wiped, but the look on his face—a blend of expectant and fret—slipped into confusion when he spotted Forest responding to Jules’s name.

“Wait, who the hell are you?” the man snapped, stepping closer to Forest.

He was surprised to see other people waiting for Jules—people he’d assumed belonged to one of the other victims. It shouldn’t have been a shock—Jules spoke endlessly about her boyfriend, Randy, and how he loved her or about what she did with her friends on her days off. His mind
knew
these people existed, but apparently it refused to believe people weren’t as alone in the world as he was. With Franklin gone, he didn’t really have anyone left in his life, other than a few loose friendships and the coffee shop’s staff.