Tequila Mockingbird (8 page)

A response to the man was forming in the back of his brain when Connor moved in between them, blocking the way.

“He’s her boss. From the shop.” Connor caught Randy’s growl and threw it back at him, forcing the man to take a step back.

“Oh, Forest, right?” The man’s attention shifted between the doctor and Forest. “Sorry, it was really nice of you to come. Really. Most bosses wouldn’t have. It means a lot. Things have just been—”

“Shit,” Forest supplied. “Yeah, I get it. It’s all good—”

“Yeah. Really. I’m sorry. Things are just a bit tense.” He waved at the doctor. “Let me see what she’s got to say, and I’ll be right back.”

Forest stood there, rooted in place as he sifted through his emotions. Everything came at him too hard, too fast, and he swallowed, needing to look away from Randy’s head bending slightly so he could hear the much shorter doctor while they spoke. Randy’s smile nearly wrapped around his ears, and as the doctor disappeared back into the depths of the surgical ward, he turned to the cluster of waiting people and enveloped as many of them as he could in a fierce group hug.

Their elated voices drowned out the murmur of the hospital, stealing away the power of beeps and shushing noises coming from the air-conditioning units. Even the faint whoop of a siren creeping through a bank of double-paned windows drowned under the sound of Jules’s friends celebrating her prognosis—while Forest stood and watched.

“I’ve got to get out of here.” Forest turned, blindly searching for an exit out of the room—hell, he’d want an exit out of the city if it meant he didn’t have to examine why the edges of his eyes burned or how his throat suddenly felt as if he’d swallowed a sour tennis ball. “Thanks for bringing me. I can catch a cab or—”

“Hey now, none of that.”

He might have been lost, but Connor was there, guiding him around with a pair of strong hands closing down over his shoulders. “Come on, we need to get some food in you. That burrito was crap, and I know a diner that makes a mean stack of pancakes. Go wash your face while I go
make sure they have my number to call in case someone needs
something.”

Forest wanted to scream at the cop—anything to take away the fear and loneliness pressing up from inside of him, but Connor’s fingers were gentle, stroking at the ridge of his collarbone with a lingering promise of something more heating his skin. He either wanted to shove away everyone or simply fall against Connor’s solid body—he wasn’t sure which until the reasonable part of his mind whispered
liar
. He knew which one he’d want—it was just that the wanting itself was probably as insane a thought as he’d ever had.

Straight Irish cops smelling of coffee, green-tea cologne, and a fog-kissed day did not cuddle fucked-up blond drummers who’d suckled at any teat or cock offered up to him because he needed
someone
to touch him—anyone—because it made him feel alive.

“Sure, yeah.” Forest scrubbed at his face, unsurprised to find it gritty from tears and street dirt.

“Good,” Connor replied with a wink. “You go on, then, and when you come out, you’d best be ready to eat. Because I’ve got a banshee for a mother, and I’m not using her to get you to eat some dinner.”

Shaking your ass down Broadway

Walking tight down the ole street line

Got a wink for the boys

Nasty smile that’s just fine

Boy you’ve got some balls

Teasing cock as you go by

Better get some man to love you

Before you lose that sexy shine

—
Hustle and Wink

F
OREST
’
S
PLACE
was a shit hole. No other way to put it. What should have been written off as a small crack in a wall barely large enough for a Cockney caterpillar and his wife to squat under was being passed off as a suitable place for a young man to live in.

God, it pissed Connor off, because the man seemed very content to live in the cramped squalor, even when there wasn’t enough room for Forest to turn around in without banging his elbows against the studio’s four walls.

The diner, sadly, was under renovation, and Connor refused to send Forest off without something in his belly. Too many hours passed since Connor first got out of his Hummer to get a cup of coffee, and the bean burritos they’d choked down were a faint memory for their aching stomachs. While there was something to be said about the outside staircase being steep enough to satisfy a leg day at the gym, the rest of it had little to cheer about.

Other than the long-legged blond currently trying to unearth a skillet Connor could use to make pancakes.

Connor unloaded the groceries they’d grabbed onto the kitchenette’s small counter. Behind him, Forest rattled about in the cabinets. Having already liberated a serviceable spatula, he’d gotten a list of kitchenware to hunt for so Connor could cook for him.

What Connor
really
wanted to do was tear the whole damned apartment down and start over, because he couldn’t even breathe in the tight space—or imagine Forest living in pretty much a refrigerator box with window cutouts.

“How long have you lived here?” Connor frowned at the pair of car jacks he’d just found holding the sink up. Cranked up as much as they could go, the jacks were placed diagonally under the counter, wedging an assortment of bricks and wood scraps up against the metal sink’s bowl.

“Since I was thirteen? Kinda? Frank lived in the RV, but I lived up here. We’d eat together mostly.” Forest’s voice echoed in the depths of the cabinet. “This used to be a storeroom. Well, it kind of still is. The rest of the second floor is for the coffee shop’s stuff and where we store a lot of the Sound’s equipment if we’re not using it. The shower kicks ass, though. Good pressure. Not so much in the kitchen, though.”

That didn’t surprise Connor one bit. Judging by the grit and impressions into the wood, he guessed the jacks weren’t a recent development. Someone—probably Forest—used strip silicon to seal the gap between the sink and kitchen counter, the press-in tape glaringly white against the counter’s brown-speckled avocado tiles.

Other than Forest’s gold-streaked hair, it was the brightest spot of color in the whole place.

No, Connor revised his opinion
. That
dubious achievement probably belonged to the vividly stained red-and-black drum kit dominating most of the living space. The drums’ golden bands gleamed, even in the soft light coming from the kitchen’s overhead lights, and their tops showed definite signs of wear. A plastic milk crate stood on its end, open side up, and inside it, several empty coffee cans sprouted a bristled hedgerow of drumsticks.

It was the only new thing in the apartment by far, and probably shook the place when Forest really got going on it.

The walls were a unique putty yellow a cream paint only gained with age and constant cigarette smoke. Since Forest didn’t smell like he was a three-pack-a-day addict, the wall color was probably a legacy left to him by his adopted father—and based on the depth of the stain, a daily visitation of tobacco farmers intent on smoking their entire crop.

The walls were mostly bare, although at one point, there’d been posters or paintings—their absence now beige scatters of pale on the sickly yellow walls. Two battered doors led off to a bathroom and a closet—and from what Connor could see, while the tub and toilet sparkled as much as they could, there was only so much bleach and scrubbing powder could do when a sledgehammer should be used instead.

And the less said about the institutional short-loop blue carpet or the studio’s drab mauve curtains, the better.

A sagging queen-sized futon was almost an afterthought, a tangle of bedsheets and pillows holding the promise of Forest’s scent if Connor could only somehow casually stroll over to them and put them to his face.

The idea of wanting
that
scared Connor in places he didn’t even know he had—and since he made his living going through doors where hell waited for him, he thought he’d found every single place he
could
stash fear.

Connor needed something to draw him away from the unfamiliar stirrings in him. Seizing on the obvious to distract himself, Connor commented on the red-black elephant sitting in the room. “That’s a lot of drums you’ve got there.”

“What?” There was the distinct sound of someone hitting their head on the cabinet, then Forest swearing in what sounded like Italian. He emerged from his hunt rubbing his forehead and clutching a small Teflon skillet. “My drums? Yeah, it’s a double kit—Yamaha PHX. Best thing I’ve played on. Great tone. Really loud, but I can buffer it down if I want. I’ve got another set like it downstairs in the….” He trailed off, setting the pan down on the small bar counter separating the kitchenette from the rest of the apartment. “And I’m talking about shit you’ve got no clue about.”

“Not a single damned idea, but still, it’s good to hear you talk about it.” Connor nodded to the tall barstools set against the wall. “Pull one of those up here. You can talk to me while I cook.”

“If it isn’t music, there isn’t a lot I can talk about,” Forest said, setting a stool down. Hooking his foot over a rung, Forest balanced himself on the seat and leaned on his elbows to watch Connor break eggs into a large Tupperware bowl. Forest stared at Connor from across the counter and picked chocolate chips out of the bag Connor bought to make pancakes with, popping them one by one into his mouth.

“Tell me about Frank.” Connor tossed a handful of shells into an empty grocery bag. “I know he was your foster dad for a bit, then adopted you. You were his only foster kid. Seemed kind of weird—a single guy adopting a thirteen-year-old kid.”

“Cheap labor. Kind of like getting a mail-order bride ’cept he found me in the Dumpster outside.” Forest studied Connor intently, then said, “I’m guessing you ran me through the system, so you figure, considering what I got arrested for, Frank was fucking me or something? He wasn’t. He was weird and maybe not really a dad, but he was better than what I had.”

“Your juvie record is sealed—” Connor began to protest, but Forest cut him off, his brown eyes alive with a fire Connor’d not seen in him before.

“Dude, you’re a cop. Of course you’re going to run me, and Frank too. Juvie records are open for review unless there’s a formal request to seal them—and you usually need cause for that. They’re so fucking wide open, they make Cartman’s mom look like a damned nun.”

“I didn’t look.” Connor hated the hard skepticism Forest had on his face. “I could have broken it open, yeah, I admit that, but you don’t need that kind of betrayal. Anything you did in the past—if it’s something you need to share with someone, it should be on your own time, by your own choice. Any truth—past or present—should be yours to share. No one should take that choice from you. So, anything you want to say?”

“Is that why you’re here? Because you think there’s shit on me, and you’re trying to scrape it off?” Forest cocked his head, his face nearly hidden behind a shock of blond hair. “’Cause we’re not friends. Hell, I don’t even know what we are. You come by almost every fucking day now, but we don’t talk or anything. And it’s not like you want a piece of ass—or at least my ass.”

There was a battle going on inside of Forest. Connor could see it being waged right on the man’s handsome face. The tension in his body ran down his shoulders and into his hands. Connor watched it spread, seizing up Forest’s long limbs and finally into his face, where a tincture of fear tightened his mouth. Something—everything—was holding the young man back. It wasn’t the same as the skepticism Connor often saw in Miki’s eyes. No, this was different, a deep-seated trepidation born of something dark in Forest’s past.

Connor ached for the man in front of him because he could see the damaged little boy cowering inside of Forest. Frank might have pulled Forest out of the deep icy waters he’d been drowning in, but Frank did next to nothing to chase away the cold burrowed into Forest’s soul. Its desolation resonated, creating ripples of unease most would shy away from.

He was going to give Forest that chance to warm up inside—because if it helped alleviate the bewildering heat growing in himself, Connor was all in. He just hoped he didn’t lose himself in the process.

“No, I wouldn’t say we’re friends,” he admitted. “But I don’t know why not. I don’t even know why I’m here. How’s that for sharing. I don’t know why I’m by for coffee—I don’t live around here, but it’s not that bad a drive from work. I can’t tell you why I need to see you, to make sure you’re okay. Sometimes I think I’m crazy for coming by, but if I don’t, it bugs me—gets under my skin like bugs eating me alive. So there you go. My share.”

“Fuck, so it’s like you’re my stalker, but you don’t know why?” Forest’s mouth quirked into a half grin. “That’s weird. Really fucking weird.”

“Told you, no idea why.” Connor tried to shrug it off, but the unease lingered.

His life’d been simple—uncomplicated even. For as long as he could remember, he’d known what he wanted to be, who he’d wanted to be. Hell, he even had an example of that man in his father. Being a cop was as natural to Connor as having black hair or blue eyes. He just didn’t
think
about it. His life plan’d been all laid out: college, police academy, a house, then wife and kids.