'Nother Sip of Gin

by Rhys Ford

  “I just need that tablecloth for the picnic—” Connor shut up when Kane cleared his throat. He turned around and found Forest standing between the open french doors, a full plastic bag from the taco shop they often ate from dangling from his hand. “Well, shite and hell. I wasn’t ready for you yet.”

  “Well, that’s my cue to leave. Good luck, bro.” Kane slapped Connor on the shoulder. “Guess this means Mick’s home.”

  “Yeah, I dropped him off at the loft,” Forest replied as he tilted his head up. “Damie and Sionn were heading to some show over in Oakland.”

  “Excellent. Not that I don’t love them, but you know….” Kane nudged Forest as he went past. “You kids have fun. Don’t stay up too late.”

  With the table bare of plates and the Italian takeout still in the kitchen, Connor stood in the middle of the patio and smiled at his lover. Forest turned, taking everything in, framed by the french doors Con’d installed to replace the ones riddled by bullets a few months earlier. They’d survived the carnage, a sure sign they’d withstand anything life threw their way.

  Con just wasn’t sure if he could survive the love he felt for the man standing in front of him.

  “Hey.” Forest stepped out onto the patio, his feet bare on the rough tiles. Holding up the bag, he jiggled the plastic handles. “Brought dinner.”

  “Yeah?” He met Forest halfway, tugging at his lover’s waistband until Forest was snugged up against him. “I’ve got Italian in the kitchen. What did you bring to the party?”

  “Mexican.” Forest brushed his lips against Connor’s, then pulled back, a teasing touch. “’Cause, you know, nachos.”

  “Shit, why didn’t I think of that?” He couldn’t keep his grin from nearly splitting his face. “Nachos.”

  “I like the lights.” Forest set the bag down on the table, stretching a bit in Connor’s embrace. “They’re… nice.”

  “I was hoping for sweet, but I’ll take nice.” Connor slid his arms around Forest’s waist.

  “It’s sweet. And nice. It’s both. Like you.” Forest captured Connor’s face in his hands, tipping his head for a kiss. “God, I love you.”

  If Connor hadn’t already hungered for the man he held in his arms, Forest’s kiss would have whetted his appetite.

  There were threads of sunlight and stars on Forest’s tongue, simmering into a silken heat when his teeth nipped at Connor’s upper lip. He sighed and dove in.

  The air grew cold around them, their bodies heating the slender space between them. If he could have one thing, one sliver of anything in his life, Connor would have chosen Forest’s kiss. His lover gave, a tender, delectable drawing out of soft touches and raking bites.

  It hurt to have to pull away, but every ache in his body soothed when Connor saw the lights reflected in Forest’s luminous eyes.

  “I love you too, a ghra,” Connor whispered. “May we have many more months together. Years even. I will never have enough of you.”

  Forest laughed, a husky rasp of pleasure. “Yeah, I’m not going anywhere. Bigger question, though, what are we going to have for dinner? Italian or Mexican?”

  Connor nipped at Forest’s nose, making him laugh. “I’ve an idea. How do you feel about some Irish first?”

  Wild Turkey

  “THEM DOWNSTAIRS? They’re fucking loons.” Damien shivered as he plopped down next to Miki, nudging his best friend over so he had space on the bean bag nest Miki’d made against a dormer window. “Mad as fucking hatters, the lot of them.”

  He’d rooted the singer out, finding his not-so-secret hiding place on the Morgans’ widow’s walk. A wide overhang kept a large portion of the loft bone dry despite the not-so-gentle deluge of San Francisco rain, and when Miki unearthed a bottle of Scottish whisky he’d brought up with him, Damien nearly kissed his blood brother senseless in thanks.

  The thick blankets Miki’d hauled out with him didn’t hurt either.

  “Pass that over, Sinjun.” Damie motioned toward the bottle as soon as he got comfortable under the quilts. He took a long drag, hissing at the whisky’s bite. “God, this stuff’s like having an argument with you. Satisfying but a damned kick in the nuts.”

  “I love you too, asshole,” Miki grumbled. “Why’d you come up here?”

  “Why’d you?” Damie shot back.

  It was a delicate tug-of-war they played—a cat-and-mouse game only they knew the rules to. Miki would badger, either into a hole or a growling attack; then Damien would soothe or wrestle. With Kane around, the attacks were to a bare minimum. Someone had to poke furiously at Miki before he would tear them apart, but the holing up, that remained the same.

  As did Miki’s love of whisky.

  “Your dad know you stole this?” Damie passed the bottle back.

  “Who do you think gave it to me?” Miki snorted. “Best. Dad. Ever.”

  A rap on the window behind startled them both, and Damie peered through the frosted pane. “And speak of the Donal and so it appears.”

  The dormer window creaked inward, and Donal scolded them through the screen, “What are ye two doing out here? Witches’ tits are boiling hot compared to the weather now. Get inside.”

  “It’s crazy down there. You people are nuts.” Damien grinned. “’Sides, he’s got whisky.”

  “There’s some downstairs too. Get yer asses out of the cold in the next fifteen minutes or I’m sending Brigid out after ye.” Donal’s breath misted swirls in the air.

  “One day, that trick’s not going to work, Morgan.” Damie laughed as Miki made a face.

  “Says you. That’s always going to fucking work for me.” The singer nodded. “Fifteen. Got it.”

  “I’ll see you then. You can help make the sweet potatoes. No hiding until the cooking’s done.” The window shut slowly, cutting off the warm air coming from the house.

  “You really don’t like Brigid that much?” Damie ventured.

  “Nah, she just… hugs all the time. I’m okay until she starts this whole fucking world tour of love thing, and then it’s like trying to fight off an octopus. Worse if she’s had a shot or two of whatever the hell they’re calling cider downstairs.” Miki capped the bottle after taking another sip. “How crazy is it down there?”

  “They’re singing. Laughing. It’s like fucking Whoville and someone shot the Grinch up in a drive-by so they know he’s not going to be around.” Leaning into his friend, Damie sighed in pleasure at the warmth of Miki’s body. “It’s kind of weird nice. They’re talking gingerbread houses and Christmas, all of them. Even Sionn. Forest’s eating it up.”

  “Yeah, he likes the whole family thing.” The rueful expression on Miki’s face made Damie laugh. “What? I feel kind of guilty. Like we threw him to the lions and ran.”

  “Don’t worry too much about him. He likes it. Forest was made for family. You and I—”

  “We’re family,” Miki asserted. “We’ve had Thanksgivings. Good ones.”

  “Blue box mac and cheese is far better than a dry piece of bird, I’ll agree to that,” Damie replied. “Sionn tells me Brigid’s never made a chalky turkey in her life, so there’s hope for dinner at least.” He took a few seconds to study his best friend’s face. “You doing okay? If you want to go home—”

  The word home seemed so foreign to them—still. The warehouses were oddly a sanctuary, a safe and happy place neither one of them ever imagined they’d have. Now the two of them had everything—nearly everything, Damie thought as he sent a small prayer for Johnny and Dave to the heavens in hope they knew their friends still remembered them. He felt guilty surviving, but the moment Miki’d spotted him across the Morgans’ kitchen, home suddenly became a reality to them both, and Damien was never ever going to let it go.

  “Nah, home’s downstairs too.” Miki sighed. “It’s good, right? Here? Now?”

  “Yeah, Sinjun. Really fucking good,” Damien agreed.

  “And besides, I’ve got to go beat the shit out of our drummer.” He stood, gathering up th
e blankets from around their feet.

  “Why?” Damien caught the whisky bottle before it hit the hard, cold wood floor.

  “Because he said I was so fucked-up, I made him look normal,” Miki grumbled. “I think that needs a beating.”

  “Sorry to say, Sinjun,” Damie replied ruefully, “he’s really not that far off the mark.”

  THE NOISE level was nearly like being on stage, except without the humming buzz of amplifiers and the rolling push of a drumbeat behind him. Still, Miki was hit by a wall of sound once he finally made it downstairs. The whisky bottle disappeared with Damien, either pilfered to be taken home or drunk secretly with Sionn someplace they could cuddle and kiss. Those two did a shit-ton of cuddling and kissing, usually in the oddest places. He’d never even thought of making out with Kane in the back seat of Donal’s garaged convertible Corvette, but apparently his best friend and Kane’s cousin had no such qualms.

  Although they sure as shit scrambled out of it when Miki said he’d tell Donal he’d caught them if they didn’t get out of the car. Sionn’s resounding slap across his back and accusing him of finally becoming a little brother nearly drove Miki to tell Donal anyway, but Damie’s playful wink stopped him.

  “You having fun?” Kane purred into Miki’s ear, coming up behind him, then wrapping his arms around Miki’s chest. “Da said he caught the two of you on the walk like teenagers sipping stolen hooch.”

  “He gave it to me,” Miki protested, but he leaned back into Kane’s embrace. “No stolen about it, but I think Damie’s got it now. Mine. Not his. I want it back.”

  “I’ll get you another,” Kane promised. “Food’s soon. Mum’s got two twenty-five pounders in the oven. I think it’s the first time in a long while since we’ve had everyone home. I think we’ve run out of chairs for the table. There was talk about putting the bottom three at the bar, but Ryan said she’s too damned old to be sitting at the kiddie table, so it’ll be a card table at the end and lawn furniture for them.”

  “Shouldn’t we sit there?” He cocked his head back, meeting his lover’s gaze. “Me, Damie, and Forest? I mean, we’re not—”

  “You say you’re not family and I’ll find a good use for the belt I’ve got holding up my jeans, Mr. St. John.” His cop nuzzled Miki’s neck, sending shivers down his belly. “And no, you don’t. It’s kind of feudal, really. You’re our better halves, our lovers. So you kind of slide in at our birth order. Sionn’s my age, and well, Con’s the oldest, so the three of you pretty much get first crack at seats. It’s how things are. Well, at least in our family. The Finnegans and the Morgans both. It’s a food chain kind of thing. The youngers know their place.”

  “Doesn’t mean we’re all that happy about it,” Kiki muttered, sliding past them with a bowl of shelled nuts. “Come on, movie’s about to start. Da’s brought in some bean bags for the floor. Unlike the dining table, it’s first come, first serve there.”

  “Movie? God, what? The Sound of Music?” Miki knew he sounded horrified, but he couldn’t help himself. “Jesus, you people are scary.”

  “No, Morgan family tradition dictates Blazing Saddles.” Kane chuckled. “’Cause we don’t need no stinkin’ badges. Now come on, I want to get one of the love seats. I’m too old to sit on the damned floor.”

  THEIR HOUSE was so full of… everyone, Brigid thought as she tucked her legs up under her. Donal’s arm was slung across the back of the couch, his fingers absently playing with her hair as the family got settled around them. A few feet away, Damien laid claim to one of the long couches, refusing to move his long legs as he held places for Kane and Miki. Sionn refused to get involved, but Brigid caught her nephew’s foot, placed on Brae’s backside, then a surreptitious dislodging shove of the younger Morgan from the hotly contested sofa.

  Kane waded into the fray, dragging Miki behind him. It warmed her heart to see Miki’s fingers wrapped around Kane’s hand, and she whispered a husky I love you to her husband as he moved his legs to let his brood past him.

  “Oi, before you get too far, give yer mum a kiss. Ye didn’t give me one when you came in, K.” Brigid presented her cheek for Kane, who bussed her on the forehead instead. “Ah, you have shitty aim. I hope you shoot better than you kiss.”

  “God, I fucking hope not, because he kills me every time he gives me a kiss.” Miki stopped short, staring down at Brigid. A second passed, then two, and as she was about to ask him what was wrong, Miki leaned over and brushed his mouth over her right cheek.

  Then he padded off behind Kane as if nothing ever happened.

  She was struck dumb. No other word for it. Even Donal looked shocked for a second before he buried it under the calm, happy mask of the Morgan da. She’d cried for Miki—cried for all of the lost boys her sons and nephew seemed to have fallen in love with, but the one who broke her heart the most was Kane’s Sinjun. Too prickly to be handled and too independent to be coddled, she’d taken him into her heart, only to find he didn’t want to be there. Or at least, didn’t at first.

  Now, she was not so sure.

  “He does love ye, a ghra,” Donal whispered into her ear. “It just takes him a while to come around. Gentle steps. Slow steps. Because I love ye, but yer not so much with the gentle and slow.”

  “I know. Forest loves me,” Brigid sniffed, but smiled widely when Damien winked at her. “That one does too, but it’s Miki I worry about the most. Boy needs… love. Family. Us.”

  “He’s got us,” Donal reminded her softly. “He’s a bit like Quinn. On his own time. At his own pace. But our Miki’s here. He’s not going to leave us. Not going to leave Kane. I promise you that, just like the day I promised to love and cherish you.”

  “Till death does 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 t
ell 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.