Sinner's Gin (Sinners, #1)

“I don’t know. Two? Maybe three?” Miki wrapped the hoodie tighter around his chest. “Not like they could cut me open and count the rings.”


“Shit,” Kane whispered under his breath. “And St. John? Was that the family that adopted you?”

“Street I was found on,” he replied softly. “I went into the system. No one wants someone else’s kids, dude. Especially not some fucked up mongrel kid with shitty undies and a tattoo. Trust me on that.”

“It’s not like that,” Kane objected. “Not everyone’s like that.”

“Yeah, they are,” Miki asserted. “Life might be a magic mushroom ride for some kids, but most of us live in the cow shit it grows in. You just have to do what you can, that’s all.”

“And you became a rock star.”

“No.” Even in the watery reflection of the glass, Kane could see Miki’s eyes tear up. “The other guys were the rock stars. I was just there when it happened to them.”

“I’ve got some of your stuff, you know. It’s good,” Kane said, softening his voice. “Even Kel says you’re a big deal.”

“Kel was that guy in the room with me?”

“Yep, that’s Kel. Kel Sanchez. He’s my partner.”

“Yeah, he’s an asshole,” Miki said, turning around to face Kane. “Where are we going?”

“Small Mexican food place I know. They’ve got some seating outside and heaters,” Kane said. “Give me a few minutes to get there. It’ll be fast.”

One thing Kane learned as he drove was that Miki St. John was never really quiet. The man hummed. Constantly. The snippets of song were barely audible, but they rose and fell without stopping. At times, whispers would slip in, melodic drops of words following some tune Miki had in his head. Sitting in Kane’s SUV and staring out the window at San Francisco, Miki St. John sang to himself, building a soundtrack for a life he seemed to live behind brick and glass with only a mutt to keep him company.

Kane turned the SUV into a parking lot next to a brightly painted faux-adobe building. Despite the late hour, the place was busy, and the smell of carnitas and carne asada permeated the air. Kane got out first and waited as Miki grabbed at the passenger side door to maintain his balance.

The stiffness in the younger man’s knee was obvious, and it clicked loudly when he took his first step. It was difficult not to reach for Miki. Even when he stumbled, Kane was held back by the piercing glare Miki gave him. Beyond the stubbornness and pride in the man’s set mouth and hazel stare, Kane still saw the pain and hurt Miki fought to hide. The brittleness he’d hoped to coax from Miki was back, his spirit as tenuous as a pane of thin glass riddled with spiderweb cracks.

“You warm enough?” Kane asked.

Miki nodded. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“You can talk to someone, you know,” Kane said softly. He gave in to the temptation to touch Miki, and his fingers glided over the man’s shoulder blades, rubbing at the jut of bone he found hidden under the thick fleece. “About Shing, I mean. I can help you find someone to talk with. Someone discreet and private. We… the police… don’t need to know what you spoke about, but it might… help you heal, Miki. I can tell there’s something there you need to heal from.”

“I… can’t. I won’t.” Miki stopped walking, and Kane wondered if the young man would pull away from him, but instead, Miki leaned back, resting his slight weight against the flat of Kane’s hand. “Not about Shing. I’d sooner talk to you about the band, and I think we both know that’s not going to happen any time soon.”

“Okay, no rush.” Kane led Miki to an empty wooden picnic table. “Have a seat. What do you want to eat?”

“Tacos? A burrito?” Miki eased onto the seat and stretched his leg out. “No beans. I don’t like beans.”

Kane strolled up to the counter and placed a hefty order of carne asada burritos and quesadillas. Leaning on the tiled shelf, he watched Miki as he scanned the crowd. The singer kept his head down, with his face nearly buried in the fleece hood.

“Salsa? Spicy carrots?” the young woman behind the counter asked. Kane nodded and grinned at sight of the red peppers poking out amid the carrot and onion chunks.

He carried the overloaded tray back to the table. “The carrots look deadly tonight. Don’t choke on one. I come here a lot. Don’t embarrass me.”

“Are you talking to me or yourself?” Miki lowered the hood, exposing his face.

“You,” Kane replied, setting a burrito and a quesadilla in front of Miki. “Horchata okay? I should have asked. I can grab something else if you want.”

“No, it’s good,” Miki said, taking a sip of the cold spiced rice milk.

“You eat meat, right?” Kane glanced up and caught the smirk on Miki’s face. “Yeah, okay. Right now, I’m going to assume that’s a yes.”

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