They were as different as cheese and chalk. Damien—with his cocksure, blue-eyed all-American swagger—was a sharp contrast to Miki’s street-bred Asian mongrel, and if not for a chance meeting one foggy day when Miki stepped out to grab a hit off a clove cigarette between shifts, they’d never have crossed paths. But when the guitarist overheard the growling, sultry voice belting out blues rock as he cut through a back alley of Chinatown, he knew he’d found his singer, even if he had to coax a very reluctant Miki off of a fire escape to come down to talk to him. Damien became the closest thing to a brother Miki ever knew, and as the guitarist leaned over to hug him tightly, Miki clenched Damien close to him, refusing to let go.
“You wrote the songs with me,” he whispered into his best friend’s ear. “Those are my words, but it’s your music too.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t slither across the stage in black leather pants and ink to sell it,” Damien teased, pushing Miki away with a semi-gentle shove. “You’re the reason our name’s on that thing. You’re why Sinner’s Gin’s name was read off tonight. Take a bow, kid. It’s all on you, dude.”
The moonroof seemed to be the only place wide enough to take a bow, and, his head spinning from the sheer joy of the night, Miki took it. The Los Angeles rain was cold. Not as frigid as the storms up north, but cold enough to make him shiver. The buildings around them were tall and lit up, and to his right, a wall of colorful LEDs hawked a soft drink for a few seconds before undulating over to a clothing store advertisement. He screamed a thank-you to the universe, barely able to get the words out before he was pulled back down, heady and soaking wet from the downpour.
Johnny and Dave fought over the roof’s switch, flipping it back and forth with stuttering jerks, and Damien pulled Miki close, cradling his friend against him as he took a mouthful of whiskey.
“You did good, kid,” Damien whispered, barely audible over the rough banter from their other two band members. “From here on out, we’re going to have a wild ride.”
Miki turned to tell Damien their name wasn’t on the trophy because Johnny had taken one of the props, and if they were lucky, they’d be sent theirs without anyone finding out they stole the other one to begin with, but the words never left his mouth. He blinked, and suddenly Damien was gone.
Then everything went black.
NP News—Tragedy struck the music world late last night when three members of the rock band Sinner’s Gin were killed nearly immediately following their win at the Grammys. Initial accident reports detail a collision between their limousine and a semi truck carrying supplies for a nearby construction site. Lost in the crash were founding member and lead guitarist Damien Mitchell, drummer Dave Nichols, and bassist Johnny González, along with the driver of the limousine, Jordan Wheeler. All were pronounced dead on the scene.
The sole survivor of the early morning crash is reported to be the band’s singer, Mieko “Miki” St. John, who was life-flighted to a local hospital, with life-threatening injuries. A spokesman for the group’s record label reports Mr. St. John is in a coma and listed as being in critical condition.
Witnesses state the truck failed to yield to a red light, thus colliding with the band’s vehicle and an additional car. Other than the occupants of the limousine, no other injuries were reported.
While rain may have been a factor in the crash, a police spokesman issued a report stating the driver of the semi has been arrested for driving under the influence and will be charged with multiple counts of vehicular manslaughter.
Chapter 1
Took a blind man to tell me I was something to see.
Took a man crossing his heart to tell me where to begin.
And the kiss in the rain you last gave to me,
Was the holy water I needed to erase all my sin.
—Blind Man Crossing
THE fucking dog was back again.
Kane Morgan eyed the scruffy blond terrier suspiciously. It sat at the edge of the cement pad, right under where the rolling door to the converted docking bay would land if it were closed. He’d already lost a chamois to the mutt, and God knew what else when his back was turned. The thing was a thief and a menace.
And irritatingly enough, the dog always seemed to be laughing at him.
“Leave my stuff alone, mutt,” Kane growled and pointed warningly at the smiling terrier. “Just cause I rent this place doesn’t mean I’m one of those tree-hugging hippie artists who’ll let your shit slide. I’m a cop. I’ve got a gun. Keep stealing my shit and I’ll shoot you.”
He’d chosen to rent the work space from an art gallery and co-op mostly because it was close to his apartment. The space’s quiet was soothing despite the added bonus of a thieving neighborhood terrier. The majority of the brick building’s space had been turned into a long showroom on the main floor and art studios on the second level, while its three docking bays, sunk halfway down from the first floor, had been framed out and drywalled to use as studios. Kane had taken the end dock space, liking how the industrial, square windows overlooked the San Francisco Bay below.