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.”
Chapter 5
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
FOREST’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.