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.”