“WHO THE fuck is Forest Ackerman, and why the hell are we letting him use Dave’s kit?”
Damien’d known the firestorm would hit. Miki was, if nothing else, predictable—at least to someone who knew him. It wasn’t that the singer was selfish. If anything, Miki would give the shirt off his back to anyone who even remotely shivered within five hundred feet of him. No, this was about the guys—the band—and Miki was extremely protective of the members of Sinner’s Gin, even in death.
Especially in death.
“It was never Dave’s kit, dude,” Damien reminded softly. “The drum company sent it to him to try out. Dave never touched it. Hell, he never even saw it.”
He steeled himself against his brother’s hard hazel glare, focusing on the tiny gold dollops in Miki’s right eye. The pattern was a constellation, Damie was sure of it, and he’d been trying to figure out which one for years. It also helped him shift his focus away from Miki’s fierce glower, and he’d seen a pack of Morgans back down from that stare.
So Damie played his trump card. “Brigid asked.”
Miki’s response was swift and hard. “Fuck.”
The argument, if it could be called that, was over before it could really get started, but Damie didn’t gloat. Although he did allow himself a tiny smile.
“’Sides, you know him. Remember the blond kid at Frank Marshall’s?” He slung down onto the couch next to his brother. “At the Sound.”
“Yeah?” Miki scratched at his cheek with the eraser end of his pencil. “Shit, I’m trying to remember—”
“He was a drummer—”
“Figured that since you’re willing to toss him at Dave’s kit.”
“Not Dave’s kit,” Damie began to argue, then caught the wicked gleam in Miki’s tawny eyes. “Fuck you. You gonna listen to me?”
“If ever you stop talking about shit, maybe,” Miki replied. “Oh wait, I remember him. Hell, he was like a little kid. And his mom—Frank went off about his mom when we were there. Said she kept whoring him out or something.”
“Yeah,” Damie growled. “Fucking bitch. Getting slow cooked on lava would be too good for her.”
He’d recalled the broken, wide-eyed boy when Brigid first called to ask if Damie knew of a place Forest could practice. Pretty as a Keane painting, the blond teen’d hovered mostly near Frank, helping set up equipment, then scurrying out of the way when the band came in. Dave’d liked the kid, spending his down time with Frank’s adopted son and teaching him what he could in between their sessions. The Sound was where Sinner’s Gin cut their first CD, an eight-track demo they’d sold at their early shows.
Frank Marshall taught Damie a lot about mixing and melody, even so far as to cut the band a deal on the session cost because he’d seen something in their ragtag group of fuck-ups.
Damie sent Frank a thank-you, along with a bottle of twenty-five-year-old whiskey, when Sinner’s Gin signed their contract, then lost touch, but Frank’s name was in their first real album’s liner notes, and Damie felt he owed the man something. It was time for him to pay the bill—and he was going to get Sinjun on board if it was the last thing he did.
“Think he’s any good?” Sinjun asked suddenly, jarring Damie from his trip down Memory Lane.
“Who? The kid? Forest?” He flipped Miki off when the man rolled his eyes. “Dave liked him. Said he had talent. Just needed to get his shit together.”
“Who doesn’t need to get their shit together when you’re that age?” Miki snorted, then gave Damie another skeptical glance. “You didn’t fuck him, did you?”
“Frank’s kid? Fuck no. He was a kid!” Damien protested. “Dude, besides—don’t shit where you eat.”
“That took you a little bit to learn,” his brother reminded him. “It’s how we lost our first drummer… and second one too. And that bassist. It was like a fucking Wonka factory tour—but without the chocolate river.”
“Didn’t touch him,” he swore, holding his hand up.
“Yeah, like you were ever a Boy Scout,” Miki muttered, then paused in his scribbling. “Hey, think he’s any good? At drumming. Not sex.”
“Dunno.” Damie shrugged. “Why?”
“’Cause I’m sick of tapping things out on a drum machine, and I want to try out a few bass lines.” Miki pondered what he wrote, then reached for a blank music sheet. “I mean, if he’s going to be here anyway, might as well get some fucking use out of him.”
“And if we’re in the studio, Brigid will leave you the fuck alone,” Damie mused.
Miki nodded and grunted. “You got that fucking right. Woman rattles my brain.”