“Shush, it sounded good,” she admonished with a light laugh. “There’s no saying I can’t have a hand in raising my sons’ lovers—no matter how old they are when I finally get my hands on them. At least you don’t rear back like an alley cat when I hug you. Miki nearly quivers when I grab at him.”
“Okay, that I can’t—” Forest chuckled, pulling away to wipe his face. “Why?”
“Because unlike you, Kane’s Sinjun is wary of being loved. Affection—real affection—came to him too late in life, and only then in the form of a very screwed-up Damie. So I hug him every chance I get. One day he’ll get used to it, maybe even like it, but for right now, he’s just suffering through it until I let him go.” Brigid leaned in and whispered, even though only she and Forest were around. “And sometimes I just hug him because I know it pisses him off, and he can’t say shite about it.”
THEY CIRCLED each other like tomcats, feeling one another out, and Brigid wondered aloud if it was even safe to leave Forest with the two musicians. Damien waved her out and promised they’d be good. She was reluctant to leave. Something very maternal hovered in her expression, much more so than normal. It gave Miki the twitches. Even Forest could see the tightness in his shoulders whenever she got within arm’s length of the singer.
Feeling sorry for him, Forest said, “I’m fine. It’s like a play date. Kids have that now, right?”
“Huh.” Brigid sounded unconvinced, but she went anyway, leaving them alone in the vast, echoing warehouse.
A small golden scruff of a dog snored from his spot on the couch, and his tail set up a short, sleepy tempo when Forest rubbed his belly. Forest tried to ignore the stacks of music sheets and worn notebooks lying on a shipping trunk in front of the sectional, but it was hard. He caught a glimpse of a rapid-fire drum line, and his mind caught at the beat, working it down to his fingers. Turning away from the crate, he left the dog lolling in pleasure and looked up, surprised to find Miki studying him.
“Hey,” he said. “Nice dog. What’s his name?”
“Dude,” Miki offered back with a shrug. “We going to do this or what?”
“Come on. Studio’s down here,” Damie said with a grin.
He trotted off through a door, and Miki followed. After a second, Forest fell into step and found himself in a garage. Two heavy-bodied cars sat side by side. From what he could see, they were older, steel muscle, and brash. They were both black, gleaming and aggressive even as they sat in silence. Miki glanced over his shoulder at Forest as if to see if the other man was following.
Nodding at the cars, Forest said, “So, you keep your balls in the garage? Nice.”
“Yeah, you’ll be okay.” Damien laughed, and a beat later, Miki joined in with a soft musical chuckle. Slapping Forest’s shoulder, Damien guided him around the cars and toward a door on the other side of the garage.
His nerves were eating him alive. Forest knew he’d already met the pair, but something was different this time. They were definitely road worn—a far cry from the slightly na?ve-about-the-industry musicians he’d met before. If anything, Miki St. John was even more feral, taking in everything Forest did and said as Damien chattered on about life in general.
Damien Mitchell was definitely the social one of the two. His softly British-stained lilt rolled over a variety of subjects until he found something that made Forest’s eyes light up. Unsurprisingly, it was music, and even Miki’d chimed in a grunt when Forest started talking about who influenced him.
The door opened, and Forest stepped in, his heart caught in his throat at the sight of the tiny studio. It was set up for practice, nothing as elaborate as the Sound, but the sound board was fairly new—so new, it still had plastic on it. A glass wall separated the mixing room from the actual studio, and while the equipment space was functional at best, someone’d gone to some trouble to make the playing space something of a home. Old carpets covered the floor, warming the area up with color, and a suede love seat took up residence against the space’s long wall.
Instruments were everywhere, mostly on stands, but some lined the walls, signed pieces or elaborately painted. They were obviously art or memories, silent icons more precious to their owners than solely something to play. Prominent in the room was a gleaming oak drum kit, a powerful beast of a set. He approached it slowly. Tapping at the skins, Forest was pleasantly surprised to find they’d been tightened for use.
Yet even as comfortable as the space tried to appear, it seemed… lonely, as if the room was holding its breath, waiting for something, maybe even someone, to fill it with life.
“You know what you wanted to work on? Or you’re just up for some practice?” Miki said, appearing at Forest’s elbow with a set of sticks.
“Practice mostly. I just… I can’t not play. It’s fucking killing me,” he admitted.
“You know any of ours?” Damien’s voice had a slight challenge to it, and Forest squared his shoulders, rising to the bait.