“Yeah,” Kiki replied. “Looks like. They ran her prelim sheet. Ginger’s very well known for being in some pretty wrong places at the wrong times. And she dragged her little boy with her.”
Connor knew what Kiki was saying. From the tone in her voice, it was a subtle way—in true Kiki fashion—of calling out Forest’s own record. He smiled softly at her and said, “I know what’s on his record. We’ve talked about it.”
“And you’re okay with—”
“What I’m not okay with is the fact his mum was out hawking his ass to guys when he should have been doing homework or playing soccer. When’s the first time he got popped? Twelve? Thirteen?” Con rumbled. “And what kind of society is it when we’re arresting kids for hooking? Something—or someone—puts them out there. They’re fucking kids, love. Where the hell where you at twelve, Keeks? ’Cause I can tell you it sure as hell wasn’t out on the streets hoping you’d make enough money to get food.”
“Mum would have had my fucking ass,” she agreed. “Only hooker I knew about was playing Pygmalion with a rich guy who couldn’t drive a Lotus. God, she had great boots.”
“I worry about the education your parents gave you both,” Duarte muttered with a shake of his head. “So let’s do the money thing first, but yeah, this is something about Ackerman. Say his mom is driving the crazy train. She’d have to eliminate Marshall, then knock her own kid off.”
“She’d want to wait so he was declared Marshall’s sole beneficiary.” Kiki chewed on her pen. “But why’d she do all of this shit? She’s his mother. It wouldn’t be hard for her to get him alone. Would it, Con?”
“I don’t know,” Connor admitted. “I didn’t get the feeling they had a lot of contact other than a couple of phone calls. I don’t know if he’d come running if she crooked her finger. He might.”
There’d been a longing in Forest’s face when Con spotted Brigid embracing the drummer. And Brigid hugged Forest as often as she could. She’d taken a deep fondness to him—a quick, fierce affection rivaling even how she felt about her own children. Unlike Miki and Damie, Forest appeared to welcome the attention—warily, as if Brigid might change her mind—but that was something Connor would have expected from him. A kitten bitten by a snake would be afraid of a rope, Connor thought, or even a soft blanket used to keep him warm.
“Seems like we should start off with Ginger.” Duarte began to pick his way out of the coffee shop, carefully stepping around any debris. “I agree with you, Keira. The mother would be able to have gotten this done quicker, so to Con’s point, it’s got to be about rattling Ackerman up. Let’s head back in and see what Ms. Ackerman’s got to say.”
Connor held his hand out to Kiki to help her over a stack of plywood. She slapped his fingers away and stomped over the pile, pushing at him when she made it over. Rolling his eyes, he asked Duarte, “Mind if I sit in to listen?”
“Mind?” Duarte turned to raise a bushy eyebrow at Connor. “I didn’t think I even had a say in the matter.”
FOREST WAS fucking flying. Hell, they all were. There’d been no stumbling about or fighting to find the beat between them. Within a few seconds of playing, Damien and Miki stopped being rock stars in his head and turned into just another couple of musicians.
And at some point after that—he couldn’t tell when—he felt like he’d been playing with them for years and couldn’t imagine ever not sharing the thread of music with them.
It was a scary thing.
And at the same time, almost better than sex.
Almost, Forest thought. Because sex with Connor was pretty fucking incredible.
Miki acquitted himself well enough on the bass. While Damien was the better overall player, they’d all agreed Miki’s bass skills could hold up—strong enough to let Damie’s fingers fly through complicated lead pieces, leaving Miki to his singing.
And God, Forest had forgotten how damned good Miki St. John sounded. Stripped down to just the three of them, the man still shone, and Forest realized so much of Sinner’s Gin’s success had been just that—a stripped-down rock band with powerful vocals, ripping guitar, and lyrics torn out from the pair’s souls.
When they finally stopped, Forest found his arms were hurting, and he was in sorry need of a shower. Hair plastered down to his face and neck, he dripped and shook from overusing his muscles. He’d tossed his shirt to the floor at some point during the set. It’d gotten damp and stuck to his back as he played, itching in places where it dried against his skin.
Ears ringing but smiling broadly, he bent forward, clenching the drumsticks in his fists, and leaned on his knees.
“Fuck, you’re good,” Miki finally said, shaking his fingers.
If Forest thought he’d been flying before, those three words from Miki’s mouth sent him soaring up into the clouds.