Brigid got me the drummer. What? You wanna add something, Fore?
Nah, I’m just trying not to geek out and say Damn it, D, I’m a singer, not a bassist, but you two go on and work that shit out.
—Home Studio Session #1
“I CAN’T believe you arrested my mother,” Forest grumbled under his breath while he paced around the Victorian’s family room. He ran his long fingers through his blond hair and rubbed at his skull. “No, forget that. I can believe it. She’s my mother. Of course I fucking believe it.”
“I can’t fucking believe she expected you to bail her out.” Connor came in from the kitchen and handed his lover an opened bottle of strawberry lemonade. “Hey, don’t glare at me. I keep telling you my mum’s already decided you’re her son. I’ve got to watch my step, or I’m out of the family.”
“Right.” Forest rolled his eyes as he took the lemonade. The couch looked really good, especially since his thighs hurt like a son of a bitch and his arms felt like Jell-O. Flopping into the curve of the sectional, he moaned when the cushions cradled his aching body. “God, what the hell were we thinking playing that long?”
The house was warm, helping his clenched muscles. Another hot shower helped, and he’d pulled on a pair of black sweats but hadn’t bothered with a shirt, since Forest hadn’t been too sure he’d be able to lift his arms up high enough to get one over his head. He hesitated to lean into the couch, but Connor gently pushed him back.
“Your shit’s too nice for—”
“Only thing of mine I worry about is you,” Connor growled at him while setting his beer down on the coffee table. “You were there all day. How much of it was spent playing?”
“Nine hours.” Forest made a face when his spine disagreed with his shifting about. Something popped in his lower back, and the rush of relief sent sparkles along his vision. “Oh yeah, I needed that to give. Damn, D’s hands must be bleeding. Fucking Miki—not even hoarse. His throat’s got to be made of adamantium or something. Con, really—what was I thinking? Nine hours!”
“You were thinking it was nice,” Connor replied. The man tapped Forest’s thighs. “Lift up. I’ll massage your legs.”
“Nice?” Forest contemplated the word. Nice didn’t seem to fit. Brutal. Heartbreaking—especially when he joined in on the chorus of “Whiskey and Rye.” The shock on Miki’s face was palpable, but a breath later, he’d recovered, his raspy, hot vocals returning as strong as ever. They’d found their sync right then, and Damie nodded once at Forest, a silent encouragement to continue on.
That’s when he’d found his wings and he’d fallen into the music, rising up to the challenge of double-timing “Gin and Demonic.” Miki’s laughter was as sweet as the riffs coming off Damien’s guitar, and they’d pounded through another set, teasing one another with long, drawn-out battles of chords, beats, and vocal acrobatics.
It all felt so right, but still, Forest was taken aback when Miki—damnable, street-suckled Miki—told Forest to show up for practice the day after next. He couldn’t breathe then. He didn’t even start breathing until Damie came and slapped him on the back.
Shoving some clothes into Forest’s arms, the guitarist had said, “Welcome to the Madhouse.”
He was paying for that contentment. Forest’s mind buzzed from stimulation, and his thoughts kept going back to song bits, hammering out rough burrs in spots they’d hung up on. He’d need to get some music sheets and notebooks, maybe even work out a vocal harmony to support Miki’s melody on the last song they’d done before collapsing from exhaustion.
Connor picked up Forest’s bare foot and rubbed at a knot in his arch. Forest moaned at the tingle of pain and pleasure of his tense muscle being dug into.
“Did you get a hold of that guy’s family?” Forest asked softly. “Shit, I should probably call them—”
“Maybe in a bit, love,” Con suggested. “Right now, they’ll need time. You did, remember?”
“Yeah.” He nodded, his expression going soft. “Except I had this cop stalking me, so I don’t know exactly how much time I had.”
“Yeah well, that turned out okay. Hold on, there’s a bad knot here.”
Leaning his head back against the couch cushion, Forest gritted his teeth against the groans crawling up from his throat, but one escaped anyway, drawn out when Con’s thumb found a particularly hard spot.