Forest went frigid—as if he’d turned into the cold, hard ground Franklin Marshall would eventually be buried in. The roar of the fire masked the sound of a gurney being wheeled toward a waiting ambulance, its lights and sirens dark and muted. No one lit up the skies for a dead man, the streets wouldn’t shriek with the hope of getting Franklin to the hospital in time, and Forest crumbled, his legs unable to hold up the heavy weight of his breaking soul.
The cop caught him. The Irish rock who’d kept Forest back from the flames wrapped his bulky arms around Forest’s body and held him, murmuring softly through the smoke smothering them so only Forest could hear. “I’ve got you now. I’ve got both of you now. We’ll find out who did this to your da. I promise you that. I promise.”
Chapter 2
You know I love you, yeah, Mick?
Yeah, why?
Because your damned dog is stealing all of my socks.
Nah, that’s me. My feet get cold sometimes.
Don’t you have your own socks?
Yeah, but it makes me feel like you’re rubbing my feet.
Then I probably don’t want to know what’s happened to my underwear.
—Doing Laundry with Kane
CONNOR DIDN’T know why he was here. It wasn’t for coffee. God knew there were enough java places in San Francisco to pretty much support Columbia’s bean trade—if Columbia was still in the coffee business. From the looks of things on the street and the raids he’d been in on, it seemed Juan Valdez and his donkey had moved on from picking beans to processing coca leaves.
But there he sat with the engine off in his Hummer and staring at Marshall’s Amp coffee shop.
The long rectangular two-story building held the coffee shop and the studio next door, two apparently legacy places according to some of the other cops in his division. Marshall’s Amp was relatively new—for San Francisco, anyway—with only a little more than a decade under its belt, but the Sound—apparently that place had seen some legends come through its doors.
Tucked into the wide end of Chinatown, the two-story brick building seemed a bit out of place amid the surrounding shops. The street ran to family-run jewelry stores with constant sales and smaller discreet holes-in-the-wall catering to generations of local Asians. A few restaurants—mostly noodle houses—served up traditional foods, their kitchens spicing the fog-damp air with a blend of savory aromas.
The neighborhood was a great place to people watch—even at seven in the morning.
He’d even brought a travel mug of Major Dickason’s he’d brewed at home with him. To a coffee shop.
A florist shop opened up early, setting out long tubs of fragrant blooms, splashing color against the dreary gray rainy morning. Connor could smell the sweet powder of carnations above the more delicate fragrances, a soft undertone of roses catching on the wind. An awning protected the flowers from the inclement weather, and from under the shadows, the store owner, an old charm bracelet of a Cantonese woman, bobbed about as she arranged her displays, her tiny face bright with a smile for anyone passing by.
Gentrification moved in on the fringes of the area, blending a bit of urban with traditional Chinese and the remains of San Francisco’s hippie days. A pair of young blonde women jogged past Connor in matching vivid green yoga pants, their sports tanks wicked with sweat. Both were pushing running strollers, and they expertly maneuvered through the sparse morning sidewalk traffic, keeping in pace with one another while carrying on a lively conversation.
He should have been locked onto their asses, following the flow of a gently rounded curve jiggling in time with each stride. They both seemed to have miles of lightly tanned skin, definitely a product of a salon, considering San Francisco’s meager sunlight allotment over the past six months. Connor should have had a smile ready when the blonde closest to him smiled flirtatiously as she went by.
Instead, he felt nothing. Nothing at all. Not even a telltale crinkle of desire along his cock or a tightness at the back of his throat when lust rose up from his belly. No, Connor just watched them go by, his attention drifting back to the staircase going up the side of the studio’s outer wall to a doorway on the second floor.
There was no question about it; he’d lost his mind.
It also was a pity he couldn’t stop staring at the parking lot where an old man’d lost his life, and Connor’d found himself holding the man’s son, unable to let go of the blond even after his sobs turned to shuddering hiccups. Something happened to him that night. He still wasn’t sure what it was, but every second of that dark, stormy night replayed in his mind whenever was most inconvenient.
Like in the middle of the night when he was lying naked in bed and listening to the rain hit his newly shingled roof.
If only he could get the idea of holding Forest Ackerman out of his head—because there was no damned good reason that man should be in his head.