Tequila Mockingbird (Sinners #3)

“I didn’t really….” He trailed off. Leaning back in his chair, Forest let out a long whistle. “Fucking hell. I’m your drummer.”


“Nice of you to catch up,” Miki grumbled. “I don’t think it’s going to be a huge long touring shit. It’s like we’re starting at square one again, and I… can’t deal with that crap again. Hell, I’d be fine if I never crawled back up on stage, but it’s kind of fun once you get there. I’m okay with hitting a few big cities. And studio shit—that I love. You up for that?”

“Yeah, I um… yeah,” Forest babbled quickly. “What about if Con and I… you know. I mean, he’s Kane’s brother, and if we go south and….”

“If you say we’d dump you or you guys might break up, I’m going to punch you in the face.” Another pause in Miki’s writing and then a furious scribble as he crossed out something he wrote. “The band’s the band. Nothing touches that. ’Sides, you and he are probably going to have the whole kids, minivan, and one-point-five dogs thing. Now shut the fuck up, keep looking at the photos, and give me a damned pencil. This pen’s for shit.”

“Yeah, I’m good with that,” Forest replied softly, passing Miki a pencil. “But I’m not driving a minivan.”




HE WAS sick of looking at photos. He was tired of trying to stare at men’s faces and find some feature to trigger his memory. Even worse, Forest was beginning to think he was looking at the same five guys, just from different angles or maybe even with fake mustaches. Covering one man’s upper lip with his finger, Forest chuckled at the heavy walrus whiskers he’d given a bony criminal’s face.

“Hey, baby.” Connor slid up behind Forest, leaning over the chair. “How’re you doing?”

The man’s Irish was as hot as his kiss.

And the station’s noise dropped to a stony quiet—becoming so still he could hear Con’s heartbeat.

Forest’s heart, however, came to a dead stop.

He was so shocked he couldn’t even enjoy the kiss.

And it’d been a hot kiss.

Hot enough to start Forest’s heart up again despite the shocked still hum reverberating through the station.

He drowned in Connor’s deep blue eyes, unable to look away, and whispered, “Dude, you just came out to the cops.”

“Yeah, well—I’m not going to hide you, Forest,” Connor murmured, pressing his mouth against Forest’s lips. The man was big, made bigger by his SWAT uniform, unrelieved black and form-fitting body armor. “I’m my father’s son—my mother’s son. I back down to no one, especially if they come after someone I love. That’s the way of it, a ghra. I’m a Morgan.”

Halfway through their next kiss, the station began to thrum again, a cacophony of voices, clinking cups, and mumbled profanities about shitty technology and wayward criminals. Forest savored the affection, flicking his tongue briefly past the part of his lover’s lips to tickle at Con’s teeth. Laughing, the man pulled back—just in time to get smacked on the shoulder by his younger sister.

“Lieutenant, keep your hands off my witness,” Kiki ordered.

“I haven’t even begun to get my hands on your witness,” Connor promised. “How long have you been at this? And where are the Toxic Twins?”

“They went to the Sound. The drumsticks we have at the warehouse are shitty.” Forest held up a photo of a graying, gaunt man. There was something definitely familiar about him, but for the life of him, he couldn’t place where he’d seen the guy before. Passing it over to Kiki, he said, “I know him, but I can’t tell you where from.”

“You sure?” Kiki sat down on the edge of the desk, pushing her brother aside. “Think back over the past month or so. Maybe even before Marshall died. Could you have seen him then? Maybe at the coffee shop?”

“Shit, I don’t know.” He took the photo back and stared hard.

It was like he could almost hear the man’s voice, a bitter, scalding high-pitched whine. Closing his eyes, Forest tried to imagine what the man could have been talking about—money? Drugs? None of that connected the dots, and he opened his eyes, shaking his head. He was about to toss the photo onto the desk when he remembered where he’d seen the man before.

“This guy—he was arguing with Frank. In the Sound, like a few weeks before—the fire? Maybe? I don’t remember. I thought he was bitching about a studio session because he kept going on about lost time.” Forest met the siblings’ confused looks with an exasperated roll of his eyes. “Lots of people book studio time but never show up. Thing is, their deposit is nonrefundable, so they come in to bitch about it. Happens all the time. I just kept setting up and let Frank handle it.”

“This is Gary Rollins,” Kiki said softly, and Forest’s breath caught. “You know who that is, right?”

“Yeah,” Forest replied. “Shit, he looks so old. It’s only been like ten years.”

“Old’s what happens when you go to prison as a pedo.” Kiki shrugged.