“You keep saying that.” The traffic was fairly thick despite the steady drench of rain tangling up the roadways. Two lanes over, an orange cab slithered around, its balding tires unable to get a good purchase on the slick hill. Sionn slowed the Jeep down, keeping out of the taxi’s way. “Aunt B loves everyone.”
“Dude, I’m always the one person parents hate. Shit, they even love Miki, and he’s a fucked-up mess.” He worried at his tongue, suddenly missing the stud he’d had through it but never knew he’d had. There were parts of him missing, and it pissed him off. His chest zipper throbbed, and he grimaced, belatedly mourning when an unknown someone cut off his piercings so they could save his damned life. Slouching down in the seat, he readjusted his cowboy hat until it angled over his forehead. “They could have at least put my earrings back in.”
“I should have burned that thing instead of tossing it into the backseat.” Sionn glanced at the leather hat. “It covers too much of your face.”
“I like it,” he defended it with a growl. “It was the second thing I got after I ran out of Skywood. A trucker named Jim gave it to me.”
“A trucker, huh?” Sionn grinned. “Okay, so I bite. What was the first thing?”
“Clothes. And a few bruises, but so fucking worth it. Grizzly Walter and his mutt, Fred, hit me with Walter’s Chevy. He felt like shit about it, so he took me into town.”
The guy who’d hit him in the middle of the Montana wilderness had spare clothes at his cabin and a fierce distrust of the retreat he lived in the shadow of. They’d stopped there long enough for Damien to get a shower and change clothes, stepping over Walter’s dog, who seemed to only move quickly when it was time to get in or out of the truck. Fred’s owner was even slower. Walter drove about as fast as he talked, a molasses-slow process that took them nearly two hours to go thirty miles.
Listening to the gray-bearded mountain man grumble about conspiracies and electroshock therapy was a small price to pay for a few pairs of jeans, worn boots, an old flannel shirt, and a ride into Billings. By the time they reached the city, Damien was ready to walk back to California just so he could move a bit faster, but every inch Walter drove, he was that much farther away from the burning mess of his prison.
His nerves kicked back into overdrive, and Damien tapped at the Cherokee’s dashboard, beating out a rhythm he’d been working on in his head. The tempo was a bit complicated, and he knew he’d have to slow it down for Dave until the drummer—Damien stopped the thought before he could finish it, fumbling the upbeat. Dave would never play the song he’d woken up with. Johnny would never help him lay down its bass line or grumble when Sinjun rearranged something right as they’d almost gotten it down.
Fuck, that hurt.
So damned bad.
But—he bit the inside of his lip—Miki was still here to help put the words to the notes. He had that. If he was thankful for anything, it was that someone somewhere decided the world still needed Sinjun in it. Meeting Sionn’s relatives was a small price to pay to see Miki again. Shit, he’d offer to blow them all one by one if it got him a step closer to home.
Although he’d prefer to keep it to just Sionn. Maybe he could just buy them each a car.
Sitting back up, he grinned over at Sionn. “So, your family… they got Rock Band, maybe?”
HELL took the form of a large, rambling Victorian-style home on the hills beneath the Presidio. It was an impressive place, painted a cheery color, a bright spot against the backdrop of rain and storm clouds. Bits of rainbows were gathered about the house, flower beds ripe with brilliant petals, dotted with silvery water drops and surrounded by a lushly green lawn. To Damie, it was a hidden demonic conclave, packed with people connected through laughter, bloodlines, and shared stories.
And it scared the living shit out of him.
From the looks of the cars parked around the house, the family appeared to own stock in SUV production. Everything was huge, with large tires, and screamed of tight-bodied men who used redwoods for toothpicks. Sionn’s chunky red Jeep fit right in. If the house wasn’t looming enough, running through a gauntlet of vehicles with police stickers on them was psychological intimidation.
Tapping a rear window emblazoned with a fire shield, Damie crooked an eyebrow at Sionn and smirked. “Black sheep of the family?”
“Brae?” Shaking his head, Sionn pushed Damie up the long walk. “More like the off-gray sheep. Quinn’s got the market down on being the odd one out. He teaches history over at the uni. Think he’s a doctor or summat.”
“Family must be so fucking ashamed.” He was muttering to himself. Sionn’d overtaken him and headed to the front door, taking the steps to their doom with an almost cheerful glee.
Damie was expecting Sionn to knock on the door or ring the bell, but no, the man grabbed the knob, turned it, and swung the way wide open for Damie to follow. Standing on the threshold, he jerked his head toward the inside of the house, urging Damien to hurry up. “Don’t dawdle. I’m letting all the heat out of the house, and while none of us are hurting for money, it doesn’t do to waste. Come on.”