Sinner's Gin (12 page)

“Angry? How come?” Miki leaned forward to tug on the dog’s ears and pursed his lips to make noises at Dude.

“Don’t know.” Kane concentrated on eating the sandwich as slowly as he could. “But then Ian spouted off some shit about Mom blowing the ten percent rule for homos, and she flew across the table to beat him with the wooden spoon she had in the veggies. Peas were flying everywhere, Ian was screaming blue bloody murder, and Mom was yelling at him that I was his brother, and he better get his shite together or she’d get it together for him.”

“Fucking hell,” Miki muttered.

Kane waved the remainder of the roast beef at Miki and grinned easily. “Never piss off an Irishwoman when she’s made a Sunday roast and two of her sons have just told her they’re gay.”

“I’ll try to remember,” Miki drawled. “Maybe you shouldn’t have done it on a Sunday.”

“Seemed like the best time. Most of us are there then.”

“You guys were older though, right? Like out of the house?”

“Yeah,” Kane said, nodding. “I’d been with someone for a bit, but it wasn’t going anywhere. Quinn was solo. He just needed it out there.”

“What did your dad say? Afterwards, I mean.”

“Honestly? Right then at the table? Nothing.” Kane leaned over and fed the dog the last of the bread. “Later, he asked me if I was being safe. He was worried more about that than anything else. Dad doesn’t… it’s not like he goes out and starts giving you a piece of his mind. He’s one of those stone-faced guys you go to when your life’s gone to shit, and then he says a couple of sentences and
boom
, things are all good.”

“He wanted you to use condoms?” Miki laughed. “That’s kind of funny.”

“More like he wanted me to take care of myself. To fall in love or at least give a shit about who I was going to bed with. A lot of gay guys he knew something about were sluts.” He shrugged. “Dad always said we needed to at least like the person we were with. He doesn’t care if we weren’t married before we had sex or if we fucked a guy. That’s not important to him. He wants his kids to be happy. Unless we’re doing a sheep, in which case he’ll disown us, ’cause you know, we’re Irish, not some Scot come down from the hills.”

Miki snorted. “Is that supposed to be funny?”

“Dad thought it was.” Kane nudged him, and Miki bent sideways to avoid his sharp elbow. “What about you? Tell anyone?”

For a moment, Kane wondered if Miki even heard him. The singer stared out of the open dock door, watching the boat lights move on the water. At his feet, Dude snored loudly, twisted partially around the chair’s metal legs. Miki shifted in his seat and rested his hands on his knees, seemingly enraptured by the flickers of life going on outside of the studio’s rolling door. Somewhere out in the darkness, a horn blew, a low and mournful sound carrying over the water.

“Just Damien, really,” he finally said. “I… wasn’t sure I was gay. Not after… you know. I used to wonder if I was just fucked up and didn’t know what I wanted because of Carl and Shing….”

Kane didn’t say anything when Miki’s voice trailed off, but he reached over and touched Miki’s thigh. “Dude, if you want to talk about anything, you can.
Anything
, okay?”

“Dog can’t talk. You know that, right?” Miki gave Kane a sly, mischievous glance. “I don’t think he’ll cough up anything to you. He doesn’t normally like cops. You… he might make an exception.”

“Asshole.” Kane chuckled. “I’m serious.”

“Yeah, I know.” He ran his fingers over Kane’s, tracing the man’s knuckles. “This thing… you and me….”

“What the hell is it?” Kane finished.

“Yeah, kind of.” Miki squeezed Kane’s hand once, then let go. “A week ago, you were screaming at my head. Now, we’re sitting here having dinner while you’re making salad bowls. It’s kind of weird. Not bad… but weird.”

“Salad bowls?” Kane clutched at his chest and gasped. “Ah, ‘the tongue like a sharp knife, kills without drawing blood.’”

“You sound like Yoda.”

“You don’t know Garbo or Buddha? God, we’re going to have to get you some schooling.” Kane threw his head back and laughed.

“Hey, public school,” Miki said, making a face. “Well, when I went.”

Hooking his arm over the back of Miki’s chair, Kane leaned over, brushing his fingers on the man’s shoulder. “What did Damien say when you told him?”

“He told me I was stupid if I thought he didn’t know, and that I was a fucking idiot who should get as much cock and ass while I could.” Miki tilted into the crook of Kane’s arm. “Damien could be a dick sometimes.”

“Yeah?” Kane made a face. “But you guys were close. He couldn’t have been a dick all the time.”

“Actually, no. He always was a dick,” Miki replied. “But he made me feel safe, you know? Like I could depend on him to take care of any crap that came along. D was good like that. He was a cocky, arrogant shit but never to me. Never to the other guys either. We were… tight.”

Kane was about to respond when he heard Miki whisper, nearly too soft to hear.

“I miss them.”

“Yeah, Miki,” Kane bent closer and pressed his lips to the man’s temple. “I know, man. I know.”

“You had a shitty day too, huh?”

Kane was going to say that Miki had no idea, but it hit him that it’d been Miki’s face in those photos, those scraps of time captured for a couple of sick men’s pleasure. Truth was, his shitty day was nothing compared to all of those shitty days the other man had lived through.

“Yeah, I did,” he admitted. “But it got to be a damned sight better once you got here.”

M
IKI
opened the refrigerator door and stared at its echoing whiteness. Except for a few bottles of beer and some questionable condiments, his icebox was dead empty.

Over the past week and a half, he and Kane had fallen into a routine. The cop would get off shift and head over to his workshop for a few hours to detox San Francisco out of his system, then Miki would amble over with Dude and takeout. Last night, they ate Chinese, picking at each other’s food while arguing about science fiction movies. Miki’s deep love for
Bladerunner
took a pounding from Kane’s opinion of the movie, and he scoffed at the cop’s fondness for
Empire Strikes Back
.

“Well, shit, I forgot to order groceries,” Miki growled and slammed the fridge door shut. “Fucking Kane. All of this shit with Shing and Carl is making me nuts, and you’re not helping.”

The cop was taking up too much of his thoughts, especially in the middle of the night when Miki’s suddenly aware dick twitched and throbbed at the thought of Kane’s cocky grin and deep blue eyes. He tried palming himself for the first time since he woke up in the hospital, but his skin was too sensitive. The tingling nerves short-circuited, and the soft velvet head ached when he brushed it lightly with his fingers.

In the shower that morning, the washcloth became a rough caress, and Miki could nearly feel Kane’s callused hand on his cock.

He shot off without even so much as a few strokes, splattering the shower wall with enough come to clog the drain.

And his dick still ached when he thought about Kane.

“Stop thinking about him. Food, Miki, it’s not going to just walk through the door. Get some stuff for sandwiches. That’s easy.” He stopped and tried to think of what one of his foster mothers tried to pound into his head about her religion. “Isn’t that what Jesus made? Sandwiches? Tuna fish and bread, right, Dude? Fuck, I’ll ask Kane. He’s got that God thing down.”

Dude had no opinion other than to flip over to the other side of the couch. Flopping down on the cushions, Miki reached for his Vans and tugged them over his heels. His wallet was missing, then found again, buried underneath the notebook Miki’d been scribbling thoughts down in. There were beaten-up notepads all over the living room, some neatly arranged in a milk crate while others were left to fend for themselves. Only a few were dog-chewed, their corners indented and marked from Dude’s sharp teeth.

All held pieces of Miki’s pain, and now one held whispers of something more… of wanting to be touched and kissed.

Miki flipped through the pages of his newest book. He’d started the first page off with how he felt being alone without the others shadowing behind him. In truth, he’d been their echo, reflecting out into the audience what the three wanted him to be. They understood Miki loved the music and words but hated the noise of being in a band. Having so many eyes on him made him nervous, and he was glad when the lights blurred out the audience and the only thing he could see was the stage and the men who stood by him.

He missed writing songs with Damien. The words that seemed to tear free from his brain were often tinted with how he was feeling, and his best friend had taken his meanderings to turn them into pieces of art Miki didn’t even recognize. The sweet ache of Damien’s guitar created something out of the nothings Miki found inside of himself. He
missed
spending the hours hunched over a guitar and piano, arguing about how something sounded in his heart compared to the tones Damien’s sharp mind crafted.

They got drunk over words and music, sometimes talking about stupid things until the wee hours of the morning when the moon was no longer visible from the narrow windows of the band’s shared loft. He woke up on egg-crate foam they eventually used for soundproofing, sometimes more hungover from the music than the whiskey they drank the night before. But Damien had always been there, even when the sun was hidden behind the clouds; a brash, self-confident soul mate willing to do battle with the shadows curdling Miki’s life.

“You’d hate him, Damie,” Miki whispered, clutching the notebook in his hands until it was nearly bent in half. “Or you’d both bully the shit out of me. He likes the car you bought me. The cops still have it. Fuckers. I used to hate walking by it, but now I hate them for keeping it so long. It’s mine. Fuckers need to give it back. I’m going to have to ask Kane about that.”

The tears came, as hot as when he’d shot off thinking about Kane’s mouth kissing his neck. Ducking his head, Miki laughed when Dude swam across the couch on his belly and shoved his tongue up Miki’s nose, licking furiously. After shoving the canine lightly aside, Miki ruffled the dog’s back and wiped his face.

He rode the wave of sorrow, letting it wash over him. There wasn’t a need to sink into its darkness, and Miki breathed a sigh of relief, emerging from his memories of Damien and the others with a smile. He made a promise to call Edie later to check on how she was doing, and opened the notebook to a blank page and scribbled down a quick list of things he wanted to eat over the next few days.

“Okay, Dude.” He sniffed, shaking off his melancholy. “I’m going to hunt and gather. Guard the house. Don’t let anybody in.”

The dog was already asleep before Miki grabbed his keys off of the table. Wiping at the tightness in his nose, Miki opened the front door and nearly stepped into the mess left on his stoop.

He was good about keeping Dude inside, taking the dog out for walks every few hours, so he was pretty sure the terrier had nothing to do with what looked like chewed-up meat on his sidewalk. Wrinkling his nose, he looked down again, trying to make some sense of what he was staring at.

The plastic bag it’d been in was from an Asian grocery store down the road. His jaunts with Dude had strengthened his leg enough that Miki’d been debating going over the few extra blocks to grab some things, figuring he could catch a cab back. Something had torn apart the handles of the bag, more than likely another dog or one of the cats roaming the neighborhood. A bright pink, bulbous object was seeping out of a hole in the side, its precarious balance on the sidewalk edge losing to the pull of gravity.

It plopped out of the bag before Miki could head back in to grab something to clean the mess up with, bouncing slightly against the cement before coming to rest in the damp greenscape. Light stretches of fibrous tissue clouded the oval chunk, and curled swirls of darker pink were visible through the filmy patches.

“What the fucking hell is that? A gizzard?” Miki curled his lip in disgust when a darker crimson mass slithered free of the back, oozing out in a sticky rush. It fell apart when its tissue caught on the rough cement, exposing the crushed remains of a man’s fingers it’d been wrapped around.

They looked like they’d been chewed off. He could count at least six pieces, each nearly bleached white from blood loss, but Miki couldn’t be sure how many there actually were. The skin at each joint was frayed, exposing pink-tinged bone, and the three tips that had nail beds were empty of the actual fingernails, bits of torn cuticle clinging to the depressed, pale surfaces.

Choking back the bile hitting the roof of his mouth, Miki gritted his teeth and made it as far as the garage before losing his coffee on the sidewalk. In the time it took him to dial Kane’s cell, he threw up twice more, his stomach twisting on nothing as he gagged. Panting through his mouth, he listened to Kane’s phone ring, and then sighed in relief when the cop’s deep, Irish-soft voice murmured hello.

“Kane.” Miki swallowed, tasting nothing but bitter and horror on his tongue. “I… um… need some help, man. I think that asshole left pieces of someone on my porch.”

Chapter 8