Sinner's Gin (35 page)

Authors: Rhys Ford

BOOK: Sinner's Gin

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“D wanted me to have the car to drive,” Miki cut Kane off. “The way I’m going, it’ll be years before they let me have a license, and… I want my life to go on. I
need
my life to go on. And I want it to go on with you in it. So for me, will you drive it around? Maybe with me in it once in a while?”

“Yeah, I will,” Kane murmured, closing his hand over Miki’s fingers and the keys. “Love you, Mick. You know that, right?”

“Love you too, K,” he replied, ducking his head down. “With everything I’ve got.”

Miki moved first, sliding his tongue across Kane’s lips. Kane barely heard the roar of his blood in his ears, lost in the flavor of Miki in his mouth. Every man tasted different; he’d kissed enough men to know the truth of it, but Miki was different. In each of his lover’s kisses there was a vastness Kane couldn’t imagine until his mouth brushed the other’s. The keys jangled when they hit the floor, and Kane’s mind went blank when Miki pushed him back against the doors to the bedroom.

Reaching up under Miki’s shirt, Kane stroked at the line of Miki’s lower back, teasing the silky skin there. Responding, Miki’s kiss grew rough, his passion hardening beneath Kane’s stroking touch. The delicateness of Miki’s frame was deceiving, the power in the singer’s lean body evident as his legs trapped Kane against one of the doors. A steely strength lay under the loose clothing swaddling the singer’s torso, hard muscles under his smooth golden skin.

“Those things open, right?” Miki gasped when Kane’s fingers dipped below the waistband of his jeans.

“Yes. That’s what makes them doors,” Kane said, leaving a trail of kisses along Miki’s throat until he found the spot he was looking for. The cop nipped and tugged at the skin under Miki’s jaw, plucking up dark pink welts with his teeth. Kane’s fingers were everywhere, pulling at the pebbled nubs of Miki’s chest while his other hand trailed up and down the cleft of the singer’s ass. “All you need to do is turn the knob, baby, and let me in.”

The click of the latch did little to prepare Kane for the door giving way behind him, and he laughed when he stumbled back. Snagging Miki’s jeans by a belt loop, he pulled his lover in, dragging Miki in with him. Neither of them saw the woman coming down the hall nor heard the quiet snick of the door closing behind them as they fell into bed, more intent on getting one another undressed than anything else.

“Well, puppy, it looks like they were the ones to get a room,” Edie said, looking down at Miki’s blond terrier mix. Grinning up at her, Dude shook the red pillbox he clenched in his teeth, as if daring her to say something about its theft. “Let’s see if they’ve got some beer in the fridge, and then we’re going to talk about you giving me back my hat.”

The prophets and the wicked both wear black.

How do I tell one from the other?

When both want to kiss me,

And ask for my soul.

—The Consuming of Me

A
S
PRISONS
went, Stephen had to admit, Skywood was a beautiful prison. The majestic, sweeping landscapes were filled with burbling rivers, tall evergreens, and a cobalt-gray range of mountains that turned icy blue when the winter months came around. He clearly remembered seeing the leaves turn brittle, and a few weeks later, what greenery remained was buried under the frosty kiss of icicles and swirling snow. Spring now had a firm hold on the grounds, and bright colors dominated the greenscape, giving the residents of Skywood Chateaux a vibrant expanse to walk or be wheeled around in.

Stephen hated every minute of it. Especially when the staff began to talk to him in a perfected singsong tone that left him with no doubt they thought he was crazy.

“How are we this morning, Mr. Thompson?” The beefy, bald-headed orderly carried in Stephen’s meal on a wooden tray. After placing it on the table near the window Stephen sat at, he removed the silver dish coverings and placed them on the trolley. “Are you thinking of taking a walk outside today or maybe heading over to the entertainment room? Doctor Hanline thinks it would be a good idea for you to try the game systems again. Maybe something interesting, like Katamari.”

“No Rock Band, huh?” Stephen sniffed at the hollandaise sauce on his eggs.

“Probably not, sir.” He caught the sour look on the orderly’s face before the man could mask it. “That did not… go well for you last time.”

“Yeah, you could say that.” The eggs were good, and the bacon had a sugary crispness he liked. The English muffin accompanying the meal was toasted to perfection, and the orange marmalade tasted handmade, a likely possibility considering the exclusive facility’s attention to detail.

It still was his prison. Despite its beauty and the suite of rooms he occupied, everything was either screwed into the wall or monitored to within an inch of his life. Even the reading material was carefully gone over so nothing would set him off into a rage. The homogenized atmosphere was driving him more crazy than the smug politeness of the staff or the overwhelming blank bits in his mind.

He’d also kill for a cup of coffee, Stephen thought as he stared down at the glass of apple juice. When had he ever
liked
apple juice?

“Here are your supplements, sir.” The orderly handed Stephen a small cup of pills, watching carefully beneath hooded lids to see if Stephen swallowed all of them.

They both knew the pills weren’t vitamins. What Stephen didn’t know was if the orderly was aware he knew it. The meds brought a numbness to his mind, and he hated the lethargic response of his thoughts. He tossed the pills into his mouth, gulped down the entire glass of juice, and wiped his mouth with a napkin. He set the balled-up paper down on the tray and waited until the orderly took the tray to the trolley.

Taking advantage of the man’s turned back, Stephen slipped the pills into the space between the chair’s back and seat, letting them rattle with the others he’d stashed there.

“Your parents will be visiting you today, sir,” the orderly mentioned, stacking the tray with the dish covers. “They’ll be joining you in Entertainment Room C.”

“Lovely,” Stephen drawled.

They were waiting for him, a well-dressed, elegant couple whose every movement spoke of money and privilege. Stephen didn’t have to look hard to see himself in the older man. They shared the same inky black hair, light blue eyes, and strong features. Nearly the same height, they both towered over the delicate-boned blonde woman picking at the edges of her nails in boredom. She smiled when Stephen approached and murmured an air kiss near his ear before drawing quickly away. The man patted Stephen’s arm awkwardly and sat down next to his wife on a tapestry settee. The orderly closed the door as he left, leaving them alone.

The room was on the small side for the facility, offering a private venue for family gatherings, and Stephen wished they’d been able to meet in one of the larger areas so he could have some room to pace off his frustration. He was halfway to the window when the man who called himself his father broke the silence.

“Why don’t you come sit down with us, Stephen?” Hell, they even sounded alike, but for the life of him, Stephen couldn’t remember a damned thing about the man he resembled. “We want to hear how you’re doing. Do you need anything? Maybe more books?”

“What I need is to get the fuck out of here,” Stephen said, staring down at the parents he didn’t know. “Look, you seem nice and all, but I don’t
remember
you. I don’t want to be here… I…. This isn’t my life.”

“Stephen, we’ve gone over this,” his mother said in the same damned lilting singsong the staff used to speak to him. “You’re our son. You were in a car accident… a very serious car accident. It’s okay that you don’t remember anything—”

“See, that’s where you’re wrong. I sure as hell don’t remember
you,
but I remember a lot of things,” he interrupted. “I remember that my name’s not Stephen Thompson. It’s Damien Stephen Mitchell. I know I was in a car accident, and I know Johnny and Dave are gone. What I don’t understand is why you’re not letting me see Sinjun or even letting me talk to him. So if you want to do something for me, let me out of here. Because what I need… who I want is
Sinjun
, because I need him to take me home.”

About the Author

R
HYS
F
ORD
was born and raised in Hawai’i, then wandered off to see the world. After chewing through a pile of books, a lot of odd food, and a stray boyfriend or two, Rhys eventually landed in San Diego, which is a very nice place but seriously needs more rain.

Rhys admits to sharing the house with three cats, a black Pomeranian puffball, a bonsai wolfhound, and a ginger cairn terrorist. Rhys is also enslaved to the upkeep a 1979 Pontiac Firebird, a Qosmio laptop, and a red Hamilton Beach coffeemaker.

Visit Rhys’s blog at http://rhysford.wordpress.com/ or e-mail Rhys at [email protected].

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HYS
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ORD