Sloe Ride (17 page)

It was like Kane didn’t even
know
his younger brother.

“Okay, now keep in mind, I’m not the cop here,” Rafe started to say.

“Probably the exact opposite,” Connor muttered. “But sure, you go on there, Andrade.”

“Thanks for your vote of confidence there, Connie.”

He ignored Con’s middle finger, knowing Donal would take care of it for him. A second later, Connor was shrugging and mumbling out an apology that sounded more forced than a man complimenting an ugly baby.

“How did we get from the fire thing at Quinn’s house to it being someone killed Quinn’s ex? What connected them?”

“I’m connecting them,” Kane snapped. “Southern’s the cop house that pulled the truck, but they’ve done jack shit about it. I want to pull it all into my house. I’ve got more faith in that cat you’ve got in your lap there, Rafe, than I’ve got in the desk jockeys running Q’s case.”

“Probably should have some more protection on him,” Connor suggested. “Truck and fire’s one thing. Dead is escalating things fast.”

“Can we stop for a second?” Quinn cut them all off. “That’s not the point of it. Simon’s dead. I had a couple of incidents, but none of that means I’m going to take a leave of absence and go hide away someplace. Not going to happen. I have classes. I have a fucking job—”

“One you can put on pause, can’t you?” Kane moved in, edging into his brother.

Rafe did not see the confrontation ending well for Kane. He silently wished his friend luck and kept his mouth shut, hoping beyond hope none of Kane’s blood splattered on him once Quinn struck.

“What? Because I’m not a cop? Because I don’t carry a badge and gun?” Instead of backing up, Quinn stepped in, lowering his voice until the eerie calm of it rolled softly over Kane’s anger. “If it were you, brother mine, would you tuck your tail between your legs and run off? I didn’t see you packing up Miki like he was a china doll and shipping him off somewhere safe—”

Connor snorted. “Oh, I’d pay to see that.”

“Money’s on Miki boy,” Donal agreed. “Quinn, back off your brother and take a breath. Kane only wants what’s right by you. He’s scared. Can’t blame a man for being frightened for his brother.”

“No, but I can blame him for trying to unman me because of it,” Quinn replied. “I’m sorry Simon’s dead, but we don’t know for certain he died because of me. It’s been two years since we’ve even spoken to one another. Hell, we work on the same campus, and I haven’t seen him since we—”

“You kicked him to the curb. That’s what you did,” Connor finished. Donal huffed at his son, but Con shrugged it off. “Sorry, Da, but the man wanted our Quinn to sit in the closet with him and play Ken doll. No balls, no sex, and no life. Can’t say I’d be wanting that for my son, least of all my brother.”

“While I’m thankful everyone’s so invested in my love life, get the fuck out of my business. I’m saying you’re being reactionary, Kane.” Sliding onto the couch, Quinn stroked at the orange tabby’s fur, ruffling it slightly when he began to purr. “Nothing’s happened to
me
in weeks.”

“I’d feel better if you were someplace safe. I’m at work, and Sionn’s off learning how to brew IPAs.” Kane sat down on a leather ottoman in front of his younger brother. “Damie and Miki are going to be in the studio a lot. I just don’t like knowing you’ll be there alone so much. I’d rather you be someplace safer.”

“I don’t like knowing I’m there, period.” Quinn widened his eyes, mocking Kane’s surprised huff. “Please, I love you all, but I hate being there. It’s like I’m a pinball in a porn arcade. Every time I turn around, someone’s beeping or banging, and I’m scurrying off to find someplace safe. I like living alone. Or at least quieter.”

“Shit, I’ve got a suggestion.” Rafe’s mouth appeared to be having a private conversation with his dick, and his brain began to scramble to keep up. Before he could stop himself, lips and cock evaded capture and containment, and the most horrendously bad idea tumbled out of his mouth. “Just move Quinn in with me. Until all this shit’s done.”

T
HE
APARTMENT
behind the Morgan garage was cold, and Miki wondered what he’d done to piss off God enough to give him Damien as a best friend. It was bad enough he’d started his day with Kane gone, and his not-quite-awake brain muttered something about a phone call, a murder, and Kane’s loving kiss on his mouth before sliding away into the dark of an early Sunday morning.

God. Sunday.

Sundays were torture, a long anticipation of food, haranguing, and loud, messy Morgans. Maybe the murder would mean Kane couldn’t make it to the family trough, and Miki half wondered if he could skip out on that technicality alone.

“No, she’ll just come get me if I went home. Fecking witch,” he grumbled at his snoring dog. “Haven’t been in few weeks. Gotta go punch the son-in-law card once in a while, or I’ll get docked. It’s not fair, Dude. Not like I can drag
him
somewhere—”

Miki didn’t bother finishing his sentence. Kane would go anywhere he needed Kane to be, even a few places he didn’t, and not for the first time, Miki felt irritated at his cop’s willingness to jump into everything Miki was into.

The smell of cocoa-brushed coffee brewing was tempting Miki to crawl out of his nest. He lay on his back, debating the pros and cons of searching out a cup when Dude solved the dilemma for him.

Dude and the sneaky realization someone’d given the terrier a lima bean from last night’s dinner, because the green cloud wafting out from under Miki’s duvet was thick and foul enough to fell a T-Rex.

It was a clotted stench so strong it drove Miki from his place on the bed and into the bathroom to brush his teeth. Anything to remove the taste of dog-processed lima bean from his tongue before he had to face the fray he suspected was brewing in the main house.

He’d already walked into one maelstrom of biting politeness and sneering rejoinders that morning when Sionn and Damien circled one another around the one empty space. The brittleness in the air was sharp enough for Miki to seriously contemplate killing both of them, but instead he’d fought past them and been caught up in their argument.

Now midafternoon, Miki finally realized he’d never actually gotten his cup of coffee.

“Fuckers.” Waving away any lingering remnants of Dude’s lima-bean incursion, he was about to head out and brave the elements when the apartment door swung open, and his brother and sometimes best friend came in, skillfully maneuvering into the room while holding a pair of steaming mugs.

“Here, take one so I can shut the door,” Damien ordered.

To be fair, Miki supposed, Damien was always ordering. Or pushing. Sometimes even bullying if he were allowed. Miki took great pleasure in being the pin to prick his best friend’s arrogance, so he stood there, waiting. Damien sighed and gave a tight smile.

“Please, you asshole. Can you please take one so I can shut the goddamned door?”

“Better.” As a concession, he took both cups, sipping at the creamier one as Damien nearly gagged on the smell of Dude’s stealthy emissions. “Hey, reap it. Pretty sure Sionn slipped him a bean last night.”

“Why the fuck would Sionn do that?” Damien scraped his tongue against his teeth, then retrieved his coffee from Miki’s warmed fingers.

“Because Kane told him not to. You and I, we know better. Those two, they’re assholes about shit like that.” Sitting as cross-legged as he could on the bed, Miki cocked his head at his friend. “Unless it was Quinn. He’s sneaky sometimes, but don’t think he’d do it.”

“Nah, he’s too… righteous. Wrong word. Something or other. Not someone who’d fuck with a dog’s ass.” Damien joined his friend on the bed, waiting until Miki was settled in before easing against the wall. “We going to audition Rafe?”

“You asking me or telling me?” Miki sipped at his cup. “’Cause I thought we’d already decided it was at least worth a chance.”

“We’ve got to be sure, Sinjun.” Damien made a face when Miki snorted at him. “Okay, I’ve got to be certain. There’s a lot at stake.”

“How’s it different than before?” he asked softly. “When we were going through all of the shit before Sinner’s broke open, we had to dig through some guys to find out what worked… who worked. Not like we found Johnny and Dave on the first go. Remember that Brenton guy?”

“Shit, I forgot about him. Him and his banana fetish.” They shared a laugh, the experience of finding their drummer with a banana peel wrapped around his dick and jacking off to the soundtrack from
Xanadu
much funnier years later. “Can’t even look at a banana without wondering if it’s a virgin anymore. That kind of ruins it for me, you know?”

“What about Cherry Phil? Took us three weeks to find out he was peeing in that juice container and leaving it in the fridge in case of an animal attack.” Miki shuddered at the memory. “That was disgusting.”

“Dude, I almost
drank
from that apple juice bottle. How do you think
I
felt?” Damien sighed, reaching out to stroke Miki’s knee. “Just don’t want you to be… I just want you to be safe. Shit, I want Forest to be safe. I’ve got to
trust
this guy with everything. That’s a lot, you know?”

“Yeah, I know,” Miki agreed softly. “But D, it’s always going to be like this. At some point in our lives, we’re going to be falling off the edge and just hoping we land okay. You’re talking about touring… about albums… like we’re starting over. So if we’re going to start over, we’ve got to be willing to do that. Banana-peel fuckers and all.”

“Scary, you know that, Sinjun? This whole beginning thing,” Damien admitted. “I keep trying not to think about the pressure to be better than we were… because no matter what we do, there’s Sinner’s standing behind us, looming. Suppose I fuck that up? Suppose everyone comes out and says shit like, they should have let the band rest in that grave? I don’t want that for you and Forest. Hell, I don’t want that for me.”

“What does it matter what people say, D?” Miki set his cup down on a low table next to the bed, then scooted over until he was against the wall, sitting shoulder to shoulder with Damien. “We started this shit without giving a crap about what everyone said before. Why should we give a shit now? So we make music. So people might hate it. What does it matter if
we
like it? What the fuck does it matter if no one else does?”

“Because it does.” He shrugged, nudging Miki aside a bit. “I’m a shit. I know it. You… you’re different. You don’t need to have people tell you you’re alive—”

“Well, that’s ’cause people keep declaring you dead.” Miki’s sharp laugh woke Dude up enough for the dog to look up, then roll back over.

“Hear me out, asshole,” Damien muttered. “Doing the music’s enough for you. Shit, you don’t care if no one ever hears what you make, but me, I’ve got to. I need that, Sinjun. I need people to hear it and see me and fucking want to come back to it. And yeah, that’s a shit ton of ego, but I’m going to own that shit. I want a stage. I don’t care if there’s five or five thousand, but I
need
there to be someone in that black beyond the lights listening to my shit and thinking, yeah, my life’s better because I heard this guy play.”

“And you think Rafe’s not going to bring that?” Miki ventured. “Or are you scared he is?”

“Don’t know. Maybe both. Suppose we’re the ones who are fucked-up and can’t get up there anymore?” Damien slid a glance over his best friend. “Screw that. You—you’re still there. You’ve still got it. I’ve heard you sing. Still can make a fucking stone cry. Forest—he’s just here for the ride. He wants to play and doesn’t give a shit so long as he can make music. If I suck now, he’s not going to care, but Rafe—”

“Rafe’s going to care.” Miki rested his head on Damien’s shoulder, contemplating where they were going to go. “Because you think he wants back up there. Like you do.”

“Shit, you saw his face when we started talking about this shit at the Amp. He was itching harder than a crack fiend. He’s that addicted to the stage, then I’ve got to ask if he’s that hooked onto the shit he put into his veins. Can’t have two masters and one puppet. One’s got to give.” Damien sighed, hooking his arm around Miki’s shoulders. “Then Quinn goes and lays things out for us, and now I’m asking myself, suppose he gives in to the one I’m chasing… our own fucking dragon, and I’m the one who stumbles. What then?”

“Your band. You stumble and—”

“And I bring him down with me.” Damien sighed. “So for all the crap I’m spouting about him falling off the wagon and taking us down, I could be doing the exact same damned thing to him. And then there’d be no going back for him. Not from that.”

“Risk he’s going to have to take,” Miki pointed out. “And I think you’re still pissed off about Sionn bringing it up. Because he got in your face. Because you were an asshole and spit in his. Quinn’s right about that. He did for Rafe what you’d do for me. Pisses you off, but it’s true.”

“Sionn fucked up. It’s not his business what we do in the band.” He yelped when Miki’s fingers found and pinched his nipple. “Shit, what?”

“You ever think maybe he didn’t just bring it up for Rafe’s sake but because he gives a shit about you?” Something snapped into place, and Miki grinned to himself, seeing a pattern connecting Rafe and Damien. “You want up on stage so fucking badly you can taste it. Sionn knows that, and who is the one bassist he knows? The one guy who could take what we give him on stage and throw it back to us? Rafe Andrade. Sionn isn’t just trying to help Rafe. He’s trying to get you back to where you want to be—where you need to be. And you’re just too much of a stubborn asshole to see it.”

“Think so?” Damien sighed, nudging the dog with his toe. “Fucking hell. He is. He was. Fucking shit.”

“Well, Sionn knows you almost as well as I do.”

Miki poked D in the ribs, making him wince.

“Go talk to Rafe about coming in. He’s good. We know he’s good, and we can use him.”

“Neither one of them replaces Johnny and Dave. You know that, right?”

“Any more than anyone could replace you, asswipe.” Miki sighed. “It’s a new thing. A new band. Remember? Back from the gutter. Or maybe never leaving it. So long as we play. Don’t forget that part, D. It doesn’t matter where we go so long as we’re there.”