Tequila Mockingbird (23 page)

Enraptured by the large man on his knees in front of him, Forest lifted his legs up, hooking his ankles at the small of Connor’s back. Slick fingers played with him, coating his hole with lubricant. It smelled familiar, then turned erotic when a simmering warmth kicked in, making Forest gasp in surprise. The sounds of a condom wrapper tearing sent tingles of fear and need through him—would he be able to take all of Connor’s girth—would he be able to be what Connor needed—and would Connor find pleasure in his already ill-used body?

He said something. For all he knew, he was complimenting Connor on the ink covering one of his upper arms. Forest couldn’t even remember the words as soon as they left his mouth, but whatever he’d mumbled made Connor smile. God, he
lived
for that man’s crooked, chipped-tooth smile. A thrust of Connor’s hips, and suddenly Forest’s skin was singing, tightening over his flesh and bones as Connor filled him, a rush of hot silken steel driving deep into the depths of Forest’s body.

And if there were a God, Forest thought, he’d die right then and there because he couldn’t imagine anything more perfect than Connor Morgan splitting him open and whispering hot whiskey Irish into his ear.

Then Connor began to move, and Forest simply gave up thinking.

Forest rode the waves of Connor’s thrusts. He could only hold on, tightly gripping the man’s powerful arms as they supported Con’s weight. His lover—because Connor was
his lover
—worked his hips in and out, angling up in a rolling snap slow enough to drive every single inch of Connor’s cock along the ridge of Forest’s hole and push the man’s shaft in deep. Forest’s hips rose with every thrust, his ass driven up on every motion.

Sweat glistened on their bodies, and Forest caught a drop of Connor’s when it fell from his throat. The salt of the man would echo the rush of come from Connor’s release, and as pale of a comparison as it would be, Forest was glad for the taste. He’d have the man’s taste in his mouth as he filled Forest’s depths, but that too became nothing but a rush of burned thought as Con found Forest’s sweet spot and the universe went black around them.

They slapped together, skin hitting wetly and teasingly. Forest ached for more, and Connor gave him his all, resting on his knees so he could slide his hands under Forest’s hips to get a better grip on the meat of Forest’s ass. Connor’s fingers dug in, a punishing grip, but Forest gloried in the man’s grasp. Connor wasn’t going to let him fall over the edge of his release alone. With every massive stroke, Con drove Forest further along until the tingle of his climax began to boil in his balls.

“Touch yerself,
a ghra
,” Connor growled, his accent thickening to emerald and gravel. “I want to see ye pull at yer dick and come for me. Can ye do that?”

Forest couldn’t find his hands; then his dick seemed to be as
reluctant to be located. His nerves were shot, his mind blown beyond where it was supposed to be. Fumbling, Forest covered his cock with his hand, his fingers numb from the cascading pleasure rising up from his ass and balls. He couldn’t think straight enough to pull on himself, not in any sense of rhythm.

For once in his life, he couldn’t find the pattern of his own body. His heart’d fallen into time with Connor’s pulse, and the beat of it drove their sex, a shattering plunge on every downstroke.

It was too much for him when Connor’s hand rose up to cover his fingers and the man began to work Forest’s cock, sliding up and down in a single shuck before rubbing the rough of his palm over Forest’s head. Something caught on his slit—either the edge of a fingernail or a callus—either way, the rough scrape was the limit of Forest’s body, because the storm building up in his balls broke, and he screamed his release, arching his body up and clenching down hard on Connor’s wickedly hard cock.

Something hot came up into his ass, but it was held back, simmered by the sheath around it. In some part of his mind, Forest knew it was Connor’s spill, and he sighed, riding the tiny shivers of his climax while Connor continued to stroke at him, both inside and out.

Connor’s dick was still buried in him, Forest realized. Even softening from release, the man was firm enough to remain inside, and every shift of Connor’s weight reminded Forest of the ride they’d just taken together. The faint light coming from the bedroom’s overhead lamp dimmed when Connor bent over Forest, his dark hair catching up most of the bulb’s glow. Forest could still make out Con’s features and certainly the man’s sinfully delicious mouth before he tenderly kissed Forest’s lips.

“I love you too,
a ghra
,” Connor whispered against Forest’s kiss-swollen mouth. “And yeah, I’m never letting you go.”

Hey there pretty boy

Whatcha doing over there

Come on over now

Don’t just sit and stare

Show you a right good time

Show you everything I got

Blowing town in an hour

But I’ve got time to hit the spot

—
Talk is Cheap

“W
HO
THE
fuck is Forest Ackerman, and why the hell are we letting him use Dave’s kit?”

Damien’d known the firestorm would hit. Miki was, if nothing else, predictable—at least to someone who knew him. It wasn’t that the singer was selfish. If anything, Miki would give the shirt off his back to anyone who even remotely shivered within five hundred feet of him. No, this was about the guys—the band—and Miki was extremely protective of the members of Sinner’s Gin, even in death.

Especially in death.

“It was never Dave’s kit, dude,” Damien reminded softly. “The drum company sent it to him to try out. Dave never touched it. Hell, he never even saw it.”

He steeled himself against his brother’s hard hazel glare, focusing on the tiny gold dollops in Miki’s right eye. The pattern was a constellation, Damie was sure of it, and he’d been trying to figure out which one for years. It also helped him shift his focus away from Miki’s fierce glower, and he’d seen a pack of Morgans back down from
that
stare.

So Damie played his trump card. “Brigid asked.”

Miki’s response was swift and hard. “Fuck.”

The argument, if it could be called that, was over before it could really get started, but Damie didn’t gloat. Although he did allow himself a tiny smile.

“’Sides, you know him. Remember the blond kid at Frank Marshall’s?” He slung down onto the couch next to his brother. “At the Sound.”

“Yeah?” Miki scratched at his cheek with the eraser end of his pencil. “Shit, I’m trying to remember—”

“He was a drummer—”

“Figured that since you’re willing to toss him at Dave’s kit.”

“Not Dave’s kit,” Damie began to argue, then caught the wicked gleam in Miki’s tawny eyes. “Fuck you. You gonna listen to me?”

“If ever you stop talking about shit, maybe,” Miki replied. “Oh wait, I remember him. Hell, he was like a little kid. And his mom—Frank went off about his mom when we were there. Said she kept whoring him out or something.”

“Yeah,” Damie growled. “Fucking bitch. Getting slow cooked on lava would be too good for her.”

He’d recalled the broken, wide-eyed boy when Brigid first called to ask if Damie knew of a place Forest could practice. Pretty as a Keane painting, the blond teen’d hovered mostly near Frank, helping set up equipment, then scurrying out of the way when the band came in. Dave’d liked the kid, spending his down time with Frank’s adopted son and teaching him what he could in between their sessions. The Sound was where Sinner’s Gin cut their first CD, an eight-track demo they’d sold at their early shows.

Frank Marshall taught Damie a lot about mixing and melody, even so far as to cut the band a deal on the session cost because he’d seen something in their ragtag group of fuck-ups.

Damie sent Frank a thank-you, along with a bottle of twenty-five-year-old whiskey, when Sinner’s Gin signed their contract, then lost touch, but Frank’s name was in their first real album’s liner notes, and Damie felt he
owed
the man something. It was time for him to pay the bill—and he was going to get Sinjun on board if it was the last thing he did.

“Think he’s any good?” Sinjun asked suddenly, jarring Damie from his trip down Memory Lane.

“Who? The kid? Forest?” He flipped Miki off when the man rolled his eyes. “Dave liked him. Said he had talent. Just needed to get his shit together.”

“Who
doesn’t
need to get their shit together when you’re that age?” Miki snorted, then gave Damie another skeptical glance. “You didn’t fuck him, did you?”

“Frank’s kid? Fuck no. He was a
kid
!” Damien protested. “Dude, besides—don’t shit where you eat.”

“
That
took you a little bit to learn,” his brother reminded him. “It’s how we lost our first drummer… and second one too. And that bassist. It was like a fucking Wonka factory tour—but without the chocolate river.”

“Didn’t touch him,” he swore, holding his hand up.

“Yeah, like you were ever a Boy Scout,” Miki muttered, then paused in his scribbling. “Hey, think he’s any good? At drumming. Not sex.”

“Dunno.” Damie shrugged. “Why?”

“’Cause I’m sick of tapping things out on a drum machine, and I want to try out a few bass lines.” Miki pondered what he wrote, then reached for a blank music sheet. “I mean, if he’s going to be here anyway, might as well get some fucking use out of him.”

“And if we’re in the studio, Brigid will leave you the fuck alone,” Damie mused.

Miki nodded and grunted. “You got that fucking right. Woman rattles my brain.”

F
OREST
SAT
in Brigid’s SUV and stared at the warehouse’s front door. He’d remembered Damien and Miki from their time at the Sound, but he’d been younger then—stupider too. Instead of taking advantage of listening in on a band that would make it big, he’d skipped out a few times when his mother’d tugged on his leash. Their quiet Southern-born drummer spent a lot of his spare time with Forest, working through some of the harder rolls and laughing softly when Forest finally got something right.

And now he sat outside of the surviving members’ home to come beg to play on their equipment.

“It’ll be fine,” Brigid said again. “The boys are nice. Sweet even.”

“I’ve met them. Miki St. John is about the furthest thing from sweet as it gets.” He made no move to get out of the car, and Brigid seemed to be fine with his waiting. “I have no idea why I’m scared to go in. Fuck, it’s not like I haven’t heard them play. Or sat in on one of their sessions. I’ve even learned their damned songs so I can do covers when someone wants to. I should just go in.”

But Forest just sat there, still staring.

“What’s the real reason, love?” Brigid pried gently. “I know them well enough to say they’d not mock someone’s musical skill. And Miki’s probably mellowed a bit since you’d met him.” When Forest side-eyed her, she amended, “
A bit
. The words I used were ‘a bit.’”

“Dunno,” Forest said, then made a face. “No, I kinda know. I think it’s ’cause they
knew
me, back then. When I’d just gotten to Frank’s. Things were so—fucked up.
I
was so fucked up. I don’t know if I’m ready to deal with that.”

“What do you think they know?” she asked. “If you’d want to be sharing. And why would you think either one of them would say something about it?”

Forest took a deep breath. There was so much riding on him blending in with Connor’s life. Hell, he was still fucking scared down to his spine that the cop would catch shit for hooking up with a former whore, and when he’d mentioned it to Con, the man lifted one eyebrow and said,
I’d fucking welcome the chance to put my fist into any asshole who says jack shit about you
.

It’d been pretty much the end of that conversation. Connor ended a lot of conversations that way. A declaration in his rumbling, deep voice, and then the matter was done. He seemed to reserve it for certain instances—defending his passed-around lover or deciding Forest needed new clothes, even if Connor said he loved seeing Forest in his shirts. Forest just didn’t know if he wanted to shatter his tentative relationship with Connor’s firebrand mother, even if she seemed to be where Con got his engraved-in-stone stubbornness.

No matter how quickly and terrifyingly things were moving, it was one thing to talk about his past with the man he shared a bed with—a life, even—he wasn’t so sure Brigid would be as sanguine as her granite-willed son.

Another deep breath, and Forest spilled his guts, staring out of the window as he did it. He kept it short, the barest of details, but the warehouse swam when his eyes watered up. He was sick of crying—sick of whining about his life and his past. If there was some way he could just make it all—

“Come here, love,” Brigid cut him off, wrapping her arms around his body, and pulled him close. “Don’t you ever apologize for what someone did to you as a child. You’re strong—stronger than anyone who’d speak against you for it. I’ll be telling you if ever someone spits on you in the earshot of
any
Morgan, they’ll be gumming their ass bits. And that would include those boys in there if I’d thought they would be that ignorant. They’re not, sweetie. They’ve had their share of horror and have come out the other side. So don’t you be worrying about them.”