by Rhys Ford
Table of Contents
Blurb
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Epigraph
In The Beginning
Damien’s Kirin
Oaths and Morgans
Hair of the Dog
After A Whiskey Shot
Interview With The Boys
Not All Knights Carry Swords
Taking a Tequila Shot
A Touch of Irish
Wild Turkey
Applejack Shots and Beer
A Day at the Park
Never Go Full Nerf
On The Balcony with Harley
Of Cats and Queens
A Cop and a Drummer
Dancing After the Cake
A Ride along the Coast
Fried Rice and Wisdom
Strawberries in the Office
Two! Only Two!
A Day at the Fair
Coming Home
More from Rhys Ford
About the Author
By Rhys Ford
Visit Dreamspinner Press
Copyright
’Nother Sip of Gin
By Rhys Ford
A Sinners Gin Anthology
For Crossroads Gin rock stars Miki, Damien, Rafe, and Forest, life is a Möbius strip of music, mayhem, and murder. Through it all, the sweet, hot moments between tours with lovers, friends, and family keep them sane, healthy, and happy. This Sinners collection features short stories spanning the entire series, from before the first note to after the lights go out.
To Holly and Mike for fighting to keep the music going for me.
To the Five, who laugh and dance with me, but no, we won’t be singing about a horse outside despite what the mad Irish wants.
And to every reader who hears the band’s music in their hearts as they read.
Acknowledgments
THIS, AS always, is a thank-you to the Five; Tamm, Penn, Lea, and Jenn. Also a huge love sent to Bru, Elizabeth, Naomi, Gin, Liz, and everyone else at DSP.
I would not be able to write without music, and the list of musicians who have fueled my words and inspired my soul is way too long to be listed here, but I thank every one of them for lifting up their voices and shouting at or for their devils.
Fortunes left on paper
Iron grate at my back
Handful of songs in my pockets
You pulled me up from the black
Dragons on the streets
Fireworks in the sky
We’ve gone and come full circle
A curl of time gone by
Sinners at the Crossroads
An X in the road
Sipping gin, counting time
Getting ready to explode
—’Nother Sip of Gin
In The Beginning
“FUCK, SINJUN,” Damie spat from his perch on a tall stool. “I’d need another hand to get this damned transition done the way you’ve written it.”
The odd summer heat made San Francisco muggy and oppressive, seemingly sucking the oxygen out of the air to leave behind a dank sandy vapor to breathe in. Ground down by the rare simmering wave, the city retreated into its holes, pulling most of its people off the street, leaving behind tourists intent on seeing the sights and posing next to landmarks while wilting beneath the unrelenting sun.
Despite the building’s strict rules, Damie conned the SRO manager to let him and Miki share a single slot, promising to deliver all kinds of favors and good behavior if she would just look the other way. With a soft spot in either her head or heart, she’d agreed, and they’d settled into the narrow one-room space with its makeshift kitchenette and a bathroom shared among the other thirteen people on the floor. Still, it was a corner space, coveted for its two windows and, despite its tight confines, one of the larger rooms the SRO had to offer. Miki didn’t know what Damie offered Old Lady Weng for the room, but he didn’t care. The two windows gave them a bit of a crosswind, sucking most of the heat out of the room with a few well-placed fans. Despite the lukewarm muggy breeze, the city felt as if it was holding its breath, waiting for something to break over it.
Miki could only hope that something would be a thunderstorm and bring a bit of cool back to the sloping hills and winding streets. As hopes went, it was a safe one to bet on, especially since the air turned metallic, a burnt-steel whiff carried in on the hot breeze, bringing with it a promise of some rain.
Either that or the auto shop across the street had another car catch on fire and it would be a few minutes before they were assaulted by fire truck sirens.
“This shit breaks every rule written for a lead guitar part,” Damie groused. “No wonder no one wants to be in our band.”
“They don’t want to be in the band because they think you’re an asshole for wanting to practice,” Miki reminded his best friend. “Three times a week doesn’t seem to be shit. What about that Dave guy? The one we met down at Queenie’s? He sounded cool.”
“Yeah, I liked him. Steady. You just like him because he gave you the rest of his burger.” Shooting Miki a grin, Damie chuckled at Miki’s upraised middle finger. “We need a bassist. Unless you want to play bass.”
“Can’t sing if I play bass.” He shook his head. “Fucks me up. I can write it but can’t do it together. Throws the beat off in my head. Unless we got another singer.”
“Sinjun, there’s no way in hell I’m going to bury that voice of yours under a bass guitar.” Damie fingered the chords again, stretching his fingers out until they hit the right spots. “You okay with being up there, though? Last time we got up on stage, you seemed… a bit out of it.”
Miki flopped back down on the mattress they’d laid under the narrow wall’s window. Another just like it lay against the opposite wall, set on a raised platform so they could use the space under it to shove their instruments away whenever they left the room. Since Damie was using the framed bed to sit on and practice, the mattress was the only other place for Miki to sprawl over, and the linens smelled of Damie, a bit of night sweat, baby powder, and lavender mint from the soap he’d gotten on sale from the Dollar Store. There weren’t enough pillows on Damie’s bed to be truly comfortable, but Miki didn’t mind. Topped with some memory foam squares they’d gotten from a pile of evicted tenants’ belongs Mrs. Weng put out for anyone to scavenge through, the bed was soft and cradled Miki’s lengthening body, easing some of the growing pains eating at his joints.
“I thought I saw Vega in the crowd.” Damie sat straight up, and Miki waved off the pour of outrage and anger he knew he’d hear if he let Damie loose. “It wasn’t, but it kind of threw me. I get scared sometimes. Shit, he can’t hurt me anymore, and it’s like I see someone who even looks a bit like him and I curl up inside. What happens when one day it is him. What’s going to stop me from going over to punch the fucker in the face?”
“Shit, I’ll help you.” Damie set his guitar down, then slid over onto the mattress next to Miki, tucking what few pillows there were around them. “I’ll hold the bastard down while you go at him. Least I can do. Just leave enough of him for me when you run out of breath.”
“I’m the singer. Can’t run out of breath,” he teased, poking Damie in the ribs. “He always told me no one would believe me. I could tell anyone I wanted and they’d just hand me back to him. A couple did. Couple of the social workers said I was a liar and they couldn’t understand why I didn’t want to be fostered by a guy as great as him. Wish I could punch them too.”
“Hey, Sinjun, I promise you one thing… okay, maybe a lot of things, but definitely this one thing,” Damie murmured, pulling Miki in. It was too hot to be held, way too hot to even breathe, but Miki wouldn’t have dragged himself away from Damie even if they were on fire. “You and I… w
e’re in this. Forever. No matter what happens, no matter where we go, I’m always going to be your brother. We’re the only family we’ve got. Maybe all we’ll ever have, but no one’s ever going to touch you like that again. Unless you want them to.”
“Yeah, right,” Miki snorted, poking at Damie again until he yelped and jerked his side away. “Who the hell’s going to want some broken fucking asshole like me?”
“You’d be surprised, Sin. Hell, you’re going to have to beat people off with a baseball bat, especially once we start getting on the road.” Rubbing at his side, Damie snickered. “Just when you do fall in love, make sure it’s someone who understands he’s getting a package deal. Same thing for me. Can’t have one without getting the other, and if he’s not good for it, then he’s out.”
“You? Maybe.” Miki refuted. “Me? Not so much.”
“Trust me. You’re going to fall in love.” Cocking his head, Damie amended, “You might go kicking and screaming and biting, but you’ll find someone you can’t live without and God fucking help them. Hopefully it’ll be someone with their head on right. Maybe like a lawyer. Someone steady. Shit, with a huge family that’ll make you run screaming every time he says it’s time to go for a visit.”
“Yeah, fuck you, D,” he snorted, shoving Damie away. “Go back to your guitar, because the next thing out of your mouth will be I’m going to fall in love with some cop, and it’s going to be hard for you to get that transition right with all of those fingers I’m going to break.”
Damien’s Kirin
Tokyo—Damien Mitchell and Miki St. John
TOKYO WAS a tangle of lights, metal, cars, and a language Miki couldn’t understand to save his life, but the food was amazing and the crowds were incredible. They were scheduled to play four shows in Japan, sold-out crowds in every arena, but it was Tokyo they’d been waiting for.
Bukodan.
The night before had been… mind-blowing. Miki couldn’t imagine how their lives could get any better. Standing on a stage—a legendary stage—for the sound check, he’d been humbled and driven into an anxiety spiral only broken when Damien placed his hand in the middle of Miki’s back, pressing between his shoulder blades.
“If we sell out, I’ll get that tattoo I’ve always wanted,” his brother whispered beneath the buzz of the amps firing up behind them. “Dave hooked me up with this guy here in Tokyo that’s apparently this incredible tattoo artist. It’s really underground here, but if you know a guy who knows a guy, they will ink you. I’ve already talked to him on the phone, and I kind of want you to be there.”
“Where the fuck else would I be?” Miki snorted. “Even if we don’t sell out, do it. We’re fucking playing at Bukodan, D. The fact that we’re on this stage is… I don’t have any words, brother. Get the tattoo. I’ll be right there with you.”
His ears were still ringing, and just like any large show, every time he turned his head, Miki heard a buzz, an audible kiss left in his hearing from standing in front of stacks of amps. It was an occupational hazard at times, and he knew he should have worn the discreet earplugs Johnny tossed at him at the beginning of every show, but they dampened the sound of the crowd, and Miki wanted to hear every damned last bit of applause and every shrieking cheer.
Because he would never play that stage again. Or at least he would never have that first time ever again, and he wanted to bathe in the furious glee of the audience singing back at him and dancing to their songs.
The buzz was so fucking worth it.
Damien found a driver to take them, mostly by bribing the hotel’s concierge to find someone who would bring them to the depths of Tokyo’s underground after the band’s chauffeur refused. The car was dinky and battered, but the young Japanese man who’d popped out of the driver’s side door had been delighted to meet them, asking for their autographs while holding up a bootleg CD of their first album. They’d thankfully signed it, and Damien asked one of the bellhops to grab their driver a band shirt from their storage area, sealing their friendship with the improbably named Stan.
“Maru Tattoos?” Stan said in a heavily accented English when Damien showed him the address he’d gotten over the phone. “You are going to get a tattoo? Here?”
“That’s the plan,” Damien responded. “I’m supposed to be there in an hour. Think we can make it?”
“I can get you there,” Stan promised. “Hard to park in the area, but I will find a space after dropping you off and wait. You call when you’re done. I’ll give you my phone number.”
“It’s going to be hours,” the guitarist warned. “I don’t even know if it’s going to get finished today. It’s a back piece.”
“Then I will come to the place, and if you need something, I will get it.” Stan pulled into an insane stream of traffic, waving his arm out the open window as he merged. “You will need lots of caffeine. It will help with the pain.”
“Well, I was kinda hoping for whiskey,” Damien muttered across the back seat to Miki. “But I guess coffee is the next best thing.”
Stan hadn’t been joking. The streets got smaller and smaller until even the wee speck of a black car had a difficult time weaving in and out of the tight turns. They pulled up to what looked like a sidewalk and turned right, narrowly avoiding a placard with a dancing duck holding a pair of chopsticks on it. Miki grabbed at the strap dangling next to the window, gulping when it came off in his hand. Damien merely laughed, then hooked his arm around Miki’s waist, holding on tightly while Stan made another insane turn. They drove down into the narrow dark alleys for a dizzying twenty minutes, the car came to an abrupt screeching halt, and Stan twisted around, grinning maniacally.
“Can’t drive more. Too tight.” Stan punched a finger forward, pointing down a walkway to the left. “See the red sign with the circle on it? That is Maru. You go there and I will come find you. You want coffee? Iced? I’ll bring some ika too. You will want something to eat.”
“That’s cuttlefish,” Miki muttered to Damien under his breath.
“Did I like it?” Damien whispered back.
“I do. But I liked the hot one better.” Miki dug into his pocket and came up with a handful of yen. “Can you get the spicy one? Or the rolled sweet one? Those are good.”
“Can do.” Stan grabbed the money. “I’ll come find you.”
A few moments later, Damien and Miki stood under a dimly lit array of paper lanterns, watching Stan’s little car zoom away, screeching around a corner and disappearing from view. Clearing his throat, Damien chuckled, nudging Miki in the ribs with his elbow.
“Think we’ll ever see him again?” he asked through a laugh.
“God, I fucking hope so. Because if not, we’re going to have to call up Edie and beg her to send someone to come out and get us,” Miki grumbled. “And she does not like getting those kind of phone calls. Remember what she did to Dave when he got caught in that manatee tank in Florida?”
“Dude, I think that had more to do with the manatee tank then the call coming in at three in the morning,” Damien replied. “But yeah, she was not happy. Well, hopefully Stan comes back, and if not, we’ll just find someplace to drink. It’s almost ten right now; maybe we won’t even be done until breakfast time and it’ll be fine.”
There was barely enough room to walk, and both of them had to duck several times to avoid a low-slung wire or lantern dangling in the way. Judging by the glass beer and sake bottles in wooden racks hung above many of the curtained doors, the alley was where someone came to drink. The boisterous laughter breaking free of one place was as familiar as any Miki’d heard in countless cities, but the food smells wafting from a walk-up yakisoba shop definitely was Tokyo, a rich blend of salty savory with a hint of curry beneath it. His stomach grumbled a bit as they passed, Damien catching him by the elbow when Miki slowed to peer at the picture menu taped to the side of the shop’s open order window.
“Later. Or at least come back when I’m screaming in pain and need something in my mouth besides m
y own tongue,” Damien said, hurrying him along. “The shop’s just right there.”
“Fine,” Miki reluctantly agreed. “But you owe me some noodles. Maybe even a beer.”
“Jesus, if it’s not music, it’s food. You’ve got two tracks in that busy head of yours,” his brother replied. “Let me just meet up this Ichiro Tokugawa guy and I’ll cut you loose to get some noodles. Just… don’t pull a Stan. I want you there when he starts.”
“Dude, I’m not going anywhere,” Miki promised. “I’m here ’til the end. And if this Ichiro guy screws up your tattoo, I’ll even buy you that whiskey… right before I call Edie to come bail me out of jail for murder.”
THE FIRST bite of pain came fast and hard, a splash of fire on his skin, then settling into his bones. Gripping the back of the chair he was sitting on, Damien breathed through the sting of coals being dragged across his flesh and focused on whatever was in front of him… whatever he could see through the filmy veil of tears clouding his vision.
He’d loved the tattoo, an elaborate kirin with a defiant smirk and flaming mane, but Ichi warned him it would take more than a few sessions to complete. They’d made arrangements to meet again in San Francisco and Los Angeles when Ichi came over to do a tour, but the initial work—the hardest part—would be done in Tokyo, a six- to seven-hour stretch of outlines and packed-in black stippling.
There was going to be a hell of a lot of drinking once he was able to get out of the chair.
His brother, Miki, was hungry… although to be fair, Miki was always hungry.
He’d gotten taller since the day Damie heard him belting out Joplin on a Chinatown fire escape, and gained a bit of muscle mass, adding a wiry strength to his lanky frame. His hair was longer, a messy chestnut-streaked brown mane, and his face had filled out, taking him from a chipmunk-cute kid to a stunningly pretty young man. His green-flecked hazel eyes were the same, guarded, skeptical, and usually hooded, taking in everything around him.
