'Nother Sip of Gin

by Rhys Ford

  “Didn’t know there were this many fucking bassists in California,” Jenkins growled from behind the receptionist’s counter. “And you guys are going to listen to all of them? What the fuck are you thinking?”

  The product of a 1970s biracial marriage, Jenkins grew up hard and fast in Oakland, picking up the sax at an early age to make himself some money in between drug deals. He’d gotten good enough as a sax player the drug deals fell to the wayside, but not so good as to land a solid gig. He’d been a fixture at The Sound for as long as Forest had been there, a freckled, umber-skinned man with a mop of red curls, shuffling in to do sets or cover the front when he needed the money.

  Jenkins always needed the money, and since Forest had taken over, he now manned the front desk regularly in between gigs.

  The call went out for auditions. Sort of. It was more of a murmuring about Sinner’s Gin strapping on its wax wings again to head for the sun, and the word spread. Demo links were uploaded and sent, gathered up here and there by Edie, Damien, and Forest; then appointments were made to hear everyone they liked. Nothing was sent to Miki. Forest’d been shocked to discover Miki was so far off the grid, he didn’t even have an email address and steadfastly refused to get one.

  “Everyone I fucking know I see on a daily basis,” he pointed out, barely looking up from his guitar. “And I’ve got a cell phone. I’ll get one when I need one. If I need one.”

  And with that, Miki shut the conversation down.

  “There something’s wrong with that boy. That St. John boy. He’s not right in the head.” Jenkins cracked a sunflower seed between his teeth. “The other one’s like a used car salesman. Makes me want to check my fingers to see if my rings are still there whenever he shakes my hand. You sure you want to hook up with those two?”

  “So bad I can taste it,” Forest confessed. “And they’re not bad. Just… it’s kind of their way of keeping people out. Damien charms everyone into seeing what they want to, and Miki… well, he’s got walls.”

  “Walls?” Jenkins coughed out the wet seed, patting his chest. “That boy’s got a fucking labyrinth.”

  With a few clusters of musicians waiting outside for a turn at the studio, Forest could barely see the sidewalk. He’d listened to more renditions of “Smoke on the Water” than he cared to count, and they still hadn’t found someone who clicked with them. Damien headed over to the newly remodeled Amp to grab them iced coffees, and Miki’d slipped out, hoping to get a few drags of a kretek before they began round two.

  “Speaking of taste it, your boy’s just come up to the curb.” Jenkins nodded his head toward the studio’s broad windows. “You’ve gotta tell him not to come in here all copped out. Scares the customers.”

  Connor was coming around the front of his Hummer when Forest turned. Jenkins was right, dressed in the steep black combat gear he wore for a raid and standing nearly a head above the musicians, Connor Morgan was definitely terrifying for the crowd that probably had more than a few illicit drugs on them. A pair of mirrored Oakleys hid Con’s deep ocean blue eyes, and he cut a swath across the sidewalk, easily muscling through to the door.

  More than a few of their potential bassists took Connor’s arrival as a sign and quietly slunk off.

  “Hey, babe.” Connor’s voice sent a chill down Forest’s spine, silky, dark, and full of promises for a later in the Victorian they lived in. After tucking his sunglasses into the collar of his shirt, Con caught Forest up in a fierce, brief hug, searing a kiss on his mouth before letting him go. “Guess you haven’t found your guy yet.”

  “No, not really.” It was hard to describe what they were all looking for. Damien wanted someone with technical skill and stage presence, but there was something elusively missing in the few players they’d actually liked. “No one’s wowed Miki. It’s kind of like speed dating with conjoined twins. Damie pulls them in, but Miki’s the one who’s got to say yes.”

  “Never would have thought that. Always figured Damien drove the bus there.” Con cocked his head. There was movement outside, a flutter of arms, and he’d gone still, watching for trouble, but it was nothing, only a visual whirl of someone telling a story. “Well, hang in there. I’ll come get you when you’re done.”

  “Thanks,” Forest sighed, hearing the back door open. “And if you see any kick-ass bassists out there you think could last a day with these guys, send them in.”

  “WHAT THE fuck was wrong with that last one?” Damien paced the length of Studio Three, snarling at his best friend through the glass partition separating the sound room from the practice space. Miki glared back, hackles up and snarling in return, soundlessly communicating how far Damien could shove his head up his ass to fuck himself with his own tongue.

  Or at least that’s what Miki hoped it looked like. It certainly was what he felt like saying.

  Forest, as usual, sat behind his kit, twirling a stick around his fingers, waiting for the storm to pass so he could continue on with his life, untouched by the craziness of Miki’s relationship with Damien.

  Nothing seemed to rattle their drummer. Not even Damien at his most infuriating peaks.

  “He was an asshole. You could smell the asshole coming off of him,” Forest interjected into the argument as Miki stalked into the room. “Like he was saying everything you wanted to hear. Packaging himself to fit.”

  “Faker than a third tit,” Miki added. He plopped into a wing chair someone’d dragged in, holding his breath when it puffed out a cloud of lavender scent into the air. He missed Dude. He wanted Kane.

  And most of all, he was really fucking hungry.

  His stomach seemed to agree, because it growled nearly as nastily as Damie did when he wasn’t getting his way. Much like now.

  “Sinjun, we’ve got to find someone.” Damie dragged a short stool over and sat down between Miki and Forest’s drum kit. “Ackerman, you’re not helping here.”

  “Do you really want someone even Forest doesn’t like?” The question hit where Miki’d intended, because he saw Damie wince and heard Forest give out a little hey now in response. “Dude, no offense, but you’re kind of like a chip off the Frank there. Apple. Tree. Falling. No rolling.”

  “True, you’re a lot like Frank.” Damien nodded.

  “He wasn’t my real father,” Forest pointed out, riffing a skin with the tip of a stick. “Hell, I didn’t even move in until I was in my teens.”

  “Nurture not nature.” Damien chuckled. “So very Frank.”

  “Really? Is that why Miki’s the way he is? Because you nurtured him?” Forest shot back.

  It was a good hit. Miki had to give him that.

  Until Damien replied, “One does not nurture Miki. That’s kind of like waltzing with a honey badger. I just tossed him food until it was safe enough to approach and shoved a microphone into his hand.”

  “Nice. Going to be hard to kiss Sionn after I punch your teeth out.” He was teasing. Damie knew he was teasing, but Forest grew silent and still. Tossing a guitar pick at their drummer, Miki said, “Joke, Forest. Joke.”

  “I have to pack it up soon. The thing’s tonight.” Forest stared at his friends’ blank looks. “The Amp opening? The thing?”

  “Shit, that’s right. Sionn wants us to meet up with Rafe Andrade.” Damien stood up quickly and caught the stool before it tumbled over. “They’re good friends but… I don’t know. Kind of feels like a setup.”

  “Who?” Miki couldn’t place the name, but it sounded familiar.

  “Guy from Jack Collins’s band… what the fuck was their name?” D tapped his temple. “Shittiest thing about the whole head thing. It’s like a goddamn hole shit slips out of. I don’t remember the name, but the guy crashed and burned after our accident. Fucked the band up and got kicked out for it.”

  “Rafe was crashing before your accident.” Forest hauled over one of the baby amps they’d pulled out. “He used to come down here sometimes to play. He’s really good.”

  “Maybe we should look at him,”
Miki suggested. “Can’t be any worse than anyone else we’ve heard play.”

  “Oh fuck no, Sinjun,” Damien grumbled back, a sour look on his expressive face. “Last thing we need is a fuckup like Andrade. Haven’t we gone through enough? We’ll find someone. We just have to keep looking.”

  A Day at the Park

  SINJUN LIKED to take walks.

  It was an odd pastime for somebody with a bum knee, but his brother clearly defined odd. Damien was never sure if Sinjun’s need to ramble stemmed from a burning desire to reassure himself he was free of anyone’s chains or if it was a way he gathered his thoughts. The why of it didn’t matter so much as the when, because sometimes when he needed Sinjun the most, his brother was nowhere to be found.

  This time, however, Damien caught Sinjun at the door.

  Despite all the years of knowing Miki St. John, Damien was still amused by his feral brother’s reaction to being told to wait up. His emotions played out over his face, subtle signs of stubborn annoyance then resignation flickering through his eyes and the set of his mouth, but only if you knew him well enough to read him. His hazel eyes were always wary, catching every movement around him, and he held himself a bit too tight to be called relaxed.

  Damien hated that most of all. He hated how Sinjun lived his life holding his breath, waiting for the next shoe—or fist—to fall. Donal insisted the day would come when Sinjun didn’t scan a crowd for trouble or flinch at a loud noise, but Damien wasn’t going to hedge his bets. Maybe Sinjun’s rambles were his subtle way of telling the world to fuck off, of going out and testing his resolve, facing the fears lurking inside of him.

  Or maybe his baby brother was simply that fierce, willing to take on any battle thrown at him simply to show the world he wasn’t afraid.

  “Let me grab my jacket and I’ll go with you,” Damien offered. “Since it looks like the dog tapped out.”

  Dude was as independent as his—Damien wouldn’t say owner but rather companion—Sinjun. Most of the time the dog was more than willing to sit patiently while Sinjun clipped on his leash, something Kane religiously insisted he do. Neither dog nor man cared for the leash but were willing to compromise if only to make Kane happy. Or at least that’s what everyone believed. For all Damie knew, Sinjun took the dog off the leash as soon as he crossed the street. He wouldn’t put it past his brother, but he also knew from Sinjun, a promise was a promise, so Dude probably remained leashed for as long as they walked. At the moment, the sound of his leash being jingled didn’t move the dog from his place on the couch, nor did he so much as twitch an ear from his upside down position, communicating quite literally he had no intention of joining Sinjun that afternoon.

  “Unless you don’t want company?” Damien stopped midway of putting on his shoe, glancing up at his brother while he balanced on one foot.

  Again, Sinjun was easy to read, or at least for Damien. It was a split-second shuffle between desire and expectations. A rapid-fire assessment was going on behind those thoughtful eyes, a brief flick of his lashes, then Sinjun murmured, “No, you can come. Just going for a walk to clear my head.”

  “Oh, those are the best kinds of walks,” he replied, checking to make sure he had his wallet in his back pocket. “How about if we swing by Chang’s and grab a few char siu bao? I’ve been jonesing for those the past couple of days and haven’t grabbed any.”

  If there was one way to Miki St. John’s heart, it was through his stomach. The steamed bread dumplings filled with a bright red savory-sweet pork filling was Sinjun’s favorite food in the world. If he had one thing he could eat twenty-four seven, it was dim sum, and char siu bao seemed to bring out a level of happiness in Sinjun only matched by one of Kane’s kisses.

  Sinjun’s mouth quirked to one side. “I could totally get down for that. It’s kind of late, though. He might not have any.”

  “I have faith.” Damien chuckled. “I also gave him a call as soon as I heard you grab your keys and call the dog for a walk. Chang’s got six set aside for us. Just let me get my other shoe on and I’ll be ready to go.”

  THEY ENDED up eating their bao at Woh Hei Yuen Park on John Street, a few yards away from where Sinjun had been found by the cops wandering aimlessly over two decades before.

  It was a small divot of green grass and a children’s play area dotted with swooping park benches and a pagoda gazebo sitting on a hill opposite the arched entranceway. The wisteria was blooming a little bit out of season, and the park was fairly empty, with only a pair of little boys and their mothers playing on the miniature Asian sailing vessel built near the jungle gyms.

  The walk up the hill had been brutal, and more than once Damien almost stopped Sinjun to ask if he was okay, but his brother kept up a steady pace, powering through the incline after they’d grabbed their food from Chang’s. A food truck sat outside the park selling braised pork belly tacos, and they’d grabbed a couple of those along with several bottles of unsweetened iced tea. The picnic benches beneath the wisteria were empty, so they sat on a tabletop with their feet hanging over the edge and unwrapped their food.

  “You remember any of this?” Damien asked softly, peeling off the paper from the bottom of the bao. “We’ve never really talked about that.”

  “A lot of this wasn’t here. I mean, the buildings were, but everything’s different.” Sinjun twisted around, looking about. “Fuck, the street’s name isn’t even St. John. The social worker read the report, and it said St. John for where I was found. So that’s how they got my name. This park wasn’t here. That’s a lot cleaner now. I came down here a couple of times when I could get away from Vega.

  “I don’t know why I came here. I don’t know what I was expecting to find.” Sinjun went silent, tearing his bao apart, then biting into one half. Chewing slowly, he glanced over Damien. “But that day? I don’t remember jack shit.”

  “Do you think about it?” Damie cracked open one of the teas and set it down next to Sinjun before opening his own. “I think about shit with my parents all the time. Especially when we’re around Donal and Brigid. I sometimes wonder what it would have been like to have parents like that, you know?”

  “I figure life is what it’s supposed to be.” Sinjun shrugged, picking out the meat filling with his fingers, then tucking it into his mouth. “We’d be different people. Maybe not even people we would like to know. Maybe we would not like each other. I don’t know. I guess I don’t worry about shit I can’t change, because even with the fuckery Vega and Shing put me through, I wouldn’t have met you without them.

  “And you wouldn’t have pushed yourself to be free of your parents if things were different.” He gestured with the dug-out bread half, catching the attention of a fat pigeon. Sinjun broke off a piece and threw it toward the bird, who pounced on it, then flew off. “Whatever would’ve happened to me after I got away from Vega probably wouldn’t have been much better than if I’d stayed with him.”

  “That’s not true—”

  “That’s all the truth,” Sinjun cut him off. “I didn’t have schooling, and I was spending my time working to feed myself. There wasn’t anything ahead of me but the next day. You finding me after a shitty gig when you were pissed off and looking for someone or something different than what you had meant you took me with you when you started climbing for the stars.

  “I wouldn’t have met Johnny and Dave. And as much as I love music, I wouldn’t have been able to learn the guitar or how to write songs without meeting you.” Sinjun ate the rest of his bread, then said, “You asked me one time why I didn’t get you a headstone like I did them, and I keep telling you it’s because I knew you were still alive, but mostly it’s because I couldn’t imagine you dead. It’s like if you were gone, I would have to go back to that fire escape and wait for you to return. Because my life couldn’t begin again without you. Because it didn’t begin the first time without you.”

  “I’m glad Kane showed up to help you pick up the pieces,” Damien replied, giving his brother a qui
ck one-armed hug. “And Dude. I think he went a long way in keeping you grounded until your cop showed up.”

  “He did,” Sinjun agreed with a laugh. “I love Kane with all my heart. I never for one fucking moment thought I’d fall in love with him, especially since he chewed my ass out about the dog, but he snuck in. Climbed over the wall and set up shop. And then he brought all of the Morgans with him.”

  “And then one of them brought me,” Damien teased. “I’m going to remember that moment in the kitchen for the rest of my life. I never thought my heart could stop and race at the same time until the moment I saw you. And fucking Sionn, God, I love him, but if only he’d gone to meet his fucking cousin’s boyfriend, I would’ve found you sooner.”

  “It is what it’s supposed to be, D.” Sinjun nudged Damien’s shoulder with his own, laughing at the disgruntled expression on Damien’s face. “Are there things that I would change? Yeah, but I also know how they would alter what’s real for me now. I don’t look back that way. I can’t. I only can look forward and hope you, Kane, and the rest of the entire fucking insanity he and Sionn have dragged us into will be there for the ride. And I’m good with that. I don’t want to live my life any other way. Especially since I found a really good happy with all of you in it.”

  Never Go Full Nerf

  THE SESSION at The Sound ran long. Sionn and Damien dropped them off before speeding away in the Challenger, going for a late afternoon cruise down the coast. Miki didn’t expect to see them again. Or least not for the rest of the weekend. Their afternoon drives usually ended up with them finding a hotel room somewhere along the way and spending a few days by themselves. Sure enough, as soon as Miki got his key into the lock, he got a text from Damien telling him they’d be back on Monday.

  Kane had instituted a not-to-be-broken rule of closing the garage doors, so Miki didn’t know Kane was home until he saw his cop’s car keys sitting in the porcelain ramen bowl on the front table. Dude’s toenails clicked in a rapid scramble from the kitchen, and the terrier bolted out toward him, careening around the dining room table set up between the peninsula and the living space. The dog skidded to a stop before he plowed into Miki, and he crouched down, grateful for Dude’s consideration. Scratching the terrier’s ears, Miki toed off his Converses, then nudged them to the side of the table, where eventually, Kane would point them out and ask if he’d meant to leave them there.