Cherry pop lipstick
Black leather jacket dreams
Seeing my baby next Sunday
Good times, know what I mean?
She better stop her cheating
Better put that man to the side
Shotgun loaded, double barrels
Bastard better run and hide
—Cheating Woman, Cold Heart
BOSTON STANK of rusted iron, old hot dogs, and regret. Too tired to think and too wired to sleep, Damien’d followed Sionn down to a coffee shop holding one of the hospital’s corners up. Begging for a minute to grab a bit of quiet and a smoke, Damien settled down on a curve of thick chain strung up between two heavy posts and rocked in time with the biting cold wind whipping through the parking lot and under his skin. He’d lost his lover to a reconnaissance mission of the coffee shop’s bathroom, but Damien hadn’t minded until the wind picked up. Sionn’s leather jacket was thick enough to ward off the chill, but the icy bite lay in his bones, leftovers from the feast of fear he’d consumed over the last fifteen hours of his life.
“Longest fucking day ever,” he informed a skeptical bird when it landed a few feet away from his legs and gave him the evil eye. Not being well versed on avian species, the thing could have been an albatross or seagull, he couldn’t really tell which, mostly because he was on the wrong coast and everything somehow seemed upside down. “Hell, I don’t even know what fucking day it is.”
A massive greenscape in the middle of the hospital’s grounds was a lifesaver of sorts. At least it gave Damien someplace to sneak in one of the last clove cigarettes he’d taken from Miki’s jacket. Their things had been taken out of the Rocking Oyster’s green room while Miki went under the knife, then packed into the van by the club’s staff. He couldn’t remember who’d given him the keys, but he remembered thanking a very skinny guy with brittle, corn-silk-fine hair for something.
He’d gone through the motions of trying to organize the band’s detritus while not losing his mind over Sinjun, but he’d only held it together until the moment the surgeon came out and told them Miki was fine and the damage wasn’t as bad as everyone in scrubs had said it was.
Damien remembered crying. Fuck, he’d soaked Forest’s and Rafe’s shirts and was handed around like a fussy toddler until Miki’d been shoved into a hospital room and could have visitors. When he wrung himself out, his face was sucked dry and crusted with a thin dusting of salt. As far as Damie knew, he’d sobbed out enough tears and sweat to raise the Atlantic Ocean a few feet.
Which probably explained the disgruntled gray-and-white feathered thing sizing up his sneakers. It was mad about the high tide and, from the looks of it, still pissed off about the crates of tea being tossed into its harbor.
When he’d heard Miki call his name, a plaintive mewl of mangled Ds and Ns, Damien knew it was time to lock everything away. Miki couldn’t see him crying. Nothing shook his brother off his already shaky foundation like Sinjun seeing Damien cry over him. Damien’d shoved everything he was feeling into a small dark hole, turned his back on it, and refused to deal with anything other than Miki and the band.
It worked. Or so he’d thought, but in the loneliness of a rain-soaked green lawn, Damien was feeling the effects of his taut emotions straining to break free. He just had to keep it together for a few more hours, and then he could let go.
Or at least that was the lie he’d been telling himself over the past half a day, reaching for one more hour and making false promises to himself to get through everything blowing up around him.
“Shoo. Go away.” Damien flapped his hand at the bird.
It shuffled about on its flat feet, wagging its black-tipped tail, but remained firmly planted on the lawn.
“Go find someone else to peck at, you damned menace.”
“Bird’s got as much right to the lawn as you do, boyo.”
The Irish pouring over him was a douse of hot against Damien’s chilled blood, and he sighed when Sionn slid one arm around his back.
“Up you go. We’re going inside. I’ll be getting you something hot to drink, and then you’ll be telling me about the sour you’ve got spread all over your face.”
“I’m going to puke if I drink any more coffee.” His stomach curled into a little ball, its lining blackened with bile and fear.
“Then tea. Something calming.” Sionn helped Damien up off the chair. “And maybe a little something to eat. When was the last time you’ve had something in you, a ghra? And don’t say the last time you were in bed with me. Food.”
“You’re food,” Damien griped. “Sort of.”
“Come on with you. You can chew on a scone or something,” Sionn suggested with a wink. “Then I’ll let you chew on me later.”
THE COFFEE shop could have been any hole-in-the-wall scrabble of worn-out people in scrubs, hand-wringing college students, and the occasional pair of nattily garbed soccer moms chatting about their lives over a couple of lattes and a shared brownie.
Except for the accents. Damie listened in fascination at the clop-clop rise and fall of native Bostonians enthusiastically arguing everything from the weather to the price of gas on Southside. Once inside Damie shed the leather jacket, slinging it over the side of a love seat he’d commandeered. Sionn left him with a kiss on the cheek, then sauntered to the counter to order.
Damien didn’t try to hide his smirk when the two women at the table next to him sighed over Sionn’s ass and shoulders. He’d sighed plenty of times while watching his lover walk away. Broad shoulders, narrow waist, and long legs, Sionn was a rugged sprawl of muscle and manners with a dash of wicked Irish pirate thrown in for good measure.
“God, I know we don’t talk.” Damien looked up at the ceiling. “But fucking thank you for sending me a hot Irish guy.”
And for letting Miki be all right, he added silently.
The smell of hot coffee startled Damien, and he blinked, furiously trying to clear the darkness from his eyes. Laughing, Sionn patted his thigh as he sat down beside him. The cushions of the love seat were soft from years of people’s asses, and Damien tilted into Sionn before he could stop himself from falling over.
“Shit!” The grogginess remained, stuffing Damien’s head with cotton. “I must have fallen asleep.”
“Aye, the line was fairly long, but you got in a good nap while I was up there.” Sionn handed him a tall ceramic cup. “There’s an egg and cheese thing in the bag. I’ll be expecting you to make short work of it.”
“You’re not my mother, asshole.” He grumbled mostly on principle, refusing to be herded, but the savory pastry was hot and delicious, easing away the knot in his stomach after a few quick bites. After licking his fingers, Damien finally took a sip of strong black tea, then sighed. “God, that’s so fucking much better than that shit coffee they’ve got in the cafeteria.”
His stomach gurgled, suddenly aware of its less than empty status, and Damien pressed his lips in tightly, refusing to let his nerves purge his belly. It was a quick, short battle… one he lost. A hasty sprint to the bathroom, and Damien lost everything he’d gotten down.
“Fuck.” His guts were churning, spitting out what he’d held in over the past twenty-four hours. Now wasn’t the time to break down. Not out in public. The band couldn’t chance any bad publicity. God knows the knifing at their first official show was bad enough. One whisper of Damien puking up his breakfast, and the press would have a field day.
Not that they’d be the first ones to crucify him that day. Kane’s ass chewing was an unexpected slap of anger and hurt, something Damien nursed in his heart until it grew edges sharp enough to cut him every time he thought about Sionn’s cousin standing over him and blocking the light.
“Goddamn it, Kane,” Damien swore at his reflection in the mirror. “Why’d you have to go and fuck things up between us?”
After rinsing his mouth out with ice-cold water from the tap, Damien staggered back to the shop, only to find Sionn’d moved them into an alcove off the main floor. A bottle of ginger ale and another tea were waiting for him on a table. It felt more like he was choosing which poison was going to kill him than soothing away the sick. Shaking his head, he sat down on the low floral couch facing a narrow window, his hands trembling when he laid them on his thighs. “I don’t know if I should drink anything, babe. My stomach….”
“Get the ginger ale into you. Do that at least. I had to call Aunt B for advice, so you’d better drink some of it.” Sionn popped the bottle open, then handed it over. “She said to sip at it. Then for you to call her when you’re up to it.”
“Hell, I’m never up for it, but sure, later.”
The ginger ale helped. Or at least the bubbles did. Something in it worked, because the green bitterness in his throat eased off, and Damien’s nerves began to unknot.
“Hell. This whole fucking thing is pure hell.”
Sionn reached for the jacket Damien had discarded. Tucking it around Damien’s shoulders, he edged in closer and pulled his lover into a loose one-armed embrace. The coffee shop’s lights added a golden warmth to Sionn’s chestnut-brown hair and deepened his steel-blue eyes to a simmering ocean hue. Wrapped in Sionn’s warmth, Damien huddled in closer.
“Better?” Sionn stroked Damien’s black hair, tickling at his ear.
“Yeah. Stop that. You’re making me nuts. Like bothered, horny nuts, so let’s not go with the escaped-from-an-asylum quip I’m sure you’ve got all ready to go.”
“Wasn’t even thinking about it.”
It was a lie, but Damien was willing to let it slide by.
“And as for this all being hell, it’s not on you, Damie. Not like you’d planned on some crazy asshole at your show.”
“We sort of do. Part of our insurance policy covers shit like this, because shit happens. Edie said she’ll take care of it.” Damie saluted the band’s manager, hoping he was at least facing Los Angeles, where she tirelessly hacked away at the monsters rising up to do battle with Crossroads Gin. “I can’t even fucking imagine what Miki went through… after the truck, you know? This is just one damned day and he’s okay, but I’m fucking wrung out, Sionn. How the hell did he do this for two fucking years and not kill himself? Because I wouldn’t be able to….”
He’d hit a wall at some point, unable to brick off any more emotion away behind it, and Damien thought he could hear himself crack open, a fracture in the control he’d locked himself in.
“God fucking damn it,” he choked out.
A tear slithered down his cheek, a hot, betraying damp gremlin fleeing the overfull bucket of his anger and hurt. Another followed, and he wiped it away, biting on the inside of his lip, hoping the pain would keep his sorrow at bay.
The sharp burst of anguish only reminded him of Miki moaning as he lay on a hospital bed’s too stiff white sheets, and Damien’s tears broke free, a deluge of release shattering the fragile dam he’d erected in order to survive the sight of Miki’s bloodied body.
“I fucking can’t do this here, Sionn,” he muttered, scrubbing at his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Jesus fucking Christ, I just fucking can’t do this.”
It took everything Damien had to pull himself together. Spackling at the cracks in his soul, he took a long, shuddering breath and reined in his emotions. Sionn rubbed at his back, long strokes against every knuckle of bone along his spine. Bed sounded like a great idea, but he wasn’t ready to leave Miki to the tender mercies of the world. Until Miki was alert and awake without a storm of drugs in his system and he heard Miki grumbling at him to go away, sleep would remain a speck on a far horizon.
If only Damien could stop the hot threads of tears weaving down his face, stitching at his skin with sorrowful trails.
“No one can see us. Look, the place is pretty empty now, and we’re tucked off here. Just me, you, and the couch. If you be wanting to cry, there’s no shame in it. Hell, some of the best men I’ve known cry without hiding their tears. And you’re definitely one of the best men I’ve known, love.” Sionn’s deep Irish thickened, wrapping around Damien’s trembling body. “Just sip at the gingery stuff and catch your breath. Once you’re on your feet, I’ll get you to the hotel room, and you can crash for a bit.”
The ginger ale burned his tongue, but Damien sipped at it anyway. His throat was raw, too tender to swallow more than a little bit of the stinging liquid at a time, and the lukewarm temperature wasn’t helping. When Sionn opened a small plastic bag of gourmet marshmallows, Damien thought his lover’d lost his mind.
“Really? Marshmallows?” He eyed the bag. His eyes stung a bit and were still hot with moisture, but the absurdity of marshmallows made him smile. “What the fuck, Sionn?”
“They’re good for when your throat hurts. It’s got actual marshmallow root in it, not like the fluff you get for cocoa here. Best I could do, ’cause I’m not knowing where to get the lozenges Aunt B buys at home.” Sionn turned the package around. “The bag says it’ll be tasting like vanilla and caramel, so here’s hoping. Just take one and chew on it.”
“Just eat it?”
The marshmallow helped, as did the gentle sweep of Sionn’s mouth over his, and Damien pressed his hand against Sionn’s chest, pushing lightly.
“What now?”
“I threw up. You don’t want to kiss me.”
“Babe, I’ve kissed you after you’ve done a lot worse things.” Sionn’s grin was a wicked slide of sin on his handsome face. “I’ll be back with some ice. Don’t go anywhere.”
“Wasn’t planning on it.” Damien snagged Sionn’s shirt, tugging on it.
“Still again, what?” The frown was slight, more worry than annoyed, but Sionn’s pout was adorable.
“Nothing. Just… thanks.” He tugged again, smiling up at his lover. “Because I know I’m an asshole, and you put up with my shit anyway.”
“Yeah, well, it’s good you’re hot and a rock star.” Sionn pulled free. “Now sip at the ale. We’ve gotten all treacle here.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not feeling very treacle.” Damien nibbled on another spongy square, washing the sweetness down with a bit of tea instead of the gingery soda. “I’m kind of pissed off at your cousin, but I need to talk it out.”
“So talk.”
“Did you miss the part where I said your cousin?” The marshmallow was turning gummy between his fingers, and Damien pulled on it, mushing it into a stringy mess. “And I’m not sure how much of it is nerves and tired or if it’s something really fucking serious. What I don’t want is to put you in the middle of it. We’ve already got Miki between us. That hot seat’s going to be getting pretty small if I toss you in there too.”
“D, anything you need to talk about, I’m here for it. It’s what boyfriends… lovers… the two of us do.” Sionn grew thoughtful. “I don’t want you to think you can’t talk to me about how you’re feeling. Even if it’s about one of the Morgan boys.”
“It’s not so much about Kane as… well, me and Kane. And Sinjun.” More knots unraveled, spooling out his worries and fears, loosening his heart from its tethers. “We got into it. Kane… not Sinjun. He’s pissed off because Sinjun got hurt on my watch, like I’m not already mad about that—”
“I think it’s adorable how the two of you somehow think you can watch over Miki, but go on.”
“Shut up, ’cause I said that too. That’s one of the problems. I think we lash out at each other because neither one of us has a say or control over what Miki does.” He sighed at Sionn’s judgmental side-eye. Damien sucked his fingers clean of the gooey marshmallow, then said, “Look, yeah, I get it. No one has control over anyone else, but—”
“Neither one of you is used to sharing him,” Sionn interjected. “When Kane came around, you weren’t there. It was just him and Miki. And before the whole evil uncle trying to keep you in a crazy house, it was just you and Miki.”
“I’m not used to sharing anything,” Damien whispered between them. Shifting to face Sionn, he raked his hands through his sweat-dirty hair and grimaced. “I was an only child. Which, all things considered, thank fucking God no one else had to go through my parents’ shit, but I also didn’t have to split anything with anyone. You’re an only kid. You should know.”
“No one’s an only kid in an Irish Catholic family, D. You’re always wearing someone’s hand-me-downs or trying to get food at a busy table. If you’re not watching little ones, it’s because you’re a little one and there’s a bigger one lording it over you.” He smirked at Damien’s long sigh. “It’s the truth. Sharing’s something you learn when you’re a kid, and when you get older, you just don’t want to do it anymore.”
“So Kane’s right for growling at me over Sinjun?”
“No, not saying he is,” Sionn remarked softly. “It’s one thing if you’re talking about a box of cookies from the store, but you’re talking about a human being here—Sinjun—and the two of you are going to butt heads unless you learn how to avoid it all.”
“I thought we were doing fine,” Damien complained. His palms were itchy, and he scratched at them. “We were good. Not a damned drop of jealousy until this shit hit.”
“It’s all pretty big shit there, D,” he agreed with a nod. “But the way I see it, you and Sinjun aren’t something a normal guy’s ever had to deal with. You can’t blame Kane for not knowing how to step around the two of you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that when a guy thinks about the relationship he’s going to have with his boyfriend, he doesn’t really take into account a symbiotic musical half is going to come along with the deal.” Sionn slid his hands over Damien’s, stilling them. “Think about it. The two of you are like emotional Siamese twins. It’s who you are. I knew that going in. Kane didn’t, though, did he? He thought he was dealing with Miki’s loss and how to stitch your Sinjun back together to fill that hole he had.”
“Then I walked right back in.” It’d been a damned good day then, a heart-stopping, nerve-pounding day, but his world had righted itself. As much love and support as he’d found with Sionn, Damien’d known he wouldn’t be complete without Sinjun. Miki falling in love with someone wasn’t even remotely on Damien’s radar. Hell, he hadn’t even imagined Miki could fall in love. “Kind of like rolling over and finding someone else in bed with you.”
“Good analogy.” Sionn shrugged his massive shoulders. “Well, good enough. Me? I’ve got it easy. Your Sinjun’s gone over for one of the guys I’m used to sharing with, and I love you, Damie, but your brother’s a bit of a porcupine. We’re good how we are, and I’m not going to be sticking my nose in there to give a brotherly sniff and hope we can be closer buddies.”
“I would pay good money to see you bend over and sniff Sinjun’s butt.” He chuckled. “I’d put money down on Sin handing you your ass before Kane even got up off the couch.”
“Yeah, I don’t have that down on my to-do list. Now see, there’s also a little bit of a problem between you and Kane. Both of you want to fix things. Take care of him…. Miki, anyway. And as much as both of you say you understand he doesn’t need or want coddling, you follow and hover anyway.”
“Hey now, I don’t—”
“You two are worse than Aunt Brigid. At least she knows she’s bugging the shite out of him.” Sionn pressed his fingers over Damien’s mouth before he could speak. “Now here’s what I think. Since neither of you can give up watching over him, how about if the two of you come to an agreement on how to watch over him? Might make things a little bit easier.”
“Might work,” Damien muttered behind Sionn’s index finger. “Maybe.”
“Just one word of advice.” He lowered his fingers, then handed Damien the bottle of ginger ale. “Don’t let Miki find out what you two are up to, or there’ll be hell to pay. God knows, there’s not enough coin in the world to get you out of that dance with the Devil.”