Sinner's Gin

Copyright

Published by

Dreamspinner Press

5032 Capital Circle SW
Ste 2, PMB# 279
Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886

USA

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Sinner’s Gin

Copyright © 2012 by Rhys Ford

Cover Art by Reece Notley

[email protected]

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press, 5032 Capital Circle SW, Ste 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886, USA.

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

ISBN: 978-1-62380-248-6

Printed in the United States of America

First Edition

December 2012

eBook edition available

eBook ISBN: 978-1-62380-249-3

Dedication

Sinner’s Gin
is dedicated to Reetoditee Mazumdar, Bianca Janian, Tiffany Tran, and Lisa Horan (listed in order of appearance into my life). You four have kept my head on straight and looked at me funny when I went off the rails. This one’s for you.

Acknowledgments

O
KAY
, the Five—or rather four of the Five—Penn, Lea, Tamm, and Jenn. Because damn it, you are going to be in every single book I write because I carry you with me always. Also in my heart, Ree and Ren, my two beloved baby sisters.

On the business side, Elizabeth North. Dude, you keep me in Korean music and my cat in insulin. Also kudos to the Dreamspinner Press staff who have to put up with me: Lynn, Julianne, Ginnifer, Anne, Mara, Julili, and everyone else who pitches in to make me look good, thank you. Couldn’t get here from there without you.

I also need to give a shout-out to everyone who has bought my books. Thank you. Hell, thank you doesn’t even cover it. You all rock.

Lastly, I have to extend so much gratitude to the men and women who kept me sane when I was growing up and a little bit beyond. In no particular order and probably forgetting a shitload of names they are: Steve Tyler, Mr. Joe Perry, and the rest of the boys in Aerosmith, Janis Joplin, Stevie Ray Vaughan, AC/DC, The Police, Tool, Metallica, Flotsam and Jetsam, Jake and Elwood Blues, Etta James, and whoever else helped stopper up my brain leaks. Thanks for the sanity, even when it was only in my imagination.

Prologue

M
IKI
S
T
. J
OHN
was riding high.

Half drunk from whiskey and the other half pure adrenaline, he stuck himself out of the limo’s moonroof and screamed into the pouring rain. Shouts came from below, mostly curses, and strong hands yanked him down, grabbing the heavy gold trophy from his cold, wet fingers. Nearly deafened from the rush of wind he’d stood in, Miki grinned up at his best friend, Damien, reaching for the bottle of Jack they’d opened to celebrate.

After ten years of dragging their equipment and tired bodies from venue to venue, tonight’s celebration made it all worthwhile. They’d stood on stage, humbled and numb following their band’s name being read off by a legendary loose-lipped singer, and were handed four old-style record players cast in gold to hold until they got off stage. Miki couldn’t remember what he said—if he said anything at all—mostly nodding when reporters asked him if he was excited or proud of the band he’d formed with a guy he met behind a bar one day. How could he tell the blank-faced journalists that his heart probably wouldn’t start beating again until he got home to San Francisco, or that the three men standing around and behind him were the family he needed to be proud of him?

So he nodded and stumbled out past the hordes of people and flashing lights, letting himself be guided to the limo by Damien to be whisked off to an after-party being thrown by someone he didn’t know.

Two blocks away from the theater, Johnny pulled out a trophy he’d nicked from one of the backstage tables and tossed it into Dave’s lap. The drummer yelped, then harangued and scolded the bassist as he hefted the stolen statue, turning it over in his hands before passing it to Damien.

“This.” Damien held up the award, saluting it with the bottle of Jack Daniels he’d taken from the limo’s wet bar. “This is our payoff for every shitty night—”

“And our stuff getting ripped off,” Johnny howled, wiggling over the long bench seat to reach one of the beers from the limo’s mini-cooler. The New York Italian popped off the cap and flipped it over his knuckles. “And every goddamned gig with only three people!”

“God, those were shitty times,” Dave murmured, quiet as always, but the gleam in his eyes was a proud one. He took the bottle from Damien, tilted it back for a swig, and swallowed as he handed it to their singer. With his soft Southern accent, he drawled, “To our Miki… for kicking ass and taking names.”

“To our Miki,” Damien whispered in agreement. He pressed the trophy into Miki’s hands and took the bottle of JD back from Dave.

They were as different as cheese and chalk. Damien—with his cocksure, blue-eyed all-American swagger—was a sharp contrast to Miki’s street-bred Asian mongrel, and if not for a chance meeting one foggy day when Miki stepped out to grab a hit off a clove cigarette between shifts, they’d never have crossed paths. But when the guitarist overheard the growling, sultry voice belting out blues rock as he cut through a back alley of Chinatown, he knew he’d found his singer, even if he had to coax a very reluctant Miki off of a fire escape to come down to talk to him. Damien became the closest thing to a brother Miki ever knew, and as the guitarist leaned over to hug him tightly, Miki clenched Damien close to him, refusing to let go.

“You wrote the songs with me,” he whispered into his best friend’s ear. “Those are my words, but it’s your music too.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t slither across the stage in black leather pants and ink to sell it,” Damien teased, pushing Miki away with a semi-gentle shove. “You’re the reason our name’s on that thing. You’re why Sinner’s Gin’s name was read off tonight. Take a bow, kid. It’s all on you, dude.”

The moonroof seemed to be the only place wide enough to take a bow, and, his head spinning from the sheer joy of the night, Miki took it. The Los Angeles rain was cold. Not as frigid as the storms up north, but cold enough to make him shiver. The buildings around them were tall and lit up, and to his right, a wall of colorful LEDs hawked a soft drink for a few seconds before undulating over to a clothing store advertisement. He screamed a thank-you to the universe, barely able to get the words out before he was pulled back down, heady and soaking wet from the downpour.

Johnny and Dave fought over the roof’s switch, flipping it back and forth with stuttering jerks, and Damien pulled Miki close, cradling his friend against him as he took a mouthful of whiskey.

“You did good, kid,” Damien whispered, barely audible over the rough banter from their other two band members. “From here on out, we’re going to have a wild ride.”

Miki turned to tell Damien their name wasn’t on the trophy because Johnny had taken one of the props, and if they were lucky, they’d be sent theirs without anyone finding out they stole the other one to begin with, but the words never left his mouth. He blinked, and suddenly Damien was gone.

Then everything went black.

NP News—Tragedy struck the music world late last night when three members of the rock band Sinner’s Gin were killed nearly immediately following their win at the Grammys. Initial accident reports detail a collision between their limousine and a semi truck carrying supplies for a nearby construction site. Lost in the crash were founding member and lead guitarist Damien Mitchell, drummer Dave Nichols, and bassist Johnny
González,
along with the driver of the limousine, Jordan Wheeler. All were pronounced dead on the scene.

The sole survivor of the early morning crash is reported to be the band’s singer, Mieko “Miki” St. John, who was life-flighted to a local hospital, with life-threatening injuries. A spokesman for the group’s record label reports Mr. St. John is in a coma and listed as being in critical condition.

Witnesses state the truck failed to yield to a red light, thus colliding with the band’s vehicle and an additional car. Other than the occupants of the limousine, no other injuries were reported.

While rain may have been a factor in the crash, a police spokesman issued a report stating the driver of the semi has been arrested for driving under the influence and will be charged with multiple counts of vehicular manslaughter.

Chapter 1

Took a blind man to tell me I was something to see.

Took a man crossing his heart to tell me where to begin.

And the kiss in the rain you last gave to me,

Was the holy water I needed to erase all my sin.

—Blind Man Crossing

T
HE
fucking dog was back again.

Kane Morgan eyed the scruffy blond terrier suspiciously. It sat at the edge of the cement pad, right under where the rolling door to the converted docking bay would land if it were closed. He’d already lost a chamois to the mutt, and God knew what else when his back was turned. The thing was a thief and a menace.