the second floor is for the coffee shop’s stuff and where we store a lot of the Sound’s equipment if we’re not using it. The shower kicks ass, though. Good pressure. Not so much in the kitchen, though.”
That didn’t surprise Connor one bit. Judging by the grit and impressions into the wood, he guessed the jacks weren’t a recent development. Someone—probably Forest—used strip silicon to seal the gap between the sink and kitchen counter, the press-in tape glaringly white against the counter’s brown-speckled avocado tiles.
Other than Forest’s gold-streaked hair, it was the brightest spot of color in the whole place.
No, Connor revised his opinion . That dubious achievement probably belonged to the vividly stained red-and-black drum kit dominating most of the living space. The drums’ golden bands gleamed, even in the soft light coming from the kitchen’s overhead lights, and their tops showed definite signs of wear. A plastic milk crate stood on its end, open side up, and inside it, several empty coffee cans sprouted a bristled hedgerow of drumsticks.
It was the only new thing in the apartment by far, and probably shook the place when Forest really got going on it.
The walls were a unique putty yellow a cream paint only gained with age and constant cigarette smoke. Since Forest didn’t smell like he was a three-pack-a-day addict, the wall color was probably a legacy left to him by his adopted father—and based on the depth of the stain, a daily visitation of tobacco farmers intent on smoking their entire crop.
The walls were mostly bare, although at one point, there’d been posters or paintings—their absence now beige scatters of pale on the sickly yellow walls. Two battered doors led off to a bathroom and a closet—and from what Connor could see, while the tub and toilet sparkled as much as they could, there was only so much bleach and scrubbing powder could do when a sledgehammer should be used instead.
And the less said about the institutional short-loop blue carpet or the studio’s drab mauve curtains, the better.
A sagging queen-sized futon was almost an afterthought, a tangle of bedsheets and pillows holding the promise of Forest’s scent if Connor could only somehow casually stroll over to them and put them to his face.
The idea of wanting that scared Connor in places he didn’t even know he had—and since he made his living going through doors where hell waited for him, he thought he’d found every single place he could stash fear.
Connor needed something to draw him away from the unfamiliar stirrings in him. Seizing on the obvious to distract himself, Connor commented on the red-black elephant sitting in the room. “That’s a lot of drums you’ve got there.”
“What?” There was the distinct sound of someone hitting their head on the cabinet, then Forest swearing in what sounded like Italian. He emerged from his hunt rubbing his forehead and clutching a small Teflon skillet. “My drums? Yeah, it’s a double kit—Yamaha PHX. Best thing I’ve played on. Great tone. Really loud, but I can buffer it down if I want. I’ve got another set like it downstairs in the….” He trailed off, setting the pan down on the small bar counter separating the kitchenette from the rest of the apartment. “And I’m talking about shit you’ve got no clue about.”
“Not a single damned idea, but still, it’s good to hear you talk about it.” Connor nodded to the tall barstools set against the wall. “Pull one of those up here. You can talk to me while I cook.”
“If it isn’t music, there isn’t a lot I can talk about,” Forest said, setting a stool down. Hooking his foot over a rung, Forest balanced himself on the seat and leaned on his elbows to watch Connor break eggs into a large Tupperware bowl. Forest stared at Connor from across the counter and picked chocolate chips out of the bag Connor bought to make pancakes with, popping them one by one into his mouth.
“Tell me
That didn’t surprise Connor one bit. Judging by the grit and impressions into the wood, he guessed the jacks weren’t a recent development. Someone—probably Forest—used strip silicon to seal the gap between the sink and kitchen counter, the press-in tape glaringly white against the counter’s brown-speckled avocado tiles.
Other than Forest’s gold-streaked hair, it was the brightest spot of color in the whole place.
No, Connor revised his opinion . That dubious achievement probably belonged to the vividly stained red-and-black drum kit dominating most of the living space. The drums’ golden bands gleamed, even in the soft light coming from the kitchen’s overhead lights, and their tops showed definite signs of wear. A plastic milk crate stood on its end, open side up, and inside it, several empty coffee cans sprouted a bristled hedgerow of drumsticks.
It was the only new thing in the apartment by far, and probably shook the place when Forest really got going on it.
The walls were a unique putty yellow a cream paint only gained with age and constant cigarette smoke. Since Forest didn’t smell like he was a three-pack-a-day addict, the wall color was probably a legacy left to him by his adopted father—and based on the depth of the stain, a daily visitation of tobacco farmers intent on smoking their entire crop.
The walls were mostly bare, although at one point, there’d been posters or paintings—their absence now beige scatters of pale on the sickly yellow walls. Two battered doors led off to a bathroom and a closet—and from what Connor could see, while the tub and toilet sparkled as much as they could, there was only so much bleach and scrubbing powder could do when a sledgehammer should be used instead.
And the less said about the institutional short-loop blue carpet or the studio’s drab mauve curtains, the better.
A sagging queen-sized futon was almost an afterthought, a tangle of bedsheets and pillows holding the promise of Forest’s scent if Connor could only somehow casually stroll over to them and put them to his face.
The idea of wanting that scared Connor in places he didn’t even know he had—and since he made his living going through doors where hell waited for him, he thought he’d found every single place he could stash fear.
Connor needed something to draw him away from the unfamiliar stirrings in him. Seizing on the obvious to distract himself, Connor commented on the red-black elephant sitting in the room. “That’s a lot of drums you’ve got there.”
“What?” There was the distinct sound of someone hitting their head on the cabinet, then Forest swearing in what sounded like Italian. He emerged from his hunt rubbing his forehead and clutching a small Teflon skillet. “My drums? Yeah, it’s a double kit—Yamaha PHX. Best thing I’ve played on. Great tone. Really loud, but I can buffer it down if I want. I’ve got another set like it downstairs in the….” He trailed off, setting the pan down on the small bar counter separating the kitchenette from the rest of the apartment. “And I’m talking about shit you’ve got no clue about.”
“Not a single damned idea, but still, it’s good to hear you talk about it.” Connor nodded to the tall barstools set against the wall. “Pull one of those up here. You can talk to me while I cook.”
“If it isn’t music, there isn’t a lot I can talk about,” Forest said, setting a stool down. Hooking his foot over a rung, Forest balanced himself on the seat and leaned on his elbows to watch Connor break eggs into a large Tupperware bowl. Forest stared at Connor from across the counter and picked chocolate chips out of the bag Connor bought to make pancakes with, popping them one by one into his mouth.
“Tell me
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