Sinner's Gin (Sinners, #1) by Rhys Ford
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
OKAY, 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
MIKI ST. JOHN 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.