Whiskey and Wry (Sinners Series) (28 page)

“Take the pill first or sew?” Peeling off the jacket was torture, cementing his wavering on a sedative. “Just one. Shit, just something so I can stitch this fucking thing up.”

He shook out a single pill, turned on the faucet, and waited for the sludge to clear from the stream. The mouthful of clear water was pinked by the blood on his hand, but its metallic taste did nothing to fade away the bitter granules dissolving on his tongue. He couldn’t wait for it to take its full effect, but the numbness spreading over his cheeks was enough for him to get started.

He’d found a package of Leukostrips, but he couldn’t be certain they would hold. The pain in his side was wide, and the adhesive bandages would give if he bled too much. Shrugging off his shirt, Parker got his first good look at the gash in his side and groaned.

“Damned faggot bitch.”

He pressed at the wound, seeing how the edges would fit back together. All in all, he’d been lucky. The knife’s edge had gone in clean, but when St. John lost his footing, its hooked tip gouged out a triangular chunk of skin. While not deep, it would bleed him out if he didn’t close up the wound.

He took a deep breath, threaded the suture needle, and wiped at his face with another towel, clearing as much blood from his eyes as he could. His fingers shook, and any lack of sensation the pill gave him seemed to slink away when the needle’s tip punctured his skin. Breathing in to keep himself from passing out, Parker began to stitch himself together, stopping every so often to shake the feeling back into his fingers.

It was hard going. His vision blurred, and the towel he’d used for his face was soaked clean through with blood and sweat by the time he was a quarter of the way done. The stitches were uneven at best, and they tugged when he moved, the skin puckering where he’d pulled the thread too tightly. Working his finger into the stitching, he loosened as much as he could to have the flaps lay down flat.

The room went black for a long moment, and he stumbled against the toilet and caught his forehead on the shower stall’s handle. The pain in his face flared up again, blinding him behind sharp flashes of light. Huffing to ward off the torment crawling over his temples, Parker shook off his trembling, dove his hands under the cold water, and splashed as much as he could over his face. Staring back at his mottled reflection in the vanity mirror, he spat out the bloody water he’d gotten in his mouth.

“Mitchell, you and that whore friend of yours… I’m going to enjoy killing you.” Sniffing away the tickle of snot running from his nose, he spat again, doing a quick inventory of the weapons he still had in his trunk. “But first, I’m going to take care of my first fucking problem. And it’s something I should have done a long damned time ago.”

Chapter 16

An ounce of rotgut whiskey

A shot of bathtub gin

Teach one boy how to dance

Teach another boy how to sin

Laugh under a cold, pale moon

Cry in the pouring cold rain

Sing a song of sixpence

Fill your pockets full of pain

—
Sixpence

I
T
WAS
the lack of a good stretch that was killing him.

Or possibly the three-hour-long sex marathon he and Damien had at three o’clock in the morning. But Sionn preferred to believe his scarred thigh ached from not being pulled out properly.

Well, that and Rafe’s sadistic delight in piling heavier weights on the leg machine. They’d spent more than an hour and a half in the ratty gym, with Sionn cursing his friend out with every rep. Showered and sitting in the coffee shop next door, Sionn felt every ounce he’d pushed and pulled. His thigh was killing him, and he’d taken a ration of shit from Rafe when the man spotted the oblong bite mark Damien left on Sionn’s ribcage.

“Quit your whining.” The torturer in question stopped his verbal abuse long enough to take a sip of water. Wiping at the drops on his mouth, his eyes fell off of Sionn, catching on the rounded ass of a man running past them. “Shit, that’s nice.”

“Eyes over here, asshole,” Sionn muttered, straining with the burn along his thigh. “You’re supposed to be talking to me, not looking for something to fuck. It’s a conversation. Not a street-corner hookup.”

“I never fuck anything from a street corner,” Rafe laughed. “When have I ever needed to
pay
for a good time?”

“Keep it up, shithead, and you’ll have boys lining up to get blow jobs from your toothless mouth.” Sionn shot the waitress a grateful look when she shuffled past Rafe’s outstretched legs to refill their cups. She swapped out their creamer for a full one and moved on to the next table, barely pausing on her rounds. “Fuck, I hurt.”

“That’s ’cause you keep having hot rock star monkey sex with someone too bendy for your broken-down ass, Murphy.” Rafe smirked at Sionn’s upraised middle finger. “Speaking of rock stars, when the hell were you going to tell me you’re fucking Damien Mitchell? Connor had to tell me. What’s that shit?”

Despite the casual cock of Rafe’s smile, Sionn could see the hurt in his friend’s soulful eyes. They’d been through too much together, and if anyone should have spoken to Rafe about Damien, it should have been him, not the oldest Morgan boy.

“It’s been… nuts,” Sionn sighed. “I’m sorry, Andrade. I am. These days….”

“These are the days when you call your friend and beat the shit out of your body.” Rafe’s easy grin meant everything was forgiven. “So what the fuck? Damien Mitchell’s your busker?”

“Yeah, he is. Was.” He tapped his own forehead. “He had some serious head injuries, messed with his memories. He knew what his name was and kind of who he was, but someone shoved him into a padded room. It’s been a shitfest for him ever since.”

By now the world knew Damien Mitchell was alive, resurrected like a stale bagel wrapped with a wet paper towel and microwaved for thirty seconds. He and Miki were avoiding anything remotely smelling like a reporter, and the daily trips to medical centers, lawyers, and shrinks weren’t helping Damie’s mood. He’d practically pushed Sionn out the door when he’d mentioned wanting a workout. After two weeks of terror and anger, it was their first free day, and Damie needed his space, all the while grumbling about kicking out the art gallery next door, who’d stolen his building.

“How could you
not
know who he was?” Rafe shook his head.

“I was in Europe, remember?”

“They don’t have music in Europe?” the blond snarked. “He and St. John are fucking incredible. Shit, I’d give my left nut for that kind of talent.”

“I thought you gave your left nut for that bass you saved up for in high school.”

“They grow back.” Rafe stirred another packet of sugar into his coffee. “I’m like a gecko. Except with nuts. Seriously, have you
listened
to their music?”

“Every day now.” Sionn sipped at his coffee, slurping up a bit of bubbling cream he’d not mixed in all the way. “They’re joined at the hip on the couch when we get home. Sometimes, we can even get them to put the guitars away and eat dinner. I’m surprised they’ve survived as long as they have. Neither one of them eat. It’s like putting food out for anorexic felines. You hope they eat, but really, you kind of wonder if it wouldn’t be easier to just jab an IV into them.”

“Still… Sinner’s Gin.” The whistle of admiration from Rafe’s pursed lips caught the ear of another jogger, and the young man winked as he went by. Rafe ignored the obvious come-on and leaned his elbows on the table. “I’d fucking kill to have been in that band.”

“First your left nut and now murder?” He snorted. “Maybe that’s what this fecking whack job wants. A spot in their band. ’Sides, you were in a band. Toured the world even, boyo. You did all right before….”

“Before I coked out?” Rafe hoisted his coffee cup in a mock salute. “It’s okay, man. You can say it. I know I trashed my life. I’ve got the diamond-embossed chips to prove it.”

“Takes a strong man to walk through that door,” Sionn remarked softly. “We’re all proud of you for it, and you know we’re here for you.”

“Yeah, I know,” he murmured. “You and Connor… man, there were times when I wanted to walk the bridge and just end it.”

“But you didn’t.” It was harsh, hearing Rafe say out loud what all of them had feared he’d do after his fall from grace. “You’re still here, Andrade.”

“Yep, still here. And I think I’ve still got your uncle Donal’s boot print on my ass to prove it.” Their coffee was refilled again, the rubber-soled waitress doing her drive-by before either one of them could say yay or nay to more. “Fuck, she’s quick. Talk to me about Damien Mitchell. Hear he’s an asshole.”

“Sometimes,” Sionn admitted. “Mostly he’s… lost. Bristly. If that’s a word. You can tell for a long time, it was just him and Miki. Kane being there… rubs him some, but not bad. Miki… Sinjun’s what Damie calls him… he circles around me. It’s like being stalked by an alley cat. He doesn’t trust me. I don’t think he trusts anyone. Well, Damien and Kane. He trusts them. Damie’s the same way. Wary. They’re both jumpy around people, and I don’t think it’s from the accident or the guys who’ve come after them. It’s just how… they dealt with life.”

“Hell, Mitchell and St. John.” Rafe shook his head. “And you’re fucking the guitarist. Life is not fair.”

“It’s more than that.” He couldn’t explain how he felt about Damien Mitchell. Like Kane, he wanted to herd the man into a room and pack cotton batting around him. Damie would chew his way out, then kick Sionn’s ass, but that was a small price to pay to keep the man safe. He could survive the bruises Damie’s teeth made on his skin. He didn’t think he could learn to live without the man making them.

“Shit, you’re in love with him.” His friend stared at him from across the table. “Honest, surprised the hell out of me that Kane hooked up with St. John. He never went in for the bad boy rocker before.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t hit Kane up for Miki’s autograph or something,” he teased.

“Nah, the guy was going through some shit. He lost… everything. Last thing he needed was some washed-out bassist humping his leg. I’m not family like you. Brigid doesn’t hunt me down if I turn down her dinner summons, but hell, now that Mitchell’s back, I’m going to take her up on them if they’re going to be there.” Rafe’s tone shifted, growing serious. “But, Murphy, let me ask you something. Aren’t you scared he and St. John are going to pick up where they left off?”

“It’s not like that between them.” Sionn grinned when Rafe snorted. “No, it’s not. There’s nothing sexual at all between them.”

“I’ve seen them live, dude. Miki St. John is liquid sex,” Rafe refuted hotly. “And Damien Mitchell will fuck anything that moves.”

“Not now,” he replied softly. “Now, he’s mine and staying that way, Andrade. No matter how this plays out, Damie’s mine. And I’ll fight anything… anyone… who tries to take him from me. Starting with that dick who’s been trying to kill him and ending with the fucking asshole who hired him.”

S
AFELY
tucked away under tarps strung between two metal shed-like structures on the warehouse roof, Damien was already hiding when one of the Morgan behemoths stamped up the stairs.

A few days before, he convinced Sionn to help him drag a couple of beanbags upstairs, angling them so he could lay in one and have a piggyback amp on the other. Now with a shelter from the elements, Damien bundled up in layers and fled to the roof when the world pushed in on him, losing himself in the music he coaxed from one of his old guitars.

Kane had been very serious about Miki saving all of Damie’s life in boxes and crates. Nearly every guitar Damie ever hoarded was stacked carefully either in a spare room or in the never-used, dusty studio downstairs. Sinner’s Gin was entombed in Miki’s warehouse, trapped in mosquito-flecked amber in the hopes of being released by some mad scientist.

“Just because you can,” Damie murmured over his strings, “doesn’t mean you should.”

It’d been a problem he’d wrestled with ever since he and Miki spoke about the band. He
needed
the lights and screams as much as he needed to shape the music that poured out of him. Sinjun wasn’t the ego-whore he was, but he missed the family they’d once had, even if it meant tearing their lives apart slogging from city to city. Neither one of them had realized they’d been living on borrowed time. Now as they licked their wounds and broken spirits, the stage was still a lure, a temptation both of them missed drinking from.

The arrival of a throaty-motored beast of a car had reaffirmed Damien’s decision to take some breathing space, especially when he heard Kane’s brother complain about the front door.

“I just
knock
.” The man’s voice was a bass drum, rolling up from three stories below. Damie couldn’t quite make out what the mother said, but her lilting Irish scold was hot in amazement at her son’s stupidity. “What bell? That? That looks like it’s a part of the door! If it’s a doorbell, it should be on the side. And lit up or something. Who the hell designed this place? Escher?”

Apparently, the son was either driven out by his raptor mother or he’d been sent in search of Damien, because he nodded at the guitarist when their eyes met, not surprised to see Damie wedged into his hiding space. He was about to tell the Morgan spawn to get his muscled ass back downstairs when the man held up a couple of beer bottles and a bag of
chicharrónes
.