Whiskey and Wry (Sinners Series) (33 page)

“Only if you find a vegetarian.”

“Tell you what,” Damien drawled. “I’ll lean out the window and moo. You grab whoever answers.”

Grant’s traffic opened up a bit once they got past an old boarding house turned hotel. Taxis jostled for space on the road, pulling off to the side and blocking off alleys as they grabbed fares, and Sionn huffed in frustration when they were forced to stop for the fifth time in fifty feet.

It took them another half an hour to get to Sionn’s building, and he threw a quick prayer of thanks for the open space near the lobby’s entrance. Sionn played a bit of Frogger getting out of the Jeep, then hurried over to the passenger’s side of the car. Leaning through the open window, he hooked his hand behind Damien’s head and pulled the man into a kiss, suckling at Damie’s lips until the other man laughed and turned his head to get away.

“Stay here. Don’t let anyone steal you,” Sionn warned him, playfully shaking his finger under Damie’s nose. “Maybe while I’m gone, give K and Miki a call. If they’re not too tired from rocking the bed, maybe they’ll be wanting to join us for lunch.”

“Okay, I’ll call.” Damie rubbed at his lips, and Sionn beamed, liking the pink flush he’d brought up to the man’s cheeks. “Hurry back.”

“Won’t be long,” Sionn promised again. “Can’t imagine what else I’ve got to be doing here.”

R
AISED
poor and chained to the confines of a trailer park with a swamp in his back yard, Parker grew up believing the majority of people around him were stupid. Once he got out of the trash pit he’d been born into, he’d see the world and live a sophisticated life, surrounded by intelligent and beautiful people.

Funny how no matter how far he got away from the swamp, the people he met were still as stupid—if not more so— than the ones he’d left behind.

It had taken him less than five minutes to wrangle Murphy’s number out of the woman who answered the phone at his pub. Throwing in a few authoritative statements about being a detective, then dropping one of the Morgans’ names into the conversation, turned the woman’s wariness into an enthusiastic river of information. Given assurance that Murphy wouldn’t be headed down to the pub, Parker laid his trap.

If he needed further evidence of the stupidity of the world at large, he got it when he wheeled a trash cart into the lobby and punched through the buttons to get to the top floor.

“Jesus, this is too easy.” Parker grinned, pushing the burdened cart out through the elevator’s open doors. “Let’s see what we can do up here to welcome him home.”

He’d unloaded a large bag from the high-sided cart, dropping it to the floor. It hit with a solid, wet thud and a popping sound, as something inside gave way.

“Shit, hope that wasn’t your head, Mr. Stephen Mitchell,” he bent over to whisper at the bag. Staring down at the unidentifiable lumps poking the plastic up, he shrugged. “Of course, for all I know, I’m talking to those damned boat feet of yours.”

The plastic was easier to get loose this time, but Mitchell was definitely heavier than his brother’s wife. Unlike the time Parker spent on Phillip, he’d been pressed for time with his brother, Stephen, so corners had to be cut. A hedge trimmer and pinking shears were his weapons of choice on Stephen, and the sodium carbonate bath was out of the question. Phillip’s disappearance was easily explained with a few maneuverings from the older Mitchell’s office. The man rarely showed up at his family’s business. His corner office with its view of the bay mostly hosted high-powered guests. No, Stephen’s staff had done a great job of dancing around Phillip’s absence, but Stephen Mitchell dropping off the grid was going to blow up in someone’s face.

And Parker planned to be long gone before the cops started taking down names for
that
particular
bukake
contest.

He wasn’t going to go for shock this time. No, Parker wanted something else instead.

This time, he wanted to see the pain he could cause. Up close, so he could taste it on Damien Mitchell’s skin and smell it coming off the young man’s body in redolent waves for his pleasure.

Parker dragged a chair over to the dining area and began to reassemble his former employer. A knee gave him a bit of trouble, and he had to twist it to break it until he could have it dangle properly over the seat. Once he was done shoving the thighs against the man’s trunk, Parker stepped back to examine his work.

The man’s arms were a bit slack, but there was no helping that. He’d left the house without any baling wire or duct tape. To his amazement, the chateau’s garage and gardening shed were sorely lacking in supplies, and he’d had to make do with what he already had on hand. Metal kabob skewers were a partial solution. The points were sharp enough to slide through the meat of the man’s arms to pin them to his sides, but they left the shoulders loose, and Parker could easily see a bit of space between them and the body.

“Can’t help it.” He shrugged, wiping his hands on a towel. “Okay, now for the head.”

After seeing both Mitchell brothers up close, Parker was pretty sure Phillip’s wife had jumped the fence at some point to have her eggs primed by some other guy. Neither brother looked anything like Damien Mitchell. Their thinning hair ran to a gingery brown, and both men were square blocks of meat, difficult to move after they were killed.

“Your nephew’s going to be a hell of a lot easier.” Parker plopped his boss’s head onto his neck stump. “Murphy probably won’t be, but it doesn’t matter what happens to him. He can rot here for all I care.”

Phillip’s skull grinned up at him from the bottom of the cart, and Parker removed it carefully, not wanting to jiggle off the jawbone he’d finally found amid the rest of the man’s stripped bones.

“You, sir, are a handsome looking skull.” Parker matched the man’s bony grin. “Let’s put you on the dining table so I don’t forget you.”

A dark blue duffel was all that remained in the cart, and Parker took his time removing it. At first unsure about where he wanted to set up, he paced around the house, weighing the pros and cons of each space. Some part of him was saddened by the lack of blood, its metallic taint buried beneath the gloss of lemon oil and fresh paint. In some ways, he was being given a new canvas, but he mourned the loss of his previous masterpiece.

If only he’d been present for its unveiling.

It was the one thing he’d always been missing, and with Murphy, that desire would soon be fulfilled.

“You know what would be nice? If I left Murphy alive until your son got here,” he said to Phillip’s grinning skull. “Just to take a little walk on the wild side before I let him join you. I’ve never really had an audience while I’ve worked.”

The dining room table was a thick, sturdy piece, and even though Parker was drawn to the coffee table in the middle of the living room, Murphy’s size would make carving him up difficult if he wasn’t fully secured. After eyeing the living space one final time, he reluctantly returned to where he’d left Stephen Mitchell, a rag doll of a man held together with skewers and a prayer.

Unzipping the duffel took time. Things had shifted inside during the transport down from Muir, and he struggled to undo the tang. Yanking it open, Parker yelped, nearly stabbing himself on a thick chopping blade he’d taken from the chateau’s kitchen. He sucked at the stinging cut, stared at it for a moment, then shook his fingers when nothing welled up. Reaching in carefully, he unpacked his tools, lining up the blades he’d chosen for the task.

A strange hum echoed through the ceiling, and Parker frowned, looking up. He grabbed a small box out of the duffel and strode into the living room, trying to find the source of the sound when the small whispering drone grew louder, then ended suddenly. A whoosh echoed through the space, and he froze, suddenly realizing what he was hearing.

“No. No. No. It’s too soon,” Parker muttered, flicking on a Taser he’d brought with him. “I’m not
ready
!”

He’d been expecting Murphy. Even primed for the man, if he were being honest, and for all his faults, Parker certainly prided himself for being truthful.

So he felt a sort of rejection when he came around the corner and found himself staring at a slender young woman dressed in jeans and a Finnegan’s pub T-shirt. Startled, her scarlet-painted lips formed an O, an obscene mimicry of the blow-up doll Parker’d had his first sexual experience with. The Taser went off, nearly instantly, and it took a second for Parker to realize he’d pulled the trigger.

Her bright blue hair fanned out into the air as she fell backward, and, much like a spider dancing on a third rail, the young woman’s limbs jerked and pounded the floor as her nerves were overloaded with electricity.

“Well shit,” Parker said, standing over the woman’s twitching body. “What the hell am I going to do with
you
?”

Chapter 19

Fingers on my skin

Sin in my bones

Blood in my veins

Telling me there’s no home

Finding solace above

From iron in the sky

Love’s what you make it

Never let it walk by

—
Dead of Night

T
HE
building was quiet, a slumbering stack of bricks amid Chinatown’s midday buzz. Sionn stood in front of the lobby doors, working the key into the lock, when someone tapped his shoulder. Glancing to the right, the space was empty. Then a familiar husky laugh echoed in his left ear and his lobe stung from a quick flick of Damien’s long fingers.

“Thought you were going to wait in the Jeep.” Sionn scowled at his lover.

“After sitting in that traffic, I wanted to stretch my legs out.” Holding his hands up in mock surrender, Damien opened his fingers to show the other man a
kretek
he’d had hidden. “And I didn’t think you wanted your car to smell like cloves.”

“No, not really.”

“See? Stretching legs and cloving out.” Damien gave a short, sweeping dip, as if bowing to the throngs gathered to cross the nearby corner. “I even brought the phone with me so I can talk to Miki while you’re upstairs.”

“Fine, call Sinjun but—”

“Staying down here,” Damie cut him off, shadows winging across his face. “Really, Irish, I… can’t go up. I’m a chickenshit, but at least I know it. I’ll wait for you here.”

“You’re not shite, Damie boy.” Sionn gathered the man in, twining his arms around Damien’s shoulders. “Chicken or anything else. What happened up there…. I don’t want to go up. Only reason I am is because it’s for you… for your mum.”

“Think you can get my guitar?” He sniffed, turning his head away, but Sionn’d already seen the stubborn set of his mouth as Damie fought back his emotions. “It’s crap, but… it’s the one I took to Finnegan’s a lot. Kinda of reminds me of… us.”

“Ah, you’re a big softie,
a rún
.” The heel of Damien’s hand found a space between his ribs, and Sionn’s breath left him in a whoosh. He let the man go and rubbed at his side, staring at Damien accusingly. “And here I was being all sweet.”

“Just get the guitar.” Damie leaned against the building’s outer wall and tucked the
kretek
between his lips. He dug a lighter out of his jeans pocket as Sionn continued to rub at his side. Cupping his hands to protect the end from the wind, Damie lit the clove cigarette, pulling the end to a cherry red, then reached over to jingle the keys Sionn had left in the lock. Exhaling, he jerked his head toward the door. “Going up?”

“You’re just all smooth and calm, then?” Sionn covered Damie’s lean body, pressing him against the brick wall.

“No,” Damien replied softly. “But, babe, if I start really thinking about it, I’m going to break.”

“I’ll always be here to pick up the pieces.” Sionn stole a quick kiss.

“Even with my brain firing shit off like Beaker and lima beans, I don’t
remember
her, Irish,” Damie admitted softly. He pulled away from Sionn’s hand, holding his lover back with a bit of distance. “I don’t remember what either of them really look like. I know what they did… to me… to my body. Shit, the fucking crap they did to my mind! But I don’t see them when I think of my parents. I only feel the pain inside of me… on me. I can feel where his hands broke me. I can even tell you what it’s like to have my skin tear apart from his beatings, but what he looks like? Really looks like? I don’t know.

“Maybe I’m afraid of going upstairs and seeing where that asshole dumped her…,” he continued softly, looking off into the street. “And feeling
nothing
. I don’t know if I can handle feeling nothing for her, Sionn. I don’t know what kind of person that makes me. Maybe I’m really afraid that it makes me like them… and I don’t know if I can handle that.”

“You are nothing like them,
a rún
. You know how to love, and there’s nothing wrong with wanting your memory of her to be untainted by what is up there. Even if you find you can’t love her, you’re at least trying to respect her. So wait here, Damie boy, and I’ll be down soon enough.” Their kiss was longer this time, flavored with a hint of Damie’s tears and the sweet aftermath of clove smoke. Sionn hugged him briefly, then turned the key, unlocking the lobby door. “And I’ll be bringing your guitar with me too. Can’t leave a piece of us up there, Damie love, can I?”