Whiskey and Wry (Sinners Series) (29 page)

“Ah, you bring tribute.” Damien set his guitar down next to him and leaned over to clear off the other beanbag. “Come, approach so I may bless you. Connor, right?”

The Morgan in question nodded and handed Damie the bag of rinds, then popped open both bottles. Setting one down on a plastic crate sitting between the beanbags, he laughed with a mouthful of suds at Damien’s orgasmic noises after crunching on a rind.

“Oh fucking hell, these are almost as good as sex.” Damien hissed at the spicy aftermath rising up in his mouth as he chewed. “Goddamn. Really, where the hell do you get these?”

“My da makes them.” The Irish in Connor’s voice was more pronounced than his brothers’, a hair less than Damie heard in Sionn’s rough murmurs. “Mum makes him cook outside in a stockpot fryer. She was always afraid one of us would fall into it and she’d be out a dishwasher.”

“You sure your dad’s not gay?” Damien dug out another rind and slid the velvety curl into his mouth. “I’d marry him.”

“And Sionn? What about him?” Connor gave him a look as he took another swig.

“I’ll keep him on the side.” He waved a
chicharrón
in the air under Connor’s nose. “If he’s tasted these, he’d understand.”

“Huh.” The man’s noncommittal grunt was as bland as the rinds were fiery.

Sniffing at the threatening scent of rain in the air, Damien asked, “Did you come up here to hide from your mom or to drag me downstairs?”

“You think I hide from my mum?” Connor’s mouth quirked to the side.

“I think any sane man would hide from your mom,” he replied smoothly. “Miki’s crazy, and he hides from her.”

“Yeah, it pisses her off, but she won’t say anything.” Connor groaned, rolling his shoulders. “We keep telling her to let him come to her, but Mum’s not that… patient. Give her time. She’ll have you in her sights soon enough. And yeah, I’m hiding first, then probably dragging you down with me. She wants to cook you guys dinner. Says something about you all having to eat something besides steak and fried chicken.”

“I’m safe as long as I can throw Miki in front of me. He’s got a fucked-up knee. I can run faster,” Damie muttered. When Connor reached for a handful from the bag, Damien nodded at the phoenix tattoo on Connor’s upper arm. Spotting the banner the flaming bird held in its talons, Damien read it off slowly. “
Oro en paz. Fierro en guerra
. That’s from the city flag, right? What’s it mean? I probably skipped that day in class.”

“Gold in peace, iron in war,” Connor quoted. “Most of the guys in my SWAT unit get one when they make rank.”

“So you were what? Five?” Damien chuckled. “Did your mom have to sign a release form, or did you just walk in there picking scorpions out of your teeth?”

“Not that young,” he laughed. A dimple winked in Connor’s cheek as he chewed. “And it was centipedes, not scorpions.”

“You ever want to be anything other than a cop?” Damien held his arms out in front of him, pantomiming flying. “Caped crusader? Astronaut? Or is it like a cult you all belong to?”

“No, not a cult. If that were true, we’d have to kill Quinn and Brae. Jury’s out on Ryan.” The man tilted his bottle back, taking another sip. “Nope, just a cop. SWAT’s nice. I wanted to be breaking through doors. There are some shitty people in the world, and I grew up around people who took them down. I wanted to make a difference. So yeah, cop. You always wanted to be a musician?”

“No choice.” Damien shrugged. “It’s kind of there. Can’t chase it off.”

“Eh?” Connor looked at him, confusion marring his stormy blue eyes. “What?”

The only other person who’d ever understood what he lived in was Miki. He’d spent hours trying to explain it to Dave and Johnny, but they never truly got it. To the other two, music was something they could do. Not something they drowned in.

“Music. It’s kind of hard to get away from.” He picked up the other beer bottle and picked at the label instead of drinking from it. “Sounds… I can’t escape them. It blends in together. It’s like little bites of music everywhere, from the bass of you coming up the stairs to the sound of the bottles clinking. If you listen carefully enough, you can pick out entire songs.”

“Wouldn’t that make you nuts?” Connor stared over the roof’s edge, his attention focused somewhere off in the distance. “I’d think you’d want to
not
make music if that were the case.”

“Nah,
making
music means… focusing. It makes all the other shit go away.” Damien leaned forward, tapping his fingers on the bottle’s side. “When I’m writing a song or playing, the only song that
lives
is the one coming out of me. Or Miki. He writes stuff that catches me so all I hear are the words and how they flow. The resonance of his images, it’s like painting with sound. His music exists in two dimensions… two levels, I guess. The sound of the words and what he’s saying. He writes patterns I can see. I don’t know if that makes any sense to you.”

“Kind of,” the man murmured. “And Sionn? He understands this?”

“Yeah, I think so.” He finally took a sip of the brew and caught himself before he coughed out a mouthful of stout. “Shit, this is strong. And Sionn, damn, I love hearing him talk. I could listen to him breathe all night. He bleeds sound, and it’s sweet. Melodic. Even when he’s limping a bit ’cause he overdoes it, it gives him a different rhythm. Everyone’s got a song in how they live… in the noises they make.”

“Now if you’d explained it that way before, I would have gotten it,” Sionn said, coming up on them.

Damien could feel the goofy smile on his face, but his happy won out over looking cool. Struggling to get out of the beanbag, he handed the beer bottle to his lover and hooked his hands around the backs of Sionn’s thighs, using the man’s greater weight to climb up Sionn’s body. Locked in place, Sionn swayed slightly, his arms stretched out so Damie didn’t knock the bottle out of his hand. Barely able to hold still, Sionn doubled over when Damien’s fingers dug into his ribs.

“Oh no, Damie.” Sionn stepped back, waving his lover off with the open bottle. “No tickling. Or I’ll spill this.”

“Go ahead. It’s like sucking down fermented oatmeal.” Damien hooked his arms around Sionn’s waist, leaned in for a kiss, and murmured appreciatively at the taste of coffee on his lover’s tongue. “Much better.” Looking over his shoulder at Connor, Damien asked, “Us doing this… doesn’t bug you, does it?”

“Hey, I’d say you wouldn’t give a shit if it did,” Connor said through a mouthful of rinds. “But nope, don’t care. My da’s raised me better than that. Only asshole in the family is Ian, and Mum took care of his crap soon enough.”

“Speaking of your mum, she’s wanting you downstairs.” Sionn jerked his head toward the roof door.

“Are you saying that because she does or because you want a chance to mack off your boyfriend before it rains?” Connor easily avoided Sionn’s wild kick, his leg going askew to avoid hitting Damien.

“She said something about fixing the disposal. Apparently you’re the only one of us she trusts with whatever it is a disposal needs for fixing.” Sionn harrumphed as Connor reached for the bag of
chicharrónes
. “Those you can leave. I’ll be wanting them along with the stout and the boyfriend.”

The foreboding gray above them rumbled the moment Connor went through the door, and a large water drop splattered the cement next to Sionn’s sneaker. He walked Damien a few steps and brought them under the tarp as the sky peeled back and began dumping sheets of cold water from its heavy clouds.

“Fuck, I’m getting sick of this rain,” Damien grumbled back at the thunder. “I could use less cold too. It makes my chest hurt.”

“We’re a pair, aren’t we?” Sionn laughed, pulling his lover down onto the beanbag with him. The bright orange fabric poofed out under their weight, catching them in its cradle. “You’re the Tin Man, and I’m… hell, I don’t know who I’d be.”

“The Porcelain Shepherdess. She broke her leg when they scared the crap out of her climbing over the wall. Miki’s one too.” He shrugged at Sionn’s skeptical look. “It’s in the book. I read a lot as a kid. Lots of time between auditions and shit.”

Rocking Damien in the curve of his arms, Sionn kissed the side of his lover’s mouth. “Connor didn’t freak you out?”

“What? When he stomped up here like he was going to grind my bones to make his bread?” Damien bit Sionn’s lower lip, tugging on it lightly before letting go. “Nah, he was good. Dude, he brought
chicharrónes
.”

“No, not about the pork rinds.” He snorted at Damien’s snarl. “About him calling you… boyfriend.”

“Kinda what you are.” Damie snuggled in closer, not liking the cold whiff of mist hitting his face. “You know, if we were in junior high or something, but what the fuck else word do we got?”

“And you’re okay with it?”

“Yeah, I think so. We gotta talk about the whole living spaces thing.” There was no way he was ever going back to Sionn’s place, not with its connection to his mother. “The estate lawyer called… the one with the funny mustache—”

“Ole’ walrus breath,” Sionn muttered into Damien’s hair. “I’m telling you, the man smelled like tuna fish.”

“Why do you call it tuna fish? That’s like saying bacon pig or beef cow.” A finger tap on his forehead brought Damien back around to the point. “The warehouse’s sale can be voided out if he can find someplace better for them to move. I told him I didn’t care what it costs. I want my place back.”

“And Kane?” he reminded his lover. “His workshop’s there.”

“That can stay. I already promised Miki it can, and it’s not like I’ll need that bay, and it’s separate, you know. He won’t even bug me. I just want my life back. Some part of it, and I can’t keep living here forever.” Damien shivered.

“My place is out,” Sionn murmured. “Besides, even if it weren’t, it’s not soundproofed. They okay with you being here while everything’s being taken care of?”

“Miki said they’d talked about it. Kane’s good with us both staying if you want.” Damien leaned back so he could look Sionn square in the face. “We don’t have to. You don’t, I mean. I know shit’s been moving fast. And it’s okay to slow stuff down a bit. It’s not that I don’t want you. ’Cause I do.”

“Yeah?” Sionn studied Damien’s open expression as if doubting the guitarist’s sincerity. “I want you too. How about if we build on what we have, and if you need some space, I can spend a couple nights a week at my place, because I’m telling you, Damie boy, this place might be big, but four of us in here is a bit tight. Lot of ego and personality under one roof.”

“As bad as the Morgans’?” Damien said as Brigid’s voice floated up the roof stairwell, politely demanding they get their sorry asses downstairs to eat. “Speaking of the banshee….”

“Oh, don’t be calling her that, or one day I’ll slip and she’ll gullet me. And no, nothing can be bad as a house of warring Morgans.” He laughed, letting Damien go so the man could retrieve his instrument and amp. “Next door’s going to take some time to get going, right?”

“Yeah, a few months at least. Maybe even a year.”

“Tell you what, I’ve got other property. I can find someplace else for us to live, and we can hole up there. Might take a couple of weeks, but maybe they’ll have caught that asshole by then.” Sionn took the guitar from Damien’s hand and began to settle it into its case. “Someplace big and quiet enough for you to make as much noise as you like. It’s time for me to get my lazy ass into doing something. Leigh’s got the pub covered, but that brewery thing… now that sounds like something I’d want to do. How about it? You and me?”

Damien found himself trembling, a shock working up from his belly. What Sionn was proposing was so very final, nearly concrete in its reality. Living with someone other than Miki wasn’t anything he’d ever imagined, but the idea of waking up next to Sionn every morning… or afternoon if he wasn’t fooling himself… was nice.

“That sounds good, but just one thing….” Propping the wrapped-up amp on his hip, Damien canted his head at his lover, smiling at the apprehensive frown creeping over Sionn’s forehead. “It’s kind of a deal-breaker.”

“What’s that?” Sionn ventured slowly.

“Think we can get a cat? Or a ferret? I’ve always wanted a ferret.”

H
E
’
D
had to dump the car. Reporting it stolen would have to wait. After parking it behind an abandoned building in Oakland, Parker siphoned as much gasoline as he could out of the tank and drenched the interior. A flaming cheap Zippo took care of the rest when he tossed the lighter through an open window from a few feet away and stepped back to watch the thing catch.

It was difficult walking the long blocks to the four-star hotel he’d scoped out for a taxi line, but Parker forced himself to take each step. The farther he got away from the ruined car, the more in control he felt over his life, and even though each breath he took seemed to dig razors into his chest, he kept going. Parker
needed
to get some control back. Ever since Damien Mitchell ran away from him at Skywood, his life had spiraled downward, and he could feel his bright future slipping out from between his fingers.

By the time he got to the hotel, he was sweating too much to pass it off as being overdressed in the chilly weather. The building’s marble lobby seemed a mile long, and for some reason the architect had found it humorous to hide the bathrooms. He didn’t want to ask anyone for help. Talking to the staff risked someone remembering him, even if it was just for a split second. All he needed was a single smart-assed bellhop recalling a limping blond man, and the cops would be on his ass before he could turn around and cover it.

The bathroom’s lush space boasted a small sitting room off of the urinal area. A bootblack stand dominated one short wall, but the shoe-shiner himself was gone. A small whiteboard clock announced the booth would reopen at five, more than enough time for Parker to sit and catch his breath.

An unopened water bottle sat beneath the booth’s raised chair, and Parker snagged it and snapped its plastic lid open with a twist of his wrist. He’d gotten a single sip down his throat when his phone burbled. It went off again, buzzing in his inner pocket over and over until he gave up and flipped it on.