Whiskey and Wry (Sinners Series) (5 page)

He was the kind of man someone would keep, holding him close until death came for one of them, and Damie’s heart twisted at the idea someone else—not him—would have Sionn Murphy’s final kiss.

“Holy shit.” Damien didn’t need to cup himself to know his cock was thickening. Its head pushed against the seam of his sweats, rubbing at the stitching along the crotch. A tingle fluttered in his ball sac, and Damien leaned back against the wall, unsure of what to do with his body’s reactions to his memories of Sionn’s toned body.

Suddenly the beatings made sense. Something… everything… made sense. His
father
… still faceless but brimming with hate… dug deep down into him, trying to unmake the man Damien was determined to become. The wrongness of it all struck him hard, leaving Damie sick to his stomach.

“I’ll be fucking damned. Guess my father was right.” Exhaling hard, he dug the heels of his hands into his stinging eyes and muttered, “I
am
fucking gay.”

“N
OT
a lot of people out today.”

There it was again, the rolling dash of Ireland in the man’s deep voice, and Damien’s cock perked up like a dog sniffing out a piece of chicken. He’d become accustomed to his dick responding when Sionn Murphy walked by, but its intense interest became painfully obvious whenever the man came out with a couple cups of coffee and sat down with him.

Then
Damie wished he’d worn looser jeans, or at the very least, tighter underwear to keep his perky cock contained.

It’d become a ritual between them. Damien would set up early and begin playing. Depending on the weather, which mostly had been shitty of late, Sionn would saunter out an hour or so later with coffee, and they would sit together, waiting for the day to warm up and the crowds to hit.

After setting his acoustic down carefully, Damie reached for the coffee, grateful for its warmth when he closed his cold fingers over the hot mug. To describe the fog as pea soup would have been too thin of an image. He’d almost walked off the pier heading to the pub, the sidewalk suddenly blocked by a chain and tar-dappled wood juts warning him away from the cement edge.

If he’d been smart, he would have found someplace warmer or with actual
people
around to busk for the day, but no, his feet led him to Finnegan’s, then he pissed around a bit until the pub’s doors opened up and Sionn brought the sun with him.

And if he hadn’t been so
ashamed
of cruising the Irish-born man, he’d have puked at the honey-sick sweetness his brain gurgled up every time he so much as
saw
Sionn Murphy.

Instead, Damie found himself giggling like a unicorn-loving teenaged girl and saying lame shit like, “Yeah, not a lot of people today.”

God, he was reduced to
repeating
what another man said. If anything was proof he wasn’t a rock star, it was his lack of smooth when it came to talking a guy up.

“Twenty bucks if you take the trash out for Leigh again.” Sionn eased back into a patio chair before resting his feet on the edge of another. “And she’ll cough up another twenty if you help her empty the fry oil. She hates doing that shite.”

“I don’t need charity….” Who was he kidding? Damie thought. Not only did he
need
charity, he was making a scrape at a life begging with a song.

“Not charity,” Sionn drawled, looking over at Damie with a wolfish grin. “I hate doing that shite too. Better you than me, boyo.”

“Sorry. I can be an asshole… sometimes.” The coffee was hot and a bit sweet, just the way he liked it. There was enough of the brew in the mug to keep him warm for a long while if he took small sips, but the cold had already settled into his chest, pinging a bit of tightness across his scar. Gulping the coffee helped loosen the twisting skin, and if he planned on stalking Sionn the entire day, he’d probably blow more than Leigh’s twenty bucks on coffee alone.

He could have gotten a blow job or someone’s rough hand around his cock for that twenty, but Damie’s brain churned with disgust at the thought of anyone touching him. That same brain, however, was more than willing to call up images of Sionn’s blunt-edged fingers working his cock’s loose skin or rolling his balls, and Damien once again cursed the fit of his thrift-store jeans.

“Definitely tighter underwear,” he muttered into his coffee.

“Tell me something about yourself, Cowboy.” Sionn’s eyes never left the clotted gray mists in front of them, but Damien could feel the man’s attention on him. “Why are you out here singing like a canary? Or something else. I don’t know much about you.”

What was the saying? Damien tried to remember it clearly, but his mind was faulty at best, and sometimes he wasn’t sure about what it spat up at him. In for a penny, in for a pound?

“Just found out I’m gay.” Sionn nearly choked on the coffee in his mouth, and Damie wiped a few errant drops from his arm. “I mean, not
just
just, but pretty fucking sure of it now.”

“That’s certainly not what I expected to come out of that mouth of yours.” The other man ran his palm over his chin, smearing away a bit of splatter. “Here I was thinking maybe you’d tell me about your place or something. Maybe a sob story of your life being shite because you’re really a street musician at heart and you live in the suburbs.”

“Nah, I live in a shithole.” Damie chuckled. “Pretty sure the guy down the hall shoots porno with blow-up dolls down in the laundry room, and he’s one of the better ones living there.”

Sionn tried another sip of his coffee, then said, “So yeah, gay. Leigh tell you I was?”

“Nope.” Damien’s cock couldn’t have been trying harder to get his attention, and he dropped his hand down to squeeze at its head, shifting his legs as if he were getting more comfortable in his chair. Telling his body to fucking behave, he tried not to squeak when he replied, “I’m shitty at the whole gaydar thing. Apparently it doesn’t even work on me.”

“When did you figure it out, then?” Sionn’s chuckle rumbled, a lolling wave of bass. “’Cause not like it’s something you get as old as you probably are without some idea there, Cowboy.”

“I kind of woke up this morning and figured out I was kind of… either or. Maybe a bit more either one than or. I dunno.” Damie’s mind raced with the possibilities, which he quickly shot down.

He liked coming to the pub and playing. He enjoyed sitting in the front when there was no one around and talking to Sionn about stupid things like Fun Dip or cheese fries. Hitting on the man would fuck that all up and probably get him kicked out of Finnegan’s. Damie couldn’t risk that. The pub was the only place he’d found that gave him a tingling connection with Miki. Determined to steer the conversation away from sex and desire, he opened his mouth to change the subject, only to be horrified by what dropped out.

“How’d you know? For sure, I mean. That you liked dick… or ass?” Jesus, it was like he was raised by wolves. Damie kicked his brain. Short of threatening his noggin with a marathon session of Teletubbies in the library’s children section, there was little he could do about his gray matter dancing off into the inappropriate. “I mean, if you want to talk about it. Some people don’t, and that’s cool.”

“Well, my dad caught me wanking off when I was watching a rugby match. I guess that’s when
he
found out.” He cocked his head. “I think I knew when I was pissed off I couldn’t get one of my schoolmates to kiss me. I must have been six? Maybe seven? Feeling got stronger as I got older, especially after the infamous wanking, and I got shipped out over here to Gran’s. I was about… sixteen by then.”

“That young?” Damie couldn’t remember a damned thing about being six, much less knowing he was different. “Shit.”

“Yeah.” Sionn matched Damie’s sharp exhale with one of his own. “I had shitty taste in guys even back then. That asshole’s in jail for boosting draw checks from old ladies. The boy I tried kissing. Not my da. Although he could be keeping the asshole company for all I know. Haven’t heard from him since then.”

“Probably blow-up doll guy’s cousin or something. The asshole. Not your dad.”

“Probably.” Sionn laughed softly. “Tell you what… I haven’t had anything to eat, and I’m guessing Leigh hasn’t shoved anything fried down your throat yet. How about if we head over to Dot’s and get something to eat. My treat.”

“That sounds like a date.” Damien tried laughing off what he said to take away the fluttering hope burning up his chest. “I don’t know….”

“Only a date if I kiss you, Cowboy.” Sionn’s grin was a sly, wicked thing that sent naughty whispers through his mind. “And since you’ve just found out you’re gay that might be rushing things, but I’m willing to give it a go if you are.”

T
HEY
didn’t kiss then. For almost a week and a half, Sionn brought him out coffee and spent the morning with him, talking and laughing. Something inside of Damien kept nagging at him to stay quiet about his cracked-open brain, but the Irishman’s smooth calm made it a challenge.

But, God, he just wanted to hand his life over to Sionn and say, help me, fix me…
save me
.

Today’s coffee came with donuts, fat, plump, yeasty balls filled with fresh crème and glazed to perfection with a dusting of cinnamon sugar. Picking up the pastry, Damien studied it for a moment, wondering the best way to attack it, when Sionn nudged his arm with a finger.

“Just eat it. They’re good. I got them from Golden Gate Bakery, near my place. Picked up some egg tarts too. Those are like Heaven wept into crust. You’ll be loving those, boyo.” Sionn nearly moaned when he bit into his, and Damien watched with interest when the man’s long tongue lapped at the crème spooge he’d gotten on his hand. “Sometimes, Dee, it’s like you’ve just landed on this planet. How have you lived in California and not had In-N-Out? Thank God that’s done. I’d have mourned your life if you’d passed without having one.”

The pub owner had nearly choked on his disbelief when Damie admitted he didn’t remember ever eating at the iconic California burger chain. Within moments of his confession, he found himself sitting in Sionn’s red Jeep Cherokee and holding onto the chicken grip as Sionn threaded through the pier’s tight traffic. He’d wanted to complain about the loss of tips, but the first bite into his juicy, double-stacked burger shut him right up.

From the tingling want building up in his belly as he watched Sionn eat, Damie decided he was going to have to make do with the donut because his mouth wanted a lot more than baked goods and sweet, frothy crème. So he bit down and let his tongue orgasm around the treat.

“Oh my fucking God.” His groan of pleasure lit a fire in Sionn’s silver-gray eyes, and the man smirked back at him.

“Good, yes?” Sionn harrumphed with satisfaction at having been proven right. “Told you, boyo. Nothing like anything you’ve ever had.”

The crème went everywhere, and Damien tried catching it as the thick froth oozed out of the donut, but it escaped through his fingers and spread over his chin.

“Fuck.” The napkin he grabbed was too small to do anything but catch up a bit of the mess from his hand.

“Hold on now,” Sionn murmured. “Let me help you with that.”

The small piece of paper Sionn used mopped up a bit of crème, and Damien leaned in, angling his chin up. He kept his eyes down, trying not to overtly inhale the woodsy green cologne Sionn wore or stare at the faint stubble scruffing the man’s strong chin. He already knew Sionn’s eyes were flecked by pale sky-blue specks around his pupil with a black ring running around his irises, but Damie didn’t dare stare into them, not when the man’s breath whispered over his jaw and his fingers scraped crème from Damie’s cheek.

There must have been a dollop of crème left somewhere, or maybe Sionn had more than a bit of it when he’d bitten into his donut, because when his lips met Damien’s, their kiss tasted of milky sugar and hot cinnamon.

It ended before Damien could breathe again, and when Sionn pulled back, he
heard
himself whimper mournfully. Dabbing his mouth with the edge of his thumb, Sionn took his time inspecting his work, then nodded at the dumbstruck guitarist before picking up his cup of coffee again.

“There you go, boyo.” Sionn went back to staring into the fog with a satisfied smile on his handsome face. “And if you’re wondering, these donuts taste so much the better with you on them.”

“F
UCK
you, Sionn,” the blond man jogging behind him panted. “I hate you. Hate you like your mama hated bathing and left a trail of dead flies behind her when she walked.”

“You think I like doing this, Rafe?” Sionn came to a stop, his lungs burning nearly as much as the muscle knot in his leg. Panting, he bent over, stretching out as deep as he could to ease away the ache forming along his back and ass. “You’re crazier than I thought.”

They’d taken their run up near Ghirardelli Square, pounding through the predawn light. The first hill nearly killed Sionn, and he’d heard Rafe muttering about crazy Irishmen a few steps behind him. Going down on the next street, his long-legged friend outstripped his pace, easily eating up the decline with a slanting jog.

After his cousins, Rafe Andrade was the reason Sionn made it through high school. After Sionn was thrown into a Catholic school nearly twelve hours after landing in San Francisco, he’d been sullen but Rafe waded through the broiling anger Sionn’d brought with him from Ireland, sweeping it away with a cocky smile and an attitude so brash most people wondered how he’d stayed out of juvenile detention.

He hadn’t. He and Sionn were combustible, first finding ways into the principal’s office, then police stations where his uncle held sway. While Sionn went home with his aunt, Rafe often spent the night in a cell, or CPS picked him up until his mother could be found. Outgrowing their anger took longer, and Rafe kept his troubles personal until he could no longer keep in the damage they caused. They’d both struggled through Rafe’s downfall and then, resurrection. Now Rafe was there again, stoically pushing Sionn along as he regained the pieces of himself he’d lost.