Whiskey and Wry

by Rhys Ford

  After all, it seemed like Parker was the only one who’d marked her passing, even if it was with a celebratory salute of a bourbon bottle and an hour spent with a Thai hooker.

  “Nope.” He swished the brandy around in his mouth, enjoying the burn of it against his gums. Swallowing, he regarded the other man with a jaundiced eye. “It was quick. She was passed out. Didn’t feel a thing.”

  If anything, the man looked disappointed, and Parker wondered if he’d made the right decision in telling the truth. Shaking his head, his boss slid an envelope across the desk toward Parker. He stopped short of pushing it to the edge, forcing Parker to reach for it.

  Parker left it where it was, sipping his brandy slowly, refusing to play the man’s head games.

  “That’s a bonus for you.” The heavyset man shifted in his chair. His eyes flicked from the envelope to Parker’s face, seemingly discomfited by its continued presence on his desk. “For taking care of that matter so quickly. Although I would have preferred her discovery to be a little less… grandiose.”

  “I wanted to send Mitchell a message.” Parker shrugged off the man’s grumbling displeasure. “It’ll be easier to get a hold of him if he feels like things are out of his control.”

  “He’s gone public.” The man’s voice pitched up, rising to a near whine. “Everyone knows he’s alive. He’s going to be impossible to get near, and time’s starting to run out. Once the lawyers get a hold of—”

  “Don’t worry about me getting to Mitchell. He’s holed up with that other faggot—the singer.” Parker sneered. “Probably going to drop Murphy now that he’s gone back to his original bang-buddy. Simple enough to pick them off when they go out to take a walk. From what you told me, he’d want to strut around now that he’s back in the thick of things. Won’t be long now. Is that why you called me in? To complain about how I’m doing things?”

  “No, not really. I wanted you to do something for me.” Another envelope joined the first one, and Parker cocked his head, curious at the thick packets. “I figured out a way to get a hold of the boy’s estate, but first, I’m going to need your help to make it more… profitable.”

  “How much more profitable can it be?” Parker’s fingers itched to snatch the envelopes and count what the man thought another kill was worth. “You’ll get everything, right? Once I dump your brother’s body for someone to find.”

  “Not quite everything,” the man cautioned. “Everything’s going to be tied up in legal for a while, so we have some time where Mitchell’s concerned, but I found out something interesting. St. John never altered his will after the accident.”

  “So?” He glanced over his shoulder, wondering if he should refill his glass. If the man was going to talk much longer, Parker thought he’d merely bring the decanter back with him.

  “So, the bulk of profits for their estates are tied up in the commercial rights to their songs, rights St. John and Mitchell bequeathed to one another. The other two band members were listed on some tracks, but the majority are owned by them… or rather for right now, St. John.” His employer wheeled his chair back from the desk, heaving his belly up as he reclined. “Once Mitchell is declared… resurrected, the rights are split again. No matter how it falls, it has to fall to me. I need that money.”

  “So you want me to kill Mitchell before that happens?” Parker crooked an eyebrow at the sweating man. From the stress in the man’s face and voice, maybe the crap alcohol was all he could afford.

  “No, I want you to kill St. John.” His crocodilian smile stretched over his face, his cheeks folding around the edges of his lips. “That way the rights become Mitchell’s, and that way, after you take care of him, they become mine.”

  “THEY’RE like puppies.” Sionn leaned against the kitchen’s archway and sipped his beer as his cousin fired up the grill in the warehouse’s stove. “I’d be jealous if I thought they loved each other that way.”

  “Puppies?” Kane glanced over his shoulder at Sionn. “I figured otters. Miki’s boneless. He and D are always wrapped around each other, chortling. And they get into fucking everything. I’d be more worried about them taking over the world than fucking.”

  The sound of a guitar being played came from the living room area. Then Miki’s raspy, liquid gold singing joined in, weaving in the anguished emotions of loss and death. Kane’s handsome features creased momentarily with a frown; then he shook his head at the words coming out of his lover’s mouth.

  “Is it hard to listen to?” Sionn padded into the kitchen and pulled a chair out from under a small square table some designer thought breakfast could be served on. He turned it around, straddled its seat, and watched his cousin salt a pair of large steaks before tossing them on the hot grill. “You know, the stuff about the accident.”

  “Yeah, a little bit,” Kane admitted after a moment. “Mostly because I know losing them killed something inside of him. Even with Damie back, he mourns the band. It was something solid he could hold onto. Something he built up. With it gone, he felt like he’s got nothing again.”

  “Even with you?”

  “Even with me.” Kane laughed. “Even with that fucking dog.”

  The dog in question barely looked up from the bowl of meat scraps Kane had put down on the floor. The steel dish rattled across the kitchen as Dude chased a scrap clinging to its side. Sionn bent down and grabbed the bowl before it could skitter beneath his chair, held it still for the dog to lick up the last bits. Dude’s tail wagged furiously for a moment, and Sionn scratched at his ears. Giving the cousins a terrier smile, he belched, then waddled off into the living room.

  “Classy broad, that dog,” Kane muttered. “He’s more of a rock star than Miki. Don’t put your beer down. He’ll suck it right up.”

  “Sounds like Con,” Sionn teased. “’Course, same with you and Riley too. Quinn… now there’s some manners.”

  “Yeah, Mom’s glad one of her boys knows what fork to use.” The steaks sizzled, and Kane reached for his own beer, letting the meat sear. “I can’t believe you didn’t know about me and Miki.”

  “Had other things on my mind. Shit, even what Damie said wasn’t really a lot about you. Just Miki and his hardcore, violent cop boyfriend.” He shrugged, moving his leg to avoid Kane’s halfhearted kick at his shin. “Not like anyone called me up and said ‘Hey, Sionn, your cuz is fucking Miki St. John. Come on over and get a free CD’ or summat.”

  “Well, if you’d come to dinner, you’d have found out,” Kane muttered. “Mom was about ready to go down there and harpoon you like you were her white whale.”

  “Hey, I’d just found out Damie was… that Damie.”

  “Took time out to fuck him though, right?” Kane’s eyebrow inched up over his forehead.

  “You’ve seen him,” Sionn pointed out. “Would you have?”

  “Miki’s mean when he’s pissed so… um… nope.” The man grinned. “And from what I can tell, it’s not just fucking between the two of you.”

  “No, it’s not.” He peered down the neck of his beer bottle as if he could find answers to his life’s questions in its froth. “Guess he and I should talk, eh?”

  “Probably.” Kane mulled. “Or you could stick your head in the sand and wait for it to fall apart on you. You know, how you normally do shit.”

  “Unfair, cousin,” Sionn muttered.

  “What’s unfair?” Damie’s voice made them both jump, and Kane had the good grace to look slightly guilty before turning back to the steaks. Poking Sionn in the shoulder, Damie leaned over and whispered into his ear, “Talking shit about me, Irish?”

  “How do you like your steak, D?” Kane asked softly, and the guitarist narrowed his eyes at his friend’s lover.

  “Probably going to be well-done, but I prefer bloody.” Damien tugged at Sionn’s shirt, urging him up out of the seat. “Come on, Murphy. You and I are going to have a talk.”

  THOSE words were enough to make Damien’s stomach clench with fear, and saying them… out lo
ud… and to the man he’d been cuddling up to every night in Miki’s guest room sent him into a shivering case of frozen nerves. But he knew he’d have to say them. Their lives were going to change. He knew it deep inside. After days of being poked and prodded, physically and mentally, he’d found a comfort in Sionn’s arms.

  Damie just needed to know if that comfort was going to be there for him when the shit fully hit the fan or if it was going to be yanked out from under him like a rug he wasn’t good enough to stand on.

  He’d needed a bit of courage, so a stealthy gulp at a bottle of Jack burned in his stomach. He’d snagged one of Miki’s kreteks and lit up the clove cigarette once he and Sionn were outside on the roof. They’d both stopped long enough to grab a jacket, and Damie found himself automatically reaching for the hoodie Sionn’d given him to wear to the Morgans’. Sliding his arms into the fleece, he’d caught the other man hiding a brief smile before turning away to mount the stairs to the warehouse’s rooftop.

  Exhaling a plume of smoke, he stared out at the city beyond the hill, wondering at the lives behind the sparking lights. Sionn slumped down into one of the wicker lawn chairs Miki or Kane had dragged up and hooked his feet onto the edge of the short wall surrounding the roof. By grabbing a belt loop, he tugged Damie down, spreading his legs slightly so the guitarist could sit sideways on his lap.

  “You smell like a ham.” Sionn’s kiss was a light brush on Damien’s neck, and he leaned back, hoping the man would continue the touch. He wasn’t disappointed. Sionn’s arms came around him, and his teeth raked over the spot.

  “You like ham,” he pointed out, blowing his next exhale downwind of the man.

  “I like bacon too, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to come up here to suckle on a porker,” Sionn teased. “I don’t mind the cloves, love, but you only grab one of those when you’re troubled.”

  “I’ve been grabbing a lot of these this past week,” Damien admitted softly. He stabbed out the half-smoked kretek and lobbed it over to a sand-filled trashcan by the access door, hissing and pumping his arms up in mock victory when it went in smoothly. “And Mitchell scores a three pointer!”

  “Talk to me, Damie,” Sionn murmured into Damien’s shoulder blades, ruffling his shirt with a whisper. “What’s bothering you so much that you’re smelling like Christmas dinner?”

  He took a breath, the cold San Francisco air stinging his clove-scented lungs. Miki’d told him he thought Damien was the most fearless person he knew, but sitting in Sionn’s lap, Damie decided his friend must have known some fairly chicken-shitty people, because he was more of a bundle of nerves than a twink’s prostate.

  “With all of this stuff that’s been going on… with me trying to get my head back together… fuck, my life back together….” He stumbled over what he wanted to say, hoping to find words that would make some sense of the chaos burbling up in his mind. “Fucking hell, Miki’s the one who writes lyrics. I should have had him write me down something to say.”

  “Just open your mouth and let your tongue do the walking, Damie boy,” Sionn encouraged him, rubbing at his spine with long, skillful fingers. “We’ll figure out the damage from that.”

  “Edie’s going to be coming back here and… I can’t dodge the shitstorm that’s going to hit me.” He couldn’t look at Sionn. Damien couldn’t risk seeing an emptiness in the man’s silvery-blue eyes, so instead, he glanced out at the city, hoping to anchor himself against its horizon, but he reached for Sionn, seeking out his warmth to chase away the cold of his thoughts. “I guess I want to tell you… to ask you….”

  “Ask me what, love?”

  “Where you stand… I guess.” Damien winced, hearing the wavering panic from his soul pouring out into his words. The doubts whispered into his ear over the years now screamed, reminding him of the emptiness he’d always found when he needed someone around him. Only Miki’d been there. Through the dark times. Through it all. But now, he wanted Sionn there too. He needed the man’s solidity. His warmth. Even if he had to beg for it, Damien would. He’d decided he wasn’t too proud to beg, not even if he was begging to be loved. “I mean, if you’re going to stick around through this. I know that—”

  “I stand next to you, Damie boy,” Sionn murmured, and pulled Damien back against him and savaged his mouth with a fierce kiss. Leaving the man breathless, he rubbed his nose against Damie’s and whispered, “I’m standing next to you, you fecking git. Because, damn me to hell for it, you’ll not walk away now. I won’t let you.”

  Chapter 14

  Every day

  I am one step closer to the box

  Every moment

  I am one step farther away from you

  Every breath

  Is one we will never share again

  Every night

  There’s a darkness of one instead of two

  —Every Darkness Follows

  THE stairwell down to the second floor was too slender for Sionn’s tastes. He was sure of it after he’d banged his elbow on the railing at least three times when they tried to get to their room. If he’d been rational, he would have reminded himself that most stairwells weren’t made wide enough for two men stumbling down their steps with their tongues deep in each other’s throats, but rational wasn’t at the top of his brain functions at the time.

  Still, the stinging echoes numbing his left arm promised to turn into a shitload of bruises, but the feel of Damien’s naked body on his was worth it.

  Their clothes mostly made it to the room, although Sionn was certain his shirt was someplace on the stairs. Since they’d long since given up making the bed, Sionn didn’t have to waste any time stripping down the spread, the freshly laundered cotton crinkling beneath them. Damien was casual about laundry at best, although he’d made his best effort at picking up his dirty clothes from the floor, but bed linens seemed to have fallen under Sionn’s responsibilities. After seeing the bleach patterns on a pair of Damie’s old jeans, Sionn was fine with washing the sheets, especially if it meant they were crispy and smelling of lavender when he pushed the long-legged guitarist back onto the mattress.

  Damien’s breath left him, whooshing into Sionn’s face, and the younger man grinned widely. He slid his hands up Sionn’s sides and hooked his arms around his lover’s neck, arching himself to capture Sionn’s mouth. Lowering himself down onto Damien’s body, Sionn parted his knees and trapped Damie’s legs between his.

  Framing the guitarist’s face with his fingers, Sionn took small sips of the man’s mouth, savoring the taste of cloves on his tongue. He licked at the seam of Damie’s lips and slid his tongue through the tiny gap when Damien gasped in response to Sionn’s thigh rubbing up against his crotch.

  “You are so fucking beautiful,” Sionn whispered into Damien’s mouth.

  The man was beautiful.

  His body was scarred from a life made harder by a man who should have loved him and another who cared nothing about the consequences of his own indulgence. The scar down Damie’s chest flushed pink, still tender in spots and dotted with pockmarks from needles and stitches. He wore it as he wore his tattoo, an effortless part of his body despite the pain it represented. Sionn knew from experience the edges were numb to the touch, Damien feeling nothing but a slight buzz of sensation when Sionn put his hands on the area, but he liked to stroke the healing rip in Damie’s body. It grounded them both, anchoring them to one another.

  The nearly smooth, white lines across Damie’s thighs and back were another story, striping his skin in a feral anger that made Sionn’s heart ache. The scars themselves were nothing, subsided down under Damie’s pale skin until they were merely glossy streaks against Damie’s matte ivory flesh. No, Sionn’s heartbreak came from the knowledge there was a man who should have been the first one to love the man Sionn treasured. Instead, that man chose to try to break his son, tearing him apart into pieces too small to stitch back together.

  Damie was a lot stronger than the man who tried to kill his spirit, and Sionn
was in awe of that strength.

  No, the man’s high cheekbones and succulent mouth were gorgeous, but the set of Damien’s shoulders as he shook off his nightmares and stepped out into the day made Sionn’s heart beat faster. And when he coaxed a slithering, sensual purr out of Damien with a few strokes of his hands, Sionn would swear he could come just from the sound alone.

  Damien had stashed the cowboy hat someplace in the warehouse, protecting it from Sionn making good on his promise to burn it, but it definitely did its job in shielding Damien’s silken mane from the sun and wind. Running his hands through Damien’s long black hair, Sionn rubbed away the ache he knew lingered in the scars under the man’s scalp. Sighing, Damien relaxed under him, his dark blue eyes hooding while he nearly writhed in Sionn’s hands.

  His long neck beckoned, and Sionn succumbed, lowering his lips to the beat pulsing beneath Damie’s pale skin, biting at the spot. Damien’s heart pounded blood through him, his excitement playing over Sionn’s tongue with each fluttering push from his chest. Worrying at the spot, Sionn dipped his hand down, searching for the other man’s long cock.

  Cupping his lover’s length, Sionn drew his head up and smiled at Damien’s flushed face. He ground his hips into Damien and whispered, “Do you know what I want?”

  “Kind of hoping you’ll tell me so we can get this party started,” Damien growled. He thrust his hips up, dragging his sex back and forth in Sionn’s loose grip.

  Sionn tightened his hold on Damien’s cock, lightly scraping his nails over the sensitive skin. “I want this in me. You up for it, Damie boy?”

  “Thought you’d never ask, Irish.” The grin Damien shot him was heartbreaking and sexy. A dimple flashed in his cheek, a rare appearance given Damie’s tendency to smirk. Sionn licked at the crease and slid his mouth over Damien’s to kiss him soundly. Coming up for air, Damien broke away and shoved at Sionn’s shoulders. “Get on your back, Murphy, and let me show you how a real man does this.”