by Rhys Ford
And he needed to be at least partially functional when he went to pay a certain special someone a visit.
Parker left his rental car in one of the front office’s reserved spaces, grunting when his foot hit one of the lot’s cement pylons. The swinging door gave him trouble, and his ribs pulled when he opened it, releasing another rivulet of blood into his makeshift bandage. Limping over through the lobby, he slammed a hundred dollar bill down and pointed at one of the keys dangling from a hook on the board, snapping his fingers at an older Chinese woman behind the desk.
She didn’t even blink at the blood on his clothes or his battered appearance. The woman screwed her mouth up into a skeptical grimace and nodded at his chest. Jaded couldn’t begin to describe her expression. Parker knew her interest was keenly on the bottom line and from the looks of the place, she normally charged by the hour. She looked like someone who periodically forgot how to dial 911.
Unless she was paid for it and even then it was iffy if she’d actually punch the numbers.
“You want extra towels, you’re going to have to pay for them.” Swallowing something in her mouth, the woman picked at something in her teeth with the tip of her pinkie nail. “And none of that rough stuff on the furniture. You break it, you pay for it too.”
“That’s enough for what? A day, yes?” He pointed at the money. “Give me a room. Something on the ground floor.”
“Hold on. I have to check this one. Too many fakes.” She snatched the bill up and held it up to the light suspiciously before grabbing one of the keys. Satisfied, the old woman swiped a highlighter over the bill and shoved it down a money slot built into the desk. She handed him a registration card and held out a pen. “You have to sign.”
“Fucking sign it yourself.” Snatching the key out of her hand, he growled, “Whatever the change is, keep it. I’m only going to be here for an hour.”
“Yeah, they all say that,” he heard her muttering at his back. “Then they come out in less time than it takes my dog to shit. Hour my ass.”
The room stank. He couldn’t decide if it smelled more of sex or cigarettes, but he wasn’t planning on sleeping in its stew. The bathroom was large enough for what he needed, and its overhead fluorescents lit up the small space to the point of being painfully bright. A towel hanging from the rack smelled of bleach, reassuring Parker of its relative cleanliness, and he spread it over the counter and laid out the things he’d stolen from the clinic.
“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
IT 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.”
SAFELY 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.
“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. Conno
r, 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.”
