Whiskey and Wry (Sinners, #2)

He didn’t know what he wanted, or rather, hoped for, with Sionn. Yeah, he’d found Miki, but Sionn… he wasn’t willing to walk away from the Irishman with a kiss good-bye and a fast thank you. Going without the man for a week had been bad enough. Losing him forever ached too much to look at.

“You don’t have to leave him behind, D.” Miki’s hazel eyes went owlish, peering down into Damien’s soul. “I saw you with him. When you came to hug me, I saw how long it took you guys to let your hands go. Why not see where it goes? Why the fuck not be happy?”

“Never thought I’d be the one to hear you say that.” Damien wiped at his face, refusing to look at the well of emotions boiling up inside of him when he thought of Sionn. “First, talk to me about your arm. What the fuck happened there? That’s a long-ass scar.”

“I got shot!” Miki’s grin split his face nearly in half, and he pulled up his sleeve, baring the finger-long pink scar. “Don’t tell Edie. I thought it would freak her out, so I told Kane not to say shit to her about it. But, dude! Shot! Like I’m all gangster or something.”

“He could have killed you, Sin.” Damien sat up, staring down at his friend in amazement.

“Yeah, but he didn’t. And I gave as good as he gave me, so fuck him. I’m not going to go all batshit emo about it. I’ve had worse.” Miki hoisted himself up, then rolled up his jeans’ leg, showing the crisscross marks left behind from his knee surgery. “Got broken here from the accident. I was kind of fucked up. Missed your funeral.”

“Heh, so did I,” he snorted, examining Miki’s leg. “That looks like it hurts.”

“Less now.” The other man made a face, ripe with disgust. “Going to therapy for it. Kane kind of put the hammer down on that one. Just the leg. Not the brain. Don’t get your hopes up.”

“No, not going to.” Damien held up his hands in mock surrender. “When you want to talk about your shit with someone, it’s on you. I remember that. Not going to push.”

“Good.” Miki tugged at his shirt. “Now strip and tell me what they did to you. ’Cause, dude, you sure as fuck look like you went through a damned Halloween movie.”

“Sure.” The shirt was loose enough on him that Damien began to tug it over his head, careful not to pop the buttons off the front. He had it halfway off when he heard Miki clear his throat.

“Oh, and, um… I’ve got to tell you something.” Miki sounded sheepish, slightly muffled by the veil of fabric over Damien’s head. “It’s about the GTO….”





Chapter 11




I missed you, Sinjun. Even before I really knew you were… there in my memories. I knew I was missing something so big in my life. I’m sorry I forgot you. Even if it was just for a moment. I am so fucking sorry.



Dude, you didn’t forget me. I was just holding onto them until you came back.



Since I’m remembering shit, sorry about the time I shoved that chick’s panties on your head.



That’s okay. While you were passed out once, Dave accidentally peed in your mouth.



I don’t remember that.



You never knew, but hey, since we’re filling up your head with shit, you get to know now.



—Rooftop Session, Packing Up





THE smell was starting to get to Parker.

He’d waded in death. Swam in it. Bathed in it. But the acrid stink of a days-unwashed alcoholic tickled his gag reflex more than refried beans. Even wrapped up in black trash bags and duct taped tight, the smell leaked out, somehow permeating the plastic.

The bitch was heavy, a booze-bloated piece of meat even before he’d shoved his knife down her throat. She’d long since given up on herself. Even the old woman at Mitchell’s rathole had more pride in herself than the slug he’d found passed out in the house’s master suite.

Lugging her with him was a pain in the ass, but he wanted her to teach someone a lesson, and Damien Mitchell definitely needed to be schooled. A lesson Parker would gladly give him once he pinned the son of a bitch down.

After wrestling it into the tiny glass-enclosed lobby, Parker let his burden drop onto the tile floor and punched the UP button. Only to find the damned elevator was key-locked for each floor.

“This is so not worth the money I’m getting for this,” he muttered at the plastic-mummified body.

Slumping the stinky cocoon over, Parker used its weight to block the door open so he could work on the lock. Frustrated, he yanked off the panel and ripped at the wires until the buttons lit up. Sucking at a slice in his hand, he kicked at the trash bag roll until it was fully in the elevator, then pressed a button for the top floor.