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.