Whiskey and Wry (Sinners, #2)

The sodium carbonate had done its job, far better than Parker’d expected it to. Stripped clean down to the bone, the skull retained most of its teeth, or so Parker thought until he examined it more closely. At some point Mitchell had implants drilled into his jaw, replacing his original set with rows of perfect brilliant whites.

“How much did that cost you? Your teeth?” Parker asked the skull, then turned it over in his hands, checking its bony plates. The lower jaw was somewhere in the soup, and he would have to dig it out later, but for right now, what he’d found would be good enough. “Did you use your son’s money? That’s what started this all, isn’t it? Your son’s money. You and your brother got greedy, and you were hoping to suck him dry like a tick.”

He set the tub to drain and ran hot water over Mitchell’s de-fleshed head, pulling off a stray tendon from its jaw juncture, then picking off any scraps of meat still clinging to the bone. Satisfied it was safe to touch, he stripped off his gloves, then used one of the bathroom’s enormous towels to dry the skull off, wiping his hands as he went. Working seemed more of a help than the painkiller. He’d felt nothing as he cleansed Phillip Mitchell’s skull, but once he was done, the throbbing pinpricks were back.

A final check on the hot tub satisfied him that the drain was sucking down any gelatinous bits but leaving the smaller bones behind. He was willing to risk losing the fine pieces of the hands, but the jawbone and any loose teeth were his priority. There was too much to do still. He wanted to get started on his next project. Drowning the pain in booze or pills would have to wait.

“You were my first million dollar kill,” he informed Mitchell’s hollowed sockets, bouncing the skull in his palm. “I want to save you.”

Parker took the steps downstairs two at a time, invigorated by his success. He left Mitchell’s skull on a low glass table in a lounge area, headed out to the garage, and lovingly ran his hand over the Jaguar’s trunk. The pounding from the rear end continued, weaker than when he’d come into the house but still with a good amount of fury. Leaning over, Parker rested his cheek against the sun-warmed metal, stroking the Jaguar’s smooth paint, and whispered softly, hoping the man inside could hear him.

“Don’t worry. I’m going to let you out in a few minutes,” he crooned, thumbing the release button on the Jaguar’s key fob. The tiny click of the trunk unlocking sounded loud in the enclosed garage, and the thumping from inside stopped, replaced by a thin, keening whine. Sighing contentedly, Parker continued to stroke the car’s metal, taking a moment to dream of the things he had planned for the man who’d threatened to have him killed. Taking one final breath, Parker inhaled the sweet smell of the man’s fear coming up from the enclosed space, a taint of hot urine mingled with the new-carpet smell of the Jag’s interior.

“Oh, Mr. Mitchell, it’s time you and your brother got reacquainted,” Parker sang softly, lifting the trunk lid slowly so he could view his bound prisoner. “Wait till you see what I’ve got in store for you. And then, your nephew and I… we’re going to do this all over again, because while two heads might be better than one, three really are a matched set.”




THE warehouse was quiet once again, and Damien breathed a sigh of relief once the door closed behind Kane’s flame-haired mother. He’d liked her. He did. But he was pretty certain she was part octopus. Every time he or Miki turned around, she’d been there with her arms outstretched, cuddling one or both of them to her before they could protest.

Not that he would have protested, because he’d spotted the teary glint in her eye with each embrace, and her warm cooing over Miki did funny things to his stomach.

No, he sucked it up and let her do what she wanted, suddenly understanding how the tiny, fey-like woman had her enormous sons and husband wrapped around her dainty little finger.

Damien’d left Miki to deal with the two Irish men as they watched rugby. The singer had declared the couch corner his, stretching out his strained knee to the left, and claimed the space on his immediate right for the dog. When Damie kissed his best friend good night, Kane was eyeing Dude, obviously intending to kick the terrier off so he could take over the space next to his lover.

They’d spent dinner listening to the Morgans tell stories about when the men had been young teens. Sionn as an adjunct Morgan wasn’t spared, and Connor drolly informed a gleeful Damien of the time when they’d gone swimming in a too-cold river in Ireland, only to lose their clothes to a pack of thieving cousins.