Whiskey and Wry (Sinners, #2)

More deadly than a plague of locusts, swarms of tourists ambled through the tight streets, their attention less on the traffic and more on the city surrounding them. Sionn cursed himself for turning up Grant Avenue. Trapped in a slog of bodies and vehicles moving slower than molasses on a cold day, he was tempted to get out of the car, hand Damien the keys, and walk the seven blocks to his building.

The curious scents and sounds of the neighborhood reached them before the dragon gate actually came into view. A mingle of anise, black tea, and cardamom wafted through the Jeep’s open windows, tickling Sionn’s nose. Somewhere hidden in the crust of cement and bricks, jasmine bloomed, sweetening the harsher smells rolling down through the gate. By the time they reached the base of the hill, Sionn’s stomach was growling furiously, angrily reminding him they’d not had anything to eat, and the mouthwatering aromas coming from the neighborhood’s restaurants were a maddening torture.

“Swear to God, if you take longer than five minutes, I’m going to go hunt down someone and chew off their leg,” Damien threatened softly. “When did it get to be almost noon?”

“Right after it turned eleven thirty,” Sionn muttered. “And if you do grab someone, save some for me. All I’ve had is coffee.”

“I’ll look for someone plump. We can gorge,” Damien promised, darkly eyeing the crowd for a ripe specimen. “Something that’ll go good with har gow, though. It’ll be like a surf and turf thing.”

“Only if you find a vegetarian.”

“Tell you what,” Damien drawled. “I’ll lean out the window and moo. You grab whoever answers.”

Grant’s traffic opened up a bit once they got past an old boarding house turned hotel. Taxis jostled for space on the road, pulling off to the side and blocking off alleys as they grabbed fares, and Sionn huffed in frustration when they were forced to stop for the fifth time in fifty feet.

It took them another half an hour to get to Sionn’s building, and he threw a quick prayer of thanks for the open space near the lobby’s entrance. Sionn played a bit of Frogger getting out of the Jeep, then hurried over to the passenger’s side of the car. Leaning through the open window, he hooked his hand behind Damien’s head and pulled the man into a kiss, suckling at Damie’s lips until the other man laughed and turned his head to get away.

“Stay here. Don’t let anyone steal you,” Sionn warned him, playfully shaking his finger under Damie’s nose. “Maybe while I’m gone, give K and Miki a call. If they’re not too tired from rocking the bed, maybe they’ll be wanting to join us for lunch.”

“Okay, I’ll call.” Damie rubbed at his lips, and Sionn beamed, liking the pink flush he’d brought up to the man’s cheeks. “Hurry back.”

“Won’t be long,” Sionn promised again. “Can’t imagine what else I’ve got to be doing here.”




RAISED poor and chained to the confines of a trailer park with a swamp in his back yard, Parker grew up believing the majority of people around him were stupid. Once he got out of the trash pit he’d been born into, he’d see the world and live a sophisticated life, surrounded by intelligent and beautiful people.

Funny how no matter how far he got away from the swamp, the people he met were still as stupid—if not more so— than the ones he’d left behind.

It had taken him less than five minutes to wrangle Murphy’s number out of the woman who answered the phone at his pub. Throwing in a few authoritative statements about being a detective, then dropping one of the Morgans’ names into the conversation, turned the woman’s wariness into an enthusiastic river of information. Given assurance that Murphy wouldn’t be headed down to the pub, Parker laid his trap.

If he needed further evidence of the stupidity of the world at large, he got it when he wheeled a trash cart into the lobby and punched through the buttons to get to the top floor.

“Jesus, this is too easy.” Parker grinned, pushing the burdened cart out through the elevator’s open doors. “Let’s see what we can do up here to welcome him home.”

He’d unloaded a large bag from the high-sided cart, dropping it to the floor. It hit with a solid, wet thud and a popping sound, as something inside gave way.

“Shit, hope that wasn’t your head, Mr. Stephen Mitchell,” he bent over to whisper at the bag. Staring down at the unidentifiable lumps poking the plastic up, he shrugged. “Of course, for all I know, I’m talking to those damned boat feet of yours.”