Whiskey and Wry

by Rhys Ford

  His employer began to ramp up, and Parker set the phone down on the table, sliding back into the director’s chair he’d settled into. The man’s vitriolic rants were beginning to be tiresome, draining what little enthusiasm he’d mustered for the job, and after a long day of tramping through the lower end district of Chinatown, Parker’s mind was on much more pleasant thoughts.

  There was a pause in the stream of noise coming out of his phone, and he picked it back up, murmuring for the man to wait. He motioned his waitress over and handed back the baguette, requesting one that wasn’t rock solid. Waiting for her to be out of earshot, he cradled the phone against his cheek.

  “I am going to be blunt here, sir.” Parker kept his voice low, forcing the man to pay attention if he wanted to hear what was said. “I am not one of your sycophants, who jump and yip every time you bark. I am telling you what I am doing out of professional courtesy. Mitchell is difficult to track. He hasn’t been back to that dive since I’d tracked him there.”

  “Damn it.” The man’s temper was still there, lurking beneath his taut words. If Parker hadn’t been certain he was on his last job for the man, he’d be stupid to think he’d survive another one. His employer hated being told no, especially from someone he thought he owned.

  Shifting gears, Parker asked, “Where do you think he’s gone? Where would he go here?”

  “He’s not gone to his parents’ house. I’d have heard about that. My stupid sister-in-law would be holding press conferences and shit.” There was a tapping coming across the line, either a finger or a pen striking a table. “Or to that piece of trash he used to run around with. As far as I know, he didn’t have anyone he was close to. Has he told anyone he’s Mitchell?”

  “He hasn’t spoken to anyone about it as far as I can tell.” Parker sat his espresso down and smiled at the waitress, who’d returned with a fresh loaf of bread. Testing the crust, he sighed at its hardness. “How much did his doctor at Skywood tell you?”

  “As far as they were concerned, his delusions were getting stronger.”

  “So that means he was well on his way to recovering the bulk of his memories, then.” Returning to the espresso, Parker contemplated his next move. “I say we take a more aggressive stance. Perhaps something to flush him out.”

  “What did you have in mind?” his employer grumbled through the line. “I was going to have you go to Los Angeles and see if that bitch who managed their group knows anything. She’s been a fucking tick on my side.”

  “Something more direct,” Parker replied smoothly. “It’s time for Mitchell to lose someone he’s close to… someone he loves. That will drive him out into the open.”

  “Well then….” The man’s oily voice smeared and crackled over the phone. “I know just the person you can kill.”

  THE storm remained over them, hanging black and heavy enough to block out the stars. Below him, Chinatown stretched out on either side, a sea of han zi and neon. The rain wasn’t enough to thwart the more serious eaters. Small throngs of older Asians flurried in front of a seafood restaurant tucked between a sandwich shop and a jewelry discounter that had been going out of business for as long as Sionn could remember. Their chatter came up through the window he’d cracked open, a sparkling pop of Cantonese punching through the rumble of passing cars. His stomach gnawed on itself for a moment, but it seemed satisfied by a gulp of coffee as he finished off his cup.

  The window seemed like a good place to rest his eyes. Actually, anywhere was good to stare at. Just so long as it wasn’t at the man he’d let into his loft and seemingly into his life.

  Sionn didn’t want to look behind him. Not at the man sleeping on his couch, a boneless and erotic sprawl dressed in a T-shirt and a pair of sweats he’d borrowed from Sionn’s clean-clothes hamper. Certainly not at the bay beyond, the water he could see on a clear day now shrouded behind a blanket of fog.

  The raindrops on his windows turned the streetlights into a bokeh fringe around the edges of the glass, and Sionn followed a heavy drape of water as it flowed down to the sash. There was too much to think about, and his stomach was sour from the gallon of coffee he’d drunk. Still, he poured himself another cup and went to stare out at a city halfway around the world from where he’d been born.

  “You’re a fecking git, Murphy,” Sionn grumbled to himself. He’d forgotten to reboot the machine so the coffee was cold, but he took a drink anyway, needing what little jolt the brew could give him to keep him awake. “What’s going to happen when he goes back to being who he is? Where will you be then?”

  No, he’d just get Damien back to his life and then walk away.

  “Stop….”

  Damien’s whisper was a ping of steel amid the slush of rainfall. Sionn stilled himself, holding his breath, unsure if he’d actually heard the man say anything, but in between the pock-pock sound of rain on window glass, Damien’s strident cries grew louder.

  “Please, Dad… I didn’t….”

  The rough-silken voice—Damie’s voice—Sionn heard in his dreams broke, shattering into whimpering cries. Somewhere between the window and the couch, he lost his coffee cup, either on the sill or fractured into pieces on the floor. Either way, Sionn wouldn’t mourn its loss. He couldn’t compete with the tragic devastation spooling through Damien’s exhausted mind.

  Gripping Damien’s shoulder, he was shocked to feel how cold the man’s skin was beneath his shirt. Damien fought him, flailing out with uncoordinated limbs and loose fists. A stray elbow caught Sionn on the temple, and he blinked away the bursts of light dancing across his eyes as he pulled Damien into his arms.

  “No, fucking… God, just let me fucking… go,” Damien whimpered. “God, please… stop hurting me… please.”

  The fight became serious. Damien’s eyes were open, drowned in black and fear. Another hail of fists threatened Sionn’s face and shoulders. Then the man’s knee came up, striking between Sionn’s spread legs. Yelping, Sionn swallowed the nausea roiling from his clenched belly, grateful Damien caught only a glancing blow to his groin.

  He shifted, straddling Damien’s thrashing legs. Sionn pulled the man by his upper arms and cradled Damien to his chest, taking the blows to his back. The slender man was stronger than he looked. He fought with a fury Sionn could only imagine. Even in the deepest recesses of his hatred following the Vienna disaster, Sionn’s rage lurked over him on black wings, more a symbol of his failures than anything else.

  Damien’s anger… his fear… possessed him. A demon lived inside of the man. Something horrific called up by blood and pain to eat away at Damien’s already fractured mind. From the sound of Damien’s softened screams, it was a ravenous beast, tearing apart his insides only to vomit them back up so it could feast on them again.

  Sionn took Damien’s face into his hands and stared down the phantoms lurking in the other’s gaze. “You’ve got me here with you now, a rún. I’ll help you get through this.”

  It seemed like a tiny promise, but something shifted between them. Sionn could see it in the change in Damien’s expression. Whether he was exhausted from fighting or his nightmares had reached their saturation point, Damien stretched out his hand, touched Sionn’s shoulder, and skimmed down over the curve of his arm. Squeezing lightly, he nodded once, then bit his lip hard, nearly to the point of drawing blood.

  And Sionn’s heart shattered as Damien finally gave in to the pressures built up inside of him.

  The tears began, a soft wave of pain at first, then a churning tide of anguish as Damien’s walls broke open. Sionn caught the man up in his arms and laid him back on the sectional, searching to anchor Damien against something solid. He fought the embrace, a scared raptor beating its broken wings against its savior. Damien’s fists found their mark, scoring against Sionn’s cheek, then the curve of his lip. One of Damien’s punches to his mouth began to throb, and Sionn felt his lip beginning to swell, but he held on, all the while murmuring into Damien’s ear and rubbing his back.

  It wa
s something Sionn knew he shouldn’t have done. Touching Damien in any way was dangerous. The man set his skin to a crackle, and every ounce of his common sense was screaming in protest at the man lying in his arms. His heart, however, took over, and the man breaking apart in front of him needed comfort.

  It was going to have to be enough, even though Sionn’s soul whimpered a bit at the thought of letting Damien go.

  Their legs were tangled together, and Sionn’s body responded to the touch of Damien’s thigh on his cock, and it hardened, filling with its arousal. The rough denim on his dick’s velvety head was nearly too much to take, and the sweet, slightly ripe scent of Damien in his nose wasn’t helping matters.

  They lay there in Chinatown’s flickering lights for God knew how long; then the storm outside hit with its full fury. Something nearby popped, a crackling sizzle ripping through the wind, and the loft went still, plunging them into a shadowy black. Sionn couldn’t tell how much time had passed since he’d wrapped himself around Damien’s slender body, but it was never going to be enough. He was almost convinced the other man had fallen asleep, every last bit of him wrung dry from his jag, but Damien shuddered, then rested his head against the crook of Sionn’s neck.

  He was soon grateful for the shadows, because it seemed the dark was a safe place for Damien to talk.

  “Tell me what you saw, boyo.” Sionn stroked Damie’s nape. The man’s heart beat so hard Sionn could feel his pulse rock the skin under Sionn’s fingers. “I’m here, love.”

  “My father…. I can’t see his face, but I can feel how much he hated me. How they both hated me. I don’t know why my parents had me.” His whisper was nearly too soft to hear over the rain, so Sionn bent his head closer, tucking Damien against him. “And it’s not just me. They hated each other. Everything I remember about them is fucked up. I couldn’t wait to get out of there. I couldn’t wait to spend one fucking day without being hit or screamed at. Why the fuck can’t I see their faces? Shouldn’t I be able to see them?”

  “What do you remember, D?” Sionn tightened his hold, unwilling to let the man go. “About your parents?”

  “Maybe a bit more than before. I think. They have money. The house… it’s huge, and everything inside is so damned cold.” Damien trapped a sob in his throat. “I don’t understand why… nothing I remember about them is good. Everything’s wrapped up in some kind of pain or… hurt inside. Like nothing was good enough. I wasn’t good enough. Even before… he thought I was gay… am gay. Fuck, my head is pounding.”

  “Take a deep breath. It’ll be okay, Damie boy.” Hearing his name on Sionn’s lips seemed to calm Damien down a bit, and he relaxed slightly in Sionn’s arms. “You don’t have to go back there.”

  “They’re my damned parents.” The anger was back in Damien’s voice, crackling over his anguish. “They’re not supposed to try to hurt you, right? That’s just fucked in the head, but it’s like I can’t stop thinking…. I could have been better… done better. Then finally I just didn’t… care anymore.”

  “Just because someone feeds you, doesn’t mean that they can hurt you. Parents are supposed to raise their children, not destroy them.”

  “People don’t fucking hear that. I remember telling people. Or trying to.” His ire was visceral and intense. The rage he’d hidden behind a wall of forgetfulness was pouring out, too strong of a flow to be stopped. “I couldn’t take it anymore. I got tired of being sore all the time. That’s what Skywood felt like. Like I was a kid again, and I couldn’t figure it out, but now… I get it. ’Cause there was no one to stop those guys up there from beating the shit out of me. Not because I did anything wrong but because they could. Assholes. Just like my damned parents.”

  “Then I’m glad it burnt to the ground or I would have done it myself.” That earned Sionn a wee chuckle. “Promise you that, D. That place went back to its hell.”

  “Being in that place… in Skywood… I didn’t have any control. Over anything. I’d promised myself I’d never let anyone do that to me again, and there I was… trapped under someone’s thumb again.”

  “Do you think they are the ones who put you in there?” It was a possibility, one Sionn pondered in his contemplation of the rain. “Your parents, I mean. Someone got you from your dying to the mountains. We’ll have to figure out who that was.”

  A weighted silence stretched time out until Damien finally spoke. “I don’t know. I think… they’d have enough money to, but why? None of this makes sense.”

  “How was it with you and them before the accident?”

  “Shit, I haven’t seen them in… I don’t know. I think after I left, I closed the door on that crap and never looked back.” Damien’s face shifted, and he grimaced uncomfortably. “Dude, I’m sorry… can you let me go? I’ve got to go pee and maybe just go drown in the sink or something.”

  “Okay, sure. Once again, a man’s bladder ruins the moment.” Sionn let him go. “Don’t drown, though. Maybe when you come back, we can get some food in you instead.”

  Reluctantly, Damien pulled free and hobbled to the back of the loft. Sionn waited until he heard the bathroom door close, picked up his phone, and dialed a number he’d have to be dead to forget. It rang twice before it was answered by a gravelly voice with an accent steeped deeper in Irish than Sionn’s own.

  “Hello, Uncle. It’s Sionn.” After taking a deep breath, he answered the querulous grumble. “No… no, everything’s all right. No, no bail money or anything. Look, I know it’s late and I’m sorry, but… can I bring someone over tomorrow? I think he needs your help.”

  Chapter 7

  Make mine a double,

  And keep them coming, baby girl

  Leave out the ice,

  And drop off the bottle too

  I’m drinking to forget

  I’ll drink ’til I bleed

  Tonight’s going to be long

  That bottle’s all I need

  —Double Shot Dance

  DAMIEN woke up alone on Sionn’s sectional, a blanket tucked around his legs and waist. A few feet away, Sionn snored softly on the other side of the L, one beefy arm flung over his eyes to block out the thin sunshine coming through the loft’s windows. Coughing lightly, Damie rubbed at his neck, working at the kink in his nape. His throat felt raw from the hours he’d spent talking, and again the press of his tiny bladder forced him to slide off the couch to the bathroom.

  He found his laundered clothes on the dining room table, with an unwrapped toothbrush and a disposable razor taped to an unopened package of briefs. A piece of paper on the small stack was gouged with Sionn’s heavy handwriting, black-inked lines racing to the edge.

  Got these home and found they were the wrong size. Figured they’d fit you. Going to crash. Wake me when you get up. I’ll make us something to eat. You were snoring when I came back with food the first time. Thought I’d let you sleep.

  The toothbrush looked new, and Damien thumbed its bristles as he padded to the bathroom, his clothes and a pair of the too-small-for-Sionn briefs tucked under his arm. Half an hour later, he felt stripped of the grime layered on him from sleeping at the flophouse and working the pier, his gums tingling from the mint paste he’d found on the bathroom counter. He sloppily folded the sweats and shirt he’d gotten from Sionn and left them with the rest of the underwear on the table, unsure if Sionn intended him to stay or if he’d go back to the flophouse.

  He’d squeezed as much of the water as he could from his hair and toweled it dry until his scalp squeaked. One of the scars along his skull ached a bit from the soaking, and he rubbed at it absently, calming the tangle of nerves lurking beneath its surface. A brief peek into the kitchen revealed a coffee machine too complex for Damien’s still-sleep-groggy brain.

  “Fuck, I need a hit of joe.” A quick glance out the window helped him figure out where he was. “Okay, there’s a coffee shop down there, and you, Damie, are fat on cash. Quick walk. Hell, long walk. Too fucking squirrelly.”

  He
left Sionn a note, debating kissing him good-bye, but then thought better of it. His attraction to the man was a dangerous thing, but Damie couldn’t keep himself from stopping near the front door to take one last look at Sionn before he headed out.

  They were similar in height, but Sionn definitely had more muscle on him. His shoulders barely fit across the couch cushions where Damien’d sprawled out comfortably, and the thin cotton pants Sionn wore were pulled tight enough under him for Damien to see the lines of muscle along his thighs where the morning sun hit the fabric. He definitely wore underwear. A thick line of elastic peeked out from the waistband of his pants where Sionn’s tee rode up a little, a hint of sun-bronzed skin showing above the white strip. Despite the briefs, Sionn’s crotch lay heavy with the weight of his sex, a thick curve of flesh outlined under layers of cotton.

  Damien could only really see the man’s mouth and the beginning of a beard darkening Sionn’s strong jawline, but it was enough to make him want to cross over to the couch and straddle the man. It was hard not to want to kiss Sionn awake and taste the morning on him before it was washed away under mint and water. Even worse, Damien imagined licking off the musky sheen of sleep on Sionn’s body, a hint of sweat and soap over the stretch of gold skin near his hip.

  “God, this is more than I wanted… right now. But fuck, I want this. I’ve got to be fucking crazy.” His heart began to pound, an erratic fluttering beneath the scar holding his chest together. Snagging a black hoodie from a coat tree by the door, Damien sniffed at the sleeve, hoping to catch a whiff of Sionn on it. A hint of man lingered, and he smiled, partially satisfied. “Okay, coffee first. Lust later. If he lets you back inside.”

  He was walking out without any way to come back in, and Damien checked the lobby for a buzzer. Luckily, a strip of punch tape with “Murphy” labeled a black button on an intercom speaker and assured him he could at least call up. The wind smacked him in the face as soon as he stepped out onto the sidewalk, but the fleece kept most of it off of him. Pulling the hood over his head, Damien turned up the hill, working through the burn of his muscles when his legs protested the steep incline.