Whiskey and Wry

by Rhys Ford

  He caught Damien looking at him, and he winked, making his lover laugh. Sionn took a sip of the stout, swallowed, then sighed. “God, I am stupid in love with him.”

  “Yeah, I know how that feels,” Kane commiserated. “Think we should be worried?”

  “About the two of them being back together?” Sionn shrugged. “What’s the worst that can happen? They take over the world?”

  “Maybe once Mom and Edie are done with it.” The women in question began a fierce cackle, and Donal frowned, snapping a pair of clean tongs at his wife’s ass.

  “Your da’s asking to die.”

  “It’s a frequent request,” Kane replied dryly. “There used to be only two bathrooms in this house, and he had a shitload of kids getting ready in the morning. You don’t think he’s prayed for death before? I’m pretty sure that’s who he made that apartment behind the garage for.”

  More laughter echoed around the large yard, and Dude cheerfully bounced after a ball Kane’s younger brother, Brae, had thrown for him. Soaking in the mostly warm sunshine, Sionn stretched out, content and slightly buzzed from drinking the stout on an empty stomach.

  Leigh was doing well, even talking to him, which Sionn thought a miracle considering all she’d been put through. She’d only intended to drop off the week’s books on his dining room table, and instead found herself surrounded by a dead man and bones. He’d given her two weeks off, but she refused to use them, stashing the extra time into her vacation fund. Instead, she’d dyed her hair a flaming flamingo and bought the house a few rounds to celebrate.

  He wouldn’t mourn the asshole—Parker. As hard as it was to let the man have a name, he did have one. Left to deal with the aftermath of the man’s murders, Sionn still cursed his existence. Damien’s melancholy over his mother’s death had been bad enough. He’d feared it would be made worse by the deaths of his father and uncle, but so far, the guitarist seemed more affected by Sionn’s injuries than the loss of his family.

  But sometimes, Sionn reminded himself, nightmares took a bit before they found their victim.

  “Can’t believe all of this shit was about money,” Kane sighed. “What kind of man does that to his nephew? Or his brother?”

  “Same man who stole from his family’s company and then looked for ways to steal some more,” Sionn pointed out. “I can’t believe he got as far as he did, K. Says a lot about how fucked up a man is inside. Damie’ll get most of his money back from the company, but it’ll take some time. And shite, the crap of burying his parents? He’s not dealing with it. He’ll have to. One day.”

  “Yeah, one day,” Kane agreed with a nod. “But he’s here. And shit, Miki’s protected his interests. Damie’ll be fine. How’s Leigh doing?”

  “Good. Scoring drinks from the pretty boys and girls down at Finnegan’s last time I saw her. Remind me to give her a raise,” Sionn mumbled at his cousin. “Or get her a boyfriend or summat.”

  “You’d better make sure it’s a boyfriend she needs first,” Kane teased. “Nothing like getting a peen when you really want a summat.”

  “You guys talking about dick?” Damien padded up to Sionn and leaned over for a kiss. Miki followed close behind, sidling up to Kane after tugging Sionn’s bare toe in a brief hello. “And here I haven’t had any.”

  “Ah, don’t want to hear it.” Kane shook his head and held his hand out for Miki’s. “Last thing I need is to hear about you needing his dick.”

  “Not like we can’t hear the two of you?” Sionn sniffed at his cousin. “Close the fucking door sometimes.”

  “We do. He’s just loud.” Miki tugged on Kane’s fingers. “Come on. Your dad said food’s done. Let’s get them some dinner.”

  “Wait, why do they get to be waited on hand and foot?” The cop grumbled but got to his feet and pulled Miki in for a hug.

  “Because Damie’s come back from the dead and Sionn nearly pancaked himself.” Stepping slowly backward, Miki dragged his lover toward a long table set up on the cement patio. “We’ll be right back. Don’t feed the dog any broccoli or I’m going to kill both of you. He farts something bad.”

  DAMIEN wanted to be careful, but Sionn had other ideas. The man stubbornly unwrapped most of the gauze he’d been bandaged with, covering the larger of the cuts with adhesive plasters and when Damien brought up the doctor’s warning, Sionn pulled him over until Damie was forced to either land on the man’s thighs or straddle his lap.

  So Damie straddled Sionn’s lap.

  He now understood when Miki told him being near the Morgans would bend his mind. The family… Sionn’s family… were in everything, touching very part of him… body and soul. Nothing was left unturned, from their teasing about Sionn’s enforced celibacy to cooing over Damien’s playing.

  It was an odd feeling, having their closeness surrounding him, and he’d not been sure he could take it.

  Staring at Sionn’s injured hands, Damien figured he could take anything just to be next to the man who made his heart beat.

  Even if it meant eating a bowlful of the world’s worst rendition of succotash.

  “Hey, Cowboy.” Sionn hooked his hands around the back of Damien’s head and brought him in close. Fitting his fingers into the spans of unscarred skin under Damie’s long hair, he guided his lover toward him until their mouths touched in a delicate kiss.

  “Hey, Irish.” His lover tasted of chocolate stout with a faint aftertang of ranch dressing, and the scent of his skin drifted up from his long, muscular body, warmed by the sun they now shared.

  If he had to put a word on what he was feeling, Damien could only come up with happy. Despite the terror and death, he was happy, and he’d be damned if anyone would take that away from him. Even if that someone was him.

  “You doing okay?” Sionn asked between soft kisses.

  “Yeah.” Damien burrowed his arms around Sionn’s waist, the lounger’s rain-retardant cushions scraping at his skin. “Fuck, I never want to let you go.”

  “You don’t have to.” Sionn’s laugh jostled Damie’s cheek. “But you’re going to have to decide what to do about your… family. Well, your mother at least.”

  Too much had happened between Damien and his father, but the man’s death loomed over them. The rest of his family had turned their backs on Damien, as if he’d been the one to drive Stephen to hire a murderer. After handing over his father’s remains to his other brother, Damien then washed his hands of the matter, shutting away that part of his life behind a steel door. His mother’s remains were another story.

  “I think I’m going to have her ashes buried next to her parents in England. She really missed it. I think it’ll be nice for her there. Will you come with me?”

  “As soon as you get a passport again,” Sionn teased. “It’s a hard thing being a dead man’s lover. I’m about to rent a hearse to cart you around in.”

  “There’s a lot of room in the back of a hearse.” Damien lifted his head and wiggled his eyebrows at Sionn. “Almost as much room as there is on a king-sized bed.”

  “Really now, Damie love?” The man’s intrigued look soon turned lecherous. “There’s a bed back there in the garage apartment. Behind those doors. And they lock, or so I’ve been told. What say you we test out your… experience?”

  “What makes you think there’ll be… um… stuff there?”

  “’Cause it’s where Miki and Kane sleep, and I know the sheets are fresh.” Sionn pushed Damien aside, then rose to his feet. “So come on, boyo, let’s go see if that bed’s as good as a hearse.”

  Damien took one last look at his new life, surrounded by the people the world had found for him. Miki was leaning against Kane, their heads touching as they picked through something on the table. Off to the side, Brigid and Edie were laughing, his manager’s thin face wrinkled with a broad smile, and she winked at him when he caught her eye. The other Morgans were moving about, mingling with friends they’d brought and sometimes still sneaking the damned dog something to eat. From somewhere
in the house, a stereo was playing Sinner’s Gin’s first CD, and Donal was singing along, his deep baritone rising and falling with the music.

  He’d almost gotten the glass door closed when he saw the dash of blond fur leap up onto the lounger they’d just vacated and dive nose first into a plate Sionn’d left on the seat. Dude came up with a mouthful of green, turned around and dashed off, fleeing quickly as Miki shouted after him.

  “Goddamn it. Who left the broccoli where Dude could get it? His farts are going to smell like rhino pee!”

  “It’s going to be a good life, isn’t it, Sinjun?” Damien whispered to his friend, even though Miki was too far away to hear. Shutting the door cut off the sound of a merry chase going on outside, but Damie had his mind more on his lover stripping off his T-shirt as he climbed on the bed. “Yep, looks like it’s going to be a damned good fucking life.”

  “SO I’LL see you in a bit, okay?” Connor glanced through a picture window at his father regaling his children with his rendition of a song he didn’t quite know the lyrics to. The whispering voice on the other end echoed his thought that soon wouldn’t be soon enough, and Connor sighed, trapped in something he couldn’t quite scrape off and call done.

  He ended the call, slumped down into one of the recliners near his father’s study, and brooded, barely looking up when Donal came wandering in from outside. He listened as his father puttered around in the kitchen, then tapped his phone against his knee, wondering what he was doing with his life.

  “Are ye going to be coming in here to talk to me, or am I going to be needing to go out there?” Donal’s voice boomed through the house, but Connor knew none of his siblings could hear him outside. More cunning than a weasel, Donal had shut the sliding glass door behind him, effectively sealing them off from the world.

  “I don’t know if I should be talking to you in there, Da. Maybe someplace more private, eh?”

  It was hard to admit that. He’d been the strong one for so long. There’d never been a time when he didn’t have a younger brother tagging along after him, and over the years, he’d stepped into the space behind his father, dispenser of advice and listener of woes.

  His father didn’t skip a beat, calling out to him after opening a cabinet. “Ye go on into the study. I’ll be bringing the whiskey, then.”

  The study was a man cave of sorts. The one spot in the house other than the widow’s walk where the Morgan men reigned supreme… or at least untouched by Brigid’s influence. The couches were old, worn in places from big feet and elbows, while the area rug taking up most of the floor was dotted with suspicious stains, and if Connor remembered correctly, a burn mark hidden by a low table near the wall. Thumb-worn mystery novels fought for space alongside college textbooks, and kid-crafted ashtrays boasted mounds of coins waiting to be rolled up into paper sleeves that never seemed to be filled.

  It was the room where every Morgan boy had come to bare his soul or take his punishment. He’d stood there many a time, hating himself for bringing a look of disappointment to his father’s handsome face, and he’d once cried in shame when he confessed to letting Kane jump from the roof and into the pool.

  That conversation would have gone a whole lot better for him if Kane had actually hit the water instead of the cement ring around it, but Connor stood up and took the blame.

  Even when his father gently told him the blame lay on Kane’s shoulders, not his.

  “Yer brother’s got to stand for his own mistakes,” Donal told him. “Ye can’t take on the world’s troubles, son. No matter how big your shoulders are. Most times, it’s best for people to carry their own burden, lest they don’t ever learn how.”

  After that, Connor tried. He did. But his instincts fought him, and he’d step in, time and time again, when his younger brothers—then sisters—fell behind. They’d looked up to him. Followed him because, as the eldest, he was supposed to know what to do and when to do it.

  All in preparation for a time when Donal wouldn’t be there and he’d be left alone to carry on.

  He wasn’t ready for that time. Not now. Probably not ever. Especially now as he stewed in the dilemma he found himself in, and for the first time in his life, Connor had no idea what to do.

  “Here, take a swig first, son,” Donal said, handing Connor the bottle before closing the door behind him. “Then ye tell yer da what’s going on.”

  The whiskey wasn’t rotgut, not by a long shot, but it might have been liquid fire for all Connor could taste. It burned going down, hitting the knot of trouble in his gut and setting off an inferno there. He gasped, choked in some air, and passed the bottle back, coughing a bit while his father pounded him on the back.

  He’d built himself up so he could go through doors alongside his SWAT team without hesitation, but his father’s open-handed slaps down his spine rocked Connor nearly off the couch. Eyeing the older man, Connor shook his head for Donal to stop.

  “I’m okay.” He cleared his throat. “It just went down wrong.”

  “Not since ye’ve ever started have you done that.” Donal frowned, setting the bottle on the coffee table in front of him before joining Connor on the couch. “Or if ye have, I’ve not seen it. What’s the matter, Con? Something on the job?”

  They shared a love for the job. Wearing the blue and a badge was all Connor had ever wanted. He’d stayed up late at night to watch his father come in after a long shift, peering through the window, then sneaking downstairs to watch him take off his gun belt and lock up his weapon for the night. He’d seen his parents dance in the kitchen and laugh over a shared midnight meal, catching up on their day and basking in each other’s humor.

  He’d grown up wanting that… thinking one day he’d come home to a little boy and a woman who’d kiss him on the mouth while teasing him about his big feet. There’d not been a moment he’d doubted his future. Not the uniform. Not the badge. Not the woman. Then suddenly, his future tilted, and Connor couldn’t find his feet underneath him.

  So he did the only thing he knew to do during one of those times: reach for his da.

  “I’ve fallen, Da.” Connor snagged the bottle, hoping this time the whiskey would find his gullet instead of his pain. “Fallen in love, I mean.”

  “And that’s got you worried?” The delight on his father’s face was too painful bear. “What’s wrong? Is she married? What’s her name?”

  Connor took a deep breath and crossed a line he’d never thought he’d cross in his entire lifetime. “His name is Forest, Da. Forest Ackerman. I met him on a case and, well….”

  “But… he? You said he.” If Connor thought his confusion had struck him mute, he’d not been prepared for the flurries of conflict consuming his father’s expression. Donal finally settled on a dumbstruck bewilderment. “But, Con, yer not gay.”

  “Yeah, I know, Da.” The whiskey bottle was an ill-formed vessel to salute with, but he hoisted it up to his father anyway. “I know. Fucking hell, don’t I know that, but here I am. In this.”

  If he could find some sort of peace at the bottom of a glass, Connor would have taken it. Instead, the whiskey started to taste like dust, and he felt himself grow colder as every second ticked away in silence between them. An infinity of bone-chilling quiet stretched out, and just when Connor thought he couldn’t stand it any longer, his father clapped him on the shoulder, shaking him firmly with a solid hand.

  “Well then, I guess we’ll work through this,” he murmured, pulling his son into a breath-stealing embrace. “Ye and I… we’ll find a way to make it work. Because yer my son, and I’ll be damned if ye shouldn’t be happy in love.”

  About the Author

  RHYS FORD was born and raised in Hawai’i, then wandered off to see the world. After chewing through a pile of books, a lot of odd food, and a stray boyfriend or two, Rhys eventually landed in San Diego, which is a very nice place but seriously needs more rain.

  Rhys admits to sharing the house with three cats, a black Pomeranian puffball, a bonsai wolfhound,
and a ginger cairn terrorist. Rhys is also enslaved to the upkeep of a 1979 Pontiac Firebird, a Qosmio laptop, and a red Hamilton Beach coffeemaker.

  Visit Rhys’s blog at http://rhysford.wordpress.com or e-mail Rhys at rhys_ford@vitaenoir.com.

  Where it all began. Sinner’s Gin by RHYS FORD

  http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com

  The Cole McGinnis Mysteries by RHYS FORD

  http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com

  The Cole McGinnis Mysteries by RHYS FORD

  http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com

  The Cole McGinnis Mysteries by RHYS FORD

  http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com

  Also from DREAMSPINNER PRESS

  http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com

  Also from DREAMSPINNER PRESS

  http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com