Sloe Ride (10 page)

M: ’Cause the way our lives go, I’d be surprised if there wasn’t. Here’s the keys. You go fucking check, then let me know if we need to call the Morgue. I’ve got Horan on speed-dial.

T
HE
DEEP
thrum of his bass curled down into Rafe’s belly, stroking at his core, then plunging him back into the earthy roll of pleasure he found licking his fingers across its strings. A whine and hiss of an old tube amp kept him company, the tall beaten-up box bearing the marks of being dragged around in the back of a van. Water rings stained its top, the paper softened from countless beer bottles, then dried by the heat of too bright stage lights. Its crackling subsided once Rafe got settled in, and its hum hit the back of Rafe’s teeth as soon as he touched his fingertips to the strings.

And once Rafe got settled in, he never wanted to stop.

Seeing the Sound again brought back memories, fond ones of long nights spent with Jack and the rotating drummers and guitar players who’d eventually faded into the background. Half of their first album’d been cobbled together in the Sound’s back studio, the space then barely large enough to hold a full set of drums, much less an entire band. Renovations brought more room to play, but the old studio walls still held their magic, bouncing his playing back onto him in dark rainbows of gritty sound.

Rafe didn’t even mind he was playing alone—or so he kept telling himself.

A rap on the glass behind him brought him up short, and he frowned, checking the clock on the wall. Turning around to shout he had two more hours of time, Rafe caught sight of Connor Morgan scratching at the pane separating the sound booth from the mixing room. Flipping Con off made them both grin, and Rafe broke out into a full laugh when his friend drew out his badge and plastered it up against the glass for Rafe to see.

“Open the fucking door, Andrade,” Connor mouthed from behind the windowpane. “Now.”

“It’s unlocked, asshole,” Rafe mouthed back. The door opened, and Connor swaggered in, filling up the space the rest of Rafe’s old band might have taken. “Jesus, you’re fucking huge. What’s Brigid feeding you these days? She just tossing a whole bison at you, and you pick it clean like a piranha?”

“Always count on you to be the smartass, eh? You forget. I moved out a while back. Now I have to hunt my own bison.”

Con didn’t wait for Rafe to take the bass off from around his neck and pulled him into a tight hug. Feedback screamed through the amp, thumping and screeching across the walls until Rafe could yank the cord that connected it to the bass.

Rubbing at his ears, Connor shouted, “Fuck, that’s loud.”

“You never learn, Morgan.” He pulled loose of Connor’s hug, undoing the strap from his bass. Setting it gently on the floor, Rafe shook his head. “Never,
ever
fucking learn. You’d think now you’re fucking a drummer—”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but drummers don’t get wired up and tangled into those kinds of things, right?” Connor nudged the cords wrapped around Rafe’s feet. “And what’s this mess? Can’t afford anything new, Rafie?”

“Sometimes old is best, Connie.”

He yelped when Connor punched him lightly in the arm, and Rafe staggered back from the blow, counting on Con’s overpreened conscience to play on his guilt. It worked. Connor reached out to steady Rafe, and Rafe dug his fingers into Con’s left armpit, hitting the man’s ticklish spot.

“Fucking git!” Connor spat.

“Yep, never, ever fucking learn.” Rafe chuckled as he began to wrap the cords up from the floor. “Stalking me?”

“Saw the Chevelle outside when I dropped Forest off to talk to Jules. Figured you’d be in here instead of sucking down coffee.”

“Hell, no more fucking coffee for a bit. Swear to God, that’s all people around here drink anymore.” He made a face. “Surprised Finnegan’s still in business.”

“Yeah, as long as there are Irish around, there’s a market for a well-poured Guinness and some chips.” Connor looked around the room, empty except for Rafe, his bass, and the battered amp. “You about done here?”

“Paid for the whole afternoon.” Rafe shrugged as he wrapped a soft tie around the amp cable to keep it from unraveling. “But not like I’m paying the bills here. What’s up?”

“Thought maybe you’d like to go for one of those beers.” Connor pulled himself up. “Beer’s okay, right?”

“Yeah, alcohol’s okay. It’s the coke, pills, and pot that does me in.” Rafe rapped his forehead with a finger. “Still, don’t overindulge. That’s kind of the rule about everything now, isn’t it?”

“Maybe—yes,” Connor agreed. “You can store your shite here in the office if you want, or we can run it home. I’ve got an in with the owner, you know? We can take the Hummer out for a run on the hills, then grab a brew. Unless you’ve got someplace you’ve got to be?”

“Like I said, Connie.” He snorted derisively. “I’m not paying the bills here. Not anymore. Don’t know if I ever will be again.”

“H
OW
DID
grabbing a beer become
horchata
and grease at Felix’s chip shop?” Rafe grabbed the red baskets from Connor’s hand before they bobbled loose. Setting them down on the table, he squished himself in against the picnic tabletop so Connor could get by. Catching a look of disapproval, he grinned up foolishly at the man straddling the bench seat next to him. “Not that I don’t like a good cinnamon rice drink instead of a cold malty beverage. Wait, I
don’t
.”

“Hey, you said that smells really good, so I pulled over,” Connor grumbled back. “You complaining
now
?”

“Not a whimper. Hey, Orange Bang! Much better than
horchata
. I approve.” Rafe snagged the bucket of frothy orange drink Connor placed in front of him.

The fish-and-chip shop was exactly the same, slightly greasy, with loud paint and even louder pop music coming from an ancient wheezing jukebox. A string of rainbow streamers danced along the edge of the shop’s takeout window, catching a light afternoon breeze. The street was packed, but they’d lucked out finding a spot to perch Connor’s Hummer, and Rafe was thankful he’d dropped the Chevelle and equipment off at his place before venturing out. Connor’s driving hadn’t improved, but at least the Hummer gave Rafe a sense of invulnerability as they wove between San Francisco’s crawling traffic like they were chasing golden rings through a spiked forest.

“Open some of the mayo packets for me,” Con ordered. “Maybe one of the lemon juice things too.”

“Always so fucking bossy.” Rafe waited impatiently as Connor took his time blending mayonnaise and Sriracha, then dipped a seasoned steak fry into the mix. “Damn, this stuff’s good. One of the things I missed out on the road, you know? Well, that and carne asada. And dim sum. It also sucks when you really want shrimp-and-pineapple fried rice in the middle of Tennessee, because that shit ain’t happening.”

“What? You didn’t have someone fly it in from Bangkok for you?” Connor sneered, slapping Rafe’s hand as he made another dive for the spicy mayo. “Wait until I mix it all up, dickwad.”

“Flying it in would have been too… I mean, I get arrogant, but that shit’s crazy.” He shrugged, sneaking his finger around the Styrofoam bowl’s rim. Sucking the mayo off, he mumbled around his finger, “One of the hotel’s dishwashers was Thai. I bribed him fifty bucks to cook some for me. Best fucking food I had in my entire life.”

“Really? I’ll tell Mum that so she doesn’t have to worry about feeding your sorry ass.” He pushed the bowl out, centering it between them. “You’re just eating rice from now on?”

“Could have been because I was stoned, but dude, it was awesome. Charred pineapple, a bit of curried rice, and the biggest damned shrimp I’d ever seen—like baby lobsters or something—but so fucking good.” Rafe sighed, thinking of the sloe-eyed, pretty young man who’d served him up more than a 3:00 a.m. snack. “How sad is it that the best memory I’ve got of that tour is a bowl of fried rice?”

“Pretty pathetic,” Connor agreed through a mouthful of potato. “Spent all of your life to get up on stage, and now what? Don’t have jack to show for it but money in the back and a scarred brain.”

“Hey, don’t spare my feelings or shit.” Rafe nearly choked on a mouthful of his drink.

“You want a hug?” Con eyed him from across the bench, then turned so his thighs were on either side of the seat, and he faced Rafe. “’Cause I’ll give you one, but doesn’t mean it’ll do you any good. Talk to me about what you’re doing now. And how come you lit out of the grand opening without saying good-bye to anyone?”

“Ah, yeah—Quinn and I went for some coffee after we left Forest’s place.”

“You were
at
a coffee shop.”

“Yeah, funny how that kept coming up. I think we just needed some space to breathe. You know how he is.”

“Yeah, Q-bert’s not good with crowds sometimes.” Connor stole a sip of Rafe’s drink, making a face at its taste. “God, that’s shite.”

“He hates that nickname, you know?” Rafe didn’t mind the drink theft, but Connor’s casual shrug at Quinn’s dislike nettled his anger. “Dude, I’m serious. He hates it. Stop it.”

The steely look Rafe got was a long one, layered with everything from mild disbelief to suspicion. Rafe was about to ask Connor what his problem was when his friend finally nodded. “Okay. I’ll try not to call him that. Habit, you know?”

“If there’s anyone who knows about habits, it’s me,” Rafe muttered, saluting Connor with his cup. “We’ve been talking. On the phone. Doing some things together. It’s been nice. I forgot how fucking easy it is to be with him.”

“You’re one of the few to think so.” Connor wiped his hands on a napkin. “So you and Quinn, then?”

“It’s been talking and
coffee
, Con. Wasn’t like I took him on a gondola ride or shared a meatball in a back alley.
Coffee
.”

“He take you to that funky steampunk shop he likes? The one near your apartment?”

“Yeah…,” Rafe drawled. “Why?”

“A little more than coffee, then. Maybe he doesn’t know it yet, but it was. Remember high school? Remember he had a thing for you back then, before you left? Took a bit out of him when you left. Sionn too.” Connor tore open another mayo packet and spit the edge out from between his teeth. “Quinn, I mean. Had the thing for you. Not Sionn.”

“Didn’t think you were talking about anyone else. If it were Sionn, that’d be…. God, no.” His heart oddly skipped a beat, and Rafe leaned back from the table, taking a breath to cool himself down. “If I recall, you told me you’d break my head open if I ever came near any of your brothers. Or sisters for that matter, either. So if he had a thing, I didn’t know.”

“He was a kid—our magpie.” More mayo filled the bowl; then Connor layered in more pepper sauce. “There was a lot of shit going on in his head. Things were pretty bad there for a bit.”

“I remember,” Rafe replied softly. “He says he’s doing okay. What do you think?”

“Think so.” Connor cocked his head as if assessing his brother’s life. “I’d say yeah. Brighter. Happier. I think coming out to the family helped. Not like we didn’t already know, but I think it needed saying for him. ’Course Ian went and fucked the whole thing up, but that’s Ian for you. Reminds me of you. A lot.”

“Thanks. Good to know I’ve got someone to step into my shoes once I’m gone.” He sneered. “Any reason you’re giving me shit about Quinn? Or are we going someplace with it?”

“I’m getting there. See, before—when we were in school—Quinn was too young, and well, Andrade, you were a piece of shit looking for a place to smear yourself against.”

Connor fixed a hard look on Rafe, pointed enough to stab him to the seat he sat on.

“Good to know you think so highly of me.” If anything, Connor’s face was harder to read than ever before, and Rafe hated not knowing what was going on behind his friend’s frosted blue gaze. “Warning me off your little brother? ’Cause we just talked—”

He wasn’t going to mention the laughter or the soft caress of Quinn’s long fingers against his palm. Rafe wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t going to say a damned thing about what he and Quinn shared while Connor held his cards close to his chest. Rafe didn’t have to wait long.

A second later, Connor cleared his throat and said, “It’s not about Quinn, Rafe. Here you are, back and a little damaged—”

“I’ve always been a little damaged, Connie,” he snorted as he reached for another fry. “If you’re trying to get around to threatening to break my legs ’cause I’m spending time with your baby brother—”

“See, I’m not… threatening.” Connor shook Rafe’s impending protest off by looping his hand around the back of Rafe’s neck and squeezing. “I’m not promising anything either.”

“No! Intimidation never crosses your mind. The Morgans are so easygoing. Always the peacekeepers.” Rafe gave a halfhearted attempt to break away, but Connor held him firmly in place.

“Gonna say it one more time in case you weren’t listening… this isn’t about Quinn, Rafe. It’s about you.” Connor’s expression softened. “I don’t want you to feel like you’ve only got Q and Sionn because you feel like you’re drowning. I don’t know why you thought you couldn’t come to me or Kane. The two of us gave you some room because we thought that’s what you wanted. Then K said something the other night….”

“Said what?”

Another tug back but this time Connor let go a little bit, enough to let the itch ease away from Rafe’s skin.

“That you made shitty life choices and giving you space was probably the last thing in the world you needed.” Con shrugged. “I figured Sionn, yeah, because you guys are tight, but Quinn and not me or K? Maybe you thought Quinn was safe. Because he
is
easygoing—”

“Dude, your brother’s only easygoing for as long as you don’t piss him off.” Rafe laughed, pushing Connor gently away. “Yeah, he’s the one you can push the most but definitely not the one I’d want to take to the edge. I’ve seen him lose it.”

“Fair enough,” Connor conceded. “I just wanted to give you fair warning Kane and I aren’t going to sit back anymore. We’re going to be in your face so much you’re going to think you’re a Siamese twin.”