Sloe Ride (12 page)

“Kane’s not that bad.” It was a weak protest. Kane definitely
was
that bad, something Quinn learned after discovering the house had no-sex zones mapped out among its inhabitants.

“Q, somebody can get pregnant just by standing
between
Miki and Kane,” Rafe teased. “Just don’t sit on anything without a tarp on it.”

“I thought that was only for murders.”

“No. You don’t
stand
on a tarp. Walk into an office, and there’s a tarp. End game. Sit on a tarp in Kane’s house, don’t get pregnant,” Rafe clarified. “But I can see how you’d get confused.”

They went silly. They usually did. Talking with Rafe was like sliding into a sun-warmed fresh water pool, its soothing movements lapping over his body. Quinn felt his muscles unclench, his hips sink down and loosen. A few minutes passed, and he realized it didn’t hurt anymore to breathe.

It
always
hurt to breathe.

There were prickles and stones, small hiccups in a road of conversation where he stubbed himself to a stupor, playing pinball among unseen walls or things he should have taken care for. Quinn couldn’t begin to count the times when he said something and it poured out of him sideways, splashing acid instead of rose petals, burning the person’s ear.

He had no fear of that with Rafe.

There was never,
ever
any fear with Rafe.

He must have said something to Quinn, something Quinn should have answered, because a tickling whistle sounded through the phone. Jerking his attention away from the soft lull of his mind, Quinn blurted out, “I’m not asleep.”

“Didn’t think you were, babe. I could hear you breathing. And thinking.” A laugh, teasing to play, not to hurt, then Rafe rumbled, “Like the purr of my Chevelle. Listening to you think. I like watching you think too. Your eyes go all misty Irish green, like if I could fall into them, I’d find stone circles and rivers and daisy-covered hills.”

“I like that,” Quinn murmured back. “That I can just think with you. That I can talk to you.”

“Always, magpie. Always.”

Rafe was silent. Then Quinn heard him sigh, a heavy weight of air pushing out of Rafe’s soul.

“I never meant to hurt you, Q. Back then. Well, now too, but really, back then.”

There wasn’t ever a time when Quinn couldn’t turn around and find the specter of his youthful disillusionment haunting his every step. To have Rafe drag its corpse out, slathering it with an apology he didn’t need to make, was not something Quinn ever wanted to face.

“What did Connor tell you? About what I said… then?”

“That you were hurting inside. And that you loved me.” Another sigh, this time wistful. “You were distraught because I’d left. Because I didn’t see you as someone worth loving. That I’d broke you somehow by leaving. But we’d never… you and I never once crossed that line. I couldn’t back then, Q. Shit, I barely had enough to offer myself, much less something you could hang onto. But you’ve got to know, I never thought you were shit. If I’d known—”

“You would have had to leave anyway, Rafe,” he said gently. “I never told you I loved you, and what could you have done with it? Dated me? I was fifteen. And pretty fucked-up. I had some therapist telling me I liked being eccentric and weird… and just to cut it out or that I’d grow out of it. There were five doctors playing a shell game with placebos and drugs, thinking they could just snap me out of a depression with a bit of sugar candy and shaming.

“I was too young, scared to be gay, and trying to carve off pieces of who I was just so I could fit into a box someone made for me.” Quinn sighed, rubbing at his face. “It just got all too much. And I… missed you. I’ve got my family, yeah, but they didn’t get it… most of them still don’t get it, but you always did. You made me feel normal—
my
normal—and I just couldn’t see past the darkness I was drowning in.”

“I came back. To see you. To find you in that.”

Rafe’s voice broke, taking a piece of Quinn’s heart with it.

“You’re doing okay now, right?”

“Yeah, a lot better. Stronger. I know me now.” Quinn caught himself before he confessed his soul still ached for Rafe to be near. “I’m okay.”

“Just want you to know one thing, magpie.”

“What’s that, Andrade?” he asked, keeping his tone as light as he could.

“I’ll always come and find you. I will always come see you. No matter what. No matter where,” Rafe promised, his words thick with emotion. “You’re never going to be in that darkness again, magpie. Not as long as I’m around. I swear on everything I am… everything I have, I will
never
let you drown.”

The road holds no life

Nothing to keep me warm

Hotel rooms bleached and fallow

Strings leaving my tips all torn

Just one more day without you

Another day gone in time

I’m another step away from you, baby

Please don’t forget that you’re mine

—Love Letter to the Lost

S
TEAM
ROSE
up from the blacktop beneath their feet as the morning air heated up Beach Street. The cool fog tightened its grip on the piers, refusing to loosen its murky gray embrace despite the sun’s best efforts to pierce through the almost-drizzle Sionn and Rafe ran through. At 5:00 a.m., the docks were sparsely populated, but the sea birds were already out in force, pecking through the pockets of debris lying in the gutter, looking for a greasy undisturbed breakfast before the tourists descended, and battles would be fought over scraps of unattended food.

Sionn slowed as they hit the long stretch before Pier 39, and Rafe threw him a curious look, shortening his steps to keep in time with his best friend. Nodding at Finnegan’s coming into view through the patchy fog, Sionn grunted between exhales, “Let’s call it at five miles today. Didn’t get much sleep.”

“Getting old, Murphy,” Rafe teased. “Sprint it the rest of the way and beat me. Then I’ll call it good. Lose, and we go another two.”

It was a hard run, flat out and full speed across cold, damp concrete, their feet kicking up sprays as they pounded through the walk’s shallow puddles. Rafe liked the burn in his lungs as the rain finally hit the docks.

Rafe could barely hear the sea lions barking over his huffing breaths, and he’d lost Sionn somewhere behind him, but Rafe couldn’t risk a glance back. A few feet more, and he would have had it, but Sionn’s powerful body lunged past his shoulder just as Rafe reached the pub’s patio railing. His friend grabbed at Rafe’s ponytail as he went by, jerking Rafe’s head back with a quick, sharp tug.

“Fucker,” Rafe gasped, pushing forward to catch up, but Sionn beat him to the door. Pushing his friend on the shoulder, he grumbled, “Cheating asshole.”

“Winning’s winning,” Sionn shot back, laughing as he got out his keys.

Rafe collapsed into a chair on the pub’s covered outside patio, then grunted a thank-you when Sionn offered up coffee and stale bagels. He liked the pier best at the brush of dawn, when the only ones out were the hard core and the antisocial.

A woman setting up the sand-in-a-bottle shop hummed loud enough to startle the gulls angling for space near the pub’s railing, their beady eyes sharp for a handout. A few feet away, a pear-shaped man dressed in pink sweats and neon-green sneakers stretched his legs, doing soft lunges to lengthen and warm his muscles. He caught Rafe staring his way, and his slight frown turned into a smile when Rafe threw him a thumbs-up and wished him a good run.

The pier was like a second home in a way. Rafe’d spent countless hours busing tables and slinging food out of Finnegan’s kitchen before he’d made a living as a musician. It was too quiet, he realized, much too quiet without Gran around. He still felt odd sitting down at the pub, on edge and ready for the curled-over, cheroot-smoking old Irish woman to turn a corner to harass him into working the floor.

“Shit, fucking platinum records out my ass, and the old woman had me behind the counter pulling pints.” He snorted, remembering the last time he’d seen her, a wrinkled despot with a wicked broom and an evil eye sharp enough to make a pope blush with guilt. “Gran. God help those fucking angels up there with you. You’re probably chewing them new assholes ’cause they’re singing near your cloud.”

Sionn’s voice carried through the partially open door as he spoke to his manager, his rolling Irish baritone smoothing the way to conning her into making them coffee. A few seconds later, Sionn emerged from the pub with a tray of shortbread, scones, and condiment cups filled with butter, then set it down on the table in front of Rafe.

“No stale bagels, then? What happened to a man’s full breakfast? Damn, I was looking forward to the slight high all of those old poppy seeds would have given me.” Rafe reached for one of the scones, juggling it when the soft cake burned his fingers. “Shit, that’s hot.”

“Leigh just made them, so yeah, they’re hot. It’s too early for the bacon and eggs.” Sionn kicked at Rafe’s foot as he sat down. “And none of that shite about poppy seeds from you. Those days are done and gone, boyo.”

“Yep, only jalapeño cheese for me now. Not even sesame bagels, ’cause those are just gateway bagels to the hard-core stuff.” Rafe snorted. “It was a joke, Murphy. Get a sense of humor.”

“Joking right back, Andrade.” Sionn poked Rafe’s arm with a plastic knife. “And don’t use all the butter. Coffee’s coming in a bit. I got kicked out of my own pub. Did you hear that?”

“Your Irish is on thick this morning.” He bit into a buttered scone and moaned at the melt of orange and cranberries on his tongue.

“I think it gets worse now that Quinn and Kane are both there. Wasn’t so bad with just Kane, but Quinn, he breaks out in Gaelic when he’s talking, and my brain just slides in right behind him. A week’s gone now, and they’re not any closer to finding out who set fire to Q’s car.” Sionn split his scone in two. “The brothers Morgan are about to rip each other’s throats out, but no way the family’s going to let Quinn head back to that house of his without them knowing he’s safe.”

“Thought the place was kind of fucked-up. The front wall took some major damage. Heard Connor say it’s two steps away from being condemned.” He fought Sionn for the orange marmalade, victoriously scooping some on a knife, then getting stabbed with Sionn’s in return. “He could always go live up at the main house. You know Brigid would love to get her hands on him again.”

“Yeah, that’s not going to happen. Quinn needs his space. And well, we’re just
loud
. I can see him wincing. Con and Forest’s place is a wreck. Can’t see him going there. And no one will let him go to a hotel. Not safe enough. Not really. I’d offer one of my places, but we’re back to the not secure enough. If I get killed in my sleep, you know Q’s done it.”

A clatter of coffee cups behind them warned Sionn to get out of Leigh’s way as she came through the front doors.

“Like Q would kill you.” Rafe snorted. “He’d skin you alive and experiment on you first.”

Sionn snorted. “And then there’s Damie giving Quinn the eye when he comes out of the shower wearing nothing but a towel. I know he’s whistling at him to get a rise out of me, but really, Q’s not one for teasing. You know how Quinn is. That and his fuck-ugly cat and Dude do
not
get along.”

The thought of Quinn naked and wet short-circuited Rafe’s brain, and he mumbled something under his breath about Damie needing to keep his eyes to himself when Leigh nudged his shoulder in a silent hello.

Her hair amused Rafe to no end. A jumble of purple and blue curls poufed out from ponytails on either side of her head, and she snarled at Sionn when he tried to take the tray from her. Her jeans were dusted with a bit of flour on her thigh, and her worn Finnegan’s Pub shirt definitely had seen better days, but her smile was bright when she spotted Rafe at the table.

“Sit your fucking ass down and pretend you own the place, Murphy.” Leigh warned Sionn off. “Rafe, can’t you take him someplace and drop him off a pier? He’s underfoot.”

“Sorry—best friend. Brother really,” Rafe drawled. “Kind of the only family I’ve got now that my mom’s gone and found God… again.”

“Hey, the Morgans adore you, fuckwad.” Sionn’s protest was hot and fierce. “Dare you to say
that
in front of Brigid.”

“The Morgans adore everyone. It’s kind of what they do.” He shrugged off the sentiment but gave Sionn’s arm a hearty squeeze. “And don’t get all mushy on me, Murphy. Your gushing back makes me speechless.”

“Git,” Sionn muttered at Rafe as Leigh left. “You know it’s been the two of us since forever. Don’t be making a thing of it now.”

They’d met over fists and hard words, two ill-fitting pieces in a puzzle neither one of them were familiar with. Sionn had it easier being a Morgan cousin, and he’d already grown into his broad shoulders but hadn’t quite mastered his gangly legs. Not knowing the Morgan connection, Rafe’d gotten into it with the Irish hazard, and they’d bonded over licking their wounds while waiting for the principal’s decision on their punishment.