by Rhys Ford
He’d never been good at lying to himself, and the whopper he’d just told Rafe was so large, Sionn was surprised he wasn’t choking on malted milk and chocolate. Rafe’s laughter was loud enough to turn heads, and their server popped out to the patio, nodding when Sionn waved her off.
“Everyone needs sex.” Rafe took in a shuddering breath, calming himself. “Sionn, out of all us guys, you’re the one who needs that white picket fence and two kids thing. Me, not so much, but you… shit, I’m waiting for you to stand on a porch someplace, stomp your feet, and scream about your biological clock ticking.”
“Shit’s just been… crazy in my head since I’ve been back,” Sionn ground out when the blond wiped his eyes. “I don’t know if I’m even solid enough to think about another guy. I even went to go talk to someone a bit. How nuts is that, now?”
“What’d she say?” Rafe smirked at Sionn’s assessing glance. “Don’t give me that look. I can’t see you unloading to a guy. Sorry there, man, but you’re more of a talk-to-a-chick kind of guy. If your therapist was a man, you’d either look at him as someone to bang or not interested in.”
“She told me not to feel guilty about Oona’s getting shot.” It was impossible. Most days he only briefly felt that searing pang of remorse in his chest. Before he’d let Dee play, it’d been worse. Now, the mornings held more of a… hope to them, knowing that the musician would show up at some point to play guitar and talk. “How that hell can I not feel that? I was there.”
“We’re Catholic,” Rafe pointed out. “Is that even possible? Not having guilt?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.” A seagull pecked at the ground a few feet away from them, and Sionn tossed it a bit of his sticky bun. A small war escalated over the crumbs, and the first bird battered off the newcomers with his wings, gulping down the bread quickly. “They say we’re sinners because we’re gay. Do you feel guilty about that?”
“Nope. Not a fucking shred of guilt.” Rafe’s wolfish grin made Sionn chuckle. Then the blond sobered. “But killing’s different. Someone dying in front of you is different. You did what you could, didn’t you? You popped the guy after he shot her. You didn’t give him time to shoot the kid again, and she’s running around shopping her head off now. You’re supposed to feel guilt about that? Because he was on your team? You didn’t hire him. He worked for the same firm you did. They’re the ones that fucked up.”
“He was probably supposed to have gotten the whole family.” He chewed on his upper lip, thinking back. “It’s just a pretty shitty thing to happen. No kid should die because her father wants to change the world. What happened to wanting to be the good guy, eh?”
“Dude, some people die just because they’re in the way. You and I know that one.” Rafe’s eyes darkened, and something passed between them. “You did your job, and someone else fucked up. It came out the way it was supposed to. You’re sitting here with me all emo like some eyeliner-wearing angst boy, while I’m still the hottest thing in San Francisco.”
“You know what I thought about when I was lying on the floor?”
“Oh my fucking God, this fucking hurts?” Rafe shot back. “Or maybe, hell, am I dying and I haven’t slept with Andrade yet?”
“Right, boyo, like you’d be what my last thought would be,” Sionn murmured, picking up his coffee again. “I was pissed off because I was thinking how much of a fecking brat she was. Like a minute before everything went down, that’s what I was thinking, then I’m on the ground because one of the team shot me.”
“Pretty sure you think that about me too,” Rafe snorted. “Probably will be thinking it right before you lower me into the ground.”
“Probably.” Rafe kicked at his shin, and he yelped. “Hey, just don’t go looking for pallbearers yet. I’d probably drop you right now. Give me a few months to get the scar tissue to go down.”
“Not planning on dying any time soon. I’ve already taken a shot at it, remember? Didn’t like it,” he pointed out. “So, let’s get back to the reason I’m sitting here drinking coffee instead of slamming down some pancakes down at Mel’s… you know, that guitarist you wanna bang.”
“He’s probably not even—”
“You know what this reminds me of? High school,” Rafe exclaimed, slamming his hand on the steel-topped table. The cups rattled in their saucers, and a knife skittered across the flat surface, smearing butter on the edge of Sionn’s hand. “You hanging out behind the guys and not going up to anyone at the dance.”
“I was gay,” Sionn pointed out. “At a Catholic school. Who the fuck was I going to ask to dance?”
“Me. I would have danced with you.” He shook his head. “But see, that’s not the point.”
“What is the point? Because you’ve lost me, Andrade.”
“The point is that you don’t take risks—”
“And you take too many,” Sionn cut in.
“Focus, Murphy, focus. We’re talking about your tight ass, not mine.” As reprimands went, it was soft, but the tap of a fork’s tines on the back of Sionn’s hand was enough to get his attention. “Go ask him out for dinner. Enough with the damned coffee chats. Take a fucking chance. So you don’t ride off into the sunset on your damned matching unicorns. That shit doesn’t matter. Just go do something fun. If you get laid and things get funner, then even better.”
“Is funner even a word?” He cocked his head at Rafe.
His friend sighed and motioned to the waitress for a refill. “It sure as fuck won’t be if you don’t even try.”
HE WAS surprised to see Dee slouched in the far corner of the patio when he got to Finnegan’s the next day. It was very early, so early the seagulls hadn’t descended from their perch on the pub’s roof. The only people on the pier were the hardcore locals who jogged or walked regardless of the city’s mercurial weather, and while he enjoyed the brisk air and a good run, peeling through fog banks and shivering wasn’t Sionn’s idea of a good morning.
The bay was lost behind a thick soup, with little promise it would clear up anytime soon. No, it was going to be a day of sparse crowds and lean tips, but there he was, splayed out on the captain’s chair Leigh brought out for him to sit in. And from what Sionn could tell, it looked like it was going to be a blues kind of day.
A small amp Sionn’d spotted at a neighbor’s garage sale was making an appearance on the patio, and it was humming, as if anticipating the first note Dee would pull out of the cherrywood Gibson the guitarist held in his graceful hands. Dee only brought out the electric when he was in a mournful, gray mood. Sionn knew that much from the few weeks since the guitarist began to roost in front of Finnegan’s.
Dee’s cowboy hat was slanted down low, hiding most of his face, but Sionn could see the man’s lush lower lip caught under Dee’s teeth, his unshaved jaw shadowed with short bristles. Dee’s long, denim-clad legs were stretched out, the heels of his leather boots resting on a lettuce crate, and his shoulders were curled in, cradling the Gibson against his belly. Oddly enough, the guitar’s case was leaning against the wall instead of lying open on the railing’s corner in a bid for tips.
One of Finnegan’s massive coffee mugs sat on the table next to Dee’s chair, seemingly forgotten and gone cold, from the lack of steam rising up from its milky depths.
“Hey, Cowboy.” He nudged Dee’s leg with the toe of his sneaker and got a slanting peek of blue through the thick black mane covering the man’s eyes. “Tell me you made that and not Leigh.”
“’Allo, Irish.” The British was laid on heavy this morning, a buttery smooth cant on Dee’s low drawl. He sounded half asleep, a rumpled state of lazy Sionn should only have been able to hear if they’d spent the night together. “And nah, it was already brewed up.”
“You’re here early.” It was a stupid thing to say, but the guitarist rarely showed up before noon, usually strolling in just as the lunch crowds were thickening up the walk. “You okay?”
“Yep, just… needed to think. Here seemed as good a place as
any.” His fingers ran a squeaking trill down the guitar’s fret, sending an echoing buzz through the amp. “Leigh was here already so… I thought I’d just sit and play. She said it was okay, but, you know, if you want me gone—”
“Nah, she’s the boss, and when have I ever wanted you gone?” Sionn picked up the coffee cup. It was dead cold in his hand, and a drowned gnat bobbed about on the brew’s curdled skin. “Let me go warm this up for you. I’ll be back.”
Leigh was behind the bar doing inventory when he walked into the pub. She looked up from her tally of tequila levels and raised her eyebrows when he emptied the cup out into one of the bar sinks.
“Looks like he didn’t even take a sip.” She marked off something on her list and shuffled past Sionn as he washed out the mug. “Hate to waste it.”
“Well, you upped your body count. A bug decided it was as good a place to die as any windshield, so I’m swapping it out.” Soaping up the rim, he tried to sound as casual. “How long has he been out there?”
“He was there when I came in.” Leigh shrugged, as if their resident busker normally strolled in before the ducks woke. “I told him to come in for some coffee, but he just grabbed the amp from the office and went back outside. Haven’t heard him actually play anything other than a couple of strummy things once in a while.”
“Strummy things?” Sionn refilled the cup, adding two sugars and a dollop of half-and-half from the fridge near the ice box to Dee’s before sweetening his.
“You know, like when he’s tuning, but longer.” Sighing, she pushed a lock of her hair out of her face with the end of her pencil. “Scales? Guess that’s what he calls them.”
“You need me today?” He waved his hand at the bottles. “In here, I mean.”
“Nah, I’ve got it. Nice of you to come in, though. By the way, call your Aunt B later. She called last night to see where you were. I told her the Hottentots got you. I don’t think she believed me.” Her grin was sly when she looked over at him. “You going to see what’s up with him? He might need someone to sit and listen to him.”
“Maybe.” He contemplated what he really wanted to do to the guitarist, because it certainly wasn’t talking.
He’d woken up a few mornings with a heavy cock and remnants of dreams featuring long legs wrapped around his hips and a tight ass clenched over his dick. Since their kiss a few days ago, they’d gone back to merely talking without Dee giving him any sign of wanting more than a corner of Finnegan’s patio to play in. But there were lingering glances, speculation slicing through the man’s dark blue eyes, and Sionn had a hunch it wouldn’t be long before they either soared or crashed and burned.
As he stirred the cream through Dee’s coffee, Sionn heard the man begin to play. He’d left the pub door open a crack, caught on the open dead bolt, rather than close it behind him. A few chords in, and Sionn recognized the sound of a beer bottle neck slide on the guitar’s strings. He didn’t know the tune, but Dee began to sing in his rough, growling voice about finding himself on the crossroads, searching for a devil to take him in.
He was about to make a fresh pot of coffee when Leigh nudged him along. “Go take that out to him. I’ll make some more.”
“You sure, Leigh girl?” He grinned at her lascivious wink. “Stop being a letch. I’m just taking him a cup.”
“Yeah, I’m sure.” She sighed, going back to her inventory. “And if all you’re taking him is coffee, then I’m going to be very disappointed in you, Sionn Murphy.”
Dee didn’t look up when he put the mug down on the table near his elbow, but gave Sionn a slow nod, his fingers tripping over the guitar’s strings. Sionn pulled up a chair, turned it around, straddled its seat, and rested his arms on the high back. Balancing his own coffee in one hand, he sipped at the strong brew, listening to Dee work through another song.
The fog had thickened in the time he’d been in the pub, and misty wisps lapped at Dee’s raised boots. Sionn couldn’t see more than a foot beyond the railing, and the soup was turning dark, a harbinger of a heavy storm rolling in from the water. A choppy thrush rumbled under Dee’s playing, the ocean grumbling angrily at the approaching weather.
Ten minutes passed before Dee stopped playing, shaking his fingers loose when he reached for the mug near him. Sipping at the coffee, he made a face at the cooled liquid but didn’t say anything until Sionn leaned forward and plucked the cowboy hat off of his head.
“Hey!” He made a grab for it, but Sionn reached behind him and set the hat down on the table. “Dude, not cool. It’s cold out here.”
“Then why aren’t you wearing a jacket, eh?” Sionn saluted him with his mug when Dee hissed in frustration between his clenched teeth. “It’s seven in the morning, boyo, and you’re already out here singing to the seagulls. Leigh thinks maybe you’ve got something you need talking about, so talk to me, then.”
He got a good clear look at Dee’s pretty face when the man leaned back and studied him, his eyes hooded and wary. Something about the man’s raw, frank gaze was familiar, tugging at Sionn’s memory. Handsome didn’t quite describe Dee’s face. There was a sensuality to it, a rough sexual bleakness to his somber features. There was loss there, and the man’s full mouth seemed too set against anything happier than a wry smile. Then in a moment, it was all lost in a tousle of black when Dee ducked his head and his hair flopped back over his brow.
Still, Sionn was left with an unsettling feeling he’d seen Dee before the guitarist had wandered into Finnegan’s, but damned if he could recall where.
“Is there something bugging you, Cowboy?” Sionn briefly wondered if there was anything in the office he could make the man put on to keep warm. The pub seemed to be a way station for lost jumpers and jackets, usually left by tourists more intent on making the ferry than picking up after themselves. More than a few times when it was cold, Leigh’d given Dee a jacket to put on when the wind picked up, but he never seemed to be wearing a coat when he needed it. “Other than maybe Leigh’s coffee. ’Cause I’ve got to tell you, she can’t brew it for shite.”
He wasn’t certain if Dee even heard him. The man sat stone-still for a minute or so, not even flinching when a brown pelican emerged out of the fog and drifted low over the sidewalk on its enormous wingspread before banking back into the soupy air.
“I’m scared, Irish,” Dee whispered. “There’s so much shit following me around and… I don’t want to track you through it too but… when I come here… and you’re around… I feel quiet inside. And fuck me, if I don’t need that quiet.”
Speechless, Sionn reached for Dee’s mug and took it from the man’s hand. Their fingers touched, and Sionn frowned, not liking how cold Dee was where their skin met. He forgot about digging up a jacket for Dee out of the infamous lost and found. His tongue was thick with words he wanted to say—everything from yes to I’ll keep you safe—when the cup he was holding shattered into powdery bits and something solid thunked into the wall behind them.
The seagulls began screaming, and something pinged off of the café railing, sparks flying up from the thick metal. A sharp report echoed across the pier’s walk, and chunks of brick from the pub’s outer wall blew out, shards and mortar dusting the air. Another blast ripped through the awning’s edge, shredding the green canvas into ribbons, and for the first time since he’d quit his old job, Sionn found himself instinctively reaching for a gun that wasn’t there.
He grabbed Dee’s arm and yanked the man down, flipping one of the café tables up onto its side to use for protection. He heard another shot go off, and the padded chair Dee’d been sitting in spat out tufts of stuffing from a bullet going through its back. Covering Dee’s lanky sprawl with his own body, Sionn counted off another three shots before a long, still silence fell over the pier.
The ringing in his ears was loud, nearly deafening, but not so loud he couldn’t hear Leigh screaming his name from inside the pub. Shouting back at her to call the cops, he ran his hands down Dee’s trembling body, checking for in
juries as he tried to coax the man to turn over.
Dee’s eyes were wide and shell-shocked, his pupils nearly swallowing up any hint of blue around them. Panting heavily, he tried to sit up but was trapped under Sionn’s thighs, his own legs tucked up under Sionn’s. Far off in the distance, a siren wailed, drawing closer and echoing off the surrounding buildings. The sound seemed to jerk Dee out of his trance, and he fought Sionn’s hands, trying to pull free.
“Hey now, Dee.” Sionn cupped the man’s face, forcing Dee to look him straight in the eyes. “Calm down. You’re okay. It’s going to be all right.”
“No, it’s not.” His lashes were long, brushing against Sionn’s thumb when he ran it over Dee’s cheek. “You’ve got to let me go. Before the cops get here, Sionn. Please. Before he kills you too. I can’t… I don’t want to lose you too. Not when I’ve just found you.”
“WHAT do you mean, you lost him again? What the hell are you doing out there, Parker?”
The boardwalk was no place to have a discussion with his employer, but Parker wasn’t ready to let his target out of his sight. Whoever was with the kid apparently had some pull with the local cops. The pier was now crawling with uniforms.
The response had been quick and heavy—so quick that Parker nearly didn’t have enough time to stash his gun. When the first cruiser pulled up, it irritated him so much he’d debated shooting the officer in the head when the man pulled off to the side of the pier and got out of his vehicle.
When the second cop car slid up out of the fog and parked behind the first, Parker reluctantly trudged over to the side of a nearby building and surreptitiously flung the Beretta into the bay’s murky waters. He’d miss the gun. When he finally found Damien Mitchell, Parker would take his sweet time killing him, just to make up for the loss of a good gun. Knives, he reminded himself. He preferred knives anyway. Up close and personal, a man could feel when death took another man. From now on, he’d just stick with a good knife.