Sloe Ride (13 page)

It’d been Sionn who’d been there for him when the need for drugs ripped through his blood, and he’d helped Sionn get stinking drunk over the deaths he’d seen. Damien’d come as a surprise, cutting through Sionn’s affable but distant personality, and Rafe still reeled at the idea of his best friend being with Sinner’s Gin’s lead guitarist.

Their lives had definitely jumped down a rabbit hole and gone surreal.

“Not sleeping because you’re doing too much fucking? Or does Damien snore?” Rafe cocked his head when Sionn yawned. “Wait, I just thought of something. When you two go at it… do you do it all polite and British? All… my God that’s brilliant and oh, that’s nice? And when you’re all done, do you shake hands and say, ‘Well, that was okay. Good job?’”

“For the last time, brilliant is best, okay and nice are good, and good is just… well, decent,” Sionn growled over his coffee. “And no, not fucking. Mostly, the three of them—D, Miki, and Forest—muttering together and talking about bassists. They’ve been back and forth to the Sound at all hours of the night for auditions….”

Rafe’s heart stopped. He could still hear it, but nothing in him moved. There was a gurgle in the back of his brain, just enough for him to know it was still working, but nothing else functioned. Instead he’d fixed on a single point in Sionn’s rambling diatribe.

Damien was actually going through with it, and Sinner’s Gin needed a bassist.

“What’s going on in that rotten head of yours, Andrade?” Sionn eyed him suspiciously. “You look kind of sick to your stomach but happy at the same time.”

“How long has Damien been looking for a bassist? I know he was talking about it, but St. John didn’t sound like he was all that into going on the road.” Rafe bit his lower lip. “Fuck, I’d kill to get in front of them.”

His brain flirted with the idea of begging Sionn to speak to Damien, but his gut and heart iced over at the thought. It was too much to ask for. Especially of Sionn. Their friendship—their kinship—was too important, too precious for Rafe to risk muddying with favors and broken promises. But the lure of it—of begging for a chance to play again—burned through Rafe hotter than any drug hook he’d ever had.

Because if Rafe was going to be completely honest, he was addicted to music and the stage a hell of a lot more than any chemical he’d pumped into his system.

“No,” Sionn muttered, shaking his head. “You don’t want in on that, Rafe. It’d be crazy to.”

“I haven’t asked you for it.” A rattle of chains against wood drew Rafe’s attention, and he glanced over toward the square where a coffee kiosk was beginning its morning setup. “I wouldn’t put you between me and Damie. That’s not like me. You know that.”

“Yeah, but I also know you’re itching to be back into it,” Sionn pointed out. “Thing is, brother, you can’t do that life anymore. Look what it did to you the last time. You’ve just come back from the edge of that hell. I don’t want to—I can’t risk losing you to it again.”

“I can do this, Sionn. Fuck, I
have
to do this. Or at least try.” It was hard to explain away the burn in his blood, especially to someone who’d never felt the itch to cut himself open and have music pour free from inside of him. As much as he loved Sionn, it was something they’d never shared. Of course, it went both ways.
He’d
never understood Sionn’s need to run into dangerous situations with all guns blazing. “I just need the chance. Shit, even if I don’t make it in with them, just getting the chance would be great.”

“I don’t agree with you,” his friend argued, his words nearly lost in a barrage of seagull cries as the birds descended on the scone he’d crumbled up and tossed onto the walk. “You get around those crowds, those people who’d want to take you for a ride with them, and then what? You’re back to where you were before. Maybe even worse. I don’t want the next call I get to be that you’re the one lying dead on that carpet instead of that boy you were with.”

“I need the music more than I need the drugs, Sionn,” Rafe pleaded softly, wishing he could get Sionn to understand. “I am going crazy here, dude. No one will give me the fucking time of day because of how badly I fucked up. I get that. I do. But shit, you want to know what my day’s like? I get up in the morning, have some coffee, and go on a run with you, or we hit the gym. And
that’s
the highlight of my day. I love you, Sionn, but I can’t have you be the best part of my life.”

“Shit, you’ve got money coming out of your ears—”

“It’s not about the money, Sionn. It’s about the music. It’s about the stage. It’s about laying down a bass line and having other guys build on top of that. I
miss
being the foundation of a song. Of having licks and rolls layering on top of what I’m playing.” His breath came hot out of his lungs as he spoke. “I’m not a songwriter. I can add in stuff or shift how something’s written, but the crafting it all up, I can’t do that. I’m not that kind of smart. Shit, I’m not any kind of smart. Playing’s all I know. It’s all I’m good at. And now,
right now
, it’s all I’m
not
doing.”

“Maybe you should go get laid, boyo.” Sionn sighed heavily, refilling his cup from the carafe Leigh’d given them. “Or maybe what you need, Andrade, is to fall in love.”

“That’s the
last
thing in the world I want, Murphy,” Rafe snorted, but his heart flashed on Quinn. “I barely like
me
right now. You expect me to love someone else?”

“Tell you what, how about if you show up at one of the Sunday dinners? This coming one. We’re going to be there. Maybe that’s a good time you can approach my Damie.” Sionn tapped his fingers against the rim of his mug. “I can’t say he’ll give you the time of day, but it’s your best bet.”

“That’s a good idea. Right after Brigid’s done squeezing the blood out of my bones.” Rafe grimaced. “She gave me a lot of shit when I was in rehab. Wasn’t sure what was worse, group therapy or her phone calls.”

“At least you got calls,” he pointed out. “That’s not a bad thing.”

“Damned shit more than I got from my own mom.” His words came out bitter, harsher than he’d intended, but the sting of it all still hurt. They’d never been close. She worked, and well, he’d been an asshole of a kid, but Rafe’d always thought she’d be there if shit ever got real. He already blamed himself for Mark’s death. He hadn’t really needed his own mother to call him a murderer.

“Thought things were better now.”

“Better? Yeah, we talk. It’s hard, but I’m trying.” He shrugged. “I don’t know if she’s trying. I guess I’m still kind of pissed off that she wasn’t…
there
. Afterwards. I’m good enough to take a house and money from but not good enough to give the benefit of the doubt? That kind of shit stays with me.”

“And Brigid caring about you makes it worse?” Sionn grunted at Rafe’s nod. “Yeah, I can see that. Same thing with my da and them. There’s that moment when you stop asking ‘Why aren’t I good enough’ and start asking ‘Why aren’t you better than you are.’ Hardest thing in the world is finding out your parents are people.”

“That, and they have sex,” Rafe grumbled. “Brigid and Donal. That’s something I never needed to walk in on. Okay, Murphy. I’ll go to the Sunday thing. Just do me a favor.”

“I’m already not speaking to Damie about you. Isn’t that enough?”

“No. I want you to promise me that if it looks like Donal or Brigid have got me cornered, you’d come rescue me.”

“Just like the old days, then?”

“Yeah.” He grinned foolishly at Sionn. “Just like the old days.”

“And the answer to that, boyo, is also no.” Sionn patted Rafe’s cheek. “It’s time you grew up and fought your own battles on all fronts, Andrade. Just like the rest of us have.”

“W
HAT
THE
fuck is that?” Rafe recoiled at the wrinkled green ball sac of a squash in Quinn’s hand. “Dude, put that down before it releases its tentacles and sucks the salt out of your body.”

Rafe’s aversion to all things vegetable was well known in the family, but Quinn liked poking at him for it all the same. “It’s bitter melon. Supposed to be good for you.”

“So’s shoving coffee up your colon, but I don’t do that either.” Rafe bared his teeth and took a step back.

That
gave Quinn pause. “Really? People really do that?”

“Yep. Big thing in Los Angeles. Those people—” He waved a bunch of leeks under Quinn’s nose. “—are fucking crazy.”

Spread out over St. Patrick’s parking lot, the farmers’ market sat in the cathedral’s shade, a weekly sprawl of tables and tents set up by local agriculturists, craftsmen, bakers, and the occasional pickle maker. An olive briner did a brisk business next to a woman who made artisan breads, his flavored oils and vinegars poured out into disposable paper cups to use as dip for the warm, crusty pieces she handed out for samples.

Children darted in between adults, eating their way through the afternoon and probably spoiling their evening meal, but harried parents seemed to care less about what they ate so long as they were still in sight. A woman with three identical toddlers battled with one flopped onto the asphalt, its high-pitched caterwauling growing louder and louder despite its mother’s cajoling. A second later, another woman strode out from a fruit stand, scooped up the ill-behaved child without even stopping, then carried it off with a jaunty wave to her partner.

Quinn wasn’t sure whose sigh of relief was larger—the mother or Rafe’s.

“Do you like kids?” he ventured.

“In theory? Yes. In practice, haven’t had any,” Rafe said with a shrug. “Do Ian and Ryan count?”

“Sort of.” Quinn cocked his head, counting back the years. “You were around when Ryan was born, yes?”

“Yeah, Ian too.”

He dodged a little girl with a triple-decker ice cream cone, lifting his arms up over his head when it appeared she was heading straight for him. The girl careened to the side, drawn off by a gentle tug on her shirt by a gray-haired older woman following her.

“Braeden? I don’t think he was ever a kid. Your mom found him under a cabbage chewing up rocks and some shit like that. What about you? Kids?”

“To keep? Like a father? Or just in general?” A crackling fear iced down Quinn’s spine at the thought of a child looking to him for guidance. “My gut just now said no. I will go with my instincts and say no. Connor and Forest. They’re very paternal. They can have them.”

“I can see Connor showing up for parents’ assistance committees all SWATed up and wiping ketchup off of some petri-dished Morgan with big blue eyes and a black mop of hair.” Rafe shook his head. “Those husbands aren’t going to know what hit them when their wives go home and jump them. Probably think someone’s serving raw oysters and rhino-horn truffles at the bake-sale meetings. So no little Quinns?”

“I’m gay,” Quinn reminded him.

“Yeah, best part about you, Q.” Rafe stalled a bit, patting Quinn’s ass. “This too.”

Quinn grabbed at Rafe’s hand to push it away, but Rafe worked their fingers together. Quinn gave a gentle tug, a halfhearted attempt to get loose, but Rafe refused to let him go. Giving an exaggerated sigh of resignation, Quinn fell into step next to him, their clasped hands swinging slightly as they walked.

“You’ve got a cat, though, right? Cats are okay.”

Rafe smiled at Quinn’s mumbled, “Sometimes.”

“How about dogs? I like dogs.”

“Harder to take care of. You have to be there at certain times. Dogs need a schedule.” A certain blond mutt stuck in Quinn’s mind. “And some of them steal shit. I can’t have any clothes out in the bedroom I’m in, or Dude’ll take them.”

“Just your stuff? Or does he do it to everyone?”

“Me. Damie. Kane. Not sure if it’s because he likes us or if it’s just because he hates people with black hair.”

“Never thought about that. Good common denominator. I’d have gone for Morgan, but that would leave out Damie. Sionn’s a Finnegan, via Murphy. My shit would be safe.” Rafe ran his other hand through his sun-gilded hair. “Speaking of Sionn, talked to him today about Damie and Miki’s band. He said they’re looking for a bassist.”

Quinn’s stomach sank, but he soldiered on, barely missing a step. “Is that really what you want? To go on the road and all of that?”

“Playing, yes. Best thing about Damie and his crew? I don’t think they’ll be slogging on the road. Miki won’t be able to survive that kind of long haul.” There was something dark in Rafe’s expression, a weight pulling down the brightness in his spirit. “Want the truth, Q?”

“Please.” Quinn tightened his grip slightly, a gentle squeeze meant to comfort.

“I know I’d be safe with them, you know?”

They’d reached the end of one line, cooled under a thick shade from a row of old tall trees growing along the edge of the lot. Rafe stopped, sliding his feet on either side of Quinn’s so they stood facing one another, their chests brushing lightly.

What Rafe said next scared Quinn much more than the thought of parenting any child.

“I can’t be near drugs, Q. Not even close.” Rafe’s gaze drifted off of Quinn’s face, fixing on something off in the distance. “I crawl into that pill bottle one more time, I’m not going to make it out. I’ll fucking die, Q. And I’ll kill off any love I’ve got from someone else along the way.”

“Rafe…. Raphael, you’re not—”

“You didn’t see me, Q. I couldn’t let you see me. Not like that.” Rafe’s brown eyes swam with tears, glazing them with a sheen. “I burned every bridge I had. Hell, I’m surprised your mom and dad are still talking to me. God knows my mom’s iffy sometimes. The shit I did. The crap I said to them. I can’t do that again, Quinn. And I sure as shit don’t ever want to do that to you.”

“Is that why you told Mum I couldn’t go see you down in Los Angeles?” He captured Rafe’s chin in his free hand, keeping a tight hold on Rafe’s hand with the other. “Because you think I couldn’t stand to see you like that?”

“I couldn’t… risk it. Not you, Q. Never you.” Rafe pushed in tight, letting go of Quinn’s hand to wrap his arms around Quinn’s waist. Burying his face in the crook of Quinn’s neck, he rocked them slightly, sighing when Quinn’s arms came up to hold him. “
God
, magpie. I just couldn’t let you see how far I fell. How much I fucked up.”