“HEY, HOW are the kiddies?” Rafe would have swallowed his tongue had he known that was going to come out of his mouth. Any bit of swag and polish he had seemed to go out the window where Quinn was concerned. He tried to recover, fumbling about until he just gave up and shot Quinn a shit-eating grin.
“They’re old enough to vote. Hardly kids.”
“Don’t give me that look. Fuck it, they’re kids. I’m an old man, or at least in musician years.”
“Is that seven for any one, like a dog? Or is it more?” Quinn cocked his head, an oh-so-familiar gesture guaranteed to tug at Rafe’s heart. “What is the ratio for one rock star year to mere mortal?”
“I think it depends on the fame. And the fuckery they’ve done,” Rafe replied, leaning on his broom. “Wasn’t famous or fucked-up enough for the 27 Club, but I sure as shit gave it my best to get in.”
Quinn made a face. “Yeah, that’s one membership I’m glad you passed on, Andrade.”
FINNEGAN’S WAS open for late breakfast, a smattering of baking-soda biscuits, eggs, and rashers. Leigh’d put up a fight with Sionn, insisting on catching at least some of the morning tourist traffic by pointing out it cost them little to nothing to open, and staffing would be to a minimum, especially if they kept the food to something people could grab before hitting the pier. Unfortunately for Leigh, she was often busier than expected and had no shame in calling in a favor or five to boost her morning staff in a pinch.
Rafe was subsequently amazed at how many favors he seemed to owe Finnegan’s and how they never seemed to go down in number.
Sweeping the outside café area for opening was an easy job. He’d been conned into doing that by a pouty Leigh. Still, sweeping was a far better job than the one Sionn had inside, which seemed to be mostly picking shells out of the eggs he’d been assigned to crack open for scrambles. Half-energized and a bit sore from their morning run, Rafe enjoyed the brisk wind coming off of the Bay and the hot Irish spitting out from the open pub doors.
Seagulls outnumbered the tourists. It was too early but for the most stalwart of vacationers, but the local crowd was already shuffling from their homes and onto BART or the ferries. It was quiet enough to hear the sea lions barking from their docks, sleek-bodied squatters ready for a long day’s bake once the sun broke through the morning fog.
It was a normal, simple day. Much like every other normal day Rafe and Sionn did their run from Finnegan’s and up past to Ghirardelli’s. With one exception.
Most mornings didn’t have a long-legged, angelic-faced, green-eyed Irish man showing up in a pair of worn jeans and an easy smile, but if Rafe had a choice, he’d opt for a Quinn Morgan appearance any day.
“Let me guess. You came down here for the greasy ham and flapjack special? Although from what I hear going on in there, you might want to stick with cold cereal.” Rafe looked back behind him. Leigh joined Sionn’s battle with some piece of equipment, cajoling him to move it a bit to the right, and it would slide right in. He’d have made a dirty joke if he didn’t think either or both of them would stomp outside and shove the broomstick up his ass. “Then again, you’d be safer with the coffee. At least it’s decent.”
“I called Sionn to ask him something about brewing so we could talk about me investing in his mad schemes, but it sounds like he’s busy.” Quinn shoved his hands into his pockets, his forearms powerful with lean muscle. “He told me you were down here. Mind if I hang out with you for a bit? But if you’re busy….”
“I’m never too busy for you, Q. It’s not like they can fire me. I’m a volunteer. Actually, an indentured servant paying off a lifetime of bar tabs and imagined slights. Hang on a second. I’ll sneak in and get us a couple of coffees.” Rafe handed Quinn the broom, then slithered his way into the pub. It took him a few minutes, most of them spent picking up sugar packets he’d spilled onto the floor, but he made it back outside with no one noticing.
Quinn was still there, sitting in one of the café chairs, legs stretched out and keen, sharp eyes drinking in the crowd scurrying by.
They sat silent for a few minutes. An occasional murmur of curiosity came from Quinn when someone dressed in too much of a contrast for his sensibilities strolled by. Rafe had to agree with him on most judgments, but he argued vehemently for the woman in the giraffe-print T-shirt and red pants, pointing out the spikes on her shiny black leather heels.
“You have to give points for a woman with style, Q. She’s rocking that.” Rafe nodded in her wake. “Shoulders back, head high. Chick’s got balls.”
“Her shirt has tassels on the hem. It would be okay without the tassels. Small little tassels.” Quinn wiggled his fingers at Rafe. “Why? Why would you put tassels on a shirt like that?”