K: Why would there be a dead body in the trunk, Mick?
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.
THE 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?”