“Maybe—yes,” Connor agreed. “You can store your shite here in the office if you want, or we can run it home. I’ve got an in with the owner, you know? We can take the Hummer out for a run on the hills, then grab a brew. Unless you’ve got someplace you’ve got to be?”
“Like I said, Connie.” He snorted derisively. “I’m not paying the bills here. Not anymore. Don’t know if I ever will be again.”
“HOW DID grabbing a beer become horchata and grease at Felix’s chip shop?” Rafe grabbed the red baskets from Connor’s hand before they bobbled loose. Setting them down on the table, he squished himself in against the picnic tabletop so Connor could get by. Catching a look of disapproval, he grinned up foolishly at the man straddling the bench seat next to him. “Not that I don’t like a good cinnamon rice drink instead of a cold malty beverage. Wait, I don’t.”
“Hey, you said that smells really good, so I pulled over,” Connor grumbled back. “You complaining now?”
“Not a whimper. Hey, Orange Bang! Much better than horchata. I approve.” Rafe snagged the bucket of frothy orange drink Connor placed in front of him.
The fish-and-chip shop was exactly the same, slightly greasy, with loud paint and even louder pop music coming from an ancient wheezing jukebox. A string of rainbow streamers danced along the edge of the shop’s takeout window, catching a light afternoon breeze. The street was packed, but they’d lucked out finding a spot to perch Connor’s Hummer, and Rafe was thankful he’d dropped the Chevelle and equipment off at his place before venturing out. Connor’s driving hadn’t improved, but at least the Hummer gave Rafe a sense of invulnerability as they wove between San Francisco’s crawling traffic like they were chasing golden rings through a spiked forest.
“Open some of the mayo packets for me,” Con ordered. “Maybe one of the lemon juice things too.”
“Always so fucking bossy.” Rafe waited impatiently as Connor took his time blending mayonnaise and Sriracha, then dipped a seasoned steak fry into the mix. “Damn, this stuff’s good. One of the things I missed out on the road, you know? Well, that and carne asada. And dim sum. It also sucks when you really want shrimp-and-pineapple fried rice in the middle of Tennessee, because that shit ain’t happening.”
“What? You didn’t have someone fly it in from Bangkok for you?” Connor sneered, slapping Rafe’s hand as he made another dive for the spicy mayo. “Wait until I mix it all up, dickwad.”
“Flying it in would have been too… I mean, I get arrogant, but that shit’s crazy.” He shrugged, sneaking his finger around the Styrofoam bowl’s rim. Sucking the mayo off, he mumbled around his finger, “One of the hotel’s dishwashers was Thai. I bribed him fifty bucks to cook some for me. Best fucking food I had in my entire life.”
“Really? I’ll tell Mum that so she doesn’t have to worry about feeding your sorry ass.” He pushed the bowl out, centering it between them. “You’re just eating rice from now on?”
“Could have been because I was stoned, but dude, it was awesome. Charred pineapple, a bit of curried rice, and the biggest damned shrimp I’d ever seen—like baby lobsters or something—but so fucking good.” Rafe sighed, thinking of the sloe-eyed, pretty young man who’d served him up more than a 3:00 a.m. snack. “How sad is it that the best memory I’ve got of that tour is a bowl of fried rice?”
“Pretty pathetic,” Connor agreed through a mouthful of potato. “Spent all of your life to get up on stage, and now what? Don’t have jack to show for it but money in the back and a scarred brain.”
“Hey, don’t spare my feelings or shit.” Rafe nearly choked on a mouthful of his drink.
“You want a hug?” Con eyed him from across the bench, then turned so his thighs were on either side of the seat, and he faced Rafe. “’Cause I’ll give you one, but doesn’t mean it’ll do you any good. Talk to me about what you’re doing now. And how come you lit out of the grand opening without saying good-bye to anyone?”
“Ah, yeah—Quinn and I went for some coffee after we left Forest’s place.”
“You were at a coffee shop.”
“Yeah, funny how that kept coming up. I think we just needed some space to breathe. You know how he is.”
“Yeah, Q-bert’s not good with crowds sometimes.” Connor stole a sip of Rafe’s drink, making a face at its taste. “God, that’s shite.”
“He hates that nickname, you know?” Rafe didn’t mind the drink theft, but Connor’s casual shrug at Quinn’s dislike nettled his anger. “Dude, I’m serious. He hates it. Stop it.”
The steely look Rafe got was a long one, layered with everything from mild disbelief to suspicion. Rafe was about to ask Connor what his problem was when his friend finally nodded. “Okay. I’ll try not to call him that. Habit, you know?”
“If there’s anyone who knows about habits, it’s me,” Rafe muttered, saluting Connor with his cup. “We’ve been talking. On the phone. Doing some things together. It’s been nice. I forgot how fucking easy it is to be with him.”