STEAM ROSE up from the blacktop beneath their feet as the morning air heated up Beach Street. The cool fog tightened its grip on the piers, refusing to loosen its murky gray embrace despite the sun’s best efforts to pierce through the almost-drizzle Sionn and Rafe ran through. At 5:00 a.m., the docks were sparsely populated, but the sea birds were already out in force, pecking through the pockets of debris lying in the gutter, looking for a greasy undisturbed breakfast before the tourists descended, and battles would be fought over scraps of unattended food.
Sionn slowed as they hit the long stretch before Pier 39, and Rafe threw him a curious look, shortening his steps to keep in time with his best friend. Nodding at Finnegan’s coming into view through the patchy fog, Sionn grunted between exhales, “Let’s call it at five miles today. Didn’t get much sleep.”
“Getting old, Murphy,” Rafe teased. “Sprint it the rest of the way and beat me. Then I’ll call it good. Lose, and we go another two.”
It was a hard run, flat out and full speed across cold, damp concrete, their feet kicking up sprays as they pounded through the walk’s shallow puddles. Rafe liked the burn in his lungs as the rain finally hit the docks.
Rafe could barely hear the sea lions barking over his huffing breaths, and he’d lost Sionn somewhere behind him, but Rafe couldn’t risk a glance back. A few feet more, and he would have had it, but Sionn’s powerful body lunged past his shoulder just as Rafe reached the pub’s patio railing. His friend grabbed at Rafe’s ponytail as he went by, jerking Rafe’s head back with a quick, sharp tug.
“Fucker,” Rafe gasped, pushing forward to catch up, but Sionn beat him to the door. Pushing his friend on the shoulder, he grumbled, “Cheating asshole.”
“Winning’s winning,” Sionn shot back, laughing as he got out his keys.
Rafe collapsed into a chair on the pub’s covered outside patio, then grunted a thank-you when Sionn offered up coffee and stale bagels. He liked the pier best at the brush of dawn, when the only ones out were the hard core and the antisocial.
A woman setting up the sand-in-a-bottle shop hummed loud enough to startle the gulls angling for space near the pub’s railing, their beady eyes sharp for a handout. A few feet away, a pear-shaped man dressed in pink sweats and neon-green sneakers stretched his legs, doing soft lunges to lengthen and warm his muscles. He caught Rafe staring his way, and his slight frown turned into a smile when Rafe threw him a thumbs-up and wished him a good run.
The pier was like a second home in a way. Rafe’d spent countless hours busing tables and slinging food out of Finnegan’s kitchen before he’d made a living as a musician. It was too quiet, he realized, much too quiet without Gran around. He still felt odd sitting down at the pub, on edge and ready for the curled-over, cheroot-smoking old Irish woman to turn a corner to harass him into working the floor.
“Shit, fucking platinum records out my ass, and the old woman had me behind the counter pulling pints.” He snorted, remembering the last time he’d seen her, a wrinkled despot with a wicked broom and an evil eye sharp enough to make a pope blush with guilt. “Gran. God help those fucking angels up there with you. You’re probably chewing them new assholes ’cause they’re singing near your cloud.”
Sionn’s voice carried through the partially open door as he spoke to his manager, his rolling Irish baritone smoothing the way to conning her into making them coffee. A few seconds later, Sionn emerged from the pub with a tray of shortbread, scones, and condiment cups filled with butter, then set it down on the table in front of Rafe.
“No stale bagels, then? What happened to a man’s full breakfast? Damn, I was looking forward to the slight high all of those old poppy seeds would have given me.” Rafe reached for one of the scones, juggling it when the soft cake burned his fingers. “Shit, that’s hot.”
“Leigh just made them, so yeah, they’re hot. It’s too early for the bacon and eggs.” Sionn kicked at Rafe’s foot as he sat down. “And none of that shite about poppy seeds from you. Those days are done and gone, boyo.”
“Yep, only jalape?o cheese for me now. Not even sesame bagels, ’cause those are just gateway bagels to the hard-core stuff.” Rafe snorted. “It was a joke, Murphy. Get a sense of humor.”
“Joking right back, Andrade.” Sionn poked Rafe’s arm with a plastic knife. “And don’t use all the butter. Coffee’s coming in a bit. I got kicked out of my own pub. Did you hear that?”