“Your Irish is on thick this morning.” He bit into a buttered scone and moaned at the melt of orange and cranberries on his tongue.
“I think it gets worse now that Quinn and Kane are both there. Wasn’t so bad with just Kane, but Quinn, he breaks out in Gaelic when he’s talking, and my brain just slides in right behind him. A week’s gone now, and they’re not any closer to finding out who set fire to Q’s car.” Sionn split his scone in two. “The brothers Morgan are about to rip each other’s throats out, but no way the family’s going to let Quinn head back to that house of his without them knowing he’s safe.”
“Thought the place was kind of fucked-up. The front wall took some major damage. Heard Connor say it’s two steps away from being condemned.” He fought Sionn for the orange marmalade, victoriously scooping some on a knife, then getting stabbed with Sionn’s in return. “He could always go live up at the main house. You know Brigid would love to get her hands on him again.”
“Yeah, that’s not going to happen. Quinn needs his space. And well, we’re just loud. I can see him wincing. Con and Forest’s place is a wreck. Can’t see him going there. And no one will let him go to a hotel. Not safe enough. Not really. I’d offer one of my places, but we’re back to the not secure enough. If I get killed in my sleep, you know Q’s done it.”
A clatter of coffee cups behind them warned Sionn to get out of Leigh’s way as she came through the front doors.
“Like Q would kill you.” Rafe snorted. “He’d skin you alive and experiment on you first.”
Sionn snorted. “And then there’s Damie giving Quinn the eye when he comes out of the shower wearing nothing but a towel. I know he’s whistling at him to get a rise out of me, but really, Q’s not one for teasing. You know how Quinn is. That and his fuck-ugly cat and Dude do not get along.”
The thought of Quinn naked and wet short-circuited Rafe’s brain, and he mumbled something under his breath about Damie needing to keep his eyes to himself when Leigh nudged his shoulder in a silent hello.
Her hair amused Rafe to no end. A jumble of purple and blue curls poufed out from ponytails on either side of her head, and she snarled at Sionn when he tried to take the tray from her. Her jeans were dusted with a bit of flour on her thigh, and her worn Finnegan’s Pub shirt definitely had seen better days, but her smile was bright when she spotted Rafe at the table.
“Sit your fucking ass down and pretend you own the place, Murphy.” Leigh warned Sionn off. “Rafe, can’t you take him someplace and drop him off a pier? He’s underfoot.”
“Sorry—best friend. Brother really,” Rafe drawled. “Kind of the only family I’ve got now that my mom’s gone and found God… again.”
“Hey, the Morgans adore you, fuckwad.” Sionn’s protest was hot and fierce. “Dare you to say that in front of Brigid.”
“The Morgans adore everyone. It’s kind of what they do.” He shrugged off the sentiment but gave Sionn’s arm a hearty squeeze. “And don’t get all mushy on me, Murphy. Your gushing back makes me speechless.”
“Git,” Sionn muttered at Rafe as Leigh left. “You know it’s been the two of us since forever. Don’t be making a thing of it now.”
They’d met over fists and hard words, two ill-fitting pieces in a puzzle neither one of them were familiar with. Sionn had it easier being a Morgan cousin, and he’d already grown into his broad shoulders but hadn’t quite mastered his gangly legs. Not knowing the Morgan connection, Rafe’d gotten into it with the Irish hazard, and they’d bonded over licking their wounds while waiting for the principal’s decision on their punishment.
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….”