Sloe Ride (Sinners, #4)

Rafe’s heart stopped. He could still hear it, but nothing in him moved. There was a gurgle in the back of his brain, just enough for him to know it was still working, but nothing else functioned. Instead he’d fixed on a single point in Sionn’s rambling diatribe.

Damien was actually going through with it, and Sinner’s Gin needed a bassist.

“What’s going on in that rotten head of yours, Andrade?” Sionn eyed him suspiciously. “You look kind of sick to your stomach but happy at the same time.”

“How long has Damien been looking for a bassist? I know he was talking about it, but St. John didn’t sound like he was all that into going on the road.” Rafe bit his lower lip. “Fuck, I’d kill to get in front of them.”

His brain flirted with the idea of begging Sionn to speak to Damien, but his gut and heart iced over at the thought. It was too much to ask for. Especially of Sionn. Their friendship—their kinship—was too important, too precious for Rafe to risk muddying with favors and broken promises. But the lure of it—of begging for a chance to play again—burned through Rafe hotter than any drug hook he’d ever had.

Because if Rafe was going to be completely honest, he was addicted to music and the stage a hell of a lot more than any chemical he’d pumped into his system.

“No,” Sionn muttered, shaking his head. “You don’t want in on that, Rafe. It’d be crazy to.”

“I haven’t asked you for it.” A rattle of chains against wood drew Rafe’s attention, and he glanced over toward the square where a coffee kiosk was beginning its morning setup. “I wouldn’t put you between me and Damie. That’s not like me. You know that.”

“Yeah, but I also know you’re itching to be back into it,” Sionn pointed out. “Thing is, brother, you can’t do that life anymore. Look what it did to you the last time. You’ve just come back from the edge of that hell. I don’t want to—I can’t risk losing you to it again.”

“I can do this, Sionn. Fuck, I have to do this. Or at least try.” It was hard to explain away the burn in his blood, especially to someone who’d never felt the itch to cut himself open and have music pour free from inside of him. As much as he loved Sionn, it was something they’d never shared. Of course, it went both ways. He’d never understood Sionn’s need to run into dangerous situations with all guns blazing. “I just need the chance. Shit, even if I don’t make it in with them, just getting the chance would be great.”

“I don’t agree with you,” his friend argued, his words nearly lost in a barrage of seagull cries as the birds descended on the scone he’d crumbled up and tossed onto the walk. “You get around those crowds, those people who’d want to take you for a ride with them, and then what? You’re back to where you were before. Maybe even worse. I don’t want the next call I get to be that you’re the one lying dead on that carpet instead of that boy you were with.”

“I need the music more than I need the drugs, Sionn,” Rafe pleaded softly, wishing he could get Sionn to understand. “I am going crazy here, dude. No one will give me the fucking time of day because of how badly I fucked up. I get that. I do. But shit, you want to know what my day’s like? I get up in the morning, have some coffee, and go on a run with you, or we hit the gym. And that’s the highlight of my day. I love you, Sionn, but I can’t have you be the best part of my life.”

“Shit, you’ve got money coming out of your ears—”

“It’s not about the money, Sionn. It’s about the music. It’s about the stage. It’s about laying down a bass line and having other guys build on top of that. I miss being the foundation of a song. Of having licks and rolls layering on top of what I’m playing.” His breath came hot out of his lungs as he spoke. “I’m not a songwriter. I can add in stuff or shift how something’s written, but the crafting it all up, I can’t do that. I’m not that kind of smart. Shit, I’m not any kind of smart. Playing’s all I know. It’s all I’m good at. And now, right now, it’s all I’m not doing.”

“Maybe you should go get laid, boyo.” Sionn sighed heavily, refilling his cup from the carafe Leigh’d given them. “Or maybe what you need, Andrade, is to fall in love.”

“That’s the last thing in the world I want, Murphy,” Rafe snorted, but his heart flashed on Quinn. “I barely like me right now. You expect me to love someone else?”

“Tell you what, how about if you show up at one of the Sunday dinners? This coming one. We’re going to be there. Maybe that’s a good time you can approach my Damie.” Sionn tapped his fingers against the rim of his mug. “I can’t say he’ll give you the time of day, but it’s your best bet.”

“That’s a good idea. Right after Brigid’s done squeezing the blood out of my bones.” Rafe grimaced. “She gave me a lot of shit when I was in rehab. Wasn’t sure what was worse, group therapy or her phone calls.”

Rhys Ford's books