Sloe Ride (Sinners, #4)

The widow’s walk was a long-standing male Morgan tradition, a hideaway Brigid and the girls rarely intruded on. Built more for aesthetics than a longing to watch the ocean for a returning sailor, the broad platform provided a safe harbor during the family’s storms.

And from the tempest brewing beneath them, Rafe wasn’t sure the widow’s walk would survive if any of the thundering Morgans took it into their heads to follow him.

The view still took his breath away. Even after all the years he’d climbed up three stories and flung open the door to the walk, seeing San Francisco tumble to his feet in front of him humbled Rafe. The sun began to steal under the foggy horizon, pearling the sea as it sank down beneath the water. Oddly, he could see more from his penthouse on Nob Hill, but he felt much more while under the Morgans’ eaves.

“Probably best for you he said no—” Sionn yelped as the door to the walk opened and struck him in the elbow. “Fucking hell! D, you’re supposed to knock first. Walk rules.”

“Yeah, rules. You all need to post them on the wall or something. Who the hell would think about knocking when they leave the house?” Damien ducked his head under the eave overhang and took the bottle out of his lover’s hand. “Get lost, Murphy. Rafe and I have a few things to talk about.”

“Love you too, asshole,” Sionn grumbled as he stood. He caught Damien’s chin in his hand, turning his lover’s face, then sliding in close for a kiss. His mouth was brutal on Damie’s, a fierce, possessive assault that softened into a tender caress when Damien curved into Sionn’s body. They pulled apart, Damien breathing hard while Sionn wore a smug smile. “That’s something to keep for later, D. Oh, and I didn’t tell him I talked to you yet. So I’m leaving that for you to deal with too.”

“Fucker,” Damien muttered at Sionn’s back as his lover went inside. He pinched at the inseam of his jeans, adjusting the wrap of denim around his zipper, then looked over his shoulder, snarling at Rafe’s amused smirk. “Don’t get cocky there, dick. I’m not up here because I want to fuck you.”

“Then why are you here?” He couldn’t look at Damien, not when apprehension and dread hooked into his throat and pulled it closed. The last thing he wanted was Sionn talking to his lover. Coming back to the music had to be on his own terms—not by standing on someone else’s back. Certainly not Sionn’s back. He’d ruined nearly every relationship he had. Rafe couldn’t lose Sionn too.

“We’ve got business. And not because Sionn asked me to give you a chance.” Damien’s cold-washed Brit tones were a hard blue compared to the rolling green heat in Sionn’s voice, made harder by an edge of steel pissiness rolling off of Damie’s tongue.

“I told him not to—”

“Yeah, he keeps saying that too. Pisses me off that I believe him.” Damien stalked the length of the walk only to come back to where he started. Looking down at Rafe, he growled, “Stand up. ’Cause I’m not going to talk about this sitting down in a bunch of pillows.”

“Too much like sex?” Rafe grinned, putting his beer down.

“No, not sex but close. Too intimate. Too much like we’re friends or brothers sharing this space—like they all do. Like Miki does. You want this spot, you fucking stand up for it and deal with me eye to eye.”

Rafe’s blood itched, crawling toward a want he’d shoved down time and time again. There were too many things fighting for space in his head: the hurt he’d felt downstairs, Sionn’s heartfelt, skewed support, and now Damien’s anger. He’d hoped, damn it. Fucking hoped the Sinner’s boys would take a chance on him, if only because he was damned good at the one thing he knew he could do—play a bass until it wept with release. And there was that little whisper of a promise to make it all go away, if only he dipped his toe back into the quicksand he’d pulled himself out of.

“Sounds like you’ve already made up your mind.” He stood anyway, jutting his chin out as if daring Damien to pop him one. “So why the fuck should I bother?”

“See, it’s shit like that that makes me want to say fuck you,” Damien spat.

“So again, then why the fuck are you here?”

“Because Quinn said something to me when—well it doesn’t matter when—just that he said it.” The guitarist punched his fists into his jeans. “Fucker asked me why I couldn’t give you a chance to come back from the dead when I’d done it too. Can’t argue with that kind of shit. Much as I’d like to. So yeah, here I am. Dealing with you wanting a chance with us.”

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