“No, I’m… good. That truck….” He tried to see past the cop toward the truck lying side down in the middle of the street, but all Quinn could make out was one of the back tires. “He just wouldn’t stop… hell.”
His nerves finally snapped, crawling out from under the odd calm he’d felt when he realized the bus had nearly killed him. He shook as he grabbed what he needed out of the car’s console, and Quinn’s skin tingled with shock as he slung his messenger bag over his neck and popped open the far-side door. Crawling over the passenger seat was tricky, but Quinn didn’t trust himself to stay in the car much longer. The cop grabbed at him once he cleared the open door, stopping Quinn from falling flat on his face next to the Audi’s beaten side.
“Let me get your license and registration—shit, thanks,” the cop said as Quinn handed them over without a word. “Wait here. The medics really should look you over, kid.”
“Fuck. My poor baby,” Quinn sighed heavily. The Audi’s glossy black coat was crackled and peeled up in spots. One of the truck’s strikes drove a piece of the rear bumper into one of the back wells, but its tire remained untouched. Running his hand over the car’s back window, Quinn’s heart seized up at the extent of the damage done by the truck.
“Driver’s gone from the truck. Witnesses say he climbed out and booked down the alley as soon as the R8 went sideways.” Another cop, younger and muscled enough to strain the seams of his uniform, glanced at Quinn. “Sorry about your ride, man. It’s a sweet car.”
“Insurance. I’ve got… hell.” His knees gave out, and Quinn grabbed at the R8 for support. The older cop grabbed his arm, steadying him.
“You okay?” he rumbled, checking Quinn’s license. “Morgan? Huh. Any relation to Donal Morgan? You kind of look like one of his kids.”
“Yeah, he’s… my da,” Quinn muttered softly. “Shit, Mum’s going to lose her shit.”
The older cop quirked a grin. “Kid, you could have gotten killed here. I think she’ll be happy you walked out of that.”
“Yeah, for about five seconds.” Quinn blinked at the man, shaking his head. “Then she’ll be having my head for being late.”
Chapter 2
One moon, a thousand stars
Come crack the sky open for me
And point me towards Mars
Leaving you a bit of my soul
Hold on to it tight
’Cause nothing’s forever, baby,
Not even tonight.
—One Thousand Stars
MARSHALL’S AMP was right where Rafe’d left it, sharing a wall with the Sound recording studio on the corner of bad memories and regret. He’d missed his first gig as Rising Black’s bassist because he’d gotten into a fight with Mario, one of the studio musicians, a slimy asshole with light fingers and a drug habit, Rafe’d been amazed he could find his own nose to shove coke into.
He’d also been sorry to hear about Frank’s death, even sorrier to find out Connor Morgan’d hooked up with the blond kid who’d drummed there.
“Not sorry,” Rafe corrected as he got out of his Chevelle. “Surprised. Fucking surprised. Didn’t know Connie even liked dick. Shit, I’d have tapped that back in high school if I’d thought it was open season.”
That was a lie. Connor Morgan was so far above his reach in high school Rafe might as well have wanted to have a threesome with Pussy Galore and Godzilla. His running alongside the Morgan boys and their cousin, Sionn, was as close to cool as he was going to get in those days, and even then he’d been the one to steer the four of them right to the edge of gone-too-far.
It was usually Connor who’d dragged them right back.
The neighborhood had changed since he’d seen it last. Trendy-looking townhouses lined the street opposite of the Sound’s parking lot, petunias and pansies fighting for space in narrow window boxes hooked over wrought-iron balcony railings. There were a few nods to San Francisco’s pre-earthquake architecture, bits of concrete embellishments meant to age the structure, but its youth peeked out in its fake-tree cell tower poking up out of a stand of pines. The restaurant’s back door on the other end of the parking lot was as grubby and oily as Rafe remembered, and a line of old dumpsters still leaned up against the coffeehouse’s back wall, their lids splattered with seagull shit and food specks. A new coat of paint and a power wash did wonders for the brick building, and at some point, a sturdy gridded metal and wood staircase replaced the rickety wood steps leading up to the crappy studio apartment over the Sound.
What was missing from the picture was Frank’s old RV, with its concrete blocks and plywood porch and the umbrella, table, and seats he’d liberated from a burrito shop’s trash pile.
The parking lot seemed odd, echoingly still in Rafe’s mind. He couldn’t remember a time when the Sound’s parking lot hadn’t smelled like patchouli and sweet Thai smoke, and the sleek, polished deep black was at odds with the faded gray memory of patchy asphalt and crooked lines Frank’d painted for parking spaces around his Winnebago palace.