Sionn slid the word in right before Browne’s nostrils flared. He might have had five inches and a few pounds of muscle on the man, but Browne stood pretty tall in his past. Besides, pissing him off would get back to his aunt, and that was the last person he wanted on his ass.
Browne looked like he wanted to say something more. In all honesty, Sionn was amazed he didn’t get a slap across the back of his head for what he’d said to the man. There’d been many a time when he’d been sitting in church with his cousins and the hand of God came by way of the inspector’s light slaps for them to quit talking and pay attention.
“Not too big I can’t yank on those jug ears of yours, Murphy boy.” Browne tapped his notebook against Sionn’s chin, a wide grin softening his warning. “How much do you know about Thompson?”
“Dee?” Sionn gritted his teeth. “He’s a good man. Quiet sometimes but mostly, ornery. Bit of a fighter. Stood up for the girls one day when some drunk was being a dick. Tossed him out onto his butt and told him not to come back.”
No, he didn’t know a lot about the man, but Sionn certainly wanted to.
His body burned with the memory of the man under him as he covered Dee to protect him. When Sionn lifted his head in the brief silence broken by a police siren and Leigh’s shouting, he’d been very much aware of how well Dee fit into the curve of his crotch and the fullness of the man’s ass against his hips. He’d felt the too-thin spareness of Dee’s torso, taut muscles stretched tight over bones with little between them and his pale skin. There’d been a flash of color peeking out from under the man’s shirt, bright and vibrant over his bony spine, and Sionn’s hands itched to slide under the fabric to explore the ink hidden there.
And maybe even slide Dee’s slightly too-big jeans from his hips and suckle at his cock until the guitarist was left gasping and begging for more.
Sionn sighed, slightly disgusted with himself. The man had issues, admitted it looked like someone was gunning for him—literally—and all he could think about was how hot and pliable Dee had been underneath him.
Well, as pliable as a slinky-bodied, smart-mouthed guitarist got.
His brain was cooked. Sionn was pretty sure of it. His gran’s pub had been shot up, and all he could think about was a street entertainer who’d brought his shit to Sionn’s front porch. Sionn rubbed at his face, suddenly wishing he’d drunk more of Leigh’s toxic coffee.
Sionn scanned the pier, searching through the cloud of blue uniforms interspersed with a thin smattering of tourists. A large, rough-faced blond man in a suit was chatting up a pretty barista at the coffee cart, and a few yards down, the fill-your-own bath salts stall was setting up for the day, the ancient hippie woman who’d worked there since Sionn was a teen puttering about the sealed bins, seemingly in no hurry to bring in business. Leigh was talking to a handsome junior inspector Sionn belatedly realized was his younger cousin. Turning his back to her, he stood firm against Browne’s smirk.
“You can’t hide from the family forever, you know,” the inspector teased. “They’ll root you out like terriers.”
“Yeah, I know.” He made a face. There would be too much to explain to his aunt and her brood. His thigh was fine, with a bit of residual scarring that sometimes put a hitch in his step, but if he knew her at all, she’d have him up on the couch with his pants down around his ankles so she could see for herself. “I just need some time. To work up to their prying and shite.”
The fog had lifted a bit, but the press of rain remained, sheets of water lurking offshore and moving in quickly. Browne nodded at one of the cops pulling away from the pier, his cruiser’s lights flashing once to push traffic to the side. A water drop hit the inspector’s notebook, smearing a blue ink scribble on the page.
“Shit, can’t read my own writing as it is,” the older man swore. “Tell you what, stick around while I go talk to your boy and….” Browne looked past Sionn, his mustache twitching around his frown. “What the fucking hell?”
Browne’s frown flattened out, and Sionn winced immediately. The man was displeased, and if he’d been any younger, Sionn would have expected to be grabbed by the ear and duck-marched outside to get a talking to. Past thirty, and within seconds, he reverted to being a freckle-faced teen caught whispering in the back pews at St. Patrick’s.
“Where’s your boy gone, Murphy?” Browne growled angrily, scanning the pier.
Dee was nowhere to be seen. The old amp was lying sideways, its front screen a victim of the shooting, but Sionn couldn’t spot the man’s electric guitar or the flat case he used to cart it around. Other than the damaged amp, all signs of the man Sionn lusted for had been erased.
“Damn it, I think he spooked,” Sionn ground out. “Fucking hell and damn.”