She definitely had no complaints about the money that came in once tourists discovered Finnegan’s, and they’d certainly come. Jugglers had their place, as did the man who scared the crap out of people by hiding behind a bush, then screaming at them when they passed him.
Musicians, however, were a different story. Unlike the tourists and a brighter pub, she’d take great delight in running them off from in front of the pub, sometimes a bit too enthusiastically, hurrying them along with a swat of a broom or a bucket of ice water. Musicians, in her mind, were as much of a nuisance as pigeons. Except you can’t put them into a pie, the damned bastards, she’d grumble to Sionn during one of his after-school shifts.
Damned if he didn’t miss her.
He’d slunk home after the shooting, limping only slightly from the scarring in his thigh. Odd that he’d come to Finnegan’s for solace, something he’d not done even after Gran’s passing. But now, there he was, changing out kegs, slinging drinks, and calling out orders to the waitstaff like he’d never gone off into the world to protect the innocent.
Except he’d lost an innocent, and now the busker outside was his problem and his alone.
Many of the street musicians were familiar to him, but the guitarist they’d taken to calling the Cowboy was a new addition to the pier crowd. No one at Finnegan’s remembered seeing him before he showed up three weeks ago, but even Sionn had to admit the man was pretty to look at. At least as much as they could see past the rolled-brim cowboy hat he wore canted forward on his forehead.
“You going to run him off?” Leigh’s bony elbow dug a divot into his shoulder, and she leaned her weight into him, watching as he clicked the last connection together. “It’s kind of nice, you know. The stuff he plays. Classic.”
“But not Irish,” Sionn grunted, shoving the heavy tank into place. “We’re an Irish pub. He’s out there playing whatever the fuck he’s playing. He can go do that in front of Sciloni’s or something.”
“People like it, and just because you’re Irish, doesn’t mean it’s not music.” She straightened up, shaking out the ribbons she’d used to tie her Smurf-hued hair into ponytails. “I like it, and technically, I’m the manager. You’re just pitching in, remember?”
Sionn didn’t need that reminder that he was drifting along. He wasn’t needed at the pub. It ran fine without him. Probably better even, but he had nowhere else to go, nothing else to do. Damn, he needed to get his shit together and figure out what he was going to do now that he’d walked away from being a body shield for rich people.
“Finnegan’s doesn’t do music, remember? No buskers, no darts, and no telly, other than during the futbol finals. That’s the rules, Leigh girl.” He wiped his hands on one of the bar towels, then tossed it into the laundry bin to be washed. “I’ll go roust him. Don’t fuss at it. I’ll take care of it.”
“I’m not fussing at it, Sionn,” she sniped at his back as he went around the bar to the front of the pub. “I’m just wondering when the hell you got so old.”
The afternoon had started off clear, but the mists were rolling in, bringing the promise of rain with them. A light drizzle dusted over the crowd, driving the less dedicated inside. The busker was wedged sideways under Finnegan’s awning, his ass resting on the top railing of the wrought iron fencing surrounding the pub’s slender outside patio.
With his back to the pub, all Sionn could see of the man was his long black hair and the rolled-brim leather cowboy hat he wore low over his face. The past few times the busker had set up in front of Finnegan’s, he’d moved on before Sionn could send someone out to dislodge him. Sionn stopped at the entrance and stood under the awning, moving to the side to let an older couple in matching neon shirts and cargo pants amble their way into the pub.
In that moment, the musician looked up from his playing, stilling the strings on his acoustic guitar with the flat of his hand. The soft sunlight touched his face and brought the man’s sensitive mouth sharply into Sionn’s focus. His long fingers played at the frets on the guitar’s neck, and Sionn stole a glance at the man’s partially hidden face.
A faint scruff darkened his angular jaw, shadowing a cleft in his squared off chin. The man’s eyes were hooded, a clear Mediterranean blue shining out from behind his long black lashes. Leaning forward, he reached for the cash lining his case’s belly and plucked the bills out. Despite the chill, his slender arms were bare, and his graceful, slim fingers shoved the paper wad into the pocket of his worn-out jeans. Specks of white powder dappled the side of his Becky Bones T-shirt, the victim of an overfilled machine at a crappy Laundromat.
Torn Levi’s and a cheap cotton T-shirt had never looked so damned good as they did on the man’s lean body.