he’d been assigned to crack open for scrambles. Half-energized and a bit sore from their morning run, Rafe enjoyed the brisk wind coming off of the Bay and the hot Irish spitting out from the open pub doors.
Seagulls outnumbered the tourists. It was too early but for the most stalwart of vacationers, but the local crowd was already shuffling from their homes and onto BART or the ferries. It was quiet enough to hear the sea lions barking from their docks, sleek-bodied squatters ready for a long day’s bake once the sun broke through the morning fog.
It was a normal, simple day. Much like every other normal day Rafe and Sionn did their run from Finnegan’s and up past to Ghirardelli’s. With one exception.
Most mornings didn’t have a long-legged, angelic-faced, green-eyed Irish man showing up in a pair of worn jeans and an easy smile, but if Rafe had a choice, he’d opt for a Quinn Morgan appearance any day.
“Let me guess. You came down here for the greasy ham and flapjack special? Although from what I hear going on in there, you might want to stick with cold cereal.” Rafe looked back behind him. Leigh joined Sionn’s battle with some piece of equipment, cajoling him to move it a bit to the right, and it would slide right in. He’d have made a dirty joke if he didn’t think either or both of them would stomp outside and shove the broomstick up his ass. “Then again, you’d be safer with the coffee. At least it’s decent.”
“I called Sionn to ask him something about brewing so we could talk about me investing in his mad schemes, but it sounds like he’s busy.” Quinn shoved his hands into his pockets, his forearms powerful with lean muscle. “He told me you were down here. Mind if I hang out with you for a bit? But if you’re busy….”
“I’m never too busy for you, Q. It’s not like they can fire me. I’m a volunteer. Actually, an indentured servant paying off a lifetime of bar tabs and imagined slights. Hang on a second. I’ll sneak in and get us a couple of coffees.” Rafe handed Quinn the broom, then slithered his way into the pub. It took him a few minutes, most of them spent picking up sugar packets he’d spilled onto the floor, but he made it back outside with no one noticing.
Quinn was still there, sitting in one of the café chairs, legs stretched out and keen, sharp eyes drinking in the crowd scurrying by.
They sat silent for a few minutes. An occasional murmur of curiosity came from Quinn when someone dressed in too much of a contrast for his sensibilities strolled by. Rafe had to agree with him on most judgments, but he argued vehemently for the woman in the giraffe-print T-shirt and red pants, pointing out the spikes on her shiny black leather heels.
“You have to give points for a woman with style, Q. She’s rocking that.” Rafe nodded in her wake. “Shoulders back, head high. Chick’s got balls.”
“Her shirt has tassels on the hem. It would be okay without the tassels. Small little tassels.” Quinn wiggled his fingers at Rafe. “Why? Why would you put tassels on a shirt like that?”
“Rocking the tassels, Q. No hating the fringe.”
“Makes her look like a lamp. A cheap lamp. In a hotel where merrow come up out of the toilets.” Quinn wrinkled his nose as Rafe’s laughter carried across the courtyard in front of Finnegan’s. “It does.”
“Maybe her shirt’s reincarnated. Its past life was a whorehouse pillow.” His cheeks were beginning to hurt, especially when a bit of coffee went down wrong, and Quinn began pounding on his back to help him stop coughing. Waving Quinn off, Rafe caught his breath. “Sorry, bad image of you handing out red cards for fashion violations.”
“I don’t know shite about fashion,” he shot back. “It’s the colors. Look at the colors she’s wearing. It’s like they can’t see the difference between khaki and olive green. Why would you go out wearing an indigo shirt and olive-green pants? What kind of monster
Seagulls outnumbered the tourists. It was too early but for the most stalwart of vacationers, but the local crowd was already shuffling from their homes and onto BART or the ferries. It was quiet enough to hear the sea lions barking from their docks, sleek-bodied squatters ready for a long day’s bake once the sun broke through the morning fog.
It was a normal, simple day. Much like every other normal day Rafe and Sionn did their run from Finnegan’s and up past to Ghirardelli’s. With one exception.
Most mornings didn’t have a long-legged, angelic-faced, green-eyed Irish man showing up in a pair of worn jeans and an easy smile, but if Rafe had a choice, he’d opt for a Quinn Morgan appearance any day.
“Let me guess. You came down here for the greasy ham and flapjack special? Although from what I hear going on in there, you might want to stick with cold cereal.” Rafe looked back behind him. Leigh joined Sionn’s battle with some piece of equipment, cajoling him to move it a bit to the right, and it would slide right in. He’d have made a dirty joke if he didn’t think either or both of them would stomp outside and shove the broomstick up his ass. “Then again, you’d be safer with the coffee. At least it’s decent.”
“I called Sionn to ask him something about brewing so we could talk about me investing in his mad schemes, but it sounds like he’s busy.” Quinn shoved his hands into his pockets, his forearms powerful with lean muscle. “He told me you were down here. Mind if I hang out with you for a bit? But if you’re busy….”
“I’m never too busy for you, Q. It’s not like they can fire me. I’m a volunteer. Actually, an indentured servant paying off a lifetime of bar tabs and imagined slights. Hang on a second. I’ll sneak in and get us a couple of coffees.” Rafe handed Quinn the broom, then slithered his way into the pub. It took him a few minutes, most of them spent picking up sugar packets he’d spilled onto the floor, but he made it back outside with no one noticing.
Quinn was still there, sitting in one of the café chairs, legs stretched out and keen, sharp eyes drinking in the crowd scurrying by.
They sat silent for a few minutes. An occasional murmur of curiosity came from Quinn when someone dressed in too much of a contrast for his sensibilities strolled by. Rafe had to agree with him on most judgments, but he argued vehemently for the woman in the giraffe-print T-shirt and red pants, pointing out the spikes on her shiny black leather heels.
“You have to give points for a woman with style, Q. She’s rocking that.” Rafe nodded in her wake. “Shoulders back, head high. Chick’s got balls.”
“Her shirt has tassels on the hem. It would be okay without the tassels. Small little tassels.” Quinn wiggled his fingers at Rafe. “Why? Why would you put tassels on a shirt like that?”
“Rocking the tassels, Q. No hating the fringe.”
“Makes her look like a lamp. A cheap lamp. In a hotel where merrow come up out of the toilets.” Quinn wrinkled his nose as Rafe’s laughter carried across the courtyard in front of Finnegan’s. “It does.”
“Maybe her shirt’s reincarnated. Its past life was a whorehouse pillow.” His cheeks were beginning to hurt, especially when a bit of coffee went down wrong, and Quinn began pounding on his back to help him stop coughing. Waving Quinn off, Rafe caught his breath. “Sorry, bad image of you handing out red cards for fashion violations.”
“I don’t know shite about fashion,” he shot back. “It’s the colors. Look at the colors she’s wearing. It’s like they can’t see the difference between khaki and olive green. Why would you go out wearing an indigo shirt and olive-green pants? What kind of monster
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