said to him until Browne poked him in the ribs with his pen.
“Sorry, what?” He jerked his attention back to the older man. Dee was proving to be a distraction. It was bad enough he found himself staring at the man through the pub’s windows whenever he covered a shift. Now he was drifting off while his uncle’s former partner grilled him about the shooting. “’Scuse me, Brownie. My brain’s a bit gone, you know.”
“What’s his story? That musician of yours.” Browne was an old hand at SFPD, a grizzled but sharp investigator whose hound-dog eyes missed nothing around him. Scratching his cheek with the same pen he used to get Sionn’s attention, he took a moment to stare at Dee. “Says his name’s Dee Thompson and that you’ve been letting him play in front of Finnegan’s for almost a month now.”
“That’s about right,” Sionn murmured. First time he’d heard Dee even had a last name, but then that hadn’t been something he’d picked out. Sionn knew the important things, like how Dee drank his coffee and liked a lot of salt on his fries. But things like last names and why he was frightened to white, Sionn intended to shake that out of Dee once Browne was done with him. “People seem to like his playing. Brings in a bit of business.”
The inspector sucked at his teeth for a moment, then drawled, “What happened to the no buskers in front of the pub rule your gran had.”
“Gran’s dead,” Sionn said flatly, pulling his gaze from Dee and back to the burly inspector. “Things change… sir.”
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
“Sorry, what?” He jerked his attention back to the older man. Dee was proving to be a distraction. It was bad enough he found himself staring at the man through the pub’s windows whenever he covered a shift. Now he was drifting off while his uncle’s former partner grilled him about the shooting. “’Scuse me, Brownie. My brain’s a bit gone, you know.”
“What’s his story? That musician of yours.” Browne was an old hand at SFPD, a grizzled but sharp investigator whose hound-dog eyes missed nothing around him. Scratching his cheek with the same pen he used to get Sionn’s attention, he took a moment to stare at Dee. “Says his name’s Dee Thompson and that you’ve been letting him play in front of Finnegan’s for almost a month now.”
“That’s about right,” Sionn murmured. First time he’d heard Dee even had a last name, but then that hadn’t been something he’d picked out. Sionn knew the important things, like how Dee drank his coffee and liked a lot of salt on his fries. But things like last names and why he was frightened to white, Sionn intended to shake that out of Dee once Browne was done with him. “People seem to like his playing. Brings in a bit of business.”
The inspector sucked at his teeth for a moment, then drawled, “What happened to the no buskers in front of the pub rule your gran had.”
“Gran’s dead,” Sionn said flatly, pulling his gaze from Dee and back to the burly inspector. “Things change… sir.”
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
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