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the bathroom. He poured himself a cup, sat down on the rim of the
    garden tub and took a sip. “Woman brews a hell of a cup of java,” he called out over the
    rush of the shower.
    Dáire turned the water off and stood there for a moment as the water dripped from
    his shivering body. He hadn’t had either the courage or the strength to shave and he
    knew he would catch hell about it. Not that he cared at that moment. He could smell the
    coffee, and though his gut roiled at the aroma, he desperately needed the hot brew.
    Flinging open the shower door, he held out his hand and a mug magically appeared in
    his blurred line of vision.
    23
    Charlotte Boyett-Compo
    “Could have used a croissant or a bagel with honeyed cream cheese,” Jackson
    complained as he returned to the edge of the tub. “Would have gotten it too if you
    hadn’t fucked up with our lady.”
    “Why don’t you court her yourself, Jack Off,” Dáire grumbled as he walked
    gingerly over to the sink, leaned over the vanity and stared at his reflection in the
    mirror. “God, I look like death warmed over.”
    “Not your usual pretty-boy self, no,” Jackson agreed. “A life of debauchery is not
    conducive to maintaining one’s superior looks.” He chuckled. “I should know.”
    “Think Gentry will believe I’ve decided to grow a beard?” Dáire asked, turning
    away from the mirror.
    “The boss had a man on you last night,” Jackson told him. “He’ll have reported
    every juicy detail about your fall from grace.” He got up and followed Dáire out of the
    bathroom.
    Dáire shrugged. “Oh well.” He winced as he turned the light on in the walk-in
    closet and grabbed the first pair of pants he saw. He leaned against the closet wall and
    tugged the pants up his long legs.
    “How do you keep from getting skidmarks in your trousers, Dairy Crow?” Jackson
    wanted to know. “Don’t you even own a pair of underwear?”
    “I know how to wipe myself. Do you?” Dáire asked between clenched teeth. His
    head was pounding so brutally, it was all he could do to straighten up from pulling on
    the khaki pants. For the first time he got a good look at Jackson. “Jesus, Jackson. You
    look like the Michelin tire man.”
    Dressed in a white long-sleeve cotton shirt, white trousers and white loafers,
    Jackson glanced at himself in the full-length mirror. “I’m dressed for this balmy clime,
    you arrogant prick.”
    “The Michelin tire man whose face ran over a can of red paint,” Dáire muttered. He
    took a long drink of the scalding-hot coffee, barely flinching as the liquid spread over
    his tongue.
    Jackson was hovering close by should his help be needed. He took a seat on the
    bench in the middle of the closet floor and watched as Dáire tried to button a shirt over
    his broad chest. “It’s lopsided, dude.”
    “Who gives a fuck?” Dáire inquired in a pleasant voice.
    “Gentry will,” Jackson said. He put his mug on the bench, stood up and came over
    to rework the buttons on his friend’s navy blue shirt.
    Feeling like a toddler, Dáire remained still until Jackson had the shirt buttoned up
    correctly. “I feel like shit,” he complained.
    “Dago Red will do that to ya,” Jackson declared. “Don’t forget your socks.”
    “Screw the socks,” Daire said.
    “I used to do that in my youth, but I’ve since learned mayonnaise jars are much
    more entertaining,” Jackson revealed.
    24
    HardWind
    Dáire refrained from making a comment. He thrust his feet into his loafers,
    grimacing as he did. He hated the feel of the insole against his bare feet but he didn’t
    have the heart to go rummaging for socks. Leaving his shirt outside his pants, he
    walked out of the closet and headed for the front door.
    “Don’t you need your wallet?” Jackson asked.
    Either Dáire didn’t hear or was ignoring Jackson. He continued on to the door,
    opened it and then held up a hand to block the bright sunlight falling through the
    domed skylight.