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enough to blow his hair back, and when a night was done, there was a silence throbbing in his eardrums that he could only call deafening. It was a whisper compared to the echoing stillness around him, and Rafe realized he’d caught the attention of every Morgan, Finnegan, and Murphy in the shop.
    “Yeah, it was a joke. Just… something silly.”
    As if they weren’t standing in a pool of quiet so deep Rafe could hear the demons beneath his feet cackling in hell at his discomfort, Quinn’s full mouth quirked with rueful remorse.
    “God, I was just trying to tease. This is why teasing never works for me. It always ends up going really stupid.”
    “Teasing’s never been your thing, Q.” Rafe pulled up short as a flush pinked Quinn’s cheeks. “It’s kind of like getting into a fight. You… you’ve always been the go-in-to-end-it kind of guy when usually the punching’s kind of what you need. How’re you doing, kid?”
    It was safer to call him kid, so much safer for Rafe’s brain to handle, but something in the way he said it must have rubbed Quinn wrong because he bristled, tightening his shoulders. Rafe couldn’t count the number of times he’d shoved Quinn back, needing a bit of space from his best friend’s all-too-delectable younger brother. Kid, that kept Quinn back, back into the toy box and Little League games neither one of them excelled at.
    “I’m okay just… not a kid, Rafe. Not for a long time. Hey, it was good to see you. I just wanted to come by and say hi. Mum’s right. You need to come up to the house more. They… we… miss you.” Quinn’s throat bobbled as he swallowed, and in true Q fashion, his eyes slid from Rafe’s face to scan the crowd. “Really. Come by.”
    As quick as he’d appeared, Quinn melted away, a mist of Irish sinew and bone swallowed up by the crowd. Wall-to-wall cops and Morgans, and for the life of him, Rafe couldn’t find the one he wanted. He couldn’t really afford to look at what he wanted to do—not with Quinn.
    “Jesus fucking Christ, stick your foot in your mouth, Andrade. What an asshole.” Rafe scrubbed at his face, exasperated at the emotions rising up from the dark, cold place he’d shoved them into a long time ago. “And I’m still jonesing for Quinn. Great. Just. Fucking. Great.”
    He shouldn’t have hurt Quinn. Shouldn’t have thrown up the walls he always put up whenever Q came near. Despite the effort Rafe’d put into distancing them, he’d given in a few times too many. A kiss under moonlight, a brief slide of his hand down the length of Quinn’s back, as if daring himself to take more, and even the times they’d shared a beer bottle, their mouths touching and sharing a slip of glass between them. They’d danced around each other. Rafe knew it even if Quinn hadn’t. Either way, he brought a bit of pain to those deep emerald eyes, and Rafe hated himself for doing it.
    “Well, screw it.” He retrieved his now cold coffee and drained it. “I pissed him off. Time to man up and chew down some crow.”

Chapter 3

     
    Living Room Session
    Damie: We need more songs about love.
    Miki: We’d need to know more about love to write about love. Pain I know. Love’s kind of iffy.
    D: What do you mean we don’t know love? You’ve got Kane! I’ve got Sionn! We so know love.
    M: Because I’m not ready to share Kane with anyone else. With any stranger. He’s mine. That’s mine. I’ve not had enough mine in my life yet. When I do, I’ll start writing fucking love songs.
     
    Q UINN RAN .
    He wasn’t going to sugarcoat it. The truth was, he’d taken one look at the passionate emotion flaring in Rafe’s liquid-brown eyes, turning golden treacle to burned caramel, and ran.
    Quinn could have called it a strategic retreat, but he was going to call it what it was—pure tongue-swelling, awkward fucking up, and he was running from it. The moment he’d seen Rafe, Quinn thought he could for once in his life pull off the easy banter