Bassist Instinct (The Rocker Series #2) (33 page)

 “I can’t believe Tate brought one of his floozies to his mother’s death bed just days before Christmas,” one of the sisters-in-law said to the crowd in the kitchen. She and Tate had shown up early, but the house was already full of his family and they made it quite clear they weren’t going to welcome her with open arms.

“The man has nerve, I’ll give him that. He’s totally disrespectful of the situation.” Fiona suspected she knew full well that she could hear from her perch in the sitting room not six feet away. The children who were still in the sitting room, there were at least a dozen, from eight to twenty five or so, swiftly dispersed once they heard the woman in the kitchen start complaining.

A floozy, that’s how they saw her. It was probably accurate enough, she knew what she was getting into when she took Tate to her bed that first night. She was his fling du jour, she just didn’t have the strength to end it before he did. Her plan was to spend as much time with him as he’d allow, and if that morning’s love making was any indication, she’d made the right decision. That didn’t necessarily mean staying with his family, however. The way she saw it, she had a few options. She could go into the kitchen and join the conversation, she could leave, or she could simply curl up on the couch and sleep a little more.

“I like her,” one of Tate’s brothers said in her defense. That’s nice, she thought, someone was coming to her defense, but they still left her in the sitting room like a leper. Tate was so lovely, how could the rest of them be so horrible? They would have to live somewhere else, preferably Washington, where her job was.
What was she thinking coming to Dublin with Tate Dylan?

“Of course you like her, you’re just thinking with your pecker, men are all the same,” Fiona almost spat out her mouthful of tea. At least the tea was delicious. “That’s why she’s here, isn’t it? This way Tate doesn’t have to hunt around for it, she can warm his bed while his mam is sick.”

“Now Kelly,” the man said.

“You know why the Changeling’s attracted to her, doncha?”
The Changeling
?

“I do, indeed,” the same brother said with vigor and making everyone laugh.

“I do, too!” Another shouted over the laughter.

“Away. It’s because she looks just like wee Connor. I’d bet the farm our Tate-o’s a pouf.” There was more uproarious laughter.

“Gay? What about the countless women he’s had just like the one outside?” Another woman’s voice entered the argument.

“I thought if Tate’d be gay for anyone it’d be Razz,” yet another said.
How many people were in that kitchen?

“And I suppose you’re going to try to tell me Ryan’s gay for Tate and that’s why he married Christie,” someone else declared loudly. “You’re daft, girlie!”

Fiona had enough and put her coat on and stepped out from to where a few men were smoking. They nodded at her without much interest. She didn’t want to hang around on the stoop with the smokers, and she didn’t want to sit alone in the sitting room listening to Tate’s brothers and sisters-in-law be unkind, so she started to walk around the block. The rain had stopped, but it was completely gray. Everything was gray, now that she thought about it. The roads, the houses and the skies, they were just subtle variations on the color gray. It would be dark very soon, she knew.

It surprised her how petty and mean those people were. They were teaching that crap to their children, too. Her fingers itched to pound keys, instead she made fists with her hands. She wished she knew which one was Kelly, she was horrible, but they all shared the blame, they knew she was within earshot. Fiona wanted a shower, she felt unclean.

A car pulled up next to her and she broke out in a cold sweat. Until the diamond people she was never afraid for her person, she didn’t like this new frightened Fiona.

“Fiona, lass,” she turned and looked at Ryan O’Brian climbing out of an Audi SUV. “Can I walk with you?” Christie waved from the driver’s side and drove the rest of the way to her mother’s house.

“Of course. I was just…” she waved toward the house.

“Running away from the witches?” Fiona laughed and nodded her head. “That’s what Christie calls them. I call them something else. I feel like bloody Dr. Seuss with all the rhyming.” They stopped and looked at each other and when Ryan cracked a smile Fiona laughed. He was pretty funny. “They take a little getting used to.” She looked at her feet. Ryan knew of their potential, had Tate? “Can I give you the neighborhood tour?”

“I’d like that,” Fiona said.

“Grand, the pub’s this way,” he steered her across the street as she laughed.

“And here I thought you were going to give me some line about famous people growing up here,” she said and he laughed.

“Twenty some years ago, when you were still in nappies, I’m thinking, we had a steady gig in this pub.”

“I’m thirty five, Ryan, I was out of nappies by then,” they laughed again. “Barely.”

He opened the door to the pub and steered her to the bar.

“Ryan, you gobshite, are you cheating on Christie?”

“Feck off, this is
Dr
. Fiona Brooks, Tate’s wee lassie. I’m showing her the sights.”

“Well then, be sure to have a keek at the ‘Wall of Shame’,” he gestured to seven pictures on the wall, most of them in black and white.

“Tate said there was a picture of my father here,” she slid off the stool and walked to the wall. She saw a few pictures of people she didn’t recognize, a snap of someone diving into a car with a cowboy hat on, her dad looking boyishly handsome with his motley band and one of Tate and the Grungies looking very young and beautiful. She looked at Ryan.

“Nice hair!”

“It was the style at the time,” he said only slightly embarrassed.

“Just who might your da be?” The bartender looked at Ryan who frowned and shrugged his shoulders.

“Billy McBride,” Fiona said tapping the photo. The barkeep was silent for a moment and then burst out laughing. Fiona and Ryan simply stared at him.

“What are the chances? He moved away to Boston, didn’t he?” Fiona nodded. “You’re an American, the daughter of the great Billy McBride, and you’re dating Connor Damon’s best friend.” He slapped his knee in merriment.

“I told you she was Tate’s wee lassie, not mine,” Ryan said but the bartender was still laughing. Fiona and Ryan looked at each other, but they were both confused.

Fiona took pictures of the photo of her father and the one of the Grungies with her phone.

“Her drinks are on the house,” he said when he could manage it, and pulled her a glass of beer. “How’s your da?”

“We don’t talk much, but my brother says he’s well.”

“Good for him, then,” he pulled a pint for Ryan.

“What are you not saying Padrick?” Ryan said to him. Padrick tried to look innocent.

“Nothing. Has she met Kathleen?” He said.

“Kathleen Damon?” Ryan asked.

“Aye,” Padrick said.

“No, you mixer, she has not.”

Padrick moved away and tended to a crowd that came in gawking at Ryan. Ryan escorted Fiona to a table in the back.

“Does Tate know you fled from the bitches?” She shook her head. “Don’t fret; Christie will enlighten him. What happened?”

Fiona laughed without humor. “I guess it could be kind of funny, but really it was pretty mean spirited.”

“Ah. We can only be rude to the ones we love the most. My brother and I got more enjoyment out of smacking each other around than we did doing anything else. Well…until we discovered the lassies.”

“They don’t love me enough to be that rude, yet.” Ryan laughed. “They made assumptions about me because I’m associating with Tate.” Her shoulders were slumped and she was close to admitting misery. Ryan was looking at her.

“They’re eejits, pay them no mind. I know Tate, love, he’s one of my oldest and dearest friends, hell, I can barely make it through a day without his sister. You mean a great deal to him, and it was kind of you to come home with him.” Ryan was very considerate, and she was suddenly very glad Tate had such good friends.

“Thank you, Ryan. So, tell me about your brother.” Ryan hissed ever so slightly.

“My twin, he’s passed on.” Fiona put her hand on Ryan’s wrist and noticed the narrow leather strap there.

“I’m so sorry,” she said looking stricken. Ryan smiled at her and they both drank. Ryan surprised himself when he mentioned his brother, he never did; the pain and anger of his loss was still very raw, even twenty five years later. Something about Fiona made him altogether too comfortable, she’d have him telling her all his feelings if he wasn’t careful. “Was he named Alex?” Ryan’s eyebrows disappeared into his hair.

“Aye, lass,” he choked out. She simply nodded.

Fiona looked at her glass and then at Ryan’s glass. “Why do women get these ridiculous sized glasses and men get pints? I feel like a Hobbit.” Ryan chuckled.

“I see why Tate’s sticking so close, aside from the obvious. You’re funny once you break out of your shell.” Ryan caught Padrick’s eye and yelled at him. “Two pints.” He laughed at Padrick’s grumbling and turned back to Fiona. “So you were about to regale me with what the bitches made sure you overheard.” Fiona laughed.

“Aside from them questioning Tate’s and your sexuality, they were just a pack of bitchy women.” Fiona said and Ryan laughed again.

“What? They’d look at the stunning beauties we bring home and they question our sexuality. Harpies. Ah, here’s your man, now.” Ryan nodded to the door. Tate stood there looking around the pub and Ryan let out a shrill whistle which made Fiona jump and Tate look their way. By the time she stood, Tate had his arms around her. She was so relieved to be held, everything else became superfluous.

“Are you all right, lass?”

“I’m fine, how about you?” She touched his face, remembering why she was there. “How does your mom look?”

“She’s in a fair amount of pain. She says she doesn’t want to take the pain killers because she might get addicted, the silly old fool,” he rolled his eyes. “She wants to meet you, but the girlies ran you off. Daniel told me everything, love. I’m sorry they’re so horrible.”

“I think I left before it got too out of hand.”

“They think we’re gay, mate,” Ryan said with a big grin and Tate laughed out loud.

“For each other?” Tate asked picking up Ryan’s pint and taking a big swig of it.

“Fiona’s not telling. Come to think on it, you
are
my type, blond and little, but you’re missing something, I can’t quite put my finger on it.”

“Try to put your finger on it and you might lose your finger, mate. Anyway, I thought Idris Elba was more your type.” Ryan laughed and went to get their drinks.

“I’m so relieved to find you Fi, it’s dark out, I was afraid you’d get lost,” Tate said gazing into her eyes.

“Ryan’s taken good care of me,” she said.

“Were they horrible?”

“Yes, I can’t believe you and Christie are related to them,” she said.

“By marriage.”

“Your brothers were almost as bad.” She didn’t want to do this, she was there to be support for Tate, not complain about her hurt feelings. “I’m glad you found me.” He leaned over and touched her lips with his own. All her anger and discomfort evaporated as his hand ran through her hair and his mouth gently took hers.

“You’re making me blush,” Ryan said when he came back with the drinks. They looked up at him and he saw Fiona trying to regain her focus. Tate was either a killer kisser, or the poor thing was exhausted. Probably a bit of both, he thought and hoped Tate would take her home soon.

They bantered while Fiona watched, quietly amused. Tate was obviously relieved, he displayed it in his whole body, she thought. It must have been a good visit with his mother. He was so stressed out on the plane, she was too, for that matter. The only time he had seemed himself since he got word of his mother’s illness was when they had sex that morning. She wondered if it was just going to keep getting better and better, hard to believe it could, the go they had that morning was superlative.

With her chin in her hand she looked at Tate. He was happily reminiscing about some event earlier in his life in this very pub. There was a gleam in his eye that she loved, and the brackets around his mouth were from years of joy, he found humor in everything, and she knew she was lucky to have him in her life, for however long that would be.

They both turned to Fiona as one. Oops, she hadn’t been listening.

“You haven’t met him yet, but the man is lanky. Razz can eat three times his weight in one sitting, but he never gains an ounce,” Tate was saying.

“And shy, painfully shy. So much going on in his head he had no idea what to say,” Ryan added. “And that’s today, when we were teens, it was only worse.”

“He liked sitting behind us, and behind his drums,” Tate began.

“And behind his hair,” Ryan added and he and Tate laughed.

“We were set up right there, Fi,” Tate pointed to the little stage. “Connor in front singing his heart out to a cover of Dusty Springfield’s ‘
Son of a Preacher Man
.’” He chuckled remembering.

“How was that going over?” Fiona asked.

“In a country where, at the time, it was still illegal to be gay, it was fairly well received. It’s a good song, we played it true, we weren’t making fun, you see, just playing Connor’s mam’s favorite song. And there’s nothing quite like hearing Connor Damon belt out the words ‘The only boy that could ever move me was the sweet talking son of preacher man,’ I tell you.” Fiona giggled at Tate’s falsetto. “At any rate, Ryan’s standing to his left and I’m on his right and this scatter of fine looking lassies walks in giving us the hairy eyeball, like. Razz looks up, something he rarely does unless it’s to tell me I’m off my rhythm, and makes eye contact with one of them and lets go of his drumstick. It just flies right out of his hand.”

“Never done that before or since, has he?” Ryan asked.

“No.” Fiona loved how he drew the word out. “The stick spins through the air and hits the lassie in the side of the face, but only ‘cause she sees it coming and turns at the last second.”

“You know those slo-mo shots in movies where the sound is all deep and distorted? That’s what Razz sounded like. ‘Noooo,’ he shouts after his stick,” Ryan reached his hand up in the air to illustrate what Razz must have done that night to catch the stick.