there was considerable buffer room in case something went over.
Quinn listened to Rafe’s logic, absorbing everything the bassist told him, then nodded when Rafe studied Quinn’s face and made a call to a contractor to install ten-inch angled-in clear panels on top of the already existing barriers.
An enormous freestanding hammock and frame found its way onto the balcony, positioned carefully under the protective overhang, and Quinn had taken to spending the afternoons there, grading papers or reading a book, while Harley—who’d never shown the slightest bit of interest in inspecting the balcony’s edge—lazed next to him, curled up in a hollow near his hip.
The threat of rain hung on the horizon in a tapestry of dark gray clouds creeping toward the city, and the scent of water clung to the breeze. It was getting slightly chilly, but Quinn was too lazy to turn on the balcony’s heaters or go inside and get a blanket.
“You’re comfortable, right?” he asked the cat, adjusting her sweater so it covered her rounded stomach. Harley stretched, elongating her legs out to a nearly impossible length; then she curled in on herself, rolling over onto her back in a silent demand for a belly rub.
The sweater was his youngest sister’s first serious attempt at knitting. Or at least he thought it was knitting. It could’ve been crochet, but Quinn was unsure about the difference and knew if he began to investigate it, he would end up somewhere in Mongolia studying yak yarn weaving. Ryan chose a velvety soft yarn, but the colors were nearly blinding. He’d accepted it with a wide smile and gave her a very large hug, sincerely grateful for her thoughtfulness and silently glad his cat could only see a limited spectrum.
Harley meowed crossly at him, so Quinn stopped fidgeting with her sweater and ran his fingernails across her mostly naked belly.
“Where’s my girl?” Rafe called out from the apartment. Quinn twisted about, much to Harley’s disgust, and lifted his face up for Rafe to kiss. The touch of their lips was brief but enough for Quinn to get a taste of Rafe’s mouth. “Is that reader of yours loaded with stacks of depressing papers on historical events no one actually read about, or are you living it up and reading something for fun?”
Rafe tasted of bitter coffee, sugar, and strong mints. There was a whiff of cigarette smoke on his clothes, the acrid sting catching on the back of Quinn’s throat when he inhaled. He held still while Rafe eased himself into the broad canvas hammock, carefully arranging Harley between them once Rafe leaned back. The cat traitorously refused to stay between them, opting instead to crawl over onto Rafe’s chest where she could shove her head under his chin.
Quinn waited for Rafe to share his day.
His lover’s eyes were hooded, a little tender, and more than a little broken. There was a bit of dirt under his nails, and Harley took offense at its too natural smell, chewing on Rafe’s fingers when he tried to scratch her head. There was a weight on Rafe, a very familiar one. He’d dragged a demon around for most the day, or at least that’s what Quinn thought. The feel of him was steady, slightly worn out and exhausted from working. Beneath the cigarette smoke was a hint of sweat and the faded aroma of sunshine.
He was patient. Either Rafe would need to talk or it would sit there beside him until it went away of its own accord. Either way, Quinn could wait it out.
Rafe’s exorcism began five minutes later.
“I saw one of my buddies today. Down at The Sound. I don’t know if you remember him. Brad Sutter. He used to play rhythm guitar for… shit, a whole bunch of bands.” Rafe played with the collar of Harley’s sweater, worrying at the yarn with his fingertips. “He’s doing nickel and dime work in the studio now.”
Quinn still waited. A long time ago he learned conversations really were a stream of send-and-receive. In most cases, the person sending needed long gaps of quiet to gather their thoughts. Rafe was one of those people. He could ramble and babble and laugh while talking about everything under the sun or nothing at all, but when it came time for him to share, Rafe needed gaps in the noise, because his thoughts and emotions were as difficult to herd as drunken cats.
He didn’t need Rafe to tell him about his relationship with Brad Sutter. He didn’t recognize