by Rhys Ford
“Yeah,” Forest said with a grin. “Remember that when we have kids and they’re eating nacho cheese out of those big damned cans you keep buying.”
“I like orange gloop on my chips,” Con teased. “I can’t wait to have kids with you, Forest Morgan-Ackerman, and I sure as hell can’t wait to spend the rest of my life dancing in the kitchen with you too.”
Dancing After the Cake
IT WAS nearly midnight by the time the last of the Morgan children left. The ones still at home were either in bed or upstairs in the attic loft playing video games, saving the world from an apocalypse filled with zombies. Donal waited until he heard the last car leave their driveway before turning off the porch light and locking the front door. Going through the living room, he turned off the rest of the lights and picked up the last of the dishes left behind after Connor’s birthday party. The air still held the slight scent of chocolate cake and sugar with a healthy dose of whiskey, probably from the splash Ian spilled on the rug as he toasted his eldest brother.
The soft glow from the kitchen was enough for Donal to see his way through the house. And all the years they’d lived there, the furniture seemed to be nomadic, driven into different configurations by his restless bride. The swish of the dishwasher greeted him as he came through the door, and he held up the stack of plates and glasses he’d brought with him for Brigid to see.
Despite the horde of Morgans and their significant others who’d descended like locusts and brought with them a flurry of chaos, the kitchen was nearly spotless. Another round of trash would probably have to go out in the morning, and there was a small stack of plates on the counter next to the pantry, but all things considered, the place was fairly clean. Brigid was wiping down a chopping board with a tea towel, her hips swaying gently as she rolled them in time to a song playing on the stereo.
“These will be going in the next batch, then,” he rumbled at her in Gaelic, heading toward the sink. They often fell into the language they’d been born to, its rolling musical lilt as much of a comfort as the old house they’d settled in. “And don’t ye be thinking ye can open that up and we could fit them in, because I have no intention of spending the next hour mopping up soapsuds from the floor.”
“I’ve only done that once,” his wife replied, pushing her curly red hair from her face and tilting her chin up at him.
“Once?” he prodded.
“At the most three. Anything beyond that, I’m denying.” She sniffed imperiously, taking the dishes from him. “Get out the box from the back of the fridge and I’ll get these soaking.”
Donal stood there, leaning against the island in the middle of the kitchen, and watched the woman he’d married so many years before fill the sink with water and soap. They’d met in their teens, her flirting striking him mute and her boldness making him bashful. He’d come from a long line of stoic, stalwart men and women with stern personalities and hard manners, so Brigid Finnegan was the closest thing to playing with fire he could imagine.
He’d ignored her, politely sidestepping her when she approached him at school. He’d done everything he could to ignore the firebrand determined to crack him open, until one day he turned around to look down at the copper-haired pixie dogging his steps and asked her if she was insane.
Back then, he’d thought her to be spoiled, a girl raised in riches with little thought to anyone but herself. Brigid Finnegan was no one’s spoiled little girl. Her family worked for a living; even with as much coin as they’d gathered up, every Finnegan he knew gave everything they had to further their clan. But most of all, they fought as hard as they played, willing to step in and defend the forgotten and weak.
She’d told him that one day her ring would be on his finger and his heart would be in her hands. And on that day, he would know what it was like to be loved unconditionally, and she would battle anyone who stood in their way. She’d been beautiful and scary, a pint-sized dollop of Irish beauty and temper.
That’s when Donal Morgan realized he’d fallen in love—hook, line, and sinker—with the fierce warrior who’d challenged him to think, to dream, and most of all, to care.
Her hips were a little wider, having given birth to his clan of children, and a few of the strands in her curly hair were more golden than fire, but her eyes were still as lushly green as the island they’d come from, and her face was still as beautiful as any sunset God created.
“Are ye standing there ogling my ass, Donal Morgan?” She tossed him a saucy look over her shoulder. “Or are ye getting that cake out of the icebox?”
He went and got the cake.
It was small—a cupcake really—but it was enough for the two of them to share. By the time Donal finally found an unlit birthday candle in their holiday bin, she was wiping her hands dry after going ahead with washing the dishes he’d brought in. From the looks of its rainbow swirled, glittery length, it was a leftover from one of Ryan’s parties, and the whimsical nature of it brought a smile to Brigid’s lips.
Donal anchored the tiny candle into the cake’s frosting, then carefully lit its bent wick. The flame caught immediately, throwing up a puff of bluish-gray smoke, then settling down into a steady flare. He made room by the counter for his wife to slip into the space beside him, pulled her into a hug, and nestled her tiny body against his hip.
The candle’s little flame burned strong, illuminating Brigid’s features and gilding her emerald eyes. She took a breath, and it caught in her throat, hitching her chest slightly. A gleam of tears appeared on her lashes, but she was determined not to let them fall.
She refused to cry for their loss. It was the one constant in their yearly ritual. A promise they’d both made on the day they’d welcomed one son and buried another.
“Happy birthday, my darling Jamison,” Brigid whispered as she bent over the candle. Donal scooped her wealth of hair back, keeping her curls from falling into the flame. “We love ye, our bonny boy.”
They blew the flame out together, as they’d done every year after celebrating Connor’s birthday. It was a small ritual they did alone, something private between two parents mourning their stillborn son while sharing the joy of his twin’s life. Losing Jamison devastated Brigid’s tender heart, and she’d railed at everything she might have done wrong, despite the doctors’ reassurances their tiny little boy had never been truly there.
They’d buried him in Ireland, leaving him in the embrace and comfort of the entire clan that had come before. Connor grew up knowing he’d been a twin, but they’d taken great care to separate his life from Jamison’s birth, knowing the yoke of guilt could be passed on without anyone noticing.
“Do ye think his soul came back to us in one of the others?” Brigid asked softly as Donal turned her around. He held his hands up to her, and she clasped his fingers, humming along to the classic rock love song playing through the stereo speakers. “I sometimes wonder about that. If he made his way back around.”
“I don’t know,” Donal confessed, wrapping his arm around her waist as he began to dance her across the kitchen. Their steps were slow and steady, a relaxed waltz of sorts, and as usual, Brigid needed to lead. “Maybe not Kane. Maybe one of the more rascally ones. Someone who would have balanced out Connor. Not like our first three didn’t go through their share of trouble, but I always imagined Jamison would’ve been more pirate than cop.”
“That’s because ye’ve always wanted to be a pirate,” she teased. “Maybe our Braeden. He’s always been the contrary one.”
“I’m thinking Ian might be dropping out of the Academy, but he doesn’t know how to tell me.” Donal pulled her hand up, tucking it under his chin as he held it tight. “I think I’ll be needing to give him a little push. Not every Morgan needs to wear a badge. I’d rather he be happy than wear a star.”
“I’m agreeing with the push.” She nodded and sighed, laying her cheek against his chest. Their steps slowed until their dance became a deep sway. “I did right by myself, choosing ye, Donal Morgan. I did rig
ht by my family for having ye as my children’s father. My heart is glad for yer company, and ye make my soul sing.”
“I’m glad ye chased me down.” Donal chuckled, kissing his bride on the top of her head. “We’ve made a good family. Raised fine men and women. But best of all, I’ve had ye by my side, the love of my life. The light of my heart. The fire of my blood. I love ye, Brigid Finnegan Morgan. To my dying days and a little bit beyond.”
“And to think, my mum was worried ye weren’t romantic.” Her laughter was a silvery caress around his joy, and she snuggled in even closer. “Here we are, just in our fifties, and I’m wondering which one of the children I can hit up to get me a grandkid.”
The back of his head rang with the brassy symbol of incoming trouble Donal was quite used to hearing after decades of being the Morgan patriarch. Shaking his head, he warned, “That’s not something ye should be pushing on. Not like ye are going to pay attention to me, because ye never do.”
“I listen to ye,” Brigid protested, then mumbled, “mostly. Sometimes. Okay, hardly ever, but it’s better to risk it all and gain some than risk nothing and gain nothing back.”
“Ye said that about Miki,” he reminded her, chucking under her chin. “But I’ll admit the boy has come around a little bit.”
“I’m glad ye think so,” Brigid replied, lifting her head and giving him the cheeky grin that always made his stomach clench. “Because I’m thinking about asking how he and Kane feel about adoption.”
A Ride along the Coast
“YOU KEEP eating that crab that way and I am going to be arrested for doing unspeakable things to you in this restaurant,” Damien muttered across the table at Sionn. “And I swear to God, you suck your fingers clean one more time and there will be a reenactment of ‘Cell Block Tango’ with you and my dick.”
“I’d like to see you try,” Sionn shot back, winking at him. Damien was outrageous and loved to push buttons, so it was always fun to tease him back, just to watch his expression. “Because if I’ve got to choose between you and five pounds of garlic-steamed Dungeness crab, you will wait and the crab will not. Although both of you are pretty tasty with melted butter.”
Damien sat back, speechless.
The waiter who’d come up to refill their wine chortled briefly, then got his expression under control. “Will there be anything else I can get you, sirs? Or would you like some privacy?”
“We’re fine. Thank you,” Sionn replied. “Although we’ll probably want dessert later.”
The hotel’s restaurant was a five-star dining experience set on the cliffs of a breathtaking Southern California seashore. They’d checked in that afternoon, a spur of the moment trip down the coast in Damien’s Challenger that turned into a weekend retreat. A quick stop at a mall for spare clothes and a duffel bag turned into a brief autograph session with Damien and a bunch of musicians, then a photo session with a pack of young girls and their fathers who’d stopped to see a movie.
Sionn amused himself by playing the rock star’s security guard, biting the inside of his cheek as one of the girls gasped when Damien pinched him on the ass.
“This is nice.” Damien stared out at the ocean, the restaurant’s lights soft on his handsome face. The sea was a bit choppy, a silvery weave of blue gilded by the full moon, its color reminding Sionn of Damien’s eyes. His lover turned to him, his mischievous grin going soft and sensual. “I love Miki—”
“But?” Sionn interjected, picking up his wineglass to sip at the fruity, smoky white.
“I love being able to spend time with just you. It’s nice.” Damien reached for a crab leg, studiously cracked it open, and avoided Sionn’s gaze. Emotions were often hard for Damien. Or at least showing them. As brash and outrageous as he could be, his heart was tender and easily broken, not something he showed most of the world. In fact, maybe it was a part of him he only shared with Sionn and Miki. “Me and Miki, that’s easy. The band gets a little harder, but the whole family? That’s like being in a storm of Irish and I’m drunk off of whiskey and the boat’s leaking.”
“I’d like to say they’re not that bad, but I know my family.” He saluted Damien with his glass. “They’re that bad. Especially the younger ones. It’s like they have something to prove, so they’re louder, more in-your-face.”
“You and I have it lucky. We’re solos….” Damie trailed off, his mind probably taking him to places he didn’t want to go. Shaking his head, he dug out a long strip of crab with a fork, then dipped it into lemon-rich butter, his cocky smile back on his face. “To be honest, Sionn love, would you want to be Kane and Connor’s younger sibling?”
“I’m their cousin, remember? My gran constantly compared me to them, and even worse, she’d throw Quinn’s accomplishments in my face whenever I got a B in school.” Sionn chuckled under his breath, remembering his grandmother’s habitual disgust at his grades and the slight rivalry she had in her head between him and the Morgan boys. “Despite Brigid being a Finnegan, as far as she was concerned, they were a rival clan to be bested at every turn. She liked to fight. I think that’s something every Finnegan woman is born with. The lust for a sword in their hand and a battle to engage.”
“Brigid certainly does,” Damien pointed out. The table was small enough for him to reach out and take Sionn’s hand, tangling their fingers together as the wind carried the scent of salt and the night air toward them. “Don’t take this wrong, but I’m glad she’s not your mother. There’s a lot of expectations there in that busy head of hers. It’s like she’s single-handedly trying to build a dynasty and we are pawns on her chessboard. I think if you were her kid, she’d be measuring our fingers for gold bands and picking out houses.”
Sionn shook his head, tightening his clasp on Damien’s hand. “She’s not that bad. They wanted me to live with them when I came over, but my gran wouldn’t let me go. And I loved her for wanting me so badly, but she was old and set in her ways. Dealing with me was not something she planned on doing. Brigid was there to pick up the pieces and smooth down feathers, one warrior woman to another.
“I was angry back then. I felt kicked around and unwanted. Not to mention all of the crap going on in my head because of what the church told me. That I was wrong. That falling in love with another man was a sin.” He brought Damien’s hand up, kissed his lover’s fingers. “Brigid and Donal laid a path down for me to find a way out of my rage and my hurt. Because I love my gran, but all she did was feed it. So I have a very soft spot in my heart for Aunt Brigid.”
“Your grandmother used to love chasing us off the pier. Sometimes I don’t know what she hated more, seagulls or musicians.” Damien took his hand back to wrestle with another piece of crab.
“In her eyes, you both were one and the same. Right up there with sewer rats.” Sionn passed Damien the bowl of lemon wedges. “You were always in the way, shit on everything, and made a lot of noise. She didn’t see much of a difference.”
“Would you think less of me if I told you every time we play down at Finnegan’s I get a secret thrill at thumbing my nose at your grandmother?”
“Honestly, D,” Sionn replied, “in a lot of ways, you’re exactly like her.”
“See if you get any tonight.” Damien wrinkled his nose. “Wait, no. Forget I said that. No sex for you also means no sex for me, so since you know how selfish I am—”
“I know how you like to pretend you are, but you’re a really shitty liar, Damien Mitchell.” Sionn unraveled the warm, wet towels the waiter left behind. “How about if you finish up that crab of yours and we can go take a walk on the beach? And when we get back, we can have dessert in our room, and then maybe, like good hobbits, have second dessert between ourselves.”
“I am not a hobbit. For one, I’m not short,” Damien mumbled around his fingers, sucking them clean of crab and butter. “And between the two of us, I’d like to remind you, my foot was not the one Ryan’s hamster mistook for a sex doll.”
THEY’D TAKEN off their shoes and burie
d their toes in the sand, sitting down on the beach’s gentle slope. The stairwell down the cliff was lit well enough to see, but not so bright as to intrude upon the milky darkness of a romantic evening. The ocean kept them company, murmuring of far-off lands and midnight swims, but neither one of them felt inclined to put any part of their bodies into cold water.
Sionn sat as close to Damien as he could, wrapping his arm around his lover’s waist. It took Damien a minute before he finally relaxed enough to lean into Sionn’s embrace. The tiny sigh from the musician’s parted lips was as sweet as the bit of chocolate they’d been given at the end of their meal.
“Do you think people wonder about how the two of us get on?” Damien murmured. “I was at the studio the other day and I saw a guy I used to know back before—before Sinner’s got big—and he asked me if I would hook up with him. I told him I was with you, and he kinda laughed at me. I’m not sure what that says about me or maybe the two of us.”
“I think that says more about him than it says about you,” Sionn remarked. “In a lot of ways, you’re just as private as Miki. You just have a different kind of face you wear. You’re more sociable, but it’s kind of a front, that rock star thing you play at. Your partner in crime just doesn’t know how to people as well as you do.”
“Miki is about as sociable as a rabid wolverine with sea urchins caught up its ass.” Damien snorted. “I just wanted you to know that… you and I? I don’t ever want to see my life without you in it. I love you so fucking much, it hurts sometimes to look at you. And I know I don’t say that a lot. Fuck, maybe I don’t say it at all, but you mean as much to me as Miki does. Maybe… okay, in some ways even more. Because I don’t have to share you with anybody, and I feel like you get everything that I am.”