Free Sloe Ride by Rhys Ford

Quinn’s coat, pulling its soft wool lapels up to his sharp chin. “It seems rude to… desert you. Suppose someone comes by and—”
    “Attacks me?” Quinn held up the jack’s tire iron. “I’m armed and dangerous. Besides, it’s in the middle of the afternoon. If anyone starts anything, I’ll just start quoting the second act until their head goes full watermelon. It’ll be fine. Promise.”
    The five minutes stretched into ten as the car refused to give up its hard-won flat. Deep breathing helped, as did swearing. He’d gone through all of the Latin he knew when the final lug nut gave in, and Quinn spun the tire off to the side, resisting the urge to fling it against the far wall to teach it a lesson. With the spare in place, he’d just put the flat in the trunk and was about to lower the car to the ground when a siren jolted him out of his focus.
    “What the hell?” A black SUV with darkened windows pulled up beside him, and Quinn groaned, wondering what he’d done to bring down the wrath of gods on his head that afternoon. “Of course. Why not.”
    The SUV’s lights flashed twice; then the car engine cut off. A few seconds later, the driver’s door opened, and a broad-shouldered, hard-jawed cop got out, the afternoon sun glinting on the metal star fixed to his dark uniform jacket. From the look on the man’s face, Quinn was in for a reckoning—but for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out exactly what he’d done wrong.
    Until he caught the captain eyeing the sedan perched on its jack, trunk open and disabled tire displayed for all to see.
    “ Quinn. ” The man’s rolling Irish and deep golden voice seemed as cold as the air Quinn sucked into his lungs. “Imagine. I’d thought I’d seen ye but then said to meself, no, that’s not m’boy’s speedster. It couldn’t be me son, but then I remembered something—a conversation I’d just had with Mullens up at Southern. Something about a truck and a tin can about wide enough only to hold a sardine.”
    “Hello, Da.” Sidestepping Donal Morgan’s ire wasn’t something easily done. It was best to accept the inevitable and show remorse, but Donal’s eyes narrowed, and he drew up closer, his long legs shortening the distance between them. Donal was nearly against Quinn’s chest when he stopped short, studying his son intently.
    “I was actually going to be hunting ye down later, but here ye were, right on my way home.” His father chewed through the bite in the air, spitting it back out hot and worried. “Want to be telling me anything about the other night? Say, perhaps why ye nearly got killed and didn’t tell me or yer mum?”
    “Da, I’m fine.” He switched to Gaelic, mindful of the people walking by. The sidewalk suddenly appeared to be teeming with people, many throwing curious glances at the mountain of a cop standing ready to dress Quinn down. “Can we do this later? I’ve got to finish this up and then take Graham home. We were just at this… thing and—”
    “We cannot be doing this later, Quinn.” Donal’s paternal concern battled the raging thread in his voice. Long inured to the duality of his father’s gut instincts and parenting, Quinn waited Donal out, wondering which side would win out—the protective anger or the comforting coddle. “ Now .”
    “Da, I don’t want to talk about what—” He waved toward the building, the borrowed car’s fobs clicking together. “Wait, on your way home? This isn’t near home.”
    “I went down to Southern to talk to an old friend, and then one of the lieutenants comes up to ask me about how ye were doing. As if I knew someone tried to fold ye in an accordion.” Donal cut him off quickly. “When were ye thinking of telling me about that, son? Instead, I have to hear about it from another cop? Oh, and because ye’d left yer phone in what remains of that deathtrap ye drive.”
    “Shit, that’s my school phone. I forgot all about it. No wonder people kept saying