Forbidden (Southern Comfort) by O'Neill, Clark (free ebook reader txt) 📗

“Testing his mettle,” Rogan clarified, smirking into identical blue eyes.  “As should be expected of any man who wants a piece of this family.”

Declan tipped his head toward Copeland.  “And why might you be thinking he wants a piece of this family, might I ask?”

Rogan inspected the drink, satisfied with its contents.  “He got all proprietary this morning, not only with Tate, but with Max.  It would have been funny if it hadn’t been so… refreshing.  None of the losers Tate’s dated before have been man enough to take on the kid.”  It was a sore point, as Rogan was devoted to them both.  “This guy looked able, and willing.”

Declan’s brow shot skyward.  “Yet here he sits, drinking alone.”

“He and Tate were working on some kind of FBI thing today – missing girl, I think, but I didn’t get the whole story.  But I suspect that hang-dog expression has as much to do with our fair cousin as it does with his sucky job.”

“Well, whatever.  But just to clarify, I thought FBI was here for a limited time frame.”

“Yeah.  Tate said he was out of here at the end of the week.”

“And so you’re fretting about this because…?”

“I don’t fret,” Rogan protested.  “I may, occasionally, express reservations, but I don’t fret. That’s physiologically impossible for a man.”

Dec snorted.  His brother, who could care less what their friends and relatives did in their private lives, claimed Rogan had the tendency to channel the Love Boat’s Captain Steubing.

And Tate was his little Vicky.

“Have at it.” Declan shrugged, moving off toward the opposite end of the bar.   He sang low under his breath as he walked by, just loud enough for his brother to hear him.

“Set a course for adventure, your mind on a new romance –”

Rogan sent a well-placed elbow to Declan’s ribs.  Then he snagged Copeland’s drink from the bar.

THE glass that was placed in front of him definitely contained alcohol, but it sure as hell wasn’t what he’d ordered. Clay lifted his head from the hand he’d dropped it into to find Rogan Murphy staring back at him.

Perfect.

Exactly who he wanted to see.  Maybe he should just call Josh Harding over, too, so that he could make this night a total suck-fest.  They could play The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly, challenge each other to a couple of duels.  Or maybe Murphy could simply mediate while he and Harding shot each other, since his interest in Tate was platonic and the guy didn’t carry a gun.

“What’s this?” He was annoyed by the sullen tone of voice, but couldn’t find pleasant in his current repertoire.

“Irish cure-all.” Murphy nodded at the glass.  “Looks like you could use one.”

Clay studied the drink, studied the man.  Tate’s cousin had his hair tied back in a tail, and he’d decided to put on a shirt.  Irritation spurted. Clay decided it had been a colossally poor decision to patronize this particular establishment.

Dozens of bars, he mused, sliding his hand toward the drink. And he plants his butt in the middle of the Irish Inquisition.

“Is this some sort of test, Murphy?”

Rogan offered a smile that was little more than a show of teeth.   “I don’t know, Agent Copeland.  Should it be?”

Absurd to have to prove a point this way, but Clay figured when in Rome.  And so figuring, downed the elaborate concoction in one fell swoop.

He turned it over, empty, on the bar.

About to make a comment regarding pissing contests and the like, the fire of that combination roared through him.  Tears welled, flames licked, and his stomach exploded into a ball of burning embers.  “Holy shit,” he choked, relieved that his voice box hadn’t been cremated.  “What are you trying to do, man?  Kill me?”

Rogan slapped a companionable hand on Clay’s shoulder.  “A moment or two of agony, and then you feel no pain.”

Clay wiped at the moisture leaking from his eyes.  “Well, I haven’t quite reached the no pain part.  Apparently that involves a side trip through Hell.”

Rogan reached down, chuckling, and slid Clay a bottle of Killian’s with practiced flourish.  “So would you like to start a tab?  Easier, all around, if you’re planning to stay awhile.”

Yet a little unsteady, Clay eyed the man to gauge his agenda.  This was obviously a recon mission.  Or maybe an all-out assault, complete with dirty bombs.

“I’d like to stay awhile.”  There was a double meaning there, and from the look on the other man’s face, they both knew it.  “But unfortunately my schedule doesn’t allow for indulging in more than a couple drinks.”  And though his stomach rebelled, for principle’s sake, he lifted the beer to his mouth.

Flipping the towel off his shoulder, Rogan wiped the ring from the bar.  “It’s always been my philosophy that if you have no intention of getting sotted, you’re better off not visiting the bar.”

Tongue tucked firmly in his cheek, Clay contemplated the analogy.  Decided Murphy’s position was admirable, in an utterly obnoxious way.

“You’re close to Tate?” he asked, simply cutting through the crap.  They could dance around this issue for the next three hours, but Clay had left his blue suede shoes in the car.

“Very.”  Murphy’s arms crossed.  “Tate’s a sweetheart.  The only time we’ve ever locked horns was over the situation with Max’s father.  I wanted to kill him. The man was a piece of shit.”

“You’ll get no argument from me.”  Clay tipped his bottle, pleased the contents went down easy.  “And this is the part where you tell me that if I hurt her, you’ll have to kill me.”

“I wouldn’t have put it in so many words, because that might be construed as threatening a federal agent.”

Clay smiled.  “So do you go through this little dog and pony show with everybody who takes Tate out?”

Murphy’s eyes went hard.  “I saw how you were today, both of you, with each other.  And the way Max went right to you, as well.  Call it premature, but I’m good at reading situations.  You’re either going to be very