Accidentally On Purpose

by J. M. Snyder

  Accidentally On Purpose

  By J.M. Snyder

  Published by JMS Books LLC

  Visit jms-books.com for more information.

  Copyright 2018 J.M. Snyder

  ISBN 9781634867818

  Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com

  Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.

  All rights reserved.

  WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

  No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

  This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It contains substantial sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which may be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published in the United States of America.

  * * * *

  Accidentally On Purpose

  By J.M. Snyder

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Epilogue

  Chapter 1

  It’s quarter to midnight on Friday when Alan’s phone pings with an incoming text.

  On our way.

  “About bloody time,” he mutters, setting the phone on the coffee table. He takes a healthy swig of the gin and tonic he’s been nursing for the past half hour. His stomach aches anxiously; his palms feel damp. He wipes them on his khakis, praying it’s condensation from the rocks glass and not perspiration. At fifty-three, Alan Travers shouldn’t get nervous like this; hell, he’s too old. But his heart pounds and a vein throbs in his right temple, and suddenly he feels like he might throw up.

  Get a hold of yourself, man, he thinks, taking a deep breath. You’re not going to chuck up and waste good gin.

  He checks his phone again, but there are no more messages. The last one that came in, the one which triggered this little panic attack of his, still appears on the lock screen.

  On our way. Sent two minutes ago by Brooks Wallace, Alan’s fourteen-year-old nephew. At this hour he’s out too late, and with the city curfew in effect, he’s breaking the law, too.

  Alan finishes his drink and sets the glass on the coffee table. Nervous energy swirls through him and he stands, running both hands through his short cropped hair. He catches sight of himself in the mirror above the fireplace and smooths down the unkempt strands. Once dark, his hair is more salt than pepper now, and most days he feels more distinguished than old. But today the determined set to his features emphasizes the lines around his blue-gray eyes and expressive mouth, making him look older than he’d care to admit.

  He should get another drink.

  No, they’ll be here any minute. Brooks is only at the mall, which isn’t that far away. Besides, he doesn’t want to get drunk, does he?

  At least take your glass into the kitchen, mate. You want to make a good impression, no?

  Alan picks up the glass, untucking the hem of his button-down shirt to wipe away the ring of water left behind on the coffee table. He should probably change now, there’s a damp spot right beside his crotch. Talk about good impressions, you effing slob. Raised in a barn, were you?

  But when he reaches the hallway, he hears a car’s tires crunch over the gravel in front of his garage.

  Too late.

  He hurries into the kitchen and deposits the glass in the sink, then unbuckles his belt, unbuttons his trousers, and pulls down his zipper all in one fluid motion. With both hands, he tucks the shirt hem out of sight. He’s rushing, though, and the damn zipper catches the fabric when he tries to pull it up. “Bloody hell,” he mutters, tugging on the zipper. Another few seconds and he’ll simply pull the shirt out again, damp or not, and hope it covers the stuck fly.

  But the fabric comes free with a good, hard tug, and not a moment too soon, either. As the zipper slides up over the slight bulge at his crotch, the doorbell rings.

  See what you do to me? Alan thinks, pushing against the front of his trousers. He bites back a moan and tries to ignore the bolt of pleasure that shoots through him. Maybe he really should keep his shirt untucked, if only to hide what’s turning into the start of an erection.

  A knock on the front door at the end of the hall follows the doorbell. Alan almost trips over his feet to answer. “Coming!”

  Standing on his porch is Detective Jim Garrison with the Richmond police. Dressed in a navy suit and tie, Garrison is a good decade younger than Alan and it shows. He’s sternly handsome, with a wide jaw and smooth, clean-shaven cheeks. His thin lips have a natural redness to them Alan wants to taste. He wears his thick brown hair short, combing the length on top to the left. He tilts his head that way, too, as if afraid to ruin the part. His dark bedroom eyes soften when he sees Alan.

  In his gruff voice, Garrison says, “Mr. Travers, hello.”

  “Detective.” Alan wonders if his own voice sounds as high out loud as it does in his head. Clearing his throat, he adds, “Nice to see you again.”

  Understatement of the year.

  “Well,” Garrison drawls, “you might change your mind when you find out the reason why I’m here.”

  Alan presses his lips together to keep from grinning. “Oh no. Don’t tell me it’s Brooks again?”

  “You are aware there’s a curfew for anyone under eighteen?”

  Of course he does. Garrison knows he does. The detective has been here for the same reason before. More than once.

  “I know, I do,” Alan says. “But I didn’t know he wasn’t here, honest. Last I heard from him, he turned in around nine. Long day, you know. He was out at the high school football game earlier. Here I thought he was upstairs sleeping this whole time.”

  Garrison narrows his eyes, and for a moment, Alan wonders if the jig is up. Then the detective lets out a weary sigh. “Yeah, well, he wasn’t.”

  “Where’s he now?” Alan leans closer, pretending to look out at Garrison’s unmarked car but really trying to catch a whiff of the detective’s cologne. Calvin Klein’s Eternity, if he isn’t mistaken. Light, sexy, and seductive. He’d love to wake up with that scent on his pillows.

  Get a grip, man. He isn’t here to see you.

  Well, that isn’t exactly true. He is here to see Alan, but only about Brooks being out after curfew, again. Even if he does smell damn delicious.

  “In the car,” Garrison says. “Front seat, don’t worry. He isn’t under arrest.”

  “Maybe he should be,” Alan mutters. This time he allows himself a quick smile to show he’s only kidding. Mostly. “Didn’t he want to get out?”

  Garri
son turns now, too. The driver’s side window is down, and through it Alan can see the long black sleeve of the hoodie Brooks likes to wear. A faint light flickers inside the vehicle; Brooks on his cell phone, texting someone or playing one of his games.

  Alan leans out a little more, crossing his arms in front of his chest. The night’s chilly this late. Ducking down, he can see farther into the car, and for one brief instant, Brooks glances his way. Alan raises his voice so it carries easily across the yard. “Coming in sometime tonight then, son?”

  Brooks’ dramatic sigh can be heard all the way to the porch. The phone’s light goes out; a moment later, the passenger side door opens and Brooks doesn’t step so much as fling himself out of the vehicle. Angrily the door slams shut behind him.

  In a low voice only Garrison can hear, Alan murmurs, “Someone has an attitude.”

  “It could be worse,” Garrison suggests.

  Alan looks at the detective, who’s watching Brooks approach and can’t see the naked want Alan knows has to be written all over his face. God, this man. So close Alan could reach out and touch him, if he dared. Careful, mate, he warns himself. Don’t go scaring him away just because you’re too damn eager.

  Fighting against everything in him that wants Jim Garrison, Alan tries to keep his voice steady as he asks, “How, exactly?”

  Garrison shrugs, and in the gesture, Alan sees a friendliness that makes his heart sing. It’s almost familiar, as if they might be more to each other than what it looks like tonight. Garrison raises his voice a little, so Brooks can overhear. “He isn’t into drugs or alcohol or fighting. You should see some of the riff raff I have to deal with some nights.”

  Brooks has closed the distance between the car and house, and now he stomps up the porch steps with exaggerated force. His pale skin stands out against his black hoodie and jeans; even his hair is black, so dark it looks almost blue under the porch light.

  “He just likes to run off at all hours.” Alan reaches out and ruffles that thick, inky hair, getting in a good rub before Brooks ducks out of reach. “You’re lucky you aren’t old enough to spend the night in jail.”

  Brooks glares at Alan from under his dark fringe. “If I were older, I wouldn’t be picked up for breaking curfew,” he mutters. “I don’t even know why it matters anyway. It’s Friday. I don’t have to get up early for school tomorrow.”

  “Curfew’s the same every night,” Garrison says, “school or not. You know that by now. How many times have I picked you up after eleven?”

  Brooks doesn’t answer, just shoves his hands in his pockets and scuffs his shoe as he frowns at the floor.

  “Third time this month, innit?” Alan asks.

  Brooks mumbles something under his breath.

  “What’s that?” Leaning out the door, Alan cups a hand around his ear. “Speak up, son. I’m a little hard of hearing.”

  Brooks glowers. “I said can I go in now? God.”

  Alan can’t leave it alone. “Are you going to stay in there this time, then?”

  With an aggravated sigh, Brooks pushes past Alan into the house. He storms upstairs, stomping with more force than before, if that’s possible.

  Alan shares an amused smile with Garrison. “He’ll tear the house down if he isn’t careful. Thanks again for bringing him in.”

  “No problem.”

  Then, to Alan’s surprise, Garrison doesn’t make any move to leave.

  Am I reading this right? Alan barely dares to hope.

  Still, can’t hurt to take a chance, can it? With a nod behind him, Alan says, “Bit nippy out here. Want to come in for a minute?”

  Garrison gives another easy shrug. “I should really get back to work.” But he tucks one hand into his pants pocket and rocks back on his heels. Obviously not in any hurry.

  “Just have a cuppa,” Alan offers.

  Garrison grins. “I’m on duty, remember.”

  “So we’ll leave the whiskey out of yours,” Alan jokes as he takes a step back. Uncrossing his arms, he gestures for Garrison to come inside. “After you, detective. I have coffee, hot tea, fresh lemonade. Pick your poison.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Travers.”

  Alan closes his eyes as Garrison passes by, breathing in deep his scent. God, that’s heavenly. He shuts the door and locks it out of habit. “Please, it’s Alan. Calling me mister makes me feel ancient.”

  “Alan, then.” With a nod, Garrison steps back to let Alan lead the way. “I’m Jim.”

  Oh, don’t I know that. Out loud, Alan says, “Right. You’re by here often enough, I don’t know how we’re not on a first name basis already. Follow me.”

  As he passes the staircase, he glances up and sees Brooks leaning on the bannister rail. Alan gives a little shake of his head in warning.

  Brooks just smirks.

  Chapter 2

  The light over the stove gives the kitchen a warm, homey feel. Alan gestures for Detective Garrison—Jim—to have a seat at one of the stools at the breakfast bar, then turns to the Keurig machine on the counter. “So, what’ll it be, mate?” Alan asks. “Coffee, tea…”

  Silently, he finishes the thought with the rhyme, Or me? He clamps his mouth shut to keep from saying it out loud.

  If the same rhyme occurs to Jim, he doesn’t mention it. Instead he says, “Coffee’s good. I have another four hours until I’m off duty. I’ll need something to keep me alert.”

  Alan laughs. “So no decaf then.”

  “Yeah, no.” The smile is evident in Jim’s voice.

  As the Keurig heats up, Alan takes the other stool, pulling it out on the opposite side of the breakfast bar so he can sit across from the detective. Now that they’re face to face, alone for once, a nervous silence suddenly fills the air between them.

  This close, Alan can see a network of fine lines around the corners of Jim’s eyes and mouth, the ghosts of wrinkles that appear when he smiles. The hair swept back from his brow still holds the imprints of a comb. His eyes are dark, even in the kitchen lighting, and Alan can’t quite figure out if they’re blue or brown. The way Jim ducks his head makes it hard for Alan to look at them directly. Besides, he doesn’t want to stare.

  But damn, he’s a handsome bloke. A faint shadow edges his jaw, darkening his skin, and Alan has to clasp his hands together to keep from reaching out to run a finger over the thin stubble. What would it feel like beneath his thumb? Against his cheek?

  Bloody hell. This is torture, pure and simple. Whose bright idea was it to invite this guy into his home, anyway?

  Mine.

  Anxiously Alan drums his fingers on the bar top and tries to think of something, anything, to say. You offered him a drink. Did you think you’d just sit here and stare at each other? Gaze lovingly into each other’s eyes? Declare your undying love for each other, even though you’ve already said more to him tonight than you ever have before?

  What can you two possibly talk about, anyway?

  Alan doesn’t know. Do they even have anything in common? “So…”

  Jim glances over, that tight smile of his in place. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes, which Alan sees now are a deeper shade of blue than his own. Whatever he might’ve said next evaporates as he loses himself in that dark gaze.

  I’m too old to be acting like some damn schoolgirl, he chastises himself. I’m older than this man. Why the hell can’t I act like it?

  Fortunately at that moment the Keurig starts filling the coffee mug, and it’s the distraction Alan needs. He retrieves the mug and sets it in front of Jim with a spoon to stir the hot java. “How do you take it?”

  “Some milk, if you have it,” Jim says. “Sugar…”

  “Right here.” Alan places the sugar bowl on the bar top, too, then gets the milk from the fridge. “I hope two percent’s okay?”

  Jim’s smile is more genuine now. “Sure, thanks.”

  As Jim stirs the coffee, Alan fixes himself a mug of Earl Grey tea. It doesn’t take long; the Keurig’s all ready to go. Then h
e’s back across from Jim again, stirring a spoonful of sugar into his own steaming mug.

  Let’s give this another go, shall we?

  “So,” Alan says, blowing on his tea so he can take a sip. “How’s tricks tonight?”

  That earns him a laugh. Jim winces as he samples his coffee, then sets it down to let it cool. “Oh, you know. This isn’t exactly New York City. When I’m not on a case, I’m out at the mall enforcing curfew.” He gives Alan a pointed look.

  Alan sips at his tea. “Brooks is a good boy. Really he is. A lot of it is he misses his mother.”

  Jim arches his eyebrows. “Where is she?”

  With a dismissive wave, Alan says, “Afghanistan. Deployed. She’s in the Army.”

  Jim’s gaze drops to Alan’s hands. “I didn’t know you were married.”

  “What? No, I’m not.” Alan frowns at him. “Why would you think I was?”

  “Well, you have a son…”

  For a moment, Alan isn’t sure what Jim’s talking about. Then it hits him and he laughs. “You mean Brooks? No, mate, he’s my nephew. He stays with me while my sister’s overseas.”

  Is it just him, or does Jim’s smile widen a little at the news?

  Alan hides his own grin with another sip of tea. “Didn’t you think it a bit strange, fellow as old as me having a son as young as him?”

  “You keep saying you’re old,” Jim points out, “but you can’t be as old as all that.”

  “Older than you.”

  Jim counters, “I’d bet not by very much.”

  “A wager you’d lose.” Shut up, you stupid git, Alan thinks. Why is he going on about it? Is he trying to push Jim away?

  Something glitters in Jim’s eyes. “You’re on. How much?”

  Now you’ve done it. “A ten-spot,” Alan says. “Guess how many years there are between us.”

  “Do I have to get it exact?” Jim’s smiling broadly now.

  “Close enough,” Alan tells him. “Within two years, either way. But let me warn you now, if you over-guess, I’ll feel horrid.”

  Jim studies him for a few moments, silently assessing him. Trying to guess his age, Christ. This can’t end well.