by J. M. Snyder
“For giving you another reason to see Detective Garrison!” Brooks shouts.
Alan takes a step back. “For…what? What are you talking about? I went out with him last night, remember?”
Brooks glares at the table, face reddening, eyes watering, getting angry now. Probably thinking his damn old uncle doesn’t understand.
I don’t, Alan admits, if only to himself. But Jim’s right. I don’t want him shutting me out.
And just like that, Alan feels his own anger break apart. He skirts the table and runs an arm around Brooks’ slim shoulders. “Hey, hey. None of that now. Talk to me, son. What’s really going on?”
With the sleeve of his hoodie, Brooks wipes his face, then sighs dramatically. “You said you were going to be late,” he mumbles. Alan has to lean down to hear him. “I thought that meant you were going back to Detective Garrison’s place.”
“Yes, it did.” Alan makes a conscious effort to lower his voice. To calm down. “But what’s that have to do with this?”
Brooks sniffles noisily and rubs his nose with his sleeve. “When you came home, I—I don’t know. I thought maybe something had gone wrong.”
“What? No, no.” Alan feels his cheeks flush with the memory of just how right things had worked out with Jim, but Brooks doesn’t have to know that. “Not at all. We got on swimmingly.”
The way Brooks frowns up at Alan suggests he thinks otherwise.
“Honest,” Alan says. “It went really well.”
“Then why’d you come home?” Brooks wants to know. “Why didn’t you stay the night? You’re an adult. You could’ve if you really wanted to.”
Alan is taken aback by the question. “I did want to,” he admits. “But I have you to look after, don’t I? I didn’t want to leave you all by yourself. I mean, what if something happened? What if someone really did break in through the back door and snatch you up?”
Ducking his head to hide an embarrassed grin, Brooks admits, “I didn’t mean to do that.”
Alan struggles to keep his own grin under wraps. “So you weren’t trying to fake a kidnapping, is that it?”
Brooks shakes his head and wipes his nose again. “I thought if it looked like I ran off, you’d have to call Detective Garrison to try and find me and maybe you two would get a second chance, I don’t know.”
“A second chance?” Alan shakes his head, amused. “Brooks, things between us couldn’t have gone any better. I promise. You didn’t have to stage a crime scene to get me to call him again.”
Brooks wipes his eyes now, one at a time, and chews the inside of his lip as he says, “I really didn’t mean to break the window. I was holding my skateboard when I snuck out and it kind of hit the window when I tried to close the door.”
“Which was left open,” Alan points out.
“You know that little tongue thing sticks.”
Alan frowns at him. “Tongue thing? What?”
“In the lock,” Brooks mutters. “You know. The latch. If you lock the door from the inside and then try to close it behind you, sometimes the latch doesn’t push in and the door won’t shut.”
Alan isn’t sure he’s following. “So you broke the window how?”
“I pulled the door and it wouldn’t close.” Brooks sniffles, wipes his nose again. As soon as they get home, that hoodie needs to get washed. “So I slammed it really hard and the end of my skateboard hit the window, and it broke. I thought I probably woke you up making so much noise so I just took off. I didn’t even check to see if the door was shut. I’m sorry.”
Alan takes a deep breath, and the last of his anger evaporates. He won’t ask about the game consoles—chances are Brooks has a handheld one tucked into the front pocket of his hoodie. And he’ll address the mess in Brooks’ room once they’re home.
For now it’s enough to have his nephew here, with him, safe.
“You ran off to give Jim and me another go,” Alan muses aloud.
“Is that his name?” Brooks asks. “Jim?”
Alan gives him a stern look. “Detective to you. Unless he tells you otherwise.”
“So you guys like each other?” With a shy grin, Brooks presses, “Like really like each other? Are you going out with him again?”
Archly, Alam says, “We’ll see.”
Brooks laughs. “That means yes.”
“If he doesn’t stop talking to me after this.” Alan shakes his head. “I appreciate the effort, but next time you decide to play matchmaker, warn me first, what do you say?”
“Sorry,” Brooks says sheepishly.
“I’m not the only one you have to apologize to.”
Brooks hangs his head and nods.
This is all my fault in the end though, innit? The thought chastises Alan, and he gives Brooks a hug to show there are no hard feelings between them. It was me who agreed to his silly plan of hanging around the mall after hours in the first place. This is just taking things one step further.
So maybe Brooks isn’t the only one who needs to apologize.
Chapter 26
Alan steps out of the interrogation room and gently closes the door behind him. Jim is leaning against the reception desk, flipping through the notes he’s taken so far this morning. When he notices Alan, he folds up the notepad and tucks it into an inside pocket of his suit jacket. Pushing away from the desk, he asks, “So? Did he tell you anything?”
Alan starts to say something, then realizes the uniformed officer behind the desk is watching him, too. “Is there someplace we can talk alone?”
With a glance at the officer, Jim nods. “Sure.”
He heads for the door beside the one Alan exited. As he passes, he touches Alan’s arm—quick but intimate; Alan’s whole body flushes from the contact. It was hard enough admitting earlier that he and Brooks conspired to get Jim’s attention. Once Jim learns Brooks took things a step further and wasted the time and resources of the Richmond PD just because he thought it would help get his uncle a second date, Alan wonders if their budding relationship will crash and burn before it ever really got off the ground.
How was I supposed to know things would turn out so well between us? I should’ve never agreed to the boy’s silly plan in the first place. I should’ve said sod it and just gone up to Jim at the café one day whether or not his partner was around and told him look mate, it’s like this, I fancy you, so what the hell are we going to do about it?
Yeah, as if he’d ever have the balls to do something that bold. He would’ve spent last night at home alone pining for the guy instead of in bed with Jim doing deliciously decadent things to each other.
And is all that behind them now? Jim said he wasn’t angry about the curfew thing, probably because he didn’t report Brooks for it, but this…this involves the rest of the police department. The beat cops who came out to the scene, the forensics team who gathered and processed evidence, the dispatcher…Jim can’t just laugh this off.
God.
Alan’s stomach churns uneasily as he waits while Jim opens the other door. The room inside is dark, but Jim doesn’t reach in and flick on a light. Instead, he holds the door open for Alan and explains, “It stays dark in here so the glass will work like a mirror on the other side. If we turn on the light, Brooks would be able to see us.”
Stepping into the room, Alan glances at the wall with the two-way glass. He can see into the interrogation room, where Brooks still sits at the table. The only light is what comes from that room into this one, but it illuminates enough for Alan to see his way around. There’s a table opposite the glass, surrounded by a pair of folding chairs, and in front of the glass is a counter on which sits a microphone and what looks like some sort of sound board. A small monitor off to the side provides a live feed from the camera hidden in the interrogation room above and behind Brooks.
Jim comes into the room and closes the door. Suddenly they’re out of sight, alone for what seems like the first time in forever, and Alan’s emotions threaten to overwhelm him. When h
e blinks, his eyes sting, so he squeezes them shut and pinches the bridge of his nose.
Jim’s voice is soft in the darkness. “Alan.”
“It’s all my fault,” Alan says. There’s a quiver in his voice he struggles to suppress. “Brooks thought things hadn’t worked out between us—”
“What?” Jim sounds incredulous. “Why would he think that?”
With a sigh, Alan explains, “Because I came home. He thought when I said I’d be late that I really meant I’d spend the night. So he ran off this morning thinking I’d have to call you to come help me find him, and maybe we’d have a second chance.”
He turns away, embarrassed. He senses Jim come up behind him, and tries to brace himself for whatever might happen next.
Placing his hands on Alan’s shoulders, Jim gives them a quick squeeze, then steps closer, his hands easing down to rest on Alan’s biceps. Lower, on Alan’s forearms now. Lower, folding easily into Alan’s hands, as if that’s where they belong. Jim presses his lips to the nape of Alan’s neck, the touch damp, warm, and tender. Then he props his chin on Alan’s shoulder, and his next kiss lands on Alan’s clenched jaw.
“It’s okay,” Jim breathes, the words tickling over Alan’s skin.
Alan holds Jim’s hands tightly, almost afraid to let go. “His heart is in the right place. I’m just sorry we wasted so much of the police department’s time and effort. I’m sure there’s a fine—”
“For what? Something a kid did?” Jim snickers and leans his whole body against Alan’s back. They fit snugly together, like two puzzle pieces locking into place. “If we fined everyone who called in a false report of one kind or another, or who called us out only to send us away again empty handed, or who refused to press charges after they asked us to help, or whatever…hell, they could raise all our salaries and I’d be living the high life in a house of my own instead of renting a one bedroom apartment in the Fan.”
Alan smiles a little. “I seriously doubt that. You’re just being nice.”
“And you’re being naive,” Jim counters. “Let me take you down to the 911 center sometime and you can have a look at some of the calls they get. Do you know, right after Thanksgiving, the bulk of callers only want to know when the Christmas parade is? I mean, for as long as I can remember, it’s been scheduled for the first Saturday in December, but every year a ton of people call 911 to ask about it.”
Now Alan laughs. “You’re making this up just so I’ll feel better. You’ve got to be.”
“I wish I was.” Jim kisses Alan’s earlobe. “Look at it this way—it gave us an excuse to spend the morning together, didn’t it?”
“I didn’t need an excuse,” Alan murmurs, wrapping Jim’s arms around him. “I’m surprised you aren’t more upset about this. I mean, after the whole curfew thing…”
That earns him another kiss, this one on the tender, ticklish skin behind his ear. “Why would I be upset?”
Alan shrugs, which tightens Jim’s arms around him. He feels snug and secure in the man’s embrace, but he knows it’s tenuous. The wrong word or phrase could push him away, Alan’s sure of it.
“I don’t know,” he admits. “Maybe you’d think I’m being manipulative or something. Or that our relationship is built on lies.”
Jim hugs Alan as tight as he can. “Don’t say that. It isn’t true. I…I really think there’s something here, between us, something real, and you can’t tell me what I feel when I’m with you is a lie.”
He hides his face in Alan’s shoulder, his breath hot through Alan’s thin denim shirt. Cautiously, he adds, “I like you, Alan. I really do. And I know you like me—”
“I do.” Alan lifts one of Jim’s hands to his lips and presses a kiss onto the back of it. “God, I do. But if I—”
“Let me finish.”
Extracting himself from Alan’s embrace, Jim moves beside him, then turns Alan so they’re face to face. The whites of Jim’s eyes look overly bright in the dim light. He runs his hands up the front of Alan’s shirt, then over his shoulders, then around his neck. His fingers are warm against the skin on Alan’s nape.
Jim brings Alan closer, until their foreheads press together. This close, Jim’s eyes are two dark pools of ink Alan wants to dive into and drown in.
“Alan,” Jim murmurs, “I know you’re worried what I might think of you using your nephew to get my attention. Dropping him off at the mall after hours, paying him to get me to take him home. And then this, today. But I have to tell you, none of it’s your fault.”
He stares at Alan so intensely, Alan can’t look away. His next words are a whisper in the darkness.
“It’s mine.”
Alan frowns, studying Jim. What the hell’s he talking about?
After a long moment, when nothing else is forthcoming, Alan says, “I’m not following. How do you figure any of this is your fault?”
One corner of Jim’s mouth twists up, and it finally dawns on Alan that Jim’s struggling not to smile. He’s glad someone sees the humor in the situation. “What?”
Jim sighs and kisses the tip of Alan’s nose. “Do you remember the first time you saw me? I mean, really noticed me. When was it?”
Pretty sure this is a trick question, Alan says, “When I accidentally backed into you at the café. Isn’t that when we met?”
“I didn’t say met,” Jim clarifies. “I said the first time you saw me.”
Alan nods. “When I bumped into you that day. Why?”
“Because I first noticed you three weeks earlier than that.” Jim must see the surprise on Alan’s face, because he grins and adds, “It was nearly impossible to get your attention, do you know that?”
Alan really isn’t following this. “What do you mean?”
“Every morning you came into the café, went straight to the line, and opened the newspaper so you could do the crossword.” Jim’s grin widens. “I wanted to get to know you the moment I first laid eyes on you, but you never noticed me.”
“That’s not true.” Alan feels his face flush. Had Jim really liked him first?
“I got in line with you,” Jim says. “In front, behind, you never saw me. I cleared my throat, talked too loud, even said hi once. Nothing.”
Alan ducks his head, chagrined. “Sorry, mate. If I’d have known…”
“‘S okay.” Jim gives him a quick kiss, which makes his lips tingle. “Farrow got a kick out of watching me try to get you to notice me. Finally I took to standing right up on you, sure you’d see me sooner or later. And when you didn’t—”
“Are you saying you bumped into me?” Alan laughs.
Jim shrugs, amused. “It was a last resort. Your nose was always buried in that damn paper. I thought you’d never see me.”
Wrapping his arms around Jim’s shoulders, Alan draws him into a fierce hug. “I’m glad I finally did.”
Epilogue
Six months later
It’s quarter after five on a Saturday evening and Alan is leaning over a foil-wrapped roast in a pan that rests on the open oven door, waiting for the meat thermometer to register, when his cell phone on the counter pings with an incoming text. He glances at the screen, which displays a one-word message from Jim.
Here.
A moment later, the thermometer beeps. Alan glances at the temperature—the meat still has a ways to go—then shoves the pan back into the oven and shuts the door. As he stands, an ache in his lower back reminds him he isn’t as young as he once was. Absently he rubs at the base of his spine. He should probably take something…
Then the doorbell rings.
His back is forgotten. The roast, too. Picking up a tea towel off the side of the sink, Alan wipes his hands as he strides down the hall. The bell rings a second time, and a third time, too, right as Alan is opening the door.
He pulls it wide to find Jim standing on his porch. With a wink, Jim teases, “Your booty call’s here.”
“Oh hush. Get in here.” Alan steps aside to let him in.
&nb
sp; Jim wears a pale yellow cardigan over a white T-shirt and dark corduroy pants. He’s parted his usually combed-back hair in the center instead of to one side, and it falls easily, like a pair of curtains framing his temples. Alan’s so used to seeing Jim in the mornings at the café, when he’s dressed in a three-piece suit with his firearm holstered at his belt and his slick hair still damp from his shower. Every time Alan sees Jim like this, relaxed and carefree, it always takes his breath away.
Closing the door behind them, Alan says, “You look nice.”
“As in I usually don’t?” Jim says with a smirk.
Alan swats him with the tea towel. “You know what I mean.”
Jim’s smirk stays in place. “Well, you’d look better undressed, if you know what I mean.”
That earns him another swat. This time Jim catches the towel and yanks it to bring Alan closer. “Kiss me,” he murmurs against Alan’s lips.
He doesn’t have to ask twice.
Alan covers Jim’s mouth with his own. Jim’s tongue slips into Alan’s mouth easily, rubbing over the back of his teeth and inside his cheeks, twining around his tongue, tasting him, savoring him. Hungry—for him. Alan can feel Jim’s need in the way Jim grasps the back of his neck and pulls him closer. In the thrust of Jim’s tongue, the firm lips pressed to his, the arm fast around his waist, holding him tight.
Knowing this man in his arms wants him ignites his blood.
Then the kiss devolves into a flurry of little pecks, both of them eager and gasping, each clutching the other, wanting this, and this, and this and so much more.
Breathless, Jim manages to ask, “Brooks home?”
“At the mall,” Alan sighs.
“So I have you all to myself.”
Jim kisses him, hard, and Alan takes a step back only to find himself up against the front door. Pinned there, with Jim’s demanding kisses and eager hands tugging at the buttons on his shirt. Jim manages to undo the last few, then gives up and pushes the shirt up out of the way, undershirt too, exposing the fine, silvered hair that trails from Alan’s navel down into his trousers. Jim leans in, burying his face in Alan’s neck, kissing and sucking and licking as his fingers nimbly unzip Alan’s khakis.
