Way Off Plan

by Alexa Land

  Way Off Plan

  A M/M Romance by Alexa Land

  Book One in the Firsts and Forever Series

  Copyright 2012 by Alexa Land. All rights reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission in whole or in part of this publication is permitted without express written consent from the author.

  Chapter One

  “Well hey there, Point Break.”

  That was the greeting I got from my friend Jess as she stepped out of the clothing store where she worked, hands on her hips as she assessed my outfit.

  “Hey yourself,” I said, pushing off the vehicle I was leaning against and crossing the sidewalk to give her a hug.

  “Did you come here straight from Ocean Beach? Does that explain this particular ensemble?”

  I was wearing baggy Hawaiian print board shorts, an oversized Santa Cruz Surfboards t-shirt that was maybe three years past its prime, and flip flops. And I told her, “I was surfing Ocean Beach this morning, but I went home and showered and changed before coming to meet you.”

  Jess raised an eyebrow. “So in other words, this outfit was intentional.”

  “Yeah, pretty much,” I grinned. “So where do you want to go for lunch?”

  “Nordstrom.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Because you need a shopping intervention, Jamie. You’re never going to get laid looking like a homeless beach bum.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Gee, shopping. Tempting, but no. How about Thai?”

  “Fine,” she said with a sigh, then glanced around and asked, “So where’s the Crapmobile?”

  “In the shop.”

  “There’s a surprise.”

  “But they gave me a loaner,” I said cheerfully, indicating the beat up Hyundai parked at the curb with a sweeping hand gesture.

  “Oh my God. It’s worse than the Crapmobile!”

  “At least it runs.”

  “Why the hell would anyone paint a car that color?” she exclaimed. “Why would anyone paint anything that color?” The loaner car was a really disturbing shade of pea green.

  “No clue.”

  Jess shook her head and pulled a pair of huge Jackie O. sunglasses out of her red handbag, sliding them on as she said, “Ok. I’ve got my disguise. Now I won’t have to worry about being seen in the pea green shit machine.”

  I laughed at that and held the door open for her as I said, “You’re a total snob. You know that, right?”

  “I am not. Having taste doesn’t make me a snob.”

  When eventually we were seated in front of heaping plates of Pad Thai at a little neighborhood restaurant, I announced, “I have some exciting news.”

  Her big brown eyes lit up hopefully, and Jess exclaimed, “You met a guy.”

  “Uh, no.”

  “Shit.” Jess looked like a kewpie doll but swore like a sailor. I loved that about her.

  “I’ve been given my first undercover assignment. I start Friday.”

  Jess wrinkled her brow. “Is it dangerous?”

  “No more than my usual beat.” I’d been a cop for almost three years. Basically, I’d gone into the family business. My dad, granddad, uncle and cousins were all cops, and one of my sisters worked as a dispatcher. It wasn’t as though I’d had a burning desire to go into law enforcement, but I also hadn’t had any better ideas when I got out of school. So I’d succumbed to pressure from my family, and there I was.

  “Ok. So what’ll you be doing?”

  I smiled brightly and said, “I’m infiltrating the Russian mafia.”

  “You’re shitting me.”

  “Nope.”

  “Does that mean you’re going to have to pretend to be Russian, or a mobster, or both?”

  “Thank God no. Like I could pull that off.”

  “So, what then?”

  “I’ll just be posing as a hip, urban club-goer.”

  “Ok, even that’s going to be a stretch,” Jess deadpanned. Then she asked, “Why are you doing that?”

  “The subject of the investigation owns a nightclub in Cow Hollow.”

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, Jamie,” she said, “but are you actually qualified to do undercover work?”

  I raised an eyebrow at her. And then I admitted, “No, not really. But it isn’t deep cover or anything, it’s basic recon. I’m just supposed to take a look around the club, see if there’s any obvious drug dealing happening in plain sight. I’m also supposed to strike up a conversation with this club owner guy if possible, see if I can gain any additional intel on him before they send in the big boys.”

  “Which big boys are those?”

  “You know. Cops who actually know what the fuck they’re doing.”

  “Ah. So what’s the name of this guy you’re investigating?”

  “I don’t think I can tell you. It’s confidential.”

  “Is it Dmitri Teplov?”

  I stared at my best friend in amazement. “Now how the hell did you know that?”

  “He’s sort of famous. You know – rich, good looking, owns one of the hottest nightclubs in San Francisco. He’s the kind of person people talk about.”

  “I’d never heard of him.”

  “Yeah, no offense Jamie, but you’ve pretty much been living under a rock,” Jess told me before folding a big forkful of rice noodles into her mouth.

  “Thanks.”

  She finished chewing and said, “You know you need to get out more. In the last five months, you’ve barely left your apartment. Not that you went out all that much before.”

  “I’ve left the apartment plenty!”

  “Surfing, working, and hanging out with me don’t count.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’re never going to meet anyone in any of those situations. You need to go to parties, clubs, bars – places where there are actually single gay men.”

  “Ok. So Friday, I’m going to one of the hottest nightclubs in the city.”

  “You’re going for work.”

  “Still.”

  “Fernando told me the brother of his cameraman is gay. And he lives in Berkeley. He got this guy’s number for you, so why don’t you give him a call?” Jess and her husband Fernando had spent the last five months frantically trying to fix me up with every gay man in the greater bay area, ever since Charlie, my long term boyfriend, dumped my ass.

  “Fernando has the worst taste in men of anyone I’ve ever met in my entire life, so I really don’t think I’ll be calling this guy.”

  “He does not!” Jess exclaimed. I stared at her with eyebrows raised, and after a minute she relented. “Ok, he really does. Well, what do you want from a straight guy? But who knows, maybe this one will accidentally be cute.”

  “Not happening, Jess. So, speaking of Fernando, how many times has he called you today?” Her husband was a documentary filmmaker, currently on a job in northern Canada filming some kind of duck, which Jess insisted was not a duck (but which was, in fact, a duck). They’d been married two years, and still completely acted like newlyweds. Fernando couldn’t go half an hour without calling her, which was a source of endless amusement for me.

  “Nine times,” she grinned, all starry eyed. She was so totally in love that sometimes I wanted to stick my finger down my throat, especially now that I lived in the land of the jilted. And then she said, “Way to change the subject away from your sex life, by the way.”

  “Jess, I’m not on a deadline. I’ll meet someone when I meet someone.”

  “I know. I just want you to be happy, Jamie. I want you to find someone who loves and appreciates you. You so totally deserve that.” She broke eye contact and toyed with her fork.

  And I said, “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  “Well, yes. But eat your lunch firs
t.”

  “Because it’ll spoil my appetite?”

  “Yeah.” She fidgeted uncomfortably.

  I pushed my plate away from me and said, “It’s about Charlie, isn’t it? Now you have to tell me. Whatever it is, I can take it.”

  She reached across the table and took my hand, some sort of strong emotion welling in her eyes as she said, “I don’t even know how to tell you this.”

  “Just say it.”

  She took a deep breath and blurted, “Charlie got engaged.”

  I dropped her hand and wrapped my arms around myself, feeling like I’d just been kicked in the gut. “Do I know her?”

  “Yeah. It’s Callie McLoughlin.”

  “Oh.” I stared unseeingly at the tabletop for a long moment, and eventually said, “Well, he didn’t waste any time.”

  Charlie Connolly had been my first (and only) boyfriend. We were together for eight years, ever since we were fifteen – until he dumped me five months ago to go off and pretend to be straight. I’d been totally in love with Charlie, despite some serious flaws in our relationship. Like the fact that – ok, brace yourself – good Irish Catholic boy that he was, and as much as he struggled with his sexuality, we never had sex. Literally never. Not once in eight years.

  Don’t get me wrong, we did plenty of other stuff. I was pretty damn good at giving a blow job after eight years of practice, thank you very much. But somehow, actual sex was one giant step too far for Charlie. And I’d loved him so much that I’d figured I could wait out his crisis of conscience, no matter how long it took.

  But ultimately, he left me. And apparently was wasting no time in finding himself a wife and carrying out the sham of pretending he was straight.

  “Jamie,” Jess asked quietly, “are you ok?”

  “Yeah. I mean, he could do worse than Callie McLoughlin, right? I like her.” I’d known Callie almost as long as I’d known Jess. She wasnown t a close friend or anything, but her family and mine went to the same church. “When did you find out?”

  “Last night. Charlie called and told me.”

  I said, “Why didn’t you tell me sooner? Why didn’t you call me last night?”

  “I did call, remember? But then I just couldn’t tell you over the phone, so I made this lunch date.”

  “And then you still took a while to tell me.”

  “I’m sorry, Jamie. I was trying to figure out how to work it into the conversation without just clobbering you over the head with it.”

  I sighed and reached for her hand. “It’s ok, Jess. I get it. If the situation were reversed, I wouldn’t know how to tell you, either.” Then I met her eyes and said, “And you know what? I’m glad he’s engaged, actually. I need to put Charlie Connolly behind me, you and I both know that. And this just makes our break-up all the more final, you know?”

  Jess was back to her usual tough, no-nonsense self. “Good. Maybe now you’ll get out there a little, so you can meet someone terrific. Charlie wasn’t good enough for you anyway.”

  “Thanks, Jess.”

  She grinned at me then. “You know, even though you’re working Friday, it wouldn’t kill you to slip your phone number to a hot guy or two at that club.”

  Like that was going to happen. But to placate her I said, “Maybe.”

  “What are you going to wear?”

  I shrugged and took a sip of iced tea. “I hadn’t thought about it.”

  “Well, here’s a tip: the homeless beach bum look isn’t gonna fly at that nightclub. You won’t even get in the door.”

  “Seriously? They’ll keep me out for not dressing right?”

  Jess sighed and shook her head. “Jamie, Jamie, Jamie. Poor, fashion-senseless Jamie. Of course they’ll keep you out for not dressing right! But you can wear one of the outfits I picked out for you.” And now she looked positively giddy.

  “Oh no. Not the manslut clothes.” Jess had dragged me shopping shortly after Charlie dumped me, insisting I needed some outfits to go with my new, carefree bachelor lifestyle. And apparently the bachelor lifestyle involved clothes that made me look like a hooker.

  “Oh yes. If ever there was a time and place for the manslut clothes, this is it!”

  “Well, ok. I guess it’s time they made their debut.”

  She raised an eyebrow at me. “You went out to that gay bar last month. Didn’t you wear any of your new clothes then?”

  “No. And you know what? I still got hit on, even in a regular t-shirt and jeans.”

  “Did you get hit on by anyone under thirty?”

  “Well, no. But what difference does that make?”

  Jess shrugged. “I’m just saying. Now hurry up and finish your lunch. I’ve got to get back to work.”

  “Plus it’s been a whole forty five minutes since you’ve spoken to Fernando,” I teased.

  “Plus that.”

  “Tell him to say hi to the ducks for me.” I flashed her a huge smile.

  And she sighed in frustration and exclaimed, “They’re not ducks!”

  Chapter Two

  I stood on the sidewalk outside Teplov’s nightclub that Friday night, contemplating the club’s name, which was written in blue neon Cyrillic letters over the doorway. It looked a little like they spelled 0-6-0-pot. I had no clue how the word was pronounced in Russian. But all the cool kids (and me, because I’d read Teplov’s file) knew to call the club by the English translation: Revolution.

  I shifted uncomfortably, feeling totally self-conscious in my outfit. Under my everyday hoodie (which Jess would have ripped off my body and thrown in a dumpster if she’d seen me wearing it) I was dressed in a turquoise t-shirt and dark jeans, both of which looked completely painted on. The pants were so tight that I couldn’t even wear regular boxers with them, necessitating the super uncomfortable thong (also purchased at Jess’s assistance) that was now lodged between my ass cheeks. It was all I could do to stop myself from trying to dig the thong wedgie out of my butt in an utterly graceless and embarrassing move.

  But ok, apparently the manslut clothes were doing their job, because I was soon waved to the front of the line of men and women waiting to get into the club, carded, and let in by a bored-looking bouncer.

  It was painfully loud and hot as hell inside, and I shucked off my jacket as I pushed through the wall of bodies on the dance floor. I did a few laps around the main part of the club and checked in the restroom, and didn’t spot any blatant drug use or dealing. I took my time observing faces as well, but it was your run-of-the-mill twenty something party crowd. No one seemed suspicious, and no one matched the mug shots I’d memorized. I decided to check out the VIP lounge.

  The lounge was at the back of the bar, and predictably, the door was guarded by a couple enormous guys who looked like they’d been injecting steroids since grade school. Ok, now how was I supposed to get inside?

  There was an informal line to the side of the door, and I raised an eyebrow at the group of guys assembled there. All of them were young and good-looking. And all of them were blonde. It was like an open audition for the role of Hansel in some bizarre fairy tale musical. What was up with that?

  One of the ‘roid monsters at the door beckoned to me, and I actually did one of those ‘Who, me?’ things, looking around like an idiot to see who he might be gesturing to. The bouncer seemed to be fighting the urge to roll his eyes as he came up to me and said, “You’re invited to join our guests in the VIP lounge.”

  “Oh. Um, ok. Thanks,” I stammered, then followed him to the door. I was asked to show my i.d. again, and he swiped it over some sort of reader before handing it back to me. Then he held the door open and said, “Enjoy your evening, sir.”

  Ok, what just happened? Did I inadvertently pass some sort of blondeness test? It seemed unlikely. I was only sort of blonde, certainly a far cry from the peroxide level of the guys waiting in line (all of which were shooting daggers at me as I was ushered into the lounge).

  Maybe the manslut outfit was even more effective than I’
d realized.

  The atmosphere back here was different from the rest of the club – calmer, quieter, soothing shades of blue instead of black and neon. A long bar took up all of one wall. Several large booths lined the other walls, and maybe a dozen tables were scattered around the center of the space. The crowd in here appeared older and certainly richer than in the main part of the club, tight jeans giving way to dark, tasteful suits.