Chapter Thirteen Off The Record #3
The door to the back corridor swung open then, and Brodie returned, tossing the keys back behind the bar before glancing between the two of them. Then he exchanged a brief look with Jake that Harrison couldn’t quite read.
“Pete says he’ll send the footage from Wednesday over,” Brodie said to Harrison. “He’s sorting it now.”
“Thank you.”
Brodie nodded once and drifted away to clear empty glasses.
Jake watched Brodie walk away before turning back. “How come you’re here for more CCTV?”
“A new lead came up.”
Jake tilted his head. “Which is?”
Harrison finished the last of his pint, set the glass on the beer mat, and turned on the stool. “You know I can’t discuss an active investigation with you.”
Jake held his gaze. “Andy Mitchell.”
Of course.
Harrison could refuse to engage. Probably should. Instead, he told himself there was some value in seeing what Jake made of the discrepancy.
“He claims he was here Wednesday evening. One pint, sometime before six.” Harrison nodded towards the other end of the bar, where Brodie was stacking glasses. “Says your barman served him. Your barman says he doesn’t remember him. Apparently doesn’t even know who he is.”
Jake followed his gaze. “He ain’t my barman.”
“Turn of phrase.”
Jake looked back at him. “He should know Andy.”
“So why say he doesn’t?”
Jake worried on his bottom lip for a moment. “Brodie likes stirring shit. Mouthy little fucker.”
“Would he have any reason to protect Mitchell?”
“No.” The answer came quickly. “Can’t see why.”
“Then why lie about knowing him?”
Jake was quiet for a second, then he shrugged. “Maybe because of me.”
Harrison waited.
Jake sighed. “He knows how I’d react if I found out he’d served Andy in here.”
That made considerably more sense. “So he’s protecting himself.”
“Probably.”
“By lying to a detective during a live missing-person investigation.”
“Aye.” Jake shook his head. “Never said he were clever.”
Harrison looked over at Brodie again. “You and he are together?”
Jake barked out a laugh. “No. Christ, no. Absolutely not.”
The speed of the denial caught Harrison’s attention.
“Perhaps together was the wrong word.” Harrison took a drink of his beer. “You’re sleeping with him?”
“Not that either.”
Harrison raised an eyebrow.
“Slept with him,” Jake clarified. “Past tense. Though there weren’t much sleeping involved.”
Harrison ignored that particular image with considerably more effort than it deserved. “He gave me the impression it was ongoing.”
“Then that’s summat else he’s lying about.” Jake tutted. “Happened a few times. Weren’t serious or owt. Hasn’t happened in ages.”
Interesting.
Professionally, Harrison amended.
“Right.”
Jake looked at him, amusement creeping into his expression. “For your record, Detective Inspector, I’m not currently sleeping with anyone.”
Harrison met his eyes. “Except the man in the questionable Nirvana T-shirt.”
Jake opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Harrison waited.
“That were one night.”
“I’m aware.”
“Doesn’t count.”
“Doesn’t it?”
Jake frowned, apparently giving this considerably more thought than Harrison had expected. “Not as sleeping with someone, no. That makes it sound ongoing.”
“I see.”
“Like a regular thing.”
“Yes, Jake. I understand the distinction.”
“Good.”
Harrison took another drink, mostly to conceal the fact that he was enjoying this conversation far more than he should.
Jake eyed him for another second. “So, like I said. Not currently sleeping with anyone.”
There was something pointed about the way he said it this time. Something that made Harrison wonder whether the information had ever been intended for the investigation at all.
It was entirely irrelevant.
Completely unnecessary.
And, irritatingly, rather nice to know.
Harrison reached inside his jacket for his notebook before his face had the opportunity to reveal any of that.
He made a few notes about Brodie. Why he might have lied.
His connection to Mitchell. The fact Jake believed he would know him.
He did not make a note of Jake Whitton’s current sexual availability.
Some things didn’t belong in an investigation log.
When Harrison looked up again, Jake appeared to be on the verge of saying something else, but a holler from behind cut him off.
“Jake!”
Jake twisted round as Deacon, crouched by the drum kit, waved him over, pointing at the tangled cables.
“Sorry.” Jake glanced back at Harrison with an apologetic half-smile. “Neglecting duties. Pack down. One day we’ll have roadies.”
Harrison nodded. “One day.”
Jake pushed up from the stool. Then stopped. “Do you… uh, want a lift home?”
The offer could mean nothing. Probably was nothing. A genuine offer from someone who knew Harrison was new to town and had just watched him drink a pint without a car anywhere in sight. Small-town kindness. The sort of kindness someone should have offered Emily Fisher on Wednesday night.
And there it was.
Reality cutting straight back through everything else.
He pushed up from the stool and buttoned his coat. “I’m going to take a walk. Got a few things to…” He waved a hand around his head. “Think through.”
Jake frowned. “You sure? On this town’s track record?”
“I’m police. It’s highly unlikely anything’s going to happen to me while walking home.”
Jake held his gaze. “Still gonna make me worry about you.”
The sincerity of that caught Harrison completely unprepared, and he couldn’t have prevented the gut-reaction to it if he tried.
“Told you, Harry. You like him.”
But then Brodie’s earlier comment came back to him.
Jake’s got a history with a lot of men. Jake himself, only minutes ago: Slept with him, aye.
No sleeping. And there was the stranger Harrison had spent half a day tracking down because Jake had gone home with him on Wednesday night without so much as learning his name.
Not currently sleeping with anyone.
Jake had made sure Harrison knew that too.
There was nothing wrong with any of it. Harrison wasn’t judging him for it. But it told him something important. Jake could separate sex from everything that came after.
Harrison couldn’t.
He’d only ever been with Chris, but that didn’t make him na?ve or inexperienced. Far from it. Twenty years together had given them plenty of time to discover exactly what they liked and how they liked it. Harrison knew sex. He knew desire. He knew his own body.
What he didn’t know was how to make any of it mean nothing.
He’d never had sex with someone he didn’t love. Never woken beside someone he barely knew. Never had to work out where physical intimacy ended and everything else began, because with Chris there had never been a line between them.
Jake, apparently, knew exactly where that line was.
And Harrison had absolutely no business finding out which side of it Jake’s offer of a lift belonged on. Not when the thought of being alone with him in that van already stirred something Harrison hadn’t felt in years.
Want.
Simple, physical want.
Christ, he remembered that.
“Jake!” Deacon yelled again.
Jake called back, “Aye, fucking hell. Coming!”
His attention returned to Harrison, and for a second, he looked genuinely torn between the stage and staying exactly where he was.
“You sure?” he asked again.
“I’m sure.”
Jake dragged his teeth across the inside of his cheek, still watching him.
For one ridiculous second, Harrison wondered what would happen if Jake simply ignored the answer.
If he stepped closer, took the decision out of Harrison’s hands and told him he was driving him home whether he liked it or not.
The image arrived far too easily.
Jake close. That rough voice telling him to stop arguing. A hand on his back steering him towards the door.
Harrison swallowed.
You might not object, eh, Harry?
No.
That was precisely the problem.
The realisation tightened low in his gut. Dangerous. Unwelcome. So he straightened, pulling his coat collar higher. “Goodnight, Jake.”
Jake’s reaction was small but unmistakable. His shoulders dipped, as if quietly folding in on himself.
Harrison had to look away.
Because if he stayed there another second, he might do something reckless.
Something selfish. Something he barely recognised in himself anymore.
He might have stayed. Might have said yes.
And he might have let Jake Whitton drag him outside to take his mind off the fact that he’d only ever meant to belong to one man.
And whilst that man’s voice remained in his head, he had left his body, and Harrison, behind.
“I know, Harry. I know.”
Now duty was the only thing holding him upright.
And duty did not allow for men like Jake Whitton.
So Harrison turned and walked towards the door, the noise from the stage rising again as the band dismantled their gear behind him.
He didn’t look back.
But he felt Jake’s gaze on him all the same.