Chapter Four Hidden Foundations #3
“If you don’t know…” Jake let it die there. The rest of the thought scraped against his throat and refused to come out. He didn’t want to give it breath. Didn’t want to name the pattern his life kept threatening to repeat.
A heavy bang rattled the front door, stopping him from having to say what Brodie should’ve already known.
Brodie pushed off the bar with a sharp exhale, as if grateful for something solid to react to that wasn’t Jake’s temper.
Though Jake couldn’t fathom why he was the one pissed off here.
Especially considering…well, fucking everything.
Brodie stalked around the counter, flicking back the bolts one by one. “You could, y’know—” He yanked the door open, clearly expecting a delivery or an early punter. “—open your mouth for summat other than a fucking cock for once.”
The words rang through the empty pub and sailed straight out into Hartswick’s quiet high street, where DI Harrison Black stood on the step with his warrant card raised.
Jake froze.
Well, fuck.
His stomach clenched, quick and instinctive, before his brain caught up enough to tell him this was a copper standing in the doorway and therefore probably the last man on earth he should look at like that.
Attraction wasn’t new to him. Christ, Jake had built most of his sex life on it. See a bloke he fancied, catch his eye, have a laugh, find somewhere private. Scratch the itch and get on with his life. Simple. Easy. He knew exactly what to do with wanting someone when wanting was all it was.
This landed differently.
He couldn’t even have said why. Harrison Black was older than the men Jake usually went for.
Neater. Shirt, tie, dark wool coat. Everything about him looked controlled and put together in a way Jake absolutely fucking wasn’t.
But there was a tiredness beneath the sharpness.
Jake caught it in that first ridiculous second he’d seen his face and wanted another chance to look at it.
Then Harrison’s eyes found his.
Fuck.
Jake felt that one properly.
Harrison lowered the warrant card. “Might I have a word?”
Beside him, Brodie’s spine seemed to straighten of its own accord, every ounce of swagger draining away at the sight of authority. “Right. Aye. Sorry. Come in.”
A moment ago, Jake had been half a sentence away from telling Brodie exactly where he could shove his opinions. Now the irritation simply folded in on itself, still there but suddenly nowhere near as interesting as the man crossing the threshold.
And Jake became horribly aware of himself.
The stool he’d kicked. The half-drunk coffee on the bar. Brodie’s fucking comment hanging in the air like an accusation. His muddy work clothes. His hair, which he hadn’t done a thing with since dragging himself out of bed. Even the way he was standing.
Harrison’s gaze moved across the pub before settling on Jake again. Calm. Assessing. The sort of look that suggested very little got past him.
He didn’t comment on what he’d walked in on.
Somehow, that was worse.
“Mr Whitton.” Harrison slipped his warrant card back into his pocket. “We really must stop meeting like this.”
Jake snorted. “You’re the one following me.”
“Am I?” Harrison tilted his head, as if genuinely considering the possibility.
Jake said nothing.
Harrison reached into his blazer and drew out a small notebook. “For clarity, then, is there a reason you’re here this morning?”
“Cause I’m already two steps ahead of you.”
“Are you?” Harrison glanced up, hovering his pen over his tiny notepad. “If you have information regarding Miss Fisher’s movements that my officers don’t, it would be extremely helpful if you could share it.”
There was no accusation. Just a calm invitation.
Jake shook his head. “I don’t. But I heard she worked here, and I was here last night, too.”
Harrison frowned. “So you do know Emily Fisher?”
“No. I’m in a band. We played here last night. I didn’t meet her.” He gestured vaguely towards Pete. “I know him. Her boss. Figured I’d ask a few questions.”
“A few questions about what?”
“The girl.”
“Out of polite concern?”
“Aye. Course. What else would it be?”
Harris rubbed a finger across his eyebrow. “In my experience, Mr Whitton, people who insert themselves into an active investigation rarely do so because they’re entirely uninvolved.”
“You think I took her?”
“Did you?”
“No!” Jake snapped. “I didn’t.”
Harrison made a neat note. “What time did you arrive?”
“When?”
“Last night.”
“Eight.”
“And you left?”
“Midnight-ish.”
Harrison peered up. “So, after Miss Fisher finished her shift.”
“Looks that way.”
“Did anyone see you leave?”
“Jesus Christ, are you actually questioning me on suspicion?”
“I’m questioning you, as I will every person who was here last night. You were also at her last known location earlier this morning.” Harrison tilted his head. “I’m establishing facts. And, as I’m sure you can appreciate, time matters in cases like this. Your cooperation would be helpful.”
Jake pressed his lips together, and he darted his gaze at Brodie before he could stop it. “I didn’t leave alone.”
“Okay.” Harrison’s expression didn’t change. “Then I’ll need the details of who you left with.”
And right then, perhaps for the first time in Jake’s life, admitting to a one-night stand made him feel like a complete fucking idiot.
Heat crawled up the back of his neck. He hated it instantly.
He didn’t embarrass easily, and he certainly didn’t give a shit what anyone thought about who he shagged or how often he shagged them.
Two consenting adults. Nobody else’s business.
Except, apparently, it became somebody else’s business when a girl went missing and the detective asking where he’d spent the night happened to be a man he’d noticed far too much from the second he’d met him.
But he had to tell the truth. “I didn’t get his number.”
“A name?”
Jake opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
Fuck’s sake.
He gave a slight shake of his head.
Harrison looked down and wrote whatever it was in his notebook.
No judgement. No raised eyebrow. Not even a pause.
And Jake stared at the top of his blond head, shame prickling hot beneath his skin in a way he wasn’t used to.
He’d done this dozens of times. Sometimes names came up.
Sometimes they didn’t. He’d never once lain awake afterwards worrying about what that said about him.
Now, standing in front of DI Harrison Black, he suddenly wanted to explain himself.
He hated that.
Not that Harrison knew he’d gone home with a stranger, but that Jake cared what Harrison thought about it.
“Description?” Harrison asked.
Before Jake could make this whole fucking conversation any more humiliating, Pete stepped in.
“Pete Hargreaves. Landlord.” He offered his hand across the bar to Harrison. “Jake was on stage most of the night. Drummer. I can confirm that. As far as I’m aware, he didn’t cross paths with Emily at all. And I saw him leave with a lad in a Nirvana T-shirt.”
“We all heard him leave with him,” Brodie added from behind the bar.
Jake shot him a look sharp enough to strip paint.
Pete glanced over his shoulder. “Think I hear the delivery truck, Brode. Why not sort it, aye?”
Brodie rolled his eyes, pushed off the counter and stalked out the back, hips swaying with enough attitude to make sure everyone knew he’d been dismissed against his will.
Harrison looked back at Jake. “Nirvana T-shirt?”
“Weren’t real merch.”
Harrison paused. “Sorry?”
“Band merch. Weren’t proper.” Jake shoved his hands into his pockets, wondering whether he actually had to explain this. “Shitty retailer one. Print were wrong. And he couldn’t even tell me who drummed on Nevermind.”
Harrison stared at him for a second.
And Jake had no fucking idea why he was clarifying this.
The lad’s name? Not a clue. Phone number?
Nope. Where he lived? Not a chance. But apparently Jake could assist a major police investigation by confirming the authenticity of some random bloke’s Nirvana T-shirt and quizzing him on the fucking drummer.
Brilliant.
“Right,” Harrison said, and Jake could’ve sworn there was the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. “That should narrow it down considerably.”
Jake narrowed his eyes. “You taking piss?”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Harrison stepped further into the bar. “Thank you. We’ll find him.”
And suddenly he was close.
Close enough that Jake caught the faint trace of aftershave beneath the stale beer and burnt coffee. Clean. Subtle. Probably expensive. Nothing like the shit most blokes drowned themselves in before a night out.
Jake breathed it in before he realised he was doing it.
Christ.
First he cared what the detective thought about who he fucked. Now he was standing there smelling him.
Get a fucking grip.
Except Harrison was right there, close enough for Jake to see the faint lines around those deep brown eyes, and that strange pull beneath his ribs only tightened.
He frowned.
What the fuck was wrong with him?
He hated coppers. Always had. Detectives especially.
He knew their type. The looks lasting a second too long while they decided what sort of man he was.
The questions that weren’t really questions because they’d already decided on his answer.
Build a story first, then bend everything else until it fitted.
At least, that was what every detective Jake had ever dealt with had done.
“I appreciate you speaking to my officers earlier.” Harrison looked past him to Pete, and Jake immediately wanted him to look back at him. The realisation hit with enough force, it pissed him off. Christ. He’d known the bloke all of five fucking minutes. “I’d like to firm up a few details.”
“Oh, aye. We’re all concerned.” Pete gestured to the bar. “You want a coffee?”
Harrison’s expression changed just enough to make him look suddenly less like a detective inspector and more like a tired bloke who desperately needed caffeine. “Yes, thank you. Black. One sugar. To take away, if you have it.”
Pete set about murdering the coffee machine.