Page 125 of Too Close To Home

Brodie tipped his head to one side, faintly amused. “You know half the town’s police drink in the King’s Arms.”

Jake rolled his eyes, turning his keys over in his palm.

“Gonna invite me in?” Brodie angled his head at the battered door behind him.

“Brode—”

“I know how hard this is for you.” Brodie stepped closer, as if the conversation belonged to the two of them alone. “I wanna make sure you’re alright.” He lifted his hand, settling it against Jake’s cheek. “I care about you, Jake.”

The touch should’ve meant something. It had before. Brodie had always been easy. Warm. Uncomplicated. Someone who knew exactly what Jake needed when the world got too loud. But the hand on his face wasn’t half as soothing as the one that had been there earlier that day. And that annoyed him more than it should have.

Because fuck, he needed something.

To smash a drum kit.

Punch a wall.

Bury himself in someone long enough for his head to go quiet.

And Brodie was right there. Willing. Familiar. It would take ten minutes, maybe less, then he could send him on his way. Simple. No effort required.

Except Jake didn’t move.

Cause he didn’t want him.

The sound of shoes on the metal staircase echoed up from the alley below, acting as the saviour to it all anyway. Jake turned instinctively, watching the tall shape climbing towards him through the darkness.

Fuck.

Jake’s stomach did a proper, stupid little flip.

And as he locked eyes with DI Harrison Black across the narrow balcony, Jake stepped away from Brodie, putting space between them as if it might undo whatever Harrison had already seen. Couldn’t though, could it? The bloke was a detective. His job was noticing things.

And he’d noticed alright.

Every bit of it.

Harrison reached the top step and stopped, taking them in with that same tight, unreadable look Jake had learned all CID had. Beat coppers too. Nowt gets in, nowt gets out. Must be proper trained into him, that. Probably day one at detective school—how to look at someone as if he already know what they’d done.

Even when they hadn’t done it.

“Mr Whitton.” Harrison gave a small, professional nod.

“Detective.” Jake cleared his throat. “What are you—?”

“I got your address from the system.” Harrison turned his gaze on Brodie before returning back to Jake. “Could I have a few words in private?”

“Aye. Course.” Jake fumbled with his keys, suddenly very aware of the tension on the narrow landing. “See you around, Brode.”

Brodie tutted, clearly pissed off at being discarded so easily. But what could the bloke expect? Jake hadn’t leaned on him for anything other than a hard fuck and a quick distraction yet. Why did he think it would change now?

The detective stood between him and the stairs, and when Brodie finally stepped forward, he had to squeeze past Harrison’s shoulder. But before Brodie could descend, Harrison turned to him.

“Actually, Mr Marsh, isn’t it?”

Brodie paused halfway down the staircase, one hand on the railing. “Aye. Brodie.”

Jake frowned. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard a different surname attached to Brodie, but giving one to the police seemed odd.