Page 89 of Too Close To Home

Then Deacon spun around and shouted something at him.

Jake blinked out of whatever moment they’d been sharing, snapped his attention back to the kit, and rapped his sticks together in the air. “One, two, three, four—”

The band crashed into the next track. And Harrison was suddenly aware of Brodie watching him, of Jake’s eyes on him. So he lifted his glass and took a sip before turning back to face the bar.

“Actually,” he called to Brodie over the music, “I was hoping to speak to you.”

Brodie folded his arms. “Oh, aye? What about?”

“Did you serve someone called Andy Mitchell in here on Wednesday evening?”

Brodie leaned over the bar, tilting his ear towards Harrison as if he hadn’t heard him. “Who?”

Harrison didn’t expect everyone in town to know every name, but given Jake’s history with the man, he’d assumed the name might ring a bell to the man who claimed to be friends with him. But he set the pint down and pulled his phone from his inside pocket. After a quick scroll, he turned the screen around. Like most people, Andy Mitchell had an online presence. And a staff shot from the Lancaster Industrial Estate website.

Brodie leaned across the bar to look. For a moment his face remained blank. Then he straightened. “Don’t recognise him.”

“Andy Mitchell says he came in here around six on Wednesday, had a pint before heading home. He believes you served him.”

Brodie shrugged. “I serve a lot of people.”

“I’m sure you do.” Harrison kept his voice neutral. “But I understand he and Jake have… history. I thought you might remember him because of that.”

“Jake’s got a history with a lot of men.” Brodie glanced at the stage, narrowing his eyes. “Just because we sleep together don’t mean I know every bloke he’s got a problem with.”

The hostility in the remark cut cleanly through the music.

And, annoyingly, so did the implication.

Harrison hadn’t expected the comment to land anywhere personal. It shouldn’t have. Jake Whitton’s reputation, or however many men he’d slept with, or was currently sleeping with, had absolutely nothing to do with him.

It certainly wasn’t his place to judge.

Or feel anything about it at all.

He let it pass.

“We’ll need to review the pub’s CCTV again. Is the owner around?”

Brodie jerked his head towards the back corridor. “Out the back somewhere.”

“Could you ask him?”

Brodie rolled his eyes, then crossed to the other barman, muttered something, grabbed a ring of keys from beneath the counter and disappeared through the door at the end of the bar. Harrison claimed the empty stool beside the counter as the pub slowly settled again.

The band pushed into what was clearly their last song; the crowd pressing closer to the stage as Deacon leaned into the microphone. Jake drove the rhythm as if it were second nature. Head down, curls falling forward as his arms worked the kit with an effortless power filling the room. It was impossible not to watch him. Especially when he kept glancing over at Harrison.

Then the song ended in a burst of noise and applause.

Jake stood almost immediately, scrambling out from behind the kit before the crowd could properly descend on him. A few people reached for him, men and women both, but he slipped past them and headed straight for Harrison. By the time he reached the bar, he’d worked up a sweat, dampening the collar of his black T-shirt. Up close, the effect was… distracting.

Harrison had to remind himself to breathe.

“Hey.” Jake leaned his forearm on the bar beside him and ruffled his hair back, the movement carrying the faint scent of spicy aftershave and warm skin, another unwanted distraction. “You here because of the call-out?”

Harrison lifted his pint with a wince. “Unofficially.”

Jake snorted.