Page 26 of Too Close To Home

Never needed to.

But Brodie had wanted more. That had become obvious. He wanted something that didn’t end with Jake pulling on his boots and leaving before anyone saw. And when Jake realised he’d never invite Brodie to his bedsit, he’d ended it. Didn’t stop the way Brodie still looked at him, though.

As if he should change his mind.

“Jake.” Brodie came to a halt a few feet inside the bar, spinning keys around his fingers. Twenty-five and well aware of the effect he had, there was a natural sway to him. Feline. Easy. With his lips curving as if he’d thought of something filthy. “To what do we owe the pleasure of your company this early?”

Brodie was Pete’s most regular barman, pretty much full-time, and had been a fixture behind the King’s Arms bar for about a year. Moved from Hull. That was more or less the extent of what Jake knew about him. He didn’t even know his last name.

Knew what he sounded like when he came, though.

What that said about Jake, he wasn’t entirely sure.

Then again, Brodie wasn’t special in that regard. Jake had never met a bloke he wanted to know beyond the shag. Never wanted the talking afterwards, the falling asleep together, the awkward morning where someone inevitably mistook staying the night for the beginning of something. Sex was easy. He understood sex. He was good at it.

It was everything that came after he had no fucking clue what to do with.

No man would understand him enough to stick around, anyway. The temper. The conviction. Robyn. The thirteen years of his life that had somehow become about a person who wasn’t even there. So Jake had stopped giving anyone the opportunity to try.

One night was enough.

Usually, a couple of hours was better.

“Bit early for an encore, int it?” Brodie stepped behind the bar, setting his keys down and shrugging out of his hoodie. He moved on instinct, like he always did around Jake, closing the distance, and sliding his hand up Jake’s back, giving a familiar rub and tickle. “Miss me?”

Pete turned back to the coffee machine.

Jake wriggled his shoulders to brush him off. “Not now, Brode.”

Brodie dropped his hand and watched Jake for a beat, reading the room properly this time. “Why? What’s happened?”

Jake held his gaze a fraction too long, then looked away. He shook his head.

Brodie’s mouth twisted. “If this is about you fucking that lad in the loos last night, save it. I know.” He swung back behind the bar, movements sharper than usual, and yanked a mug from the shelf. The coffee machine hissed as he filled it. “If you didn’t want me hearing about it, maybe don’t do it where I have to clean up after. Sound carries. So does gossip.”

“Fuck off.”

Brodie lifted the mug in a mock toast. “That’s exactly what I thought last night.”

Pete turned from the machine, expression flat. “Not the time, lads.”

Brodie glanced between them, finally clocking the atmosphere. The way Jake’s shoulders sat high and wired. The way Pete wasn’t rising to the bait.

“…What’s happened?”

Pete took a sip from his mug before answering. “Emily didn’t make it home last night.”

“Emily?” Brodie frowned. “New girl?”

Pete nodded. “Mm.”

“Shit.” Brodie tucked a hand on his hip. “Where’s she gone to then?” He gave a careless little cluck of his tongue. “Naughty girl.”

Jake was off the stool in a heartbeat, and it screeched back across the floor as he launched over the bar to get his hands on Brodie. Not in the good way. If the ale taps hadn’t been between them, he’d have been over it with a hand around Brodie’s throat.

Instead, all he could do was point a finger. “Don’t ever fucking say that again.”

Brodie jolted back, spine hitting the counter behind him. “What the fuck’s up with you?”