Page 41 of Too Close To Home

Jake swore under his breath, dragging a hand through his hair. “For fuck’s sake, Deac. Did you take Emily Fisher home or not?”

“Once again, who the fuck is Emily Fisher?”

“Did you fuck anyone last night?”

Deacon dropped the receiver into its cradle and rocked back in his chair, leather creaking beneath him. “Why? You jealous?”

Jake gave him a flat look.

A crooked grin spread across Deacon’s face. “Could’ve taken that off-the-shelf Nirvana tribute act back to your palace, mate. Aye, so it’s a mattress on the floor above the off-licence rather than a four-poster, but it’s still gotta beat bending some random bloke over a stack of amps in the back of van.” He shrugged. “Then again, suppose that’s what happens when you shag blokes who aren’t proper live-music fans. No respect for the equipment.”

Jake ignored the pinch of truth in what Deacon had said. “Emily Fisher is missing.”

He wasn’t wrong, though. Jake didn’t bring blokes back to his shitty bedsit. Nor had he ever taken anyone home when he’d been living at his mum’s place, when his room had served as somewhere to crash between shifts, gigs, and trying to be a father to a kid who wasn’t his while the rest of his life stalled around him.

Not properly, anyway.

Even Brodie, the closest thing to a regular he’d had, never made it past the threshold. His bedsit above the off-licence was a shithole, damp creeping up the corners and the mattress barely big enough for one, but it was his. Four walls he controlled. A door he could shut and lock. He hadn’t wanted anyone inside it long enough to make the effort worth it.

He shoved the thought aside before it could take root.

“Police are everywhere.” Jake leaned forward. “So if you so much as gave her a lift, they’ll be knocking on this door in about five minutes.”

Deacon leaned forward. “Why the fuck would the police be coming here?”

“Because a young girl’s missing.” Jake flapped a hand at him. “And you were seen flirting with her.”

“By who?”

“Brodie.”

Deacon threw his hands up. “Oh, aye. Must be gospel if Master Bates says it.”

There was an edge to that. Not quite a joke.

Jake clocked it. Filed it.

Deacon had never liked Brodie. He’d made no secret of it. Said he had a look about him. Too watchful. Interested in things that weren’t his. Jake had brushed it off. Thought Deacon was worried he’d take him from the band. Cause Brodie kept mentioning touring the festival circuit with a band who wanted more than pubs. But nothing, and certainly not anyone, would take Jake from Static Youth. He’d tied himself to Deacon and Raff when everything else went to shit. More the reason for Jake to have kept things between him and Brodie surface-level. Easy. Brodie had been there when Jake needed an outlet. He was a good fuck. Nothing more.

Still…

He didn’t like the way his best mate said it. Not the words as such, but the implication behind them. The reminder of choices Jake would rather not have held up to the light.

“For fuck’s sake, Deac.” Jake scrubbed a hand over his face. “Can you focus for one minute? A girl is missing.”

Deacon pushed to his feet and wandered over to the instant hot drinks machine on the side unit. “Sit down. You want a coffee?”

“No. I want you to answer the fucking question.”

“Alright, mate. Don’t have a coronary.” Deacon slotted one of those overpriced coffee tablets into the machine and jabbed the button.

It coughed into life, whirring, sputtering, before dribbling out a liquid that just about qualified as coffee into the mug below. The Static Youth logo bled across the ceramic as the heat hit it, one of Deacon’s many questionable merch buys. That and the boxes of bulk crap he couldn’t shift, still clogging up the band’s storage container on the edge of town. He then added sugar. Milk. And stirred it with the same pen he’d been using to sign contracts with five minutes earlier.

He then glanced over his shoulder. “Blonde?”

Jake swallowed. “Dunno. Never saw her.”

“You never saw her?”