1 Chapter 1
It’s quarter to midnight on Friday when Alan’s phone pings with an incoming text.
On our way
“About bloody time,” he mutters, setting the phone on the coffee table. He takes a healthy swig of the gin and tonic he’s been nursing for the past half hour. His stomach aches anxiously; his palms feel damp. He wipes them on his khakis, praying it’s condensation from the rocks glass and not perspiration. At fifty-three, Alan Travers shouldn’t get nervous like this; hell, he’s too old. But his heart pounds and a vein throbs in his right temple, and suddenly he feels like he might throw up.
Get a hold of yourself, man,he thinks, taking a deep breath. You’re not going to chuck up and waste good gin.
He checks his phone again, but there are no more messages. The last one that came in, the one which triggered this little panic attack of his, still appears on the lock screen.
On our way.Sent two minutes ago by Brooks Wallace, Alan’s fourteen-year-old nephew. At this hour he’s out too late, and with the city curfew in effect, he’s breaking the law, too.
Alan finishes his drink and sets the glass on the coffee table. Nervous energy swirls through him and he stands, running both hands through his short cropped hair. He catches sight of himself in the mirror above the fireplace and smooths down the unkempt strands. Once dark, his hair is more salt than pepper now, and most days he feels more distinguished than old. But today the determined set to his features emphasizes the lines around his blue-gray eyes and expressive mouth, making him look older than he’d care to admit.
He should get another drink.
No, they’ll be here any minute. Brooks is only at the mall, which isn’t that far away. Besides, he doesn’t want to get drunk, does he?
At least take your glass into the kitchen, mate. You want to make a good impression, no?
Alan picks up the glass, untucking the hem of his button-down shirt to wipe away the ring of water left behind on the coffee table. He should probably change now, there’s a damp spot right beside his crotch. Talk about good impressions, you effing slob. Raised in a barn, were you?
But when he reaches the hallway, he hears a car’s tires crunch over the gravel in front of his garage.
Too late.
He hurries into the kitchen and deposits the glass in the sink, then unbuckles his belt, unbuttons his trousers, and pulls down his zipper all in one fluid motion. With both hands, he tucks the shirt hem out of sight. He’s rushing, though, and the damn zipper catches the fabric when he tries to pull it up. “Bloody hell,” he mutters, tugging on the zipper. Another few seconds and he’ll simply pull the shirt out again, damp or not, and hope it covers the stuck fly.
But the fabric comes free with a good, hard tug, and not a moment too soon, either. As the zipper slides up over the slight bulge at his crotch, the doorbell rings.
See what you do to me?Alan thinks, pushing against the front of his trousers. He bites back a moan and tries to ignore the bolt of pleasure that shoots through him. Maybe he really shouldkeep his shirt untucked, if only to hide what’s turning into the start of an erection.
A knock on the front door at the end of the hall follows the doorbell. Alan almost trips over his feet to answer. “Coming!”
Standing on his porch is Detective Jim Garrison with the Richmond police. Dressed in a navy suit and tie, Garrison is a good decade younger than Alan and it shows. He’s sternly handsome, with a wide jaw and smooth, clean-shaven cheeks. His thin lips have a natural redness to them Alan wants to taste. He wears his thick brown hair short, combing the length on top to the left. He tilts his head that way, too, as if afraid to ruin the part. His dark bedroom eyes soften when he sees Alan
In his gruff voice, Garrison says, “Mr. Travers, hello.”
“Detective.” Alan wonders if his own voice sounds as high out loud as it does in his head. Clearing his throat, he adds, “Nice to see you again.”
Understatement of the year.
“Well,” Garrison drawls, “you might change your mind when you find out the reason why I’m here.”
Alan presses his lips together to keep from grinning. “Oh no. Don’t tell me it’s Brooks again?”
“You are aware there’s a curfew for anyone under eighteen?”
Of course he does. Garrison knows he does. The detective has been here for the same reason before. More than once.
