Accidentally On Purpose

Chapter 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 should keep 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.

“I know, I do,” Alan says. “But I didn’t know he wasn’t here, honest. Last I heard from him, he turned in around nine. Long day, you know. He was out at the high school football game earlier. Here I thought he was upstairs sleeping this whole time.”

Garrison narrows his eyes, and for a moment, Alan wonders if the jig is up. Then the detective lets out a weary sigh. “Yeah, well, he wasn’t.”

“Where’s he now?” Alan leans closer, pretending to look out at Garrison’s unmarked car but really trying to catch a whiff of the detective’s cologne. Calvin Klein’s Eternity, if he isn’t mistaken. Light, sexy, and seductive. He’d love to wake up with that scent on his pillows.

Get a grip, man. He isn’t here to see you.

Well, that isn’t exactly true. He is here to see Alan, but only about Brooks being out after curfew, again. Even if he does smell damn delicious.

“In the car,” Garrison says. “Front seat, don’t worry. He isn’t under arrest.”

“Maybe he should be,” Alan mutters. This time he allows himself a quick smile to show he’s only kidding. Mostly. “Didn’t he want to get out?”

Garrison turns now, too. The driver’s side window is down, and through it Alan can see the long black sleeve of the hoodie Brooks likes to wear. A faint light flickers inside the vehicle; Brooks on his cell phone, texting someone or playing one of his games.

Alan leans out a little more, crossing his arms in front of his chest. The night’s chilly this late. Ducking down, he can see farther into the car, and for one brief instant, Brooks glances his way. Alan raises his voice so it carries easily across the yard. “Coming in sometime tonight then, son?”

Brooks’ dramatic sigh can be heard all the way to the porch. The phone’s light goes out; a moment later, the passenger side door opens and Brooks doesn’t step so much as fling himself out of the vehicle. Angrily the door slams shut behind him.

In a low voice only Garrison can hear, Alan murmurs, “Someone has an attitude.”

“It could be worse,” Garrison suggests.

Alan looks at the detective, who’s watching Brooks approach and can’t see the naked want Alan knows has to be written all over his face. God, this man. So close Alan could reach out and touch him, if he dared. Careful, mate, he warns himself. Don’t go scaring him away just because you’re too damn eager.

Fighting against everything in him that wants Jim Garrison, Alan tries to keep his voice steady as he asks, “How, exactly?”

Garrison shrugs, and in the gesture, Alan sees a friendliness that makes his heart sing. It’s almost familiar, as if they might be more to each other than what it looks like tonight. Garrison raises his voice a little, so Brooks can overhear. “He isn’t into drugs or alcohol or fighting. You should see some of the riff raff I have to deal with some nights.”

Brooks has closed the distance between the car and house, and now he stomps up the porch steps with exaggerated force. His pale skin stands out against his black hoodie and jeans; even his hair is black, so dark it looks almost blue under the porch light.

“He just likes to run off at all hours.” Alan reaches out and ruffles that thick, inky hair, getting in a good rub before Brooks ducks out of reach. “You’re lucky you aren’t old enough to spend the night in jail.”

Brooks glares at Alan from under his dark fringe. “If I were older, I wouldn’t be picked up for breaking curfew,” he mutters. “I don’t even know why it matters anyway. It’s Friday. I don’t have to get up early for school tomorrow.”

“Curfew’s the same every night,” Garrison says, “school or not. You know that by now. How many times have I picked you up after eleven?”

Brooks doesn’t answer, just shoves his hands in his pockets and scuffs his shoe as he frowns at the floor.

“Third time this month, innit?” Alan asks.

Brooks mumbles something under his breath.

“What’s that?” Leaning out the door, Alan cups a hand around his ear. “Speak up, son. I’m a little hard of hearing.”

Brooks glowers. “I said can I go in now? God.”

Alan can’t leave it alone. “Are you going to stay in there this time, then?”

With an aggravated sigh, Brooks pushes past Alan into the house. He storms upstairs, stomping with more force than before, if that’s possible.

Alan shares an amused smile with Garrison. “He’ll tear the house down if he isn’t careful. Thanks again for bringing him in.”

“No problem.”

Then, to Alan’s surprise, Garrison doesn’t make any move to leave.

Am I reading this right? Alan barely dares to hope.

Still, can’t hurt to take a chance, can it? With a nod behind him, Alan says, “Bit nippy out here. Want to come in for a minute?”

Garrison gives another easy shrug. “I should really get back to work.” But he tucks one hand into his pants pocket and rocks back on his heels. Obviously not in any hurry.

“Just have a cuppa,” Alan offers.

Garrison grins. “I’m on duty, remember.”

“So we’ll leave the whiskey out of yours,” Alan jokes as he takes a step back. Uncrossing his arms, he gestures for Garrison to come inside. “After you, detective. I have coffee, hot tea, fresh lemonade. Pick your poison.”

“Thank you, Mr. Travers.”

Alan closes his eyes as Garrison passes by, breathing in deep his scent. God, that’s heavenly. He shuts the door and locks it out of habit. “Please, it’s Alan. Calling me mister makes me feel ancient.”

“Alan, then.” With a nod, Garrison steps back to let Alan lead the way. “I’m Jim.”

Oh, don’t I know that. Out loud, Alan says, “Right. You’re by here often enough, I don’t know how we’re not on a first name basis already. Follow me.”

As he passes the staircase, he glances up and sees Brooks leaning on the bannister rail. Alan gives a little shake of his head in warning.

Brooks just smirks.