Page 3 of The Long Game

“Look me up. At work. It’s Jack Chevalier.” He spelled his last name.

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

Locking his emotions down tight, Jack turned to the register. He knew who he was. He understood his own limitations. Hedropped Grady’s receipt and credit card onto the bar and, with a nod for his manager further down the bar, slipped into the storeroom to begin restocking for the next day.

He didn’t see Grady leave.

Grady didn’t snoopinto his friends’ lives, even with their permission, and he had no intention of making an exception with Jack. Maybe they were just getting to know one another—hell, maybe their budding friendship hadn’t moved beyond his patch of real estate at the end of the bar yet—but Gradydidcount Jack as a friend and he wasn’t in the habit of violatinganyone’sprivacy, let alone that of people he cared about.

He went back to the Brunswicker Ale House the next night to ask Jack what the hell was going on, but Jack had taken the night off. Undeterred, Grady returned the next night, pleased to find Jack behind the bar. Before he could say a word, though, Jack disappeared into the stockroom and five minutes later was waiting on tables in the back—something Grady had never once seen him do.

After a third night of being completely and blatantly blown off, Grady said to hell with it and bent his rules.

He wasn’t exactly surprised by what he found, since Jack’s behavior had been a pretty good clue, butarmed robbery? And a five-year prison stint for it? That just didn’t make sense with the man Grady knew.

Tossing the rules out the window entirely, Grady approached his colleagues who’d worked the case and asked them about it. About Jack.

It wasn’t a pretty tale.

Like the guys who had worked the case, Grady ended up feeling sorry for the kid whose father had robbed a liquor store of two hundred dollars and some cheap beer, then forced his son—who’d had no idea what his father was up to—to be his get-away driver. He felt sorry for the son who hadn’t called the cops in the two hours it took them to track his old man down. Sorry for the promising college student who’d been assigned a notorious dickbag of a judge who’d decided to make an example of him.

But Grady was also angry that Jack assumed any of this meant their growing friendship somehow wasn’t allowed. That Grady shouldn’t look forward to heading over to the Brunswicker and talking to Jack after long days at work.

Fuck.That.

He liked Jack. He enjoyed spending time with him and swapping stories and observations about the people around them. Jack was a keen judge of character, with the exception, of course, of his incredibly wrong-headed opinions about the Leafs. His quick smile and friendly wave to everyone he knew—which by Grady’s estimation was ninety percent of the population of Moncton—made the city seem a lot more like the small town where Grady had grown up. And it was a rare thing, indeed, for anything to spark a happy memory aboutthatplace.

On his next night off, Grady snuck into the Brunswicker Ale House like an underaged kid, ducking in the door with a group of students, stooped over and head down. When the students turned toward their friends at a group of tables in the back, Grady peeled off and stepped up to the bar, his eyes locked on Jack, daring him to run.

Jack frowned and vigorously wiped up a tiny spill while Grady slid onto his favorite stool a little further down the bar. He sincerely hoped he wasn’t going to have to chase Jack out into the alley through the kitchen or some shit, but goddamn it, he would. Luckily, Jack was the only one behind the bar that night, so he couldn’t just disappear like before.

Grady had worked up a good head of steam by the time Jack stopped ignoring his unwavering glare and deigned to come closer, a bottle of Grady’s favorite beer in hand. Popping off the top, Jack placed it in front of him.

Grady grabbed Jack’s wrist before he could fuck off to parts unknown and leave Grady stewing.

Jack froze, his deep blue eyes wide.

Grady frowned at his idiot friend. “I looked you up. Your past makes no difference to me.”

He expected Jack to argue, but he didn’t say anything until Grady released his wrist. Then Jack took a deep breath and a step back. “It should.”

“Why? Why should it matter?”

“I’m hardly good friend material for a cop,” Jack said as if it should be obvious.

The confirmation that Jack also felt it was a real friendship growing between them made the argument all the more worthwhile. Grady was determined to win it. “First of all,bullshit. Second of all, I’m the one who gets to be the judge of that.”

Jack’s frown darkened to a scowl. “It won’t look good to your boss and your coworkers.”

“That’s an even bigger pile of bullshit. And even if itweretrue, it would be my choice to make, so tough noogies.”

Jack blinked. “Tough noogies?”

“That’s right. I said tough noogies. You got a problem with that?”

Jack’s lips twitched. “No.”

Grady sighed, because Jack still had the ability to make him awkward as shit—though now it was for more reasons than his unreasonably handsome face. “Look, I’m a dork. I hog one of your barstools, relentlessly mock your love for the Habs, and generally make a nuisance of myself. I get it. I don’t make it easy to be my friend, but I’m hoping I can convince you to give it a shot anyway.” The words were strange to say, beyond the awkwardness he couldn’t seem to stop for love or money. This was new territory for Grady since he didn’t really have any friends. Acquaintances, maybe. Coworkers and neighbors. But notfriends.His preference had always been to go it alone. It just seemed safer. Easier.

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