Page 4 of The Long Game

But Jack was different. It mattered,hemattered, in ways Grady wasn’t willing to examine too closely. He just knew this felt right.

“You do, actually.”

Grady looked up. “What?”

“Make it easy. To be your friend.” Jack appeared fascinated by something in the cooler between them as a blush crawled up his cheeks.

Grady actually, physically,achedat how beautiful he was.

He wanted to hug Jack. Or hell,kisshim.

Which wasn’t really what friendship was supposed to be about. Even Grady knew that. But…

“Yo, bartender! You actually going to pour some drinks tonight or what!?” bellowed a douchebag halfway down the bar.

Jack rolled his eyes and went to take the douchebag’s order, leaving Grady grinning like a fool, a weight lifted from his shoulders.

Then Grady studied the douchebag’s face, noting the anger and the attitude, and wondered if he had any outstanding warrants. Arresting that guy would be the highlight of his night.

Well, if he didn’t count Jack mumbling sweet things about how easy it was to be Grady’s friend. Even with his admittedly rusty friendship skills, Grady knew all these warm and fuzzy feelings were a bad idea. And wanting to kiss Jack? Even worse.

Jack cleared his throat and sent Grady a pointed look that forced him to stop glaring at the douchebag. Grady turned to his neglected beer with a smirk and wondered what Jack would say if he asked him out on a date.

Jack said no.

He was equal parts flattered and horrified when Grady asked, afraid it would mean the death of their friendship, but he still managed to decline with a smile and a laugh. They could be friends, but that was all it could ever be. Hell, even that was a stretch, but one Jack had convinced himself not to poke at. He didn’t have a lot to offer Grady as a friend, let alone anything else. Anythingmore.Grady, on the other hand, had so much to give.

But Jack secretly loved how Grady glared at drunk assholes who didn’t treat Jack kindly. And how he jumped in to help the waitstaff when customers harassed them. Even when he wasn’t feeding Jack’s previously undiscovered hard-on for action heroes, Jack just liked talking to the man. He liked hearing about Grady’s day, about how frustrated Grady got when he couldn’t help people, but especially about how good he felt when he did.

Those were the times Jack wished his life were different. Thathewas different.

But he wasn’t, and he knew better than anyone that there was no changing the past and the scars it left behind.

Just being friends with a cop was weird enough anyway. Not that Jack didn’t respect law enforcement—he did. It wasn’t theRCMP’s fault his father had been an asshole and Jack had been an idiot. And since getting out, Jack had been scrupulously law-abiding. He wasn’t going to do anything that might send him back to prison. It was easy to see how so many fell into that trap, given the number of doors closed to him because of his record. In the end, he’d been respected in prison, and that could have translated to respect out in the real world, too, if he’d been willing to trade on the connections he’d made inside. But Jack didn’t. Wouldn’t.

He was content to tend bar, mind his own business, and keep his nose clean. If he ever saw shit go down, he would be the first person to call the cops.

In the meantime, Grady was a one-man clean-up crew at the Brunswicker. Watching Grady loom over some asshole while he stammered out an apology to a member of the waitstaff made Jack happy in a way he didn’t trust but couldn’t resist. And he wasn’t the only one. Half of the staff at the Brunswicker had hit on Grady by this point, though Grady hadn’t returned their interest. And all of them felt safer and were more relaxed when Grady was perched on his stool at the end of the bar.

Maybe that was why Jack thought to call him first.

It had been a quiet day and Jack was stocking the bar in the lull between lunch and the happy hour rush. He had two people nursing drinks at one end of the bar and a few tables occupied nearby.

Everyone, customers and staff alike, turned to look when the door swung open and bounced off the wall with a crash. What should have been a bright slash of afternoon sunlight was completely blotted out by a mountain of a man, barrel chest puffed out, face a florid red that spoke of long nights at the bottom of a bottle.

“Where’s Kramer?” the man bellowed.

Michelle eased away from the hostess stand, wisely trying to put distance between herself and the newcomer. He spun, shockingly quick for his size, and narrowed his gaze on her.

“He’s not here,” Jack called over the music and the loud scrape of chair legs being pushed back from tables and the bar. Everyone in the room was ready to bolt.

Except Jack. He’d stand there all day if it kept the man’s attention off Michelle.

“Tell him to come here.Now,” the huge man barked, punctuating the demand with a swift kick to a chair. It flew across the aisle and into an empty table before toppling to the floor with several others.

Jack curled his hand around the rough grip of the baseball bat hidden beneath the bar.

Robert Kramer may have owned the Brunswicker Ale House but he rarely came around. He had a host of other bars, strip joints, and fleabag motels where he could do his business and not be under the watchful eyes of the City Hall workers and cops who frequented the Brunswicker.

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