“Mostly?”
“He might have clocked me for a few tickets?”
“Ah. That’s why you don’t like him.”
“And sometimes he looks at me like he’s checking me against a register of wanted criminals.”
“Are you? On a register of wanted criminals?”
Carl grinned. “Anyway, you probably won’t run into him much—” Carl’s phone shrilled. He took one look at the screen and grimaced. “Speak of the devil . . .”
“What was that about not running into him much?”
Carl laughed nervously and thrust the phone into Jason’s hand. “You answer.”
“Me? What? Why? You’re right here!”
“Soon you’ll be me around a whole town. Baby steps.”
Carl did him a real solid and prodded the accept button.
Jason glared at him.
“Hello? Is that Carl?” The voice on the other end was resonant and warm, spoken from deep down in the chest, a captivating rumble.
A strange ticklish panic shot through Jason and he nodded. Then used actual words. “You betcha, mate.”
Carl’s jaw dropped open and mouthed what the hell?
Jason smacked his forehead. He’d been going for an Australian accent?
Sergeant Owen Stirling also seemed to have paused. “Carl Birch?”
Jason toned it down. “Yep.”
The line crackled. What did that mean? How much sweat was normal for this kind of show? He fanned his flannel.
“Great. I was wondering if you’re available to come down to the station for a quick chat?”
Jason mouthed to Carl, Unpaid tickets?
A shrug. Probably?
He blew the bangs out of his eyes.
Immediately, Carl made a note on their To Do list. Haircut.
Jason yelped out “No!”
The sergeant’s deep voice rumbled down the line again. “Excuse me?”
Oops. He’d gone and—quite emphatically—denied a cop. Would that get him in some kind of trouble? He rushed on. “I mean, I sure would love to meet you, Sergeant Owen, ahh, Stirling. Sir.”
Um . . . did that sound . . . kind of raspy? Kind of breathless? Kind of like he was begging, in the vicinity of a bed with satin sheets?
One look at Carl’s horrified gape confirmed it.
After another pause, the sergeant spoke again. “This connection is . . . shocking. Anyway, better we speak in person. When are you available?”
Well not now! His flight didn’t go out until later this morning. “Can’t it wait?”
Why-why-why did all his intonations land wrong? Nerves were making him sound like he got paid by the minute.
He cleared his throat and tried again. “Or should I come tonight?”
“No-no, tomorrow will be fine.”
“Whenever you want.”
Carl dropped his pen. Jason winced.
Sergeant-Owen-Stirling-Sir made a small sound that might have been a snort, cleared his throat and signed off.
Jason went right ahead and flopped face first into his pillows. “Oh my God.”
Carl echoed him. “Oh my God.”
Laughing, Jason rolled over. “Are you sure about this?”
Carl rubbed his forehead with two fingers and nodded. “We’ll practice some vocab. You’ll be fine once you settle in. For the first couple days, say you’ve been a bit feverish. I get croaky like that when a cold comes on.”
“Give me your credit card. If I’m paying your fines . . .”
Carl hesitated, then fished it out. “Fine. It has a limit, don’t go crazy.”
“On what? There are three stores.”
They exchanged phones—logging out of anything vitally private—each adding a few numbers to the directory in case. This was the hardest part for Jason; he was loathe to part from his baby, but the break from social media . . . it would be good for him.
The only thing they didn’t swap was their passports. Jason might be willing to pretend around his brother’s little town for the summer, but he wasn’t about to break any international laws.
“So, are we good to go?” Jason asked.
Carl grinned and checked the To Do list. “One last thing.”
Exhaustion mixed with exhilaration as Jason finally dragged himself up the dark driveway to his brother’s house. He keyed open a squealing door, stepped inside, and screamed.
Shit!
Someone was there. In the dark. At the end of the hallway.
He shoved Carl’s wheelie suitcase toward the intruder. It smacked into the man in black and—
Glass shattered.
He clasped a hand over his heart and laughed.
A full-length mirror. Goddammit, he’d almost had a heart attack. It was the new haircut. He hadn’t recognised himself with hair cropped short—and all that flappy flannel.
He found the blessed light switch, cringed at the mess of glass, and palmed his knees. “Fine start, Jason. Excellent.”
A pounding knock came from behind him and he leapt again. What on Earth? Eleven at night? Not exactly visiting hours.
Another knock. The voice that followed was even deeper than it’d been on the phone earlier, but still had a certain unmistakable je ne sais quoi. Sergeant Owen Stirling Sir. “Carl? You all right in there?”
Great, here for two minutes and he’d already attracted law enforcement.
His nerves pounded; he was a quiet litany of fucks as he straightened his flannel and matted down that one stubborn bit of hair that wanted to pop up like he was a fluffy duckling. “Just a sec!”