Love & Loyalty (7 page)
“Lofty.” Jim shook his head. “Unrealistic.”
“To want to date the right person? How is that unrealistic? I'm sure you know people who are happy with each other.”
“A few.”
“Okay—so clearly they've found the right person. Why don't you think I can?”
“I don't mean
you
can't.”
“You said…”
“I just meant it's hard to meet people, let alone the right person.” Griffin reached into his pocket and pulled out his BlackBerry. “Hang on, let me write down these pearls of wisdom. I'll use it for my next romantic comedy.”
Jim made a face and Griffin laughed. Loudly. God, maybe he needed a cup of that coffee before he got loud drunk.
“You should try personal ads,” Griffin teased. “Video dating.”
“Shut up,” Jim mumbled, stirring his coffee again.
“Maybe it's the bottle of wine talking here, Detective Shea, but I can't believe you walk down the street and don't get propositioned like twenty times a day. If I took you to a party back in my neck of the woods…”
“I'd spend the whole time busting people for possession,” Jim finished.
“Hey…not the
whole
time.”
“You don't…”
Griffin pondered this. “Are you going to narc me out for smoking a joint at Sundance last year?”
“I'll let it go this time,” Jim said drily.
“Then I'm clean. I like my wine, I like my vodka tonics, I like the occasional beer with my red meat. I don't do drugs, I don't smoke, I don't 48
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jaywalk, and I only speed on the freeways where it is actually the law in Southern California.”
“You sound like a great guy. Why aren't you being propositioned twenty times a day?”
It was clearly the closest thing to flirting Detective Shea was capable of.
Griffin was delighted.
“Well.” Griffin pointed at his face. “Not exactly movie-star or male-model material, and where I live, that tends to help. Now, if I want to get laid, I just have to walk into a Starbucks and announce I'm a screenwriter. Then I have my pick of wannabes and head shots and sample scripts.” Jim frowned. “You're very… You look…” He huffed. “That's stupid.”
“What's stupid? I didn't say I was hideous. Hell, I'd probably do fine if I moved somewhere less attractive.”
“How are you going to find the right person if you think everyone is just trying to use you?”
Griffin had nothing. He wished for a cup of coffee. A spoon to stir it with.
“I think I liked it better when you were speaking in one-word sentences and glares,” he said finally, cracking a smile. “So what's your excuse?”
“I…” Jim paused, appearing to actually be thinking of an honest answer.
“I'm not good at it. I pick the wrong people, I say the wrong things. I'm better with…a few words, lots of glares.”
“No dinners out, too many late nights, birthdays all alone.” Griffin tapped his fingers on the dark shadow of the tablecloth. “Sucks.”
“Maybe. Or it just is what it is.”
“If I tell Daisy any of this, she's going to be working hard to fix you up.” Daisy would be horrified by Jim's lack of romance. Horrified.
Jim looked panicked. “Please don't do that, or is this some sort of 'semi-husband and wife, we spill everything' deal?” Love & Loyalty
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“Wow, good call.”
“Why don't you marry
her
?”
“Well, for starters, she's already married. Also, her lady parts are of no interest to me.”
“She's married?”
“Yeah.” Griffin squirmed. Maybe he should shut up, ask for the check.
Talking about his love life was slightly less dangerous than mouthing off about Daisy's. Not that Jim was going to excuse himself to call
Inside Edition
, but still. “For a long time, actually. It's complicated.” Griffin looked at Jim, who was clearly waiting for more.
“He owns the studio I work for. Bright Side.” Griffin tried not to roll the words around in his mouth unpleasantly. Scaring Jim—and therefore Ed Kelly—off would be a disaster.
“So he's involved in Ed's movie?”
“No. That's a side project for Daisy and I.”
Was that too quick? Too obviously a semi-lie?
“I don't know what that means.”
“Like…a part-time job.”
“Like a paper route.”
“Yes, you're a paper route to me.”
“No, Ed is a paper route to you. I'm Old Man Jenkins yelling for you to get off my lawn.”
* * * * *
Jim watched him from across the table, wary and amused.
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“I don't think I'm quite sober yet,” he said, his voice slightly strained.
“Think I'll take you up on that walk.”
“Good idea.” Griffin stared into the shadows, sidelong glances telling him that Jim was watching him.
“What time is your flight back?”
Griffin rolled his tongue around for a moment. “Don't have a ticket yet. I was playing it by ear.”
Jim was quiet. “You got a hotel room?”
“Nope.”
More silence.
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Chapter Eight
Raul dropped off the snazzy black leather folder, and Griffin busied himself leaving a show-off tip and signing his name with a flourish.
“Let's go,” Jim said, already standing up and brushing off his suit.
“Fresh air will do me good,” Griffin mumbled.
They managed to find their way out of the dark maze, smelling fresh air and freedom and privacy. At least that's what Griffin was going by. He thought maybe Jim was just using his cop instincts.
No use in overplaying his hand—maybe the question about the hotel room was just Jim being polite.
The valet walked over as soon as they hit the cool, crisp night air. Griffin breathed deeply as Jim said they were walking around the block and would be right back.
He said this with a twenty-dollar bill. Then he started walking, and Griffin followed, moving his legs into an awkward jog to catch up.
“Don't leave without me,” he said, and Jim slowed down slightly, looking at him with a touch of surprise.
“Sorry.” He shook his head and laughed awkwardly. “I think I've forgotten how to walk leisurely.”
“Wanna lean leisurely?” Griffin eyed a deeply shadowed doorway, a shop closed for the night.
“Not sure that'll clear my head.”
Another pass at flirting. Griffin all but knocked him against the brick wall of the store as they reached it.
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“Ah, fuck it,” he said as they collided. Jim caught his weight, impacting the wall against his back as Griffin went in for a kiss.
Jim was surprised but alert enough, apparently, to catch Griffin and open his mouth at the same time.
Score.
Major score, because Jim's body felt exactly as good as Griffin imagined, rock hard under that sad gray suit. His mouth was equally good, or rather, great, and most importantly, willing.
They were just about the same height; Griffin's boots made up any difference, and it gave him enough leverage to push a bit harder. Full body against full body, the slowing down of that initial frantic kiss when you're fitting your mouths together for the first time.
Griffin went into leisurely mode, doing his damn best to make sure Detective Shea not only had a great birthday but also stayed on board their little project.
He was the ultimate unselfish guy—with a fistful of Jim's lapels and his tongue doing an exploration of the detective's oral cavity. The leg slide, the imposition of his thigh between legs of steel…all the moves were working, and Jim didn't seem to want to flip him over and punch his lights out.
It was all really good, even when Jim tipped his head to one side to suck in a lungful of air.
Griffin half tensed, waiting for the rejection, but nothing came except Jim's hands on his face, tilting him to the perfect angle before the kissing started up again.
Heaven.
Griffin pushed in a little more until they were flush against each other, dueling belt buckles and burgeoning erections, Jim's hands sliding down to Griffin's ass with an impossible-to-ignore signal.
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Not to be outdone, Griffin used whatever muscles he'd worked up in the gym and yanked Jim's hips forward—and duplicated his move.
Jim came up for breath again and gave him an interesting look.
Quizzical. Slightly worried. Really turned on. Griffin squeezed Jim's ass a little tighter, brushing his fingers against the seam of those equally sad gray pants.
Jim moaned under his breath, and Griffin wished for a genie to grant him three wishes—a bed, a condom, and a bottle of Astroglide.
“Let's get out of here—you're sober, right? Because I'm really, really sober right now,” Griffin babbled, not bothering to wait for an answer. He ducked his head and went for the spot of skin just above Jim's collar.
“Uh, you're going to have to let me go,” Jim pointed out weakly, putting his hands on Griffin's shoulders and giving him a shove.
They were maybe a foot apart, both breathing heavily. Griffin tried to get his equilibrium back, a vain attempt punctuated by trying to cover his enormous erection with the hem of his jacket and smoothing his hair out of his eyes.
Stupid gel. Twenty-four bucks for a tube of that crap, and it didn't survive making out with an incredibly hot guy. He was going to write a letter to…someone.
“Okay, let's go. Not giving you a chance to change your mind.” Jim straightened his suit with shaky hands. “What makes you think I'll change my mind?”
Griffin shrugged. The first thing that came to his lips was so very
un
bold; the idea that this ridiculously hot guy would want to sleep with him was straight out of bizarre world.
“I thought this wasn't your thing.”
“What? Sex? Good news, I'm not a virgin.” Jim started walking back toward the restaurant, hands dug into his pockets.
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“Dating, with a sex chaser.” Griffin caught up with another swift jog. This guy was great for his cardio.
“Rare, but it happens.”
“I feel honored.”
“Or maybe I'm desperate.” Jim gave him a triumphant smirk, but Griffin just laughed and kicked his walk up a few more leg movements per second.
“Then lucky me, to catch Detective Jim Shea on an off night.” They reached the valet in record time; Jim flipped the guy two more twenties, and Griffin whistled under his breath.
The guy respected the bribe and pretended not to notice their rumpled state or their hurry to get into the truck and get the hell out of Dodge.
* * * * *
“Fifteen minutes.” Jim drove slowly, with extra pauses at the stop signs.
“Maybe twenty.”
“My ego is wounded—why aren't you in a hurry?”
“Because I'm a cop who had a few with dinner, and if I got stopped, my career is fucked.” Jim gave him a withering, tough-guy look that Griffin found vaguely hot.
“Got it.” Griffin did a “lock the lips and throw away the key” motion, which earned him an equally hot eye roll.
They drove in silence, listening to the low murmur of an all-news radio station and the occasional horn honk of someone who didn't appreciate Jim's overly cautious style of driving.
When Griffin saw the little market on the corner, a thought rose up that both embarrassed and entertained him.
“Can we stop?” He pointed out the market. Jim looked surprised.
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“Okay, but, uh, if you need anything, I probably have it.”
God, was he blushing?
“I'm positive you don't have what I'm going to pick up.”
“Now I'm scared…”
But Jim pulled over anyway, and Griffin jumped out of the truck.
* * * * *
“I'm only around the block,” Jim said.
“Perfect timing, then.”
Jim eased the giant pickup down a side street and into a wide parking spot. When the truck was shut off, the lights out, Griffin leaned over the cab and slid his hand behind Jim's neck.
“You wanna neck in the truck?” Jim asked lightly—questioning yet not resisting at all.
“Nah, just want to make sure you're still into this.” Jim didn't answer, he just closed his eyes and opened his mouth, and Griffin thought maybe making out in the cab was a great idea.
It didn't get that far; a few pumps of mutual tongues, some teeth on Jim's bottom lip, and he pulled away with a mumble about getting upstairs.
Griffin followed with his backpack and his grocery bag and his renewed hard-on and eyes glued to Jim's back. They entered the corner building, which resembled a factory, but once inside, Griffin could see the amazing interiors.
“Art deco? Wow. You'd never guess from outside,” he murmured, taking in the sharp artwork and mirrors. The elevator opened with a twist of Jim's key.
“It's like a pleasant surprise every time I come home.” 56
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That admission caught Griffin's attention and he smiled, pleased that Jim had shared it.
“How long have you been here?”
