by Bru Baker
Harris’s eyes widened at the sight of the plate. “You baked? What’s the occasion?”
You visiting, he almost said, but he swallowed the words. The last thing he needed was Harris teasing him for being such a weirdo.
“Just felt like it. I always like to bake when I clean. It makes the place smell better.”
That was true. Harsh chemical air fresheners wreaked havoc on sensitive Were noses, and his stepmother had always baked a pie or cookies when the funk of four teenage boys under one roof got too heavy.
But he’d had an odd drive to make the place nice for Harris. It was strange.
Harris reached out and took a cinnamon roll, and Jordan made a sharp noise.
“So, he can eat them but I can’t?”
Harris paused with the cinnamon roll halfway to his mouth, brow quirked in question. His lips looked a little chapped but still gorgeous, and the playful expression on his face made Jackson’s heart do a funny little skip.
“You can have one, asswipe. I just didn’t want you eating one before I even had them on the plate,” he said, shoving the plate toward Jordan.
He didn’t care for the challenging look Jordan gave him, so he ignored it.
Harris made an appreciative humming noise, and Jackson turned back in time to see his eyes fluttering closed as he chewed. Jackson turned away and busied himself shoving the oven mitts into a drawer. Not the one they belonged in, but Harris wouldn’t know that. Hell, Jordan didn’t know that. Jackson made a mental note to grab them and put them in their proper place later.
“You didn’t tell me Fang and Fury picked up a contract at Camp H.O.W.L.,” Harris said after he’d swallowed.
“I didn’t know until Jordan picked me up yesterday.”
Fuck. He hadn’t meant to say it like that. Any hope that Harris hadn’t heard him was dashed when he raised an eyebrow. “Something wrong with your car?”
“He didn’t want to pay airport parking, and I, being the fine specimen of a roommate that I am, offered to drive him.”
“I was in New York,” Jackson said before Harris could ask for more details. It was better to do this fast. “I had an interview. A Tribunal Enforcer job opened up, and they liked my application.”
Harris stared at him for a moment, his expression stricken, before his face smoothed into the mask Jackson saw him use in therapy. Shit. He was mad.
“The Tribunal Enforcers work out of the East Coast headquarters, right?”
Jackson nodded. His heart was in his throat, and he couldn’t seem to force words past it. If Harris disapproved—well, he wouldn’t take his name out of the running, but he wouldn’t feel good about taking the job either. Harris’s opinion meant a lot.
“Well, I’m sure you’ll get it,” Harris said, his mask still in place. “They’ll be lucky to have you.”
They fell into silence until Jordan broke it by clapping his hands together.
“You have everything you need to play some basketball after lunch, Harry?” Jordan smiled when Jackson glared at him. Jackson’s department was having a pickup tournament, and Jackson had decided to skip it because Harris was visiting. Jordan wanted to go, though, hence his meddling.
Harris glanced down at his feet. “I’m wearing sneakers, which I’m more than willing to put up your ass if you call me Harry again.”
Jackson snickered. He was the only one allowed to call Harris by any sort of nickname. Probably because he did it affectionately. Jordan did it to be a dick.
“Should be fine. I’ll need to borrow some sweats, though.”
Jordan grinned in triumph. “Jackson, you heard the man. Go grab him some clothes.”
Jackson’s stomach leaped at the thought of Harris in his clothes. “You go grab him some clothes.”
Jordan’s shit-eating smile grew. “You’re the only one who has anything clean. I haven’t done laundry in like, two weeks.”
Bastard. He’d planned this. Jordan was an annoying little shit sometimes. Fuck. Make that most of the time. Apparently, Jackson hadn’t been as good at hiding his growing crush as he’d thought.
“It’s just an intradepartmental pickup game,” he said. “It’s nothing important. We can skip it.”
Harris’s eyes lit up, and Jackson was done for. “I’ll get to meet the guys you work with? Hell yeah, I’m in. You’ve been talking about them for three years. I want to put names to faces.”
Jackson sighed and retreated to his bedroom, praying Jordan behaved himself. Who was he kidding? Jordan never behaved. But hopefully he’d keep his new revelations to himself.
The gym they played in was always sweltering, so he grabbed an old department T-shirt and a pair of loose mesh shorts for Harris. It didn’t escape his notice he’d chosen a shirt with his name on the back. Part of him wanted to mark Harris as his. Even though he wasn’t. Jesus. He was usually better at compartmentalizing.
He tossed the bundle to Harris, who raised his hands to catch it. He was wearing a pair of tight jeans and a V-neck T-shirt that was mouthwateringly fitted. Jackson had always been one to appreciate a fine male body, and Harris definitely had one. So did Jordan and nearly every Were he knew. But he’d always been able downplay his attraction to Harris before. They’d been spending more time together lately, and it was getting increasingly difficult not to drool over him.
His wolf was going crazy at the thought of Harris wearing his things. Sweat trickled down his back, and his body felt tender and hot, like the shift was prickling at his skin. It had never been like this with Raoul or his other boyfriends. He had no idea what was going on or why it was directed at one of his best friends. A mix of anxiety and homesickness, perhaps, and all of it focused on Harris because he was always such a comforting, solid presence.
Jackson snorted. That was all bullshit. He had a good old-fashioned crush, and he couldn’t explain it away as his worry over the new job.
No, this was carnal lust mixed with affection. Dammit.
It was ridiculous. They’d been friends for over a decade. Harris was good-looking, and Jackson had been appreciative of that since they met. But it was just that—attraction. He wouldn’t throw away their friendship for a fuck. Harris was worth more than that. He deserved someone who could give him more than a casual relationship—someone who wasn’t married to his career and had room in his life for Harris. Jackson’s dedication to rising through the Enforcer ranks had been the reason he and Raoul broke up two months ago. And also the reason he hadn’t cared, aside from the inconvenience of losing his regular bed partner.
God, he was such a dick.
Harris and Jordan were staring at him, and Jackson realized they were waiting on him to see what they were doing next. Time to stop thinking and get on with the day.
“Let’s go get lunch,” he told them.
WATCHING Harris use chopsticks was bad enough, but seeing him hip check a dude who had forty pounds on him while wearing a sweat-soaked T-shirt—Jackson’s T-shirt—was rock bottom. Jackson was grateful he was on the bench right now because his thin shorts did nothing to disguise how interested he was.
No one had blinked at Jackson bringing Harris along to play. They were used to Jordan trailing along behind him. He’d hoped his chief would say no to a civilian joining, but he’d just slapped Harris on the back and asked him how strong his three-pointer was.
The answer was, strong. Jackson knew Harris was good since they played pickup games with the Pack in St. Louis, but the way Harris moved with such grace—it was almost art. He was constantly in motion and deadly accurate with his shots.
Harris came away from a rebound scuffle with possession of the ball and pivoted, a look of complete concentration on his face while he lined up his shot and let it go. He bit at his bottom lip as he watched it arc, and Jackson would have given anything to do the same right now.
“You doing okay there, Berrings?”
Jackson flinched. He hadn’t heard his CO sit down next to him. This obsession with Harris was fucking with
his senses.
“Yeah, just woolgathering.”
“You’re in next. That friend you brought is something. I don’t suppose he’d want to join the team?”
God no. Jackson couldn’t handle seeing this weekly. “He’s just visiting. Besides, he’s a therapist, not a cop.”
Harris blocked a shot and grabbed the ball, darting around the other team like it was an open court. No one could stop him. “Coulda fooled me,” Jackson’s CO said, gaping at the sight on the court. “Guy’s tough. He’s had law enforcement training somewhere. You can tell by the way he carries himself.”
It was a common mistake. Weres stood tall and were always on alert—they were often taken for military or law enforcement out in public. It was a byproduct of their senses. Even though they worked hard not to react to every little thing out in public, it was impossible to turn it off.
“He’s done a little personal security work,” Jackson said when it was clear his CO was expecting an answer. It wasn’t a lie. All Camp H.O.W.L. staffers patrolled and provided general security on the property.
Jackson flinched when a whistle blew a few feet away. Jordan smirked at him from the court.
“Berrings, you’re in for Michaelson. Good luck, son.”
Fuck. Of all the players to sub in for, it had to be the one guarding Harris? He ignored Jordan’s quiet snickers and jogged onto the court.
“Ooh, this should be fun,” Harris teased when he took his place next to him. They’d paused for a water break, and Jackson had to bite back an admonishment that Harris needed to drink more to keep himself hydrated. He was a grown man. If he wanted to get a drink, he’d get a drink.
“Don’t think I’m going to take it easy on you because we’re friends, Harry,” Jackson said, satisfaction bubbling up inside him when Harris’s ears flushed at the nickname. “You’re going down.”
Harris shot him a wicked grin. “It is a particular talent of mine,” he said as the whistle blew and play resumed.
Jackson stood there stunned as Harris blew past him, getting into position for Jordan to pass to him. Jackson followed a beat later, moving faster than he should in a room full of humans. The burn in his muscles from honest-to-God exertion felt amazing. And the thrill of chasing his mate—
Jackson stopped dead at the thought. A pass from Carlson smacked against the side of his face and he went down hard, slamming his shoulder into the court when he fell.
Play kept going, but Harris was at his side in an instant. “Fuck, Jackson,” he said, breathless. “What is up with you, man? Are you all right? Do you need to see Drew?”
Jackson laughed humorlessly. He’d like to see Drew, but not because he needed a checkup. His brother was newly mated, and Jackson had a lot of questions for him—and for his partner Nick, who was a Were.
He’d thought of Harris as his mate. That was a big Freudian slip. He’d never given much thought to finding a mate because his career was so important. Why the hell was his brain taking him there now? And with Harris? This was fucked on so many levels.
He took the hand Harris offered him, letting him pull him up off the court. His CO beckoned them over, and for the sake of appearances, Jackson leaned into Harris, playing along as Harris helped him shuffle off the court. A human would probably have a concussion. He’d have to call Drew and ask.
“Shit, Berrings. When I said get your head in the game, I didn’t mean literally,” his CO barked. “Go get that checked out.”
He looked at Harris, who was still holding Jackson up. Jackson gave in and leaned into the touch, heat flaring through him at the close contact.
“Harris, right? Can you take him? If Jordan leaves it will mess up the rotation.”
“Sure, no problem,” Harris said without hesitation. His concern wasn’t faked. It oozed off him, mixed with confusion.
“Have his head checked out,” the man said gruffly before turning to shout at players on the court.
“I’ll get a ride home. You guys can take off,” Jordan said quietly. He didn’t look at them, and anyone near him would think he was mumbling to himself.
Perfect. Now Jackson had to head back to the apartment alone with Harris. His dick twitched at the thought. Maybe he did need to have his head examined.
HARRIS stuck around until Jordan got back, which was hours after the game had ended, the fucker. Jackson managed not to embarrass himself, but only just. They played video games and ate all the cinnamon rolls, and Harris had insisted Jackson call Drew.
His stepbrother agreed a human would have a concussion and wrote him a doctor’s note to that effect. Department policy meant he was on leave until a doctor cleared him, but since he’d already put in for vacation so he and Jordan could work at Camp H.O.W.L. for a few days, it didn’t really matter.
JACKSON tossed and turned, unable to get comfortable no matter what position he tried. He’d never had problems sleeping before, even when he was in the middle of horrific cases. Every time he closed his eyes he thought about Harris, which wasn’t conducive to mellowing out and falling asleep.
It had to be stress.
He was so damn tired of waiting for the call from the Tribunal. He knew they were working their way across the country, interviewing potential regional Enforcers, and that took time. But it didn’t help settle his nerves knowing they might be talking to someone who was a better fit for the position right now.
Well, not right this minute. He rolled over and looked at his phone on the nightstand, groaning. It was three in the morning. He and Jordan were leaving for Camp H.O.W.L. in three hours to meet with the staff to talk about some of the changes they’d be making to the security system.
They’d be there most of the week, tweaking procedures and adding new cameras and sensors so everything was secure for the new high-profile camper. It was larger scale than most of the security overhauls Fang and Fury had done, but it wasn’t all that difficult. Or rather, the work wasn’t difficult. Having Harris so close after the alarming realization that he saw him as mate material was a different story.
Jackson was a master at compartmentalization. It was what made him a good cop, and it made him an excellent Enforcer. It would also make him a great Second for a Pack. When he was at work, he was at work. Period.
But all afternoon he’d zoned out, admiring the curve of Harris’s jaw or getting lost in his scent, and that was going to be a real problem if they were working together.
Jackson gave up on sleep after twenty more frustrating minutes of staring at the ceiling. He padded into the kitchen and took out the box of tea Harris kept stashed in the cupboard. It was a special blend he’d been drinking for as long as they’d known each other, and Jackson had given him plenty of shit over the years for preferring the loose tea. He pulled the lid off and sniffed the fragrant leaves. Tension flowed out of him as he took another deep inhale.
He was debating making himself a cup when the floorboards squeaked. Jackson whirled around, shoving the tea behind him on the counter, but he could tell from Jordan’s shit-eating grin he’d been caught.
“Something keeping you up?”
Jackson considered lying, but it was the middle of the night, and he’d had his nose in another man’s tea tin. He flushed at the thought. It sounded like a euphemism for what he’d been fantasizing about doing to Harris.
“Just worried about the job I applied for.”
Jordan hummed and bobbed his head. He opened the cabinet and pulled out a bottle of Jameson. “I know ice cream is the traditional let’s-talk-about-boys offering, but you haven’t been to the store lately.”
Jordan poured generous helpings of whiskey into two tumblers. He shelved the bottle before offering Jackson one, which must mean he really was concerned. He only cleaned up after himself when Jackson was upset.
“Wanna tell me what’s up? I mean, I know how invested you are in this Tribunal job, but come on, Jackson. You’ve been an airhead all day, and your heart was going crazy when I came home tonight.”
Jackson took a sip and held it against the top of his palate, enjoying the burn. It wouldn’t get him drunk, but he still liked the taste. He wanted to shift and run from this conversation on four legs, but that would just make things worse.
“I’m working through some things.”
Jordan smirked. “Some things like how you want to jump Harris?”
Jackson slumped against the counter.
“Yeah, it’s obvious. Some of the guys asked if he was your boyfriend after you two left together. Harris definitely didn’t notice. But he’s been gone on you as long as I’ve known him, so maybe that’s why he’s so oblivious.”
Jackson knew Harris was attracted to him. That kind of thing was impossible to hide around Weres. But Harris had never done anything to make Jackson believe it was more than just that—attraction. Jackson knew he smelled the same way around Harris and untold numbers of other people. That didn’t mean he wanted to pursue it, and Were etiquette demanded ignoring it unless the other person brought it up.
“Even if he is, the timing’s shit. With any luck, I’ll be moving to New York in a month.” He ran a hand through his hair, tugging on the strands in frustration. He needed a haircut, but Harris liked it longer, and he’d been putting it off.
God. This wasn’t a recent thing.
“He’s one of my best friends. I can’t ruin that after a decade because my wolf wants to claim him.”
Jordan’s eyebrows rose. “Your wolf wants to claim him?”
Shit. He hadn’t meant to say that.
“Listen, Jackson,” Jordan said, his tone softer. “You know the wolf is you. Your instincts might be baser when you’re thinking with that part of your nature, but it’s still very much you. Take it from me. I lost your brother because I was fighting my instincts. But I was really fighting myself. Our wolves aren’t a separate entity. If your instincts are pulling you toward him, then it’s because your heart and your brain think he’s something special.”