by J. M. Snyder
“I never really thought about it,” Jim admits. “So is Brooks not British, or…?”
Alan shakes his head. “No, he was born here. So’s his mum.”
“Your sister.”
“My half-sister,” Alan corrects. “My mum was an actress—”
“Really?” Jim sits back, impressed. “Anyone I might know of?”
“Stage actress,” Alan clarifies, “so no. Her biggest role was in a production of Pygmalion the Queen came to see. After that, everything else was a wash. Her words.”
“Wow. And your dad?”
Alan shrugs. “Just some bloke who worked backstage. They had a fling during Man of La Mancha and he went back to the States when he found out she was pregnant.”
“You never met him?”
“No, I did.” Alan uses a crusty heel of bread to mop up the remaining sauce on his plate. “I was eighteen and came over to find him if I could, give him a piece of my mind for leaving my mum high and dry. Only—”
Jim whistles, interrupting him. “Damn.” At Alan’s frown, he adds, “Just picturing you at eighteen.”
“Wasn’t quite as gray as I am now.” Alan rubs a hand through his short hair. “Other’n that, I was a dish, you better believe it.”
Jim grins with a suggestive wag of his brows. “Still are, far as I’m concerned.”
“Right, well…” Alan feels his face heat up and he clears his throat, trying to get his mind back on track. What are they talking about again? Does it even matter?
Softly Jim prompts, “Your dad.”
“Right, him.” Alan begins to tear little pieces off his bread, dropping them onto his plate, where they absorb the last of the sauce. “Nothing much more about him, really. I said my piece and left. My sister was just a baby at the time. Years later she reached out to me and we really hit it off. The bank I worked for was bought by another, I was transferred to the Richmond office, she joined the Army and was stationed here at Fort Lee. She got pregnant, moved off base, kept the baby, moved in with me, then left Brooks in my care when she was sent overseas.”
He smirks at Jim. “And that’s why Brooks doesn’t sound like a Beatle. For the record, I should point out, neither do I.”
With a laugh, Jim says, “Alright, alright, I stand corrected.”
“What about you?” Alan asks. “Always want to be a cop?”
“Detective,” Jim corrects. “And yes, I did, because my dad was one back in Clarksville.”
“Where—?”
“Southern part of the state. Stone’s throw from the border,” Jim explains. “A tiny town off Route 58. You blink and you miss it.”
Alan nods. “Sounds nice.”
Shrugging, Jim says, “It wasn’t all that nice when I was the only gay kid around.”
“Come on, now. The only one?”
“Only one I knew of,” Jim amends. “I mean, we’re talking the 1980s. Being gay wasn’t in then like it is now. In the early 90s I moved here for college, met a guy—met a few of them, actually—and finally felt like I was home, you know what I mean? I wasn’t alone. I felt like I fit in.”
Alan reaches across the small table and covers Jim’s hand with his. He doesn’t say anything—he doesn’t have to. The tender touch is enough.
Jim gives him a tight-lipped smile. When he speaks again, his voice is gruffer than usual. “So, another question.”
Alan raises an eyebrow, all ears.
Leaning forward, Jim lowers his voice, and Alan leans closer, too, unsure of what to expect.
“How about dessert?”
Alan sits back and laughs. “Oh no, I couldn’t.”
Raising a hand to flag down the waiter, Jim says, “Too late, I’m ordering something. For both of us.”
He orders cheesecake, and two decadent slices arrive covered in a jumble of fresh berries. Alan stares at it, sure he can’t eat another bite, but when Jim picks up a fork, he does the same. The cake practically melts on his tongue.
“God,” Alan sighs. “This is almost better than sex.”
“If you think that, then you haven’t been with the right man yet,” Jim teases.
Alan laughs. “I did say almost.”
With an arched look, Jim says, “Good. Because the night’s still young.”
Chapter 12
Back in the car, Alan slouches behind the wheel. “I am stuffed. I hope I don’t zonk out by the end of the first act.”
“We could walk, if you want,” Jim suggests. “Get some exercise.”
Alan laughs. “Yeah, no. I’ll end up in hospital then. I ate way too much.”
“But you have to admit the food was good.”
“It was delicious,” Alan concedes. “I can see why you wanted to go back even after that disastrous date.”
Jim touches Alan’s knee, sending a spark of electric lust shooting up his thigh to his crotch. “This was a much better date, trust me.”
Alan admits, “I only hope you like the opera now. Otherwise the date will go downhill and it’ll be all my fault.”
“Fat ladies singing in Italian,” Jim jokes. “What’s not to like?”
“Actually, this one’s in French.” Alan starts the car and glances at the time on the dashboard display. “And we’re running late.”
With a grin, Jim says. “If you have to speed, go ahead. I won’t say anything.”
“Do you give out tickets?” Alan asks, putting the car into gear.
“Haven’t in a long time,” Jim admits. “It isn’t one of my duties anymore. Sometimes I have to write out citations at the mall, but those are mostly for abandoned vehicles. Everyone knows the cops hang out there after hours, so it isn’t like anyone drag races through the parking lot or anything.”
Alan shakes his head, amazed. “Do kids still do that?”
“You’d be surprised,” Jim says. “Kids do whatever the hell they want.”
Though Jim doesn’t say it, Alan can almost hear what he’s thinking. Look at Brooks. If it were any other cop who caught him after hours, the poor kid would probably have quite the rap sheet by now.
He came up with it, not me.
True—Brooks thought he’d play matchmaker, hanging out after curfew to catch the detective’s attention. The first time he did it, he didn’t even ask Alan for permission. He biked to the mall long after it had closed and rode around the parking lot, popping wheelies and jumping the curb until Detective Garrison pulled him over. Then he rode home in the front seat of Jim’s unmarked patrol car, his bike crammed into the back. When Alan answered the door to find the detective standing there, Brooks behind him with a smirk Jim couldn’t see, Alan was mortified. He could barely look Jim in the eye as he herded Brooks inside. “I’m so sorry,” he said, over and over again. “I had no clue he’d gone out. I’ll have a talk with him, I will. I promise.”
“Penny for your thoughts,” Jim says, bringing Alan out of the past.
“Hmm? Oh, nothing.” Things are off to a good start between them; Alan doesn’t think Jim needs to know yet that this entire evening was ultimately orchestrated by a fourteen-year-old who was paid for it, to boot.
* * * *
The parking deck is across the street from the Landmark Theatre. Alan’s assigned spot is on the first floor, right near the exit—it’s perfect for avoiding the after show rush out of the deck, and every year he renews his subscription as early as he can to keep the same spot. He locks the car as he gets out, then double-checks it by clicking the lock button on his key fob. As he’s pocketing his keys, Jim walks around the car and holds out a hand. Alan slips his into it.
There’s a line at the will call window, but the doors are already open and there’s little delay between their tickets being scanned and them being shown to their seats. First row grand tier, in the center of the stage. A perfect, unobstructed view. As the usher hands them programs, Jim whistles, impressed. “Damn, these are good seats.”
“I get the same ones every time.” Alan lets Jim into the row first,
then takes the empty seat beside him. “You know, this is sort of jumping the gun, but I do have tickets for the other three shows this season. If you end up liking this one, that is.”
“We’ll see.” Jim leafs through the program. “Four acts. How long is this anyway?”
With a glance at his watch—they have a few minutes before the curtain rises— Alan says, “Three hours. Give or take.”
Jim gives him a hard look. “Three…are you serious?”
“There’s an intermission, mate,” Alan points out. “They’ll have an open bar with snacks and wine out in the lobby.”
“I might need a drink by then,” Jim mutters. Closing the program, he frowns at the cover. “Carmen? It’s set in Spain but sung in French? That’s weird.”
“That’s opera.” Alan nods at a thin, rectangular screen above the stage. “The translations will show up there. Believe it or not, this is one of the most popular operas. I first saw it when I was in college.”
Jim smirks. “So what you’re telling me is it’s old.”
“It was old way before I saw it.”
“I’m teasing,” Jim clarifies. “Hell, you aren’t that much older than me.”
Alan might beg to differ. “I think it was first performed in 1875, or somewhere around thereabouts.”
Respect flickers across Jim’s face. “Wow, that is old. It must be good.”
“I think it is. I hope you like it,” Alan says again. “It’s really the show that made me fall in love with opera in the first place. Not saying you have to, too, but—”
“Hey.” Closing the program, Jim sits back in his seat, and his hand finds its way to Alan’s knee again.
When it settles there and doesn’t move, Alan dares to cover it with his own. He feels heady, as if the whole theater is looking at them, at this simple display of affection. He has to remind himself no one’s going to throw them out, or run screaming for the police.
He is the police. This isn’t the Stone Age, isn’t that what Brooks said? Being attracted to another man is no longer the crime it was in my youth.
Which might as well have been back in 1875, Alan thinks wryly. Going on a date, getting handsy out in public where anyone can see them…this is all so new to him. No matter what Jim tries to tell him, Alan knows he’s old.
But Jim’s hand squeezes Alan’s knee, and then slides an inch or two up his thigh, and to be honest, Alan doesn’t feel old when they’re together. He feels gung-ho and full of spunk, young again in a way he couldn’t have said he was missing before tonight.
Leaning closer, Jim says softly, “I don’t know about you, but I’m having a wonderful time so far tonight, and nothing’s going to change that, I promise. Even if I find out I don’t like opera.”
Alan gives him a tight smile. “Here’s hoping you feel the same three hours from now.”
* * * *
Throughout the first half of the show, Alan pays more attention to Jim than to the opera. Every time the music swells or the mezzo-soprano sings, he glances over at his date, trying to gauge Jim’s thoughts.
Date. Just thinking the word brings a smile to Alan’s face. He raises his free hand to hide it. His other hand still covers Jim’s.
But every time Alan looks his way, Jim is staring at the stage, brow bunched in…what, exactly? Confusion? Consternation? Distaste? Alan can’t tell; Jim is a hard man to read. Maybe the high notes have put him off. Maybe he isn’t following the storyline.
God, maybe he hates it.
Please don’t let him hate it.
Alan wasn’t this nervous the first time he took Brooks to the opera. Even though that was The Magic Flute and the audience swelled with children, Alan knew Brooks probably wouldn’t like it, and he’d been right. It just wasn’t his thing.
But Alan wants Jim to like opera, partly because he doesn’t want the date to end on a bad note. If Jim enjoys this evening, then Alan has the perfect excuse to ask him out again for the next production. And the one after that, and the one in the spring, and…
If he doesn’t like it, that doesn’t mean we can’t go out again. But it might make him think we have nothing in common. Then what?
That being said, what do they have in common? Not a whole hell of a lot, Alan has to admit. They get their morning joe at the same café, they both know Brooks shouldn’t be at the mall after curfew, and really, that’s about it.
Did he used to worry this much about a guy he liked back in his thirties when he was actively dating? He can’t remember—he doesn’t think so. If every date he’d ever gone on was this nerve-wracking, he can’t imagine he would’ve kept at it. Unless it gets easier after the first one?
It better, or I might end up with a coronary from all this damn worrying I’m doing.
Once or twice Alan is on the verge of nudging Jim to ask if he’s enjoying the show, but he holds back. He isn’t sure he wants to hear the answer. When the second act finale brings down the curtain, the applause tapers off and the auditorium is filled with shuffling sounds as patrons stand, stretch, or head to the loo. Jim reaches out for the railing in front of them and arches his back like a cat waking up. “Well—”
“If you don’t like it,” Alan interjects, “we can leave now. There’s no use sitting through the rest of it. I mean, I get it. Opera isn’t for everyone.”
“What? No.” Jim runs a hand through his short hair then combs it down, even though it didn’t move much. “I like it. I really do.”
Alan frowns at him. “You aren’t just saying that, are you?”
“No, I’m not,” Jim says with a laugh. “You worry too much.”
When he laughs, his eyes light up. Alan doesn’t know how he ever thought the man was hard to read. Everything about him says he’s having a great time. So stop trying to convince him otherwise. Enjoy tonight, will you? Let go and relax.
The wine they had with dinner is wearing off now, and Alan could really use another glass, if only to loosen up. If he isn’t careful, he might end up ruining what’s been so far one of the best nights he’s had in a long time.
Clapping Jim on the back, Alan says, “There’s fifteen minutes before the next act begins. How about we head out and grab something to drink, then?”
Jim’s smile widens. “Sounds good to me.”
Chapter 13
At the end of the opera Jim surges to his feet with the rest of the crowd, applauding and wolf-whistling. When Alan rises, Jim throws an arm around his waist, grinning madly. Alan has to raise his voice to be heard over the clamor. “Did you like it?”
He feels like he’s shouting, but he can barely hear himself. Jim must catch some of it, though, because his grin widens and he pulls Alan close. Into Alan’s ear, he hollers, “I loved it! When’s the next one?”
Alan laughs. They stay on their feet for the curtain call, the volume of the audience somehow increasing exponentially every time another actor steps out on stage. But after the mezzo-soprano takes her bow, Alan eases a hand around Jim’s arm and gives it a slight tug. When Jim leans towards him, Alan says, “We should go now if we want to beat the crowd.”
Jim nods and follows Alan out into the lobby, where the noise is deadened but not by much. His face is flushed as he takes Alan’s hand with a tight grip. “God! I loved that! I’m serious—when are we going again?”
“The Marriage of Figaro isn’t for another two months,” Alan tells him. “If you still want to hang out with me that far into the future—”
“Oh, don’t worry.” Jim squeezes his hand. “You can’t get rid of me that easily.”
Outside it’s dark and colder than it was earlier. It’s going on eleven, and Alan has to smile at the thought of the two of them being out so close to the curfew. Hell, he might even beat Brooks home, at this rate. Though he plans to take the long way back to Jim’s apartment, and hopefully they’ll linger a while in the car. Alan’s still hoping for a goodnight kiss.
As they walk, Jim moves closer to Alan. He drops Alan’s hand and ease
s his arm around Alan’s waist instead. Alan wraps an arm around Jim’s shoulders—the detective is a good half a head shorter than he is, and Jim’s body tucks in easily against his. Sudden lust spikes through Alan at the warmth smoldering between them. This is the perfect end to a perfect date. The only thing that would make it better really would be a goodnight kiss.
On their way to the car, they walk along the side of the theater, decorated with posters announcing upcoming shows. Jim stops at one of them, forcing Alan to stop, too.
“This isn’t an opera, is it?” Jim asks.
The poster is for Les Misérables. “That’s a musical,” Alan tells him. “Set in France but sung in English. Very famous, in fact.”
“Do you like it?”
Alan shrugs, which settles Jim closer to him. “I’ve never seen it, to be honest. I don’t really get to see a lot of shows, you know. No one to go with.”
Jim gives his waist a squeeze. “Well, you do now. That’ll be date number two.”
“It doesn’t open until the end of the year,” Alan says. “I hope we don’t wait that long before we do this again.”
“Well, date number whatever then. We’re going.” Jim rests his head on Alan’s shoulder for a moment, then laughs. “We’re going to come here so often, they’ll get sick of us. What’s showing next Friday?”
With a laugh, Alan tells him, “I don’t know, but you can be sure I’ll find out.”
“That’s date number two, then.”
* * * *
Once they’re in the car, the darkness closes in around them intimately. The radio is down low, soft, so they can hear the music but not the lyrics. Passing street lights flicker over the dashboard, stripe across the console between them, then disappear somewhere behind. At the first stop light they catch, Jim covers Alan’s hand on the gear shaft. His fingers curl through Alan’s, strong and warm. When the light changes, Alan doesn’t shift into gear immediately; he doesn’t want to lose Jim’s touch. But an engine behind them revs and Jim’s hand returns to his lap, and Alan puts the car into gear.
For the first time he can ever recall, he wishes he drove an automatic.