Somebody to Love (Tyler Jamison #1) - April Wilson

Chapter 1

Homicide Detective Tyler Jamison

Another Friday night alone, sipping whiskey in a downtown Chicago bar. Another fucked-up night in my fucked-up life. At least today I put a murderer behind bars. I guess that makes it a good day after all.

“Another round, Detective?”

I nod to Glenn, the balding, middle-aged owner of Tank’s, a middle-class watering hole located just north of downtown. “One more.”

I tap the rim of my tumbler, and Glenn pours a finger of amber liquor into my glass. This is my last one for the night. Then I’m heading home. Alone.

Always alone.

A shift in the air around me, accompanied by a whiff of expensive perfume, heralds the arrival of a woman who sits on the empty barstool to my left. I don’t bother looking up. There’s no point in encouraging her.

Glenn gives me a pitying glance before he turns to the woman. “And what can I get you, beautiful?”

“I’d love a glass of white wine,” she says, her voice silky smooth.

“Coming right up,” the bartender says just before he walks away.

I focus on the half-inch of amber liquor in my glass, mesmerized by the translucent color that resembles a mix of honey and fire, swirling it gently before taking a biting, neat sip. The burn makes me grimace. I’ve never really gotten used to the taste of whiskey, but I like how it warms my belly. It centers me.

“What’s that you’re drinking?” the woman asks. “Whiskey?”

Still avoiding eye contact, I nod.

She sighs. “I’m more of a wine lover myself, although I can certainly appreciate fine liquor when the occasion calls for it. I’m… flexible.”

I resist the urge to laugh. There’s no sexual innuendo in that statement. No, not at all.

“Did I say something funny?” she says.

I guess I’m not as subtle as I think I am. Or maybe it’s the whiskey affecting me. “No. Sorry.”

I still haven’t made eye contact. There’s no point. She’s the third woman to hit on me tonight, and I’m not interested.

Yeah, she smells good and she sounds good, but my body and mind just aren’t on board. Every time I hook up with someone, the result is always the same. I come away from the experience feeling empty. And frankly, I’d rather be lonely than feel nothing at all.

I’m defective.

I was born defective. The only thing I’ve ever successfully cuddled up to is a tumbler of whiskey, and that’s only on Friday nights. I don’t allow myself to drink hard liquor any other time during the week. I have… rules. And rules are meant to be followed. Otherwise, chaos ensues.

“Do you live around here, Detective?” she says.

For an instant, I think she might know me from work, after all I cross paths with a lot of attorneys. But then I realize I left my badge lying on the counter. I pick it up and slip it into my pocket.

Her voice is sultry and sophisticated. I should be thinking about taking her up on the offer I know is coming. The offers always come. Night after night, the offers come. Sometimes I take them up on it, when the loneliness gets to be too much. But afterward, I end up feeling worse. It’s just not worth it anymore.

I toss back the contents of my glass, savoring the burn and the subsequent fire in my gut. It’s time for me to go. I don’t want to sit here and field come-ons all night from women looking for sex.

I finally get around to answering her question. I may not be interested, but I’m not a complete ass. “Yeah. I live around here.”

I toss two twenties on the bar and step off my barstool.

“Don’t go,” she says with a pout.

I finally meet her gaze. Ice blue eyes, platinum blonde hair swept up in a fancy twisted arrangement, a cream-colored business suit and matching heels. There’s a thin gold chain around her slender neck. She’s got attorney written all over her, but I don’t recognize her. As a homicide detective, I’ve come across a lot of attorneys in Chicago, but not this one.

“It’s late,” I say, grabbing my jacket off the empty stool to my right. “Been a long week.”

With a parting nod, I leave her and head for the men’s room so I can take a piss before heading home. The men’s room door opens as I approach, and a young guy walks out—in his late twenties, lean, fit, but not overly muscular. We make eye contact briefly as we approach each other. He’s easily fifteen years younger