All Kinds of Tied Down (11 page)

Stretching out on my bed, I pulled up the pictures of Emma and Phil on Ian’s phone and started deleting them one by one. When his phone rang and I saw her number, I answered.

“Hi,” I greeted solemnly.

“Miro?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you okay? I’ve been calling all night and Ian hasn’t picked
up.”

“I’m fine.”

“I… okay, well, is Ian with you, because—”

“He’s passed out. He had a rough night.”

“Don’t you have that backwards? You’re the one who went off my balcony.”

“He knows you’re sleeping with Phil, Emma.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I’m deleting the evidence off his phone right now. It’s not healthy for him.”

A long pause. “I never noticed him,” she finally said.

“Well, he’s trained to go undetected, so that makes sense.”

“I guess.”

I coughed softly. “Was there something else you wanted to say to him?”

“Yes. No.” She sighed. “I don’t know. I shouldn’t have left the voice mail.”

“He played it for me.”

“Of course he did. I would have known you were lying if you said he didn’t.”

“Sorry?”

“Please, Miro, he tells you everything. You’re the other half of him.”

“I wouldn’t go that—”

“And really, since we’re being honest, I could barely stand him when you weren’t around.”

“What are you talking about?”

“What am I—are you serious?” She laughed harshly. “He speaks when you’re there, Miro. He laughs, he interacts.”

“I—”

“And when you’re not, he’s closed up. Winnie and Val had no idea he could laugh or smile until that time you met us out at the bowling alley.”

“And so what, you decided to keep him but have Phil on the side?” I asked, trying not to sound accusatory.

“It was never exclusive between Ian and me.”

If I was ever lucky enough to have Ian Doyle in my bed, I would make damn sure he knew he was the only one welcome and wanted there. He would never get away once I had him.

“And he’s a shitty lover, Miro. You should warn any girl who goes near him,” she said angrily, her voice dripping with disdain. “He’s completely selfish.”

I ignored her. “Is there anything of his at your place or vice versa?”

“You should have advised me that his job is his number one priority, that he would leave in the middle of the night without so much as a phone call to go off on some mission, and be gone for a month.”

“I asked you a question.”

“And then show back up and expect to get laid.”

It sounded liked Ian. “Emma?”

“No! I have nothing of his at my house, and he always scoured his apartment when I left to make sure I didn’t forget anything.” She was furious, and I could hear the wounded tremble in her voice. “There’s nothing that’s not
his
in his place. He would never allow that.”

But that wasn’t true.

I’d lost count of the number of my T-shirts he’d taken. My University of Chicago hoodie had been appropriated, as had my red cashmere scarf and, apparently, the boots I’d forgotten about. But I’d never given it a second thought. We swapped things; it’s what partners did. I had a sweatshirt of his from West Point and his Burberry wool cashmere peacoat I had borrowed eight months ago and never returned.

I also had a military field jacket that he’d left at my house the last time he got home in the early morning hours. I remembered the knock on the door at 1:00 a.m., excusing myself from the guy all over me on the couch—Wayne something—and opening my door to find my bruised and beaten partner standing unsteadily before me.

“Oh shit,” I gasped, not sure where I could touch and not hurt him.

“I have a concussion,” he announced. “You gotta take care of me.”

I held out my arms for him. “Of course.”

He staggered forward and gave me his weight, head down on my shoulder, arms wrapping me up tight.

“That’s an Airborne insignia,” the guy I would no longer be fucking choked out. “Holy shit, man.”

All I knew was that my partner was Special Forces. I never delved, it wasn’t my place. “You can go,” I said quickly, more content to have the man I wanted leaning on me, almost asleep on his feet, his breath puffing over the side of my neck, than I wanted to have sex with a guy I’d known for a couple of hours.

“Whatever, man, fuck you.”

The slam of the door jolted Ian, and he clutched at me.

“It’s okay. Let’s get you upstairs. You can have my bed.”

“No,” he moaned, “the couch. I dreamed about the couch.”

It was an overstuffed two-piece microfiber sectional sofa. There was nothing remotely interesting about it, but he started stripping as he walked—hat, jacket, belt—and then flopped down on it, toed off his untied heavy combat boots, and shucked his pants, followed quickly by his socks. He shoved one of the many pillows littering the couch under his head, sighed deeply, and stopped moving. After a few moments of admiring the long, muscular body stretched out before me, I covered him with a chunky cable-knit throw.

I picked up after him, put all his clothes in the washer, and sat down to read. After twenty minutes or so, he woke up, moved over, put the pillow in my lap, and lay back down.

“Supposed to watch me,” he mumbled before he fell asleep again.

And I wondered at that moment why he was at my house instead of with Emma, but it didn’t bother me enough to question him, not enough to call her and have her come over and collect him. I wanted him right where he was, solid and in one piece.

“
Miro
?”

“Sorry,” I said quickly, embarrassed that my mind had been wandering, her voice bringing me back to the present. “And I’m sorry things ended like they did.”

“It’s fine, I’m already over it.”

I hoped that was true. “Bye, Emma.”

“Good-bye, Miro. You were actually my favorite part of knowing Ian Doyle.”

It was sad, and I was still thinking that when I looked up and found him standing at the top of the stairs. “Speak of the devil.”

He grunted. “What’re you doing?”

“Deleting pictures off your phone,” I informed him.

“You get ’em all?”

“I did, yeah.”

“That’s good.” He yawned softly. “Healthy.”

“Like you would know from healthy,” I grumbled.

“Hey, I forgot to grab something to sleep in. I need pajamas or shorts or whatever.”

“Check my closet,” I directed, placing his phone on my nightstand. “Top drawer of the armoire. Take your pick.”

He was shirtless, so I got a nice view of the washboard abs, muscular chest, and the obliques shown off by the worn jeans as he moved around the bed. I could also see a myriad of scars from knives, bullets, and—my favorite—a bull whip. A corrupt warlord in some little cesspool of the world had actually flogged him. I had been horrified when he explained the evidence left behind on his skin, but Ian being Ian just shrugged. I tried not to let my mind drift to the horrors visited on him when I hadn’t been there keeping vigil. As far as I could tell, the people who were supposed to have his back hadn’t been very good at protecting him or… the opposite was true and they were fantastic and whip scars were simply the tip of the iceberg of what
could
have happened. Not that he talked about it. I only knew about the incident with the whip because he’d confessed it to me late one evening when he was very drunk. I’d wanted to touch him then, and I wanted to touch him now. The desire to slide my hands over his hard muscular frame, to have those thick arms wrapped around me, and to lick every inch of his sleek olive skin was a constant craving. I was ready to taste him, have him, and keep him the second he gave the word.

“Gross, dude, there’s thongs in here,” he called out from the other side of the wall.

Shit.

He was rummaging around in my stuff and that was my mistake. Nothing killed heat like comments on your fucking underwear.

“Just grab something and get out,” I yelled, sitting up, needing to change clothes myself.

“Don’t be so fuckin’ sensitive.” He chuckled, keeping up the running dialogue. “I’m sure guys love it when you wear froufrou crap like this.”

“I have a gun,” I warned instead of screaming. I so needed a vacation far away from him.

“Is this leather?” He snickered evilly.

“Going for the firearm!”

He was back, walking toward me in sleep shorts that hugged his crotch as he walked, outlining the long cock I had seen many a time. He was not modest around me—gym, home, hotel rooms when we were on stakeouts—he didn’t care. Getting naked in front of me was not an issue for him.

“Don’t shoot,” he teased as he brushed by my bed to reach the stairs, tousling my hair in the process. “I just wanna sleep.”

“Take your phone,” I grumbled, hating the playful touch, tossing his phone to him.

“Hey.”

He was stopped on the stairs leading down, so all I could glimpse of him was from the chest up. “Thanks for not dying.”

“Go to bed.”

He snorted. “Going.”

Moments later the lights went off on the first floor as I was on my way to the bathroom. Once I was ready for bed—teeth brushed, changed into pajama bottoms and T-shirt—I walked back to lie down. When I clicked off the lamp on my nightstand, the whole townhouse plunged into semidarkness. The moonlight streaming in from the skylight as well as through my window made everything various shades of deep, rich blue. It reminded me of my partner’s eyes, which of course, didn’t help me sleep at all. When I turned around on my bed and crawled to the bottom, I could see him sprawled out below me. It was nice that one of us was getting some rest.

T
HE
DOORBELL
woke me earlier than my alarm was set for, so I got up, stumbled down the stairs, passed Ian as he headed for the loft, and crossed toward the source of the chimes, bleary, only half-awake, smelling the coffee and wondering how that was possible. I opened the front door before the why filtered through my brain.

“Hey.”

Everything hurt, and having Brent Ivers on my front porch was not helping. My ex had left me six months ago for a job and a new life in Miami. At the best of times, the sex had been fun and we laughed often even though, at his request, it had never been exclusive. At the worst of times, at the end, showing up at his place and finding other men there when we were supposed to be having dinner or going to visit his family had been painful. When he left, it had never crossed his mind to ask me to go, to transfer, and it never occurred to me to say anything but good-bye. Chicago was the first place I’d ever felt safe, the only place where nothing bad had ever happened, and my work and my partner were there. I wasn’t going anywhere.

“It’s freezing out here, babe. Can I come in?” Brent asked, bringing my attention back to him.

I squinted. “What are you doing here?”

“I missed you.”

“Bullshit,” I said, calling him on his crap. “What’s the deal?”

“Seriously,” he whimpered, “lemme in.”

Stepping aside since it didn’t seem like he was leaving, I closed the door behind him as he whirled around to face me.

“Damn, you look good,” he said huskily, crowding me.

I moved away, putting space between us.

“What’s going on?” he snapped irritably. “Since when can’t I touch you?”

“What the fuck are you doing here?” I countered.

“I’m in town on business, and I thought I’d stay with you while I was here.”

“M!” Ian boomed from the railing beside my closet. “I need to borrow underwear!”

“You know where it is!” I yelled back. “You were in there last night!”

“What the fuck is he doing here?” Brent snarled, visibly startled by my partner’s loud voice. “Did he sleep here?”

“What the hell is he doing here?” Ian thundered, his volume apparently set on air siren.

It was too much noise for before I even had coffee. I grunted and slipped around Brent, padding across the wood floor to my kitchen.

“Miro?” Brent shouted, following after me as I heard Ian pounding down the stairs. “What the hell is going on? What’s Ian doing here needing underwear?”

It did look suspicious, but that shouldn’t have mattered. Not to Brent. “The bigger question is why in the world you would think you could just show up here for no good reason,” I said gruffly, pulling a mug from one of the hooks over my sink before going to make my coffee. It smelled heavenly.

“I thought we were good,” he explained, stepping in close to me as I poured.

“You want some?”

“When have you ever known me to turn down your coffee?”

I passed him the steaming mug, advised him that the cream was where it always was, and went to get another mug as Ian strolled into the kitchen.

“Pour me some too,” he ordered instead of asking, striding to stop beside me in unbuttoned dress pants that showed off a pair of my white briefs.

“There’s no hazelnut creamer in here,” Brent commented as he searched my fridge.

“That’s because you’re the only one who drank that shit,” Ian said snidely. “All that’s in there is half-and-half now, take it or leave it.”

“Why are you here?”