All Kinds of Tied Down (12 page)

“Why are you?” Ian volleyed.

“Miro?” Brent snapped, slamming the door of the antique refrigerator before facing me. “What the hell is going on?”

“Listen, I—”

But Ian slipped in front of me, cutting off my words as he advanced on Brent. “Did you move back?”

“No, I’m only—”

“So you thought what,” he said, reaching Brent, his scowl dark as he drilled two fingers into Brent’s collarbone.

“Owww,” he complained, trying to peer around Ian. “Miro, make him—”

“You thought you could just come over here like nothing happened? Like you didn’t fuckin’ bail? Just stay here while you were in town, save on a hotel room, and get laid in the process?” Ian growled. “Is that what you fuckin’ thought?”

“Back off,” Brent warned.

“That’s bullshit,” Ian informed him, voice rising, body tensing for a fight. “So you need to get the fuck outta here before I put my foot up your ass.”

“Miro!” Brent fumed, whipping around Ian and charging over to me. “What the hell?”

“Go already. It’s not a good idea for you to be here.”

“But my mother wants you to visit,” Brent protested.

“That’s low even for you, dickhead,” Ian said, bumping me as he moved close, his body heat making me realize how cold the house was.

“I’ll see you around, Brent,” I lied, stepping around him to reach my fridge, needing the half-and-half, not liking the taste of black coffee the way Ian did. “You take care.”

“God, Miro, I’m so sorry I hurt you. I had no idea you were this damaged.”

“Get out,” Ian ordered. “You saw him, you can use that later to rub one out, but that’s all you’re gonna get.”

“I should kick the shit out of you,” Brent snarled at my partner.

I scoffed as I poured, then opened up a drawer for a spoon. “Bye, Brent.”

He was gone moments later, and Ian slammed the door behind him.

“What did I tell you about opening your door for strangers?”

I chuckled as he joined me in the kitchen and leaned against the counter as he began sipping his coffee. “You’re right. I promise to be more vigilant.”

“And don’t fuck that guy, no matter what.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“No, look at me.”

I gave him all my attention.

“I’m serious. He doesn’t deserve your time.”

“Thanks.”

He held my gaze, and we were silent until he muttered something under his breath.

“What was that?”

“I said, you need to listen to me.”

I was about to say something else when his phone buzzed from the coffee table in the living room.

He went to get it, answered on the fifth ring. As I watched his body language, he drew himself up into a rigid stance like he was waiting to hear something, like he was waiting for orders. And because I could connect the dots, I knew what was happening even before he put the phone down and strode back over to me.

He cleared his throat. “I won’t be able to go with you on transport duty this morning. I have to leave.”

“What do you mean, leave?”

“I mean like leave, leave.”

“What?”

He stepped closer, laid his hand on the counter beside me.

“Tell me now.”

After clearing his throat, he said, “I have to go.”

“Go where?”

“I can’t say.”

“Can’t or won’t?” I pressed.

“Can’t,” he ground out.

I took a quick breath. “Okay, so you’re off to God knows where to do God knows what.”

“Yeah.”

It was always a possibility.

Because Ian was in the Individual Ready Reserve while working as a US marshal, all the Army had to do was call him up and say “we need you for this mission, get your gear,” and he was gone. Officers served at the pleasure of the president at all times, so the Army didn’t have to bother with a contract to bring Ian back. Basically, they put in a call to the marshals and said “we’re taking him, will send him back later,” explained—if they could be bothered—what the mission duration was, plus thirty days for debriefing and out processing and leave time. What it all boiled down to was, when they called, he went.

“Will you be able to call me?”

“I’ll try,” he answered sincerely.

“It would be good, so I don’t worry, yeah?”

The muscles in his jaw clenched.

“You think I’ll get Becker while you’re gone, or Kohn?”

“Maybe Kohn,” he offered, and when I groaned, his smile came fast, the heavy laugh lines around his eyes crinkling. “Be nice to him.”

“Maybe he won’t shoot himself this time.”

“It was a ricochet.”

“Still… his bullet, his gun,” I reminded him.

He lifted his brows like, yeah, maybe.

“So you gonna call Kage from the road or you want me to tell him?”

“I can ride in with you and talk to him.”

“No. It’d be better if you just left, don’t you think?”

It would be easier on both of us that way. Normally we would stand around not saying anything, him leaning on something—wall, desk, window—needing to go but not leaving, and I would cross my arms and drink him in, memorizing every detail, imprinting his face and body on my mind.

“Yeah, okay,” he agreed roughly.

“Where are you flying out of?”

“Scott Air Force Base, it’s close to Belleville.”

“And how’re you getting out there? That’s like a five-hour drive.”

“I have a flight out of O’Hare.”

“Okay.”

His eyes were locked on mine.

“Call me when you get wherever you’re going and then when you’re on your way home.”

“I’ll try.”

“Remember, body armor is your friend.”

“Absolutely.”

“Okay,” I mumbled. “You should leave me your set of keys for the car, too, in case it gets sold at auction while you’re gone.”

The service sold the cars and other items seized during drug raids, and those being used in the field were all available from a catalog.

“Here,” he answered, retrieving them from his pocket and putting
them on the counter. “Thanks for not offering to drive me to the
airport.”

That had been a disaster the last time, with me sitting in the car gripping the steering wheel and him fiddling with the contents of his backpack. “Sure. I have the spare set for your place, so I’ll grab your mail and pick up Chickie.”

“Thanks.”

“Course. Your wolf is in safe hands with me.”

“He’s a husky.”

“Crossed with a wolf and a malamute, yeah, I know.” I teased him, thinking the whole time,
God, he’s beautiful
.

Stepping into me, he hugged me tight, the guy clench, just for a moment. But when he went to pull away, I tightened my hold for a second, turning my head so I could inhale the scent of his skin and nestle my face in his hair.

He shivered, and since I didn’t want to freak him out, I let go. “Okay, buddy,” I said, smiling. “Be safe.”

His eyes searched mine. “You too.”

“I only have to watch for ricochets,” I teased.

“Don’t go in buildings without backup or jump off any balconies.”

“I won’t.”

“Okay,” he husked.

“Okay,” I echoed and patted his shoulder one last time. “Bye.”

He gave me a trace of a grin before he turned and left, walking out to the living room to collect the rest of his stuff.

I made myself busy even as I felt my chest tighten and my throat go dry. Loading the dishwasher became very important.

“I’ll see ya soon,” he called from the front door. “Go drop off Chickie before you go in. You know my dad takes him during the day.”

“Yessir,” I said, tracking him as he hit the front door, smiled warmly, and was then gone.

Telling myself he would be okay, he always was, I went upstairs to get ready for my day. And first I had to stop and pick up his werewolf.

I
AN
’
S
APARTMENT
was a pit. It was small, it had jalousies on every window, and the walls were made of cement. It was like living in a giant cinderblock. It was fortunate there was no carpet in the entire place, otherwise his wolf would have torn it up. When I opened the front door, he came at me, snarling, growling, all flattened ears and snapping jaws. I knew why, of course. I was walking into his territory instead of him coming into mine.

“Knock it off,” I groused, scowling as he bore down on me before I smiled and crooned, “Chickie Baby.”

The whimper of happiness as he realized it was me before the dancing began was very cute. He was no longer a bloodthirsty predator; he was a big cuddly puppy.

“Stupid dog,” I greeted him, not even having to bend to pet his massive head. His back reached my hip. “Who else would be stupid enough to come in here?”

He wriggled next to me, finally taking my hand gently in his jaws to get me to pay more attention to him. Squatting down, I scratched behind his ears as he licked my chin and shoved his nose in the side of my neck.

“Come on, doofus. Let’s take you outside before we get in the car.”

I grabbed his leash from where it hung beside Ian’s bike on a peg on the wall. The apartment was such a bachelor pad, with things like an ironing board hanging on brackets in the entryway. The extra light hanging beside his bed belonged at a construction site, the shatter-resistant utility kind on a long cord with a hook at the top. It was lucky the man was gorgeous, because otherwise he’d never get a woman to spend more than a few minutes there.

I drove from his place in Hyde Park out to Marynook where his father lived and stopped in front of the small single-story postwar suburban tract residence with the big front picture window. As I walked up the gate and opened it, Ian’s father stepped out onto the porch and lifted a hand in greeting.

“Miro,” he called out as I let the leash go and Chickie streaked to the older man.

Down onto one knee Colin Doyle went, and I watched the dog slow himself so he didn’t barrel forward and knock him over.

“I was expecting my son,” Colin said as I walked up the stairs.

“I know.” I smiled. “But he got called away, sir.”

“Oh,” he sighed, his eyes meeting mine. “When?”

“Early this morning.”

“He didn’t call me.”

“I’m sure he will,” I lied. I was the only one Ian would even
consider getting word to.

He scoffed. “I don’t know about that. The only reason he sees me at all is because of this dog.”

I opened my mouth to argue.

“And you, Miro.”

“That’s not true, and I didn’t do—”

“You’re the one who suggested it. You’re the one who said, maybe let your dad take care of the dog instead of hiring someone to go to your place and walk him.”

“Yeah, well.” I shrugged. “That might not have been me doing you a favor since he eats his weight in food every day.”

He chuckled. “You did me a huge favor, Miro, and I’ll always be grateful.”

“He shouldn’t have told you.”

“It would have been nice if he hadn’t. I could have pretended that he came up with it all on his own.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry about.”

“It was no big deal.”

He locked me in place with his ice blue gaze, so similar to his son’s, the difference being the lack of the heavy laugh lines at the corners. His father didn’t have those. “It meant a lot to me, Miro.”

I nodded.

I knew the history between the two men only vaguely. The little I did centered around a divorce, after which neither son nor mother heard from Colin Doyle again. He had shown for her funeral, though, twenty years later, which was the last time Ian had seen his father before we ran into him downtown. Ian and I had been partners for two years at that point. I had stopped when his name was called out, but Ian had not.

“C’mon,” Ian had growled, his hand tight on my bicep, trying to move me.

“That man called your name, idiot,” I said, waiting as he reached us, his smile wide, hand extended to me.

“Hello,” he huffed as I took his hand. “Colin Doyle, good to meet you.”

I was trying to figure out who the man was. Cousin? Uncle? “And you, sir.”

“I’m Ian’s father.”

“Oh,” I replied, stunned, having no clue that my partner of two years had family in Chicago. Turning to Ian, I waited for an explanation.

Arms crossed, muscles in his jaw clenching, my partner was stone silent.

“How are you, boy?” Colin asked softly.

I elbowed Ian in the arm.

“Fine,” he muttered.

“It’s wonderful to meet you,” I said softly, covering his dad’s hand with my other. “Would you like to join us for lunch, sir?”

“I would love that,” he rasped, and I saw the quivering hope on his face. He was, in that moment, breakable. “If it would be all right with Ian, that is.”

I looked at my partner, daring him to say a word.

“It’s fine,” he mumbled.

The restaurant was one of our favorites, a Greek place close to Centennial Park. We got a booth in the back, and I was going to sit across from Ian and his dad, but Ian shoved me into the booth first and then slid in beside me. His knee bumped mine under the table, but instead of moving away, he stayed close.

“So Miro,” Colin began, having learned my name on the walk over. “What is it you do?”

“I’m a deputy US marshal, sir, like your son.”

“You’re a marshal?” Colin asked Ian.

And he had begrudgingly answered, as well as every question after that. But each one had to be dragged out, until Colin got up to use the bathroom and I rounded on my partner and shoved him out of the booth.

“What the fuck?”

I was on my feet in front of him in seconds, poking him in the chest, which was like trying to prod a piece of granite. “How dare you treat your father that way!”

“It’s none of your fuckin’ business, Miro,” he insisted, his tone icy. “And after what he did to my mother, you—”

“What’d he do?”

“I’m not gonna—”

“Did he beat her?”

“No,” he snapped.

“Drink?”

“I don’t want to get into—”

“Gamble? Cheat on her?”

“Miro, you—”

“Did he hit you?”

“No, he—”

“Abuse you?”

“What’re you trying to—”