All Kinds of Tied Down (6 page)

“Bastille is nice,” Kemen offered as he took a sip of his orange juice before he started in on his Mexican omelet. I passed him the guacamole and salsa, and Ian forked over the sour cream when he had what he wanted. “I’ve been there a ton of times.”

“There, ya see,” I said between bites, “Kemen says it’s nice.”

Ian made a jacking-off motion.

“You did not just do that.” Kemen sounded horrified.

“That’s funny.”

“What is?” I asked Ian, ignoring our witness.

He shrugged. “It’s just, whenever a witness is younger than you—or a woman—you use their first name. Older than you and a guy, you use their last. Do you realize you do that?”

I had never actually thought about it, but it was sort of nice that Ian had. That the things I said were noticed.

“They serve fusion Vietnamese-French,” Kemen said out of the blue.

We both turned to him.

“At Bastille,” he retorted, annoyed with us. “It’s called a conversation. We were having one. Hello.”

Ian made a retching noise in the back of his throat.

“Ohmygod, don’t ever do that again when I’m about to eat,” Kemen said dramatically, eyes wide. “Holy crap, he’s disgusting.”

“Eat your food.” I said, trying not to laugh.

“And this omelet is ridiculous,” he passed judgment. “Who eats this much food in one sitting? It’s the size of a pound cake.”

Ian said something back, but he was chewing.

Kemen asked me for the translation.

“He said it’s the Wednesday morning special.”

“You guys shouldn’t eat like this,” he warned. “Nobody should.”

“You’re gonna eat it.”

“No, darling, I’m going to pick at it. I’m not going to eat it all. Who eats like this and doesn’t have a heart attack?” he asked, making a face as he watched Ian hoovering it down. “Oh dear God.”

His horrified expression was the best part of my morning.

T
HAT
EVENING
as I cleaned up after dinner, putting the remaining five slices of deep-dish spinach pizza in my refrigerator, I replayed a conversation I’d had with a very handsome man who’d cornered me after my shower at the gym. He’d been very clear as he leaned into my space that he would love to eat dinner with me, but more importantly, he’d like to take me home.

“We could have a really good time.”

I had no doubt, but I could not have been any less interested. There’d been no one since my ex, and it wasn’t that I was pining over him—it was simply that whoever I dated I had to introduce to Ian. And if I wasn’t going to introduce them to Ian because it was just a one-night stand—what was the point? Besides, no one turned me on enough to want to jump into bed except for my very straight, very unavailable, partner.

The whole thing was a mess. I needed to get laid. As soon as I met someone I couldn’t keep my hands off of, I’d be all over this insane obsession with Ian.

My phone buzzing with a text startled me, I’d been so lost in thought. I was not surprised to find Ian wanting to know where I was. It was a big part of the problem for me, his constant attention, even though I would’ve bet my life that he didn’t realize what he was doing. The fact of the matter was, though, that Ian was as possessive of me and my time as he was of my stuff. It was too bad it didn’t really mean a damn thing.

Ignoring the text, I finished cleaning up and left the plate and wineglass I’d used on the wooden dish rack to air dry.

When the phone rang minutes later, I answered.

“Are your fingers broken along with your wrist?”

“You’re on a date, dumbass,” I informed him. “Focus on the people in front of you and stop trying to talk to me. Endeavor to make a good impression.”

“I can’t.”

“You can’t what? Focus?”

“Yeah.”

“And why not?”

“’Cause now we’re heading over to Ethan’s house to have drinks and maybe play board games.”

I had to process that. “What?”

He grunted.

“You don’t like board games. You like video games.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Tell them you like to shoot stuff.”

“I’m starving.”

I stifled a laugh. “What did you eat?”

“I dunno.”

“You don’t know what you ate?”

“Nope. The whole menu was in French.”

“You didn’t eat sweetmeats, did you, because I think that’s brains.”

“No, I think it was fish.”

“You hate fish.”

“Yeah, I know that too.”

I coughed. “You realize that Emma is doing her damnedest to integrate you and her friends because she cares about you? And you’re being an ass about the whole thing?”

“Maybe she should care less about group stuff and more about her and me stuff.”

“But she knows you guys work when you’re alone, and now she needs to see how you fit into her life with her friends and family.”

“Yeah, okay, what’re you doing?”

He shouldn’t have cared right then. “Ian? I’m hanging up.”

“No, really. What’re you doing?”

He was like a dog with a bone. “Cleaning up.”

“Cleaning up what?”

“Dinner dishes.”

Silence.

“Ian?”

“You had pizza, didn’t you, you shit?”

I laughed. “Well, yeah, but I had deep-dish that you hate.”

“I don’t hate it.”

“Yeah, but you don’t love it.”

“I love it more than French food.”

“Because you have an undeveloped palate,” I criticized.

“Who cares?” he said harshly. “I love… pizza.”

“I know.”

“And Chickie.”

We were going to talk about the dog now? “Get off the phone.”

“Go walk him.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Chickie. I thought I’d be home by now to take him out, but I’m not, so—go walk him.”

“Screw you. I am not the dog walker.”

“He’ll pee in my apartment.”

“Like you’d notice.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

I huffed. “I will not be baited into fighting with you on the phone. I’m hanging up.”

“You’re contractually obligated to walk the dog.”

“I’m really hanging up now.”

“You promised to take care of Chickie.”

“When you’re deployed, yeah.”

“He’s your responsibility too.”

I hit the End button and he was gone.

I turned off the lights and collapsed onto the couch, sore from the day’s events. My phone rang and I let it go to voice mail three times before I answered.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, what?”

“What if it was an emergency?”

“The only emergency is that you’re bored out of your mind.”

“Why don’t you wanna walk the dog?”

I sighed deeply.

“What?”

“That guy I hit today and my wrist—man, I’m beat.”

“Oh,” he said, his voice soft, rumbling. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It’s no big deal. I’m just gonna lie here and watch TV until I get sleepy.”

“Okay.”

“So try and have fun.”

“Yeah, I—you’re fine, right?”

“Course.”

“You’re sure?”

“Absolutely.”

“Okay,” he said and hung up.

I never made it off the couch.

W
HEN
I
got out of the shower the next morning, I heard movement in my kitchen, so I moved to the railing at the end of my bed—there was just enough room there for me to walk—and yelled down that I was armed.

“Yeah? And?” came back the snide reply.

“You could ring the doorbell like a normal person,” I mentioned, smiling in spite of myself when Ian walked out of the kitchen directly below me and into the living room where I could see him.

“But I have a key,” he countered.

“Which you’re only supposed to use when I’m not here.”

“You’re never not here.”

I sighed. “Which if you think about, is really sad. I need a vacation to some tropical paradise so I can get laid.”

He squinted up at me. “Why can’t you just get laid here?”

The question, asked so innocently as he stood in the middle of my townhouse, was like a punch in the gut. Because I
could
have sex, right there, on the couch… bent over the couch, on the floor, or even better, in my bed. I could get laid anywhere in my home… if Ian were gay. I could. But I wouldn’t, because he wasn’t.

Christ.

“Well?”

“I need a vacation,” I muttered, turning away since I was in a towel and nothing else. “And why’re you dressed like a lumberjack?” I shouted, wanting to make sure my voice carried.

“Why’re you yelling? I can hear you fine.”

There was no winning.

“Just tell me why you’re dressed like that,” I prodded.

“Homeland Security raid at that youth halfway house in Schaumburg. We have a lead on that girl, what was her name?”

I stopped halfway to my closet, having to make new clothes choices. “It’s Lucy, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, that’s right. Lucy Kensington. She skipped out before she could be taken into custody by marshals in Lubbock,” he said as he clomped up the stairs. For a Green Beret, Ian walked really heavy.

“I thought you were supposed to be stealthy.”

“I’m bringing you coffee, don’t be a dick.”

I chuckled as I grabbed a pair of briefs from my armoire, my low-rise jeans, a T-shirt, a Henley, and a pair of socks. “She’s the one who’s supposed to be testifying against some cult leader there, isn’t she?”

“Yeah,” Ian answered, reaching the top of the stairs and walking over to me, a mug in each hand. Instantly he grimaced.

“What?” I asked as I took the one he offered me.

“You have bruises all over you,” he remarked before taking a sip of coffee. “And between that and the cast on your wrist, you’re a fuckin’ mess, man.”

I shrugged. “I knocked down a moose yesterday, you saw me.”

“I guess,” he said irritably, frowning, reaching out to touch my shoulder. “Gross, why’re you slimy?”

“It’s lotion, ya heathen. You have to take care of your skin, use moisturizer on your face, or you’re gonna look like a saddle when you get old.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, obviously placating me. “Is your wrist better today? You sounded like it hurt last night.”

“It did, but it’s fine now. Go away while I get changed.” The coffee was good, he’d used the Kona I kept in the freezer instead of the French roast I had in the pantry.

He pointed at the clothes in my hand. “You can’t wear those jeans to a raid.”

“What?” I asked, drinking down more hot coffee. He was good about adding the right amount of cream so I could still taste it but drink it fast.

“I’ve seen those jeans on, and they’re way too tight. You can’t run in them. This is not
Starsky and Hutch
.”

I stared at him until he groaned, muttered under his breath, and went back downstairs. But he was right; all I needed to do was ruin a two hundred dollar pair of jeans sliding over asphalt. Returning to my closet, draining the mug as I did, I refolded them and picked something else to wear. Once I was changed, I brushed my teeth and then started putting product in my hair.

“Done yet, princess?” he demanded as he strolled into the bathroom.

I glared at him in the mirror. “Do you think I just roll out of bed and my hair looks this good? This is art.”

“It looks like you woke up and ran your hand through it.”

“I know, and that takes
time
. Each strand has to stand at a different angle or it doesn’t work,” I explained to my ignorant partner. “All the pieces have to be in the right place.”

“Or what?”

“Or it’s not sexy.”

“You’re plenty sexy,” he yawned, snatching my empty cup off the counter before walking out. “Now, can we go before we’re too old to do our job?”

It was as good as it was going to get. I flipped off the light and walked to my bed so I could sit down and put on my harness boots.

“Corduroys?” he said like he was in pain.

“You didn’t notice in the bathroom?”

“I didn’t look in the bathroom,” he said dryly.

“Well, I’m sorry, but I don’t own a pair of Wranglers like you do,” I informed him. “Or Levi’s for that matter.”

“There’s nothing hotter than button-fly, my friend.”

He had a point.

“But really, your fuck-me jeans would not have gone over well.”

I ignored him, and when I stood up, he winced.

“What now?”

“How much did those boots cost?”

I lifted my foot to check the bottom. “I dunno, three, four hundred.”

“Please take them off. I know my black leather combat boots are in your closet somewhere; just wear those. I beg you.”

“These are boots.”

“No, they’re not,” he cajoled. “C’mon.”

“I have a pair of Antonio Maurizi wingtip boots that I could—”

“I don’t know what those are, but I can’t imagine they’re any better than what you’ve got on your feet right now. Just change ’em.”

“I have the biker boots that—”

“No,
I
have your biker boots from that Saturday we went out to the farmers’ market.”

“Oh.” Funny that I hadn’t even missed them. “Do you have the Dolce&Gabbana distressed-leather biker boots or the—”

“I have no idea what I have. They’re soft, that’s all I know.”