All Kinds of Tied Down (8 page)

My heart was pounding, I was shaking, and my whole body was freezing even as my face was on fire. I couldn’t stop imagining the guy turning and firing and Ian going down. It was on a continuous loop in my brain.

“Miro.”

I needed distance, and now. I spun around, charged over to the side of the building, and bent over, hands on my knees, trying to breathe, to not hyperventilate.

He was there in seconds, hand on the back of my neck, squeezing gently. “Sorry. I’m really sorry. Forgive me, I didn’t even think.”

I had to concentrate on getting the air in and out of my lungs.

His fingers slid up my nape into my hair, and the slow stroking calmed me as he bent over beside me. “Next time we’ll both run, and I’ll have you close enough to cover me. ’Cause I don’t want some perp to grab anybody, but the tackle would have been all right if you were close enough to shoot him if he drew on me.”

I nodded.

“So, yeah, that was bad, and if you could leave that out of your report so Kage doesn’t chew my ass off, that’d be good.”

I lifted slowly, finally finding the silver lining in my day.

“Aww, come on,” he pleaded as I grinned at him before heading back to the car. “You really gonna do me like that?”

I was silent as I got in the car, although, no, I would never hang my partner out to dry. But there was a difference between the truth and what I would let him
think
I would do.

When he joined me, sliding into the driver’s seat, he leaned his forehead on the steering wheel and groaned.

“Can we please leave now, Marshal Doyle?” I asked.

“I said I was sorry.”

“Yes. Yes, you did.”

He started the car; I leaned back and got comfortable, putting on my seatbelt and closing my eyes.

“I’ll buy you breakfast.”

“Not hungry,” I sighed deeply.

“I’m hungry,” Lucy said from the backseat.

“I can eat,” Javier seconded.

“Fuck,” Ian said miserably.

Served him right. “I hate to be scared,” I muttered.

“Yeah, I know that, don’t I.”

Yes, he did.

“Are we gonna eat?” Lucy continued.

“Are you guys buying?” Javier wanted to know.

“He is,” I said, offering Ian and his wallet up on a silver platter.

I
OFTEN
thought that the reason some members of law enforcement went rogue was because of the enormous amount of paperwork they had to do, to be legit. It was exhausting. But even though it was more work, I typed up a full report on what Ian did in the moments after we secured our witnesses, saved it, sent it to him—and then redid it before I submitted it to Kage. It was fun to watch Ian go pale as he read through it.

“Oh fuck me,” he whined.

What was even more perfect was when, moments later, Kage threw his door open and he called Ian and me in to give us the news about what the dispensation was on our two runaways. Ian slunk in behind me, stood in front of our boss’s desk with me, and listened as he explained that Lucy and Javier would be transferred to Oregon since Chicago was no longer safe for them. Marshals from the Portland field office would be there by the end of the day to take the two into custody.

When he was done and excused us, Ian stayed where he was.

“Something else?” he asked Ian sharply.

I covered for him. “We just wanted to make sure that the two of them are going in together. We wanted to let Lucy and Javier know for certain.”

Instant glower from my boss. “You brought them in as a unit, Jones, so that decision was already made in the field. They’ll absolutely be entering the program together.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said cheerfully, turning to leave.

“You’re dismissed, too, Doyle.”

I made sure I moved fast since now Ian knew I’d fudged the report, and was halfway across the room when I pivoted back and saw Ian close the door behind him.

Jaw clenched, he started after me.

I darted out into the hall and hit the elevator button, debating on whether to pop back to holding to talk to Lucy and Javier. I had already promised them they were going into witness protection together, and they had believed me, but one more reassurance couldn’t hurt. I had explained that, just as my boss said, intake was based on field decisions.

“You fuck!”

The elevator dinged at the same time and I ducked inside with fifteen or so other people, turning to smile at him as he charged forward. The doors closed right before he reached me.

I’m sure everyone heard the yell as the car started its descent.

“I don’t know what’s with that guy.” I shrugged and got many smiles and some laughter from the back.

Downstairs, I got off; our office was up on the twenty-fourth floor, so it was never a fast ride up or down. Out on Dearborn Street, I glanced around at the concrete, steel, and glass buildings and decided that since it was so close to lunch, I’d walk over to the food trucks and get a sandwich from the Vietnamese one I loved. Crossing the street, I headed down, realizing I’d been in such a rush to get away from Ian that I forgot my parka and I was shivering.

I debated going back, but it made more sense to grab lunch first even though I’d be suffering from hypothermia by the time I got there.

“You’re such an asshole!”

I had enough time to glance over my shoulder before I was grabbed from behind.

“Get off me!” I laughed, the protest covering the gasp of pleasure of having Ian’s arm thrown over my shoulder as he yanked me back into him. He was so warm, the heat from his body pressing against mine, wedged tight, the feel of his chest and abdomen indescribably good, as well as his breath in my ear as he whispered the threat against my life.

“I’m not afraid of you,” I said, drinking in every brush of contact.

“Why would you do that?” he persisted, still pulling on me, tightening his hold, barely letting me walk.

“To teach you not to scare me,” I said softly, slipping my hands under his open parka, sliding them up his sides.

“Yeah? You feel like you taught me a lesson?” he teased, bumping into me as we moved awkwardly, our hips and chests grazing, each of us stepping into the other’s space, trying not to falter, trip or be tripped as we shuffled.

I ducked my head to try and spin and pull away, but he countered, and I ended up with him plastered to my back, his left arm around my neck, his right hand on my abdomen.

“Miro?”

I shuddered. I couldn’t have stopped the sensation from rolling through me if I tried. It was too much; I was overstimulated from just that much contact.

“Ya cold?”

Oh dear God yes, go with that. “Yeah, I’m fuckin’ freezing.”

Instantly he let go and started pulling off his parka.

“Oh no, then you’ll be freezing,” I hedged, walking backward a few steps before whirling around and jogging down the street. “Let’s just go fast!”

He caught me easily, hand closing on my bicep, tugging me to a stop. “I have a sweater on, all you have is that knit thing. Just take the jacket.”

“It’s a Henley,” I informed him as he shoved the coat he had already taken off at me.

“Whatever.” He snickered, shaking his head as he looked at me. “Just put it on. We’ll get food and go back and finish the mountain of paperwork.”

The jacket was warm, and best of all, it smelled like Ian. When I shoved my hand in the right pocket, I found a pair of gloves I’d been missing since November. “Hello?”

“What?” he asked as we walked.

“These are mine.”

“You gave those to me.”

“I did not.”

“Well, give ’em here, ’cause I’m freezing.”

“Oh for crissakes,” I said, unzipping the parka.

His grin was pure concentrated evil as he stopped me.

“Nice.”

“I hope we’re only walking as far as the food trucks, though.”

“We are.”

“Okay, good, because seriously, it’s like eight out here.”

“It’s more like twenty-five,” I corrected him.

“And the wind off the lake?”

Maybe he was right.

Once we were back in our building, riding the elevator up, we got shoved all the way into the corner. I stood in front of him and was surprised when he took hold of my hip and leaned me back into him.

“I’m
freezing
.”

“Sorry,” I sighed, the feel of his groin pressed to my ass making me light-headed.

“It’s okay,” he mumbled against the back of my neck before I felt his forehead there. “I’m warming up a little.”

Fucking Ian. I was going to get a hard-on in the elevator because he was too damn close to me. I really needed to go out and find someone to sleep with. Maybe I would go back to the gym after work and find that guy I’d blown off the night before and—

“Are you listening?”

“What?” I fixated on his right hand up under the parka on my hip, the feel of his stubbled chin brushing my ear, and his breath on my cheek. Everything else was lost.

“I said, remember we gotta get out on time today.”

“Why?”

“Because we gotta go over to Emma’s.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked, looking over my shoulder at him.

“Her brother’s birthday party?” He tried to jog my memory.

“No,” I said simply.

“You can’t say no,” he told me. “It’s my girlfriend’s brother.”

“Which is exactly why I don’t have to go,” I said. “She’s
your
girlfriend.”

“And you’re my partner and my buddy. It’s in the friend thing.”

“Contract?”

“Yeah.”

“No, it’s not.”

“I think you didn’t read the fine print.”

“I think you’re delusional if you think I’m spending an entire evening with—”

“If I gotta go, so do you,” he insisted, like it was all decided.

“Not true, actually.”

But he smirked at me, all cocky with the crinkling laugh lines and the curling lip and when his head went down on my shoulder, I gave up.

“We’re supposed to be there around seven.”

I was never getting laid.

T
HE
DOOR
was open when I reached Emma Finch’s loft in the Gold Coast District early that evening, and that was lucky because over the music and talking, no one would have let me in. Moving through the crowd in the huge space with its wide open floor plan, I found the hostess in the kitchen.

“Miro!” she announced happily, taking the bottle of pinot noir and bag of Kona coffee from me before hugging me tight.

“Why do you sound relieved?” I chuckled.

“Is the coffee for me?” She sounded hopeful.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“See,” she said to the women clustered around her. “He’s a keeper.”

“And pretty too.” One of the women leaned on the counter to meet my gaze. “What kind of name is Miro, because I’m thinking Greek, but you have very eastern European features.”

“What does that even mean?” Emma asked her friend.

“He’s got those great Slavic cheekbones and the long nose.”

I laughed. “I’m Czech, actually. Miro is short for Miroslav.”

Emma’s eyebrows lifted. “Miroslav? Really?”

My grunt made her smile.

“But Jones?”

“Longish story,” I informed her, glancing around for my partner.

“Well, I’m so glad you’re here.” She sighed, drawing my attention back before she handed me two bottles of Newcastle. “Go find him, please. The last I heard, he was playing
Call of Duty
and killing everyone, and then Dennis came over like ten minutes ago and said that he changed the game because his girlfriend wanted to play
Grand Theft Auto
or something.”

“That’s all right up his alley,” I said, taking a sip of beer. “You know that.”

“He needs to learn to not be so competitive.”

“Yeah, okay.” I snickered. “You get right on that.”

She turned me around and shoved me forward. “Go play.”

A few people were dancing, more standing around, but I didn’t know anyone so I moved toward the back of the loft where I knew the game system was. I’d been in Emma’s place a few times, not often, but enough to know the layout. On the fifty-five-inch plasma screen, two cars were racing. The expressions on the faces of the people sitting around on the area rug-covered concrete, couches, and loveseats were not amused. No one was having a good time. Ian had one wireless controller and Emma’s blond-haired, blue-eyed frat-boy-handsome brother, Dennis, had the other. You could feel the tension in the room; the big dick contest was on.

I moved into the space, nodding at a few who smiled at me before reaching Ian and standing beside his chair. “What you don’t know,” I told Dennis, “is that he drives like this in real life all the fuckin’ time.”

“Finally,” Ian muttered, sounding annoyed, letting his head fall back so he could look up at me. “Where ya been?”

“Had to get pretty,” I teased, grinning.

He surveyed me.

“What?”

“You look the same.”

“It’s the clothes, idiot.”

“I guess.”

I would not have the fashion conversation with him again. He had two distinctions in his own wardrobe: clean or dirty.

“Miro.” Dennis breathed out my name before he paused the game and got to his feet to shake my hand. “You made it.”