All Kinds of Tied Down (10 page)

“Go to the hospital and get checked out.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Before tomorrow or your ass is sitting home,” he barked. “Until further notice.”

Shit. “Yessir.”

His attention moved back to Ian. “You keep letting him get hurt, and I’m going to start questioning your decision to be a marshal, Doyle. Maybe this job is too tame for you. Can’t keep your head in the game without the threat of imminent death?”

“No sir,” Ian said sharply.

“Sorry?”

“I said, no sir.”

Kage grunted. “When I added to my original five-man team, with Ching, Becker, and then you, Kohn, and lastly Jones, I figured you’d all be with me a good, long time.”

Ian kept silent.

“But if your plan is to not actually watch out for your partner, I can find someone who will.”

The muscles in Ian’s jaw clenched.

“We’re a team, Doyle.”

He cleared his throat. “Yessir.”

Kage turned to Bridger. “Let me know what else you need from my office, Detective.”

Bridger nodded, taking the card from Kage with a sharp inhale. It made sense; the man was really scary. His height, the powerful build, the icy stare: all of it gave you the impression that if you fucked up, you’d be gone. I certainly never wanted to be in a position to test him.

“What floor is homicide on now?”

“Fifth,” Bridger answered quickly. “May I ask why, Marshal?”

“I need to speak to one of the detectives I’m supposed to be meeting here.”

“Which one? I can call up for you; check if he’s here this late.”

“He is, because, again, we scheduled a meeting. And it’s Duncan Stiel.”

After a moment, Bridger chuckled. “Oh, you mean the billionaire’s boyfriend?”

Big. Mistake. Ian
wished
he could scowl with such icy contempt. Bridger actually swallowed.

“No,” Kage said flatly. “I mean the highly decorated homicide detective.”

Bridger coughed.

“Fifth floor, you said.”

“Yes.”

“I can find him myself.”

Bridger remained silent.

His gaze landed back on me. “Hospital.”

As though I would disregard a direct order from the man. “Yessir.”

Kage glanced at Ian and then turned and strode out of the room. People scuttled out of his way as he moved down the corridor we could see through the glass windows on the far side of the room.

“He’s sort of intense,” Bridger commented. “That’s gotta be loads of fun.”

“That’s true,” Ian agreed. “But lemme tell you, when you’re stuck somewhere, there isn’t anyone you’d rather have either coming for you himself or insisting someone else get off their ass and ride to your rescue.”

“Yeah,” I said, chuckling. “The term ‘moving heaven and earth,’ that was made for him.”

“It was,” Ian agreed. He glanced at Bridger. “Is he done? Because we have to make our second trip to the hospital in so many days.”

“When’d you break that?” Bridger asked, tipping his head at the cast on my wrist.

“Two days ago.”

“Holy shit. How?”

I repeated his motion but tipped mine at Ian.

“Oh.”

“Fuck you, M. Let’s go.”

I started laughing and Bridger widened his eyes.

“So all you marshals are a little on the scary side.”

“Hell yeah,” I said as Ian hauled me to my feet.

“And you all gotta have the same haircut? Even your boss?”

Kage’s cut was basically military, above the collar in the back and around the ears. Ian’s was shorter since he still served in the Army Reserve. My hair was longer and thicker and I put product in it to make it messy and stand up. But we had a dress code that our immaculately put-together boss vigilantly enforced.

“We have to all look alike so the bad guys can’t tell us apart.”

“Uh-huh,” Bridger said, nodding like I was nuts.

In the elevator, I found I was a little light-headed.

“Hold on to me.”

Putting a hand on Ian’s shoulder, I followed him out of the police station.

“Don’t jump out of any more open windows,” he ordered when I stumbled.

“Tired of getting in trouble with the boss?” I baited him.

“Keep pushing it. I think that’d be a wise decision.”

I was being an ass. “I’m sorry. I promise.”

“C’mere,” he huffed, putting an arm around my waist as he walked me to the car.

A
T
THE
hospital, I realized it was after nine and I was not a little hungry, but a lot. There was a 24/7 diner across the street, and after a few minutes of prodding, begging, and whining, Ian begrudgingly got up and left to get us both some food.

The nurse who saw me while he was gone, Arlene, was nice. She checked to make sure my pupils weren’t dilated, moved on to my reflexes, and was concerned about the cuts and contusions. I explained that those were old.

“Old?”

“From earlier.”

Arlene was confused until I explained that I’d just been there two days ago. Once she had my chart, she checked the cast on my left wrist as I explained how I was actually Spider-Man.

“You know, most people who break bones take it easy for a few days afterwards, Marshal.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Are you sure?”

“You think I have a concussion?”

“Among other things.”

“Why ya say it like that?”

“Because there’s obviously something deeply wrong with you,” Arlene snapped.

“It’s his brain,” Ian said as he walked in with a tray of shakes, burgers, onion rings, shoe-string fries, and bottled water.

“The diner let you take that out?”

“The food?” He was confused.

“The tray, idiot.”

“Like anyone’s gonna say shit to me.”

Arlene promptly scolded him. “You can’t have that in here.”

He pushed back his jacket so she could see the badge on his belt.

“That doesn’t mean anything to me,” Arlene said flatly.

“I’ll give you my shake if you drop it.”

The shakes were huge, so it worked out fine. He and I drank the chocolate and she had the strawberry.

She drew blood, listened to my heart, and took my blood pressure, and when I was wheeled back from Radiology after being X-rayed, Ian was lying on my bed, watching a basketball game and finishing up the fries.

“We should go get dessert after this,” he said before belching.

“Did you call Emma?” I asked, waving him off the bed so I could get in.

“Didn’t have to,” he said, holding out his iPhone to me, not taking his eyes off the game.

Putting it on speaker, Arlene and I listened to Emma Finch break up with my partner. She was hurt, angry, and even though it turned out that neither she nor her brother were going to jail, there would probably be a ridiculous amount of community service performed.

“That’s how she breaks up with him?”

I made a face. “I can probably fix it up,” I apprised Arlene.

“Don’t do that,” Ian said, and both the nurse and I turned to him. “It’s fine.”

“You’re grieving inside,” Arlene offered.

“And you’re in shock,” I added.

“Nope,” he grunted. “But I could use a beer.”

I turned to Arlene.

“You shouldn’t have any beer,” she said, voice firm.

“Gotta take a piss,” Ian announced before he got up and left the
room.

“He’s super,” Arlene said sarcastically.

I was still laughing when the doctor finally showed up fifteen minutes later. After three long hours, I was discharged after midnight with a bill for tests and procedures that would have made me gasp if I didn’t work for the federal government. The staggering amount was completely covered since it had been incurred during the performance of my duties.

“Remind me never to get hurt when I’m not at work.”

Ian wasn’t listening; the only part he cared about was that I was cleared to return to work the following day. I ended up being none the worse for wear for having sailed through the air without a trapeze or a net.

“I can have a beer.” I chuckled.

He threw an arm around my neck and tugged me close. “You scared the fuck out of me.”

“I know.”

“Don’t.”

“Okay.”

“You’re the solid part of this.”

Of
us
, he meant—I was the solid part of us. And I knew that too.

“You gotta be you, and I’ll be me.”

“Agreed,” I said, smiling as we got on the elevator.

“And so we’re clear,” he husked, turning to meet my gaze. “She’s fucking Phil.”

I squinted at him, because I’d obviously missed something. “What?”

“Emma,” he said with a slight smile. “She’s been fucking that guy Phil who was there tonight. This is just a nice excuse to kick me to the curb.”

“No.”

He nodded.

“I don’t believe you.”

“Why would I lie? It puts me in a bad light since obviously I wasn’t enough for her.”

“Wait,” I grumbled, tugging on his shoulder, getting him to turn to face me. “How do you know this?”

He shrugged. “I know.”

“That’s bullshit. You don’t know.”

He passed me his phone. I took it as we got out of the elevator and headed toward the front door. On his camera roll were several pictures of Emma at dinner with the man I remembered seeing at the party, however briefly. They leaned close, held hands, and left the restaurant Bravo together. The next grouping was in a cab, then outside his Greystone, and finally through a window, catching them clinging together. No intuitive leaps needed.

“We never said it was exclusive,” he informed me as we reached the street and he rounded on me. “She’s
technically
not cheating on me, but I don’t want to sleep with someone who’s sleeping with someone else.”

“Of course not.”

He shrugged. “It is what it is.”

“But she could just be honest.”

He took a deep breath. “I’m okay.”

“Who took these?”

“I did.”

“You stalked your own girlfriend?” I asked, taking hold of him.

“I was gathering intel,” he defended, stepping in closer so my arm went from being stretched out to folded against me, my hand flat on his torso.

“To show who?” I managed to get out, minutely aware of the rippling abs under the soft cotton, fighting to not curl my fingers into the material.

“You,” he said, smirking, crowding into me as people leaving the building pushed by us.

Before I thought about what I was doing, I slid my hand up over the solid muscled chest, the shot of Demerol making me braver than normal. “Let’s go get a drink.”

“No,” he yawned, leaning down and pressing his forehead into my shoulder for a second before lifting free. “Let’s go get some pie.”

Pie sounded better. “Okay.”

“We’ll get it to go and eat it on your couch.”

“You really like my couch,” I sighed, because I loved that he liked being at my place.

“I do,” he admitted. “It’s a good couch. I’ve never had a nightmare on it.”

That was a very good thing.

W
E
STOPPED
on the way back to my place, picking up pumpkin pie for me and chocolate cream for him and then clothes for him for the morning. He fell asleep halfway through
Die Hard
, and I covered him up. When the movie was over, I got up to rinse dishes, and he was completely stretched out when I got back, throw pillow under his head, dead to the world. Amazing how vulnerable he looked when he was sleeping. I wondered how Emma could bear to be parted from him.

I took his phone with me when I went upstairs. It was a small townhouse with a loft above the main floor at the top of the stairs where my bed stood along with a nightstand and a vintage industrial lamp. I’d found that lamp in an abandoned building when I was fifteen and kept it with me ever since. Even moving between foster homes, I managed not to lose it, certain that someday both it and I would have a home.

On the other side of the stairs was my bathroom and my closet, and that was it. Everything else was on the first floor. What was nice was that I could lie on the end of my bed and look down into my living room. At 750 square feet, the Greystone was tiny, but I didn’t need a lot of space. It was mine—I owned it—from the reclaimed barn-wood flooring in the living room to the Philco fridge and polished concrete in the kitchen to the Kohler waterfall showerhead in my bathroom. I had made it my sanctuary. All the accents were mine, black and white photographs of friends and places I’d been, colorful framed artwork hanging on every available wall, and the distressed wood ladder in one corner that I put plants and more picture frames on. I had open shelving in the kitchen to display Fiestaware and Pyrex my friends collected in college that I originally got stuck with but now loved. It was compact, like living in a bungalow, and I liked the feel. I had opted for a picnic table instead of a traditional one, so I never had to worry about chairs and was always surprised how many people loved the idea of sitting on a bench to share a meal. It was a warm place and completely low maintenance at the same time. Compared to the spartan dark-floored gray-walled white-trimmed converted warehouse space Ian lived in, mine was cozy. He always said so.