Fit to Be Tied [Marshals: 2] (10 page)

“Oh, fuck, no,” Ian growled, letting his head thunk down on my shoulder.

I couldn’t stifle my laughter.

“What the fuck is wrong with them now?” he asked as his phone rang.

Only one way to find out.

“T
HIS
IS
stupid,” my partner, lover, and best friend said for the sixth time.

“I heard you the other five times,” I replied drolly as we walked down Wabash toward Exchequer, the restaurant where Cabot Jenner—now Cabot Kincaid—worked as a waiter. He’d gotten the job because it was close to where he went to school at the Art Institute and he had to work for the first time in his life after he’d gone into witness protection with his boyfriend, Drake, formerly Ford, now Palmer, who was walking a good twenty feet in front of us. He was in a hurry—he always was when he went to meet his boyfriend.

Drake and Cabot—both eighteen, going to school, and hailing from a small town in Virginia—had been thrust into the hustle and bustle of downtown Chicago. Cabot, who I’d thought would be the one having trouble, was doing great. Drake, on the other hand, was floundering.

Two months in, Drake was sure Cabot was cheating on him. It was not the case.

Three months in, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to go to school. I told him that while he figured it out, he should stay in school. Since that made some semblance of sense, he stayed.

Four months in, he thought Cabot wanted to move out. What Cabot really wanted was to try out new things in the bedroom—like different kinds of toys. Ian had nearly killed them both.

“Deep breaths,” I’d cautioned at the time as I left him on the street and went into the sex shop with Cabot.

Five months in, Cabot was promoted from his busboy position to a waiter and found his niche: talking to people. With his golden hair and skin, big blue eyes, fragile and delicate features, and sunny personality, women tipped him, men tipped him, and he made friends at the drop of a hat. Between school and work, Drake felt like Cabot was slipping away. That had not been strictly true. They were both changing quite a bit, but while Drake was growing only scholastically, Cabot was changing into a social butterfly. He’d always been sheltered by his parents in the past, with country clubs and dressage and security and an impenetrable wall of money. Now the real Cabot was on display, the one who wasn’t only Drake’s “boy” and who was more than ready to stand on his own two feet.

Now, at six months, Drake had called me and said, “I think Cabot wants his own space.” So I had to go and check it out. I had agreed to go mediate before I knew Ian was coming home.

“It’s not our place to talk to a witness to determine if he does or does not need fuckin’ space from our other asshole witness.”

“It is if the answer jeopardizes their protection status,” I corrected, waving at Drake to go on and not turn around and come back to us. Ian was newly home; I wanted him all to myself for at least another minute.

He shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

“But you don’t know for certain.”

He stopped walking to look at me. “I want to go home. I want to go back to bed. I want a long shower with you like we took before I left.”

Ian Doyle absolutely loved me on my knees with his dick shoved down my throat. He was addicted to seeing me submit to him. I would have thought the desire would translate to him wanting to top, but so far in our relationship, he enjoyed me holding him down.

“All that is yours the second this is done,” I promised, lifting my hand to his cheek and running my thumb gently over the stubble-covered skin. “You look so tired. You should just go home and take a nap. I’ll bring you back some dinner.”

He shook his head, leaning away from my hand. “Not without you. All I’ve been thinkin’ about for three weeks is lying on the couch, watching TV with my head in your lap and listening to Chickie snore.”

“He farts too,” I reminded him, throwing an arm around his shoulder and dragging him close to me.

“If you ate that much, you would too.”

The way he said it, so matter-of-fact, made me laugh.

“What?” he asked, gifting me with a lazy grin that tightened things low in my body.

“You’re funny.”

“Only to you,” he sighed.

“Maybe,” I agreed as we closed in on our destination.

Exchequer looked lifeless from the outside, even with the jaunty canopy over the entrance, but once inside, the place was huge. And yes, there were names carved into some of the tables, but supposedly Al Capone himself had eaten there a million years ago, they served great pizza, and it was one of the places I could get deep dish and Ian thin crust so we didn’t have to rock-paper-scissors for who would be disappointed.

We asked to be seated in Cabot’s section, and when he saw us, he jogged over to the table and planted a big wet kiss on Drake before turning to us with a big smile. I was on the outside of the booth, so he toppled into me, head down on my shoulder, hugging me tight.

The pointed look I gave Drake made him grimace as Ian ordered us beers and Drake a giant Coke.

“I can’t bring the beers, guys,” Cabot said, straightening up, hand brushing the hair back out of Drake’s eyes, “but I’ll have Terry bring ’em right out.”

He knew what pizza we’d order—it was always the same—and when he bolted away, Ian leaned forward and smacked Drake on the side of the head.

“Fuck, Ian, what was that for?”

“For this, you stupid sonofabitch!” he grouched. “He loves you. He’s into you, and you need to pull your head out of your ass and stop worrying about what he’s doing and focus on you.”

Drake nodded, slowly looking up at us. “I just—the other day he introduced me to some of his friends from school, and when I told them I go to the University of Chicago, they were like ‘Really? You go there? How did you get in?’ I was freaking out. I had no idea getting in was like getting into Harvard or Yale or something. Everyone wants to know how I swung it.”

“Tell them grades, test scores, and extracurriculars,” Ian replied quickly.

“Why couldn’t you guys have enrolled me at Loyola or UIC or DePaul or—”

“You need to slow your roll,” I cautioned him. “Where is all this coming from?”

He shook his head.

“You feel like you don’t belong there?”

His eyes met mine. “I feel like Cabot would have fit in better there.”

“I went there,” I told him. “And it’s a big place, right?”

“Yeah.”

“I mean, just crossing the Quad for the first time is like, where the fuck am I going.”

He made a noise of agreement.

“But pretty soon you’ll know Cobb Hall like the back of your hand, and everything else, going to The Reg is—”

“The what?”

“The Regenstein Library,” I teased. I knew he’d been there because I met him in front of it the last time I picked him up to take him over to The Medici to eat. “You’ll know all the ins and outs pretty soon, just give yourself some damn time.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Good,” I said, smiling at him as Cabot returned with Drake’s pop and Terry, Cabot’s coworker, put down two bottles of Sierra Nevada Pale Ale, one for me and one for Ian.

“If we were home, we could have the beer I like,” Ian muttered.

I leaned sideways, bumping his shoulder with mine. “We’ll be home soon, I swear.”

His grunt was grouchy, but the hand on my thigh under the table, possessive and firm, told me what I needed to know. The promise of home meant the world to him.

As I took a sip of my beer, I noticed Cabot in the kitchen, caught up against a wall by the same guy who had delivered our beers. He had his hand on Terry’s chest, and it looked uncomfortable. Cabot was clearly distressed, and the thought of that made my stomach roll even as I saw the older man walk away from him.

Excusing myself, I got up and walked straight to the back. Cabot smiled when he saw me.

“Miro, I put the pizzas in.”

“Perfect,” I said, passing him quickly and walking up on Terry, who was now punching orders into a POS.

He was taller than me, but I had muscle on him, lots of it, and so when I grabbed him by the throat and pinned him to the wall, he didn’t move. Instead he immediately began pleading.

“Miro,” Cabot gasped, frightened for his job, I was sure.

“Listen to me,” I said, leaning in close beside Terry’s ear so I could deliver my threat in a whisper. “If you ever put your hands on Cabot again, eye fuck him, or even smile in a way that’s pervy, I will come back here and rip out your lungs. Are we clear?”

He nodded quickly.

“Are you sure?”

More nodding.

“Excellent,” I huffed, letting him go, leaning back so he could map my frame and get an idea of the muscle I had that he didn’t. Normally I didn’t go in for intimidation tactics, but in this case, it was necessary.

His eyes flitted to look everywhere but at me. After a moment, I turned, took hold of Cabot’s bicep, and walked him back out to the dining floor with me.

“Miro, I could have handled—”

“Drake’s worried that you’re thinking of moving out because you need space, but it’s not that at all. You’ve been trying to figure out how to deal with Terry without having to tell Drake, and it’s been weighing on you, huh, kid?”

He was holding his breath, but after a moment, he gave up. “Yeah,” he confessed, staring at his shoes like they were important.

“Look at me.”

His gaze flicked up to meet mine.

“You have a problem, any kind of problem—money, scary neighbors, older guys pawing you, a teacher who hits on you, or Drake freaking out—you tell me. That’s what I’m here for, to remove obstacles.”

“Okay,” he agreed.

“Whatever it is,” I insisted, “I’ll take care of it. And yes, it’s my job, but you and Drake are a special case for me and Ian. You know that.”

He smiled sheepishly. “Yeah, okay.”

“So talk to Drake and clear the air, all right?”

“I will.”

“Good. Now get me some food before I pass out.”

He chuckled and returned to the kitchen as I rejoined Ian and Drake.

“Something wrong?” Ian asked as I slid in beside him, his hand immediately sliding over my upper thigh. It was intimate and sexy, and when he leaned in to listen to whatever I had to say, his breath on my ear gave me goose bumps.

“No,” I managed to get out. “Cabot’s bringing out our food soon.”

“That’s good,” Ian rumbled, his voice like a caress.

“Let’s go home after this.”

“Good idea,” he agreed quickly, his fingers tracing over the inseam of my jeans.

Ian, who had never been sensual in the past, had become sex on two legs. Ever since we first started sleeping together, he thrummed with a new understanding of how his body responded to pleasure, and the new ease with which he carried himself was irresistible. Ian had always been gorgeous, but now he oozed confidence and the promise of wicked pleasure. I wanted him under me again as soon as possible.

“Excuse me.”

We all looked up and there, hovering over us, was a man I didn’t know and Terry, whom I had just assaulted in the kitchen.

“I need you to leave,” the man directed. “I’m Brad Rigby, the assistant manager here, and you—”

“What’s the problem?” Ian asked, pulling his ID from the breast pocket of his leather jacket and flipping it open.

Brad blanched when he realized Ian was a federal marshal.

“Did you want to check his out too?” Ian asked, scowling, tipping his head at me. “Or are we good here?”

It was hard for someone to back down after they’d been charged up, adrenaline pumping, for a fight. Brad was doing his job, defending his employee; he simply didn’t know that his guy was the one in the wrong.

Six months ago, Ian would have climbed over me to get out of the booth, physically pushed Brad, and backed him into a corner. The Ian sitting beside me now let Brad collect himself and back down.

I knew it was because of me. Because I loved him, because he had a home, because he was no longer a stray, it wasn’t necessary for him to win at everything anymore. He didn’t have to be the scariest and toughest. He could be himself, not only strong and brave, but also kind and gentle. Ian was now grounded and secure. He wasn’t angry all the time. He didn’t need to prove himself to anyone because I was the only one who mattered. If only he’d realize getting married was the logical next step in that transformation.

“Well?” Ian pressed the manager, bringing my attention to the present.

Brad swallowed hard. “I thought your partner threatened my guy.”

“Yeah, no,” Ian said flatly. “That’d never happen.”

“I understand.”

“Good,” Ian replied, nodding.

When both men turned, Cabot was there with our pizzas. His boss smiled at him, told him he was doing a good job, and walked away with Terry in tow.

“What was that about?” Drake asked his boyfriend.

Cabot put the pizzas, my deep dish and then Ian’s thin crust, down on the trivets already on the table, and his gaze met Drake’s. “The short version is: I messed up and didn’t tell you that I was having trouble here.”

Drake reached for Cabot, who immediately took the offered hand and allowed himself to be eased down next to him.

“Forgive me. I’ve just never been hit on before.”

Drake nodded.

“I had no idea what to do,” Cabot said, taking Drake’s face in his hands. “I didn’t want you coming down here all pissed off, and, I mean, I’m an adult, right? I should be able to handle my own crap.”

“But you should always be able to tell me anything.”

“Yes,” Cabot agreed, his eyes doing the melting thing they always did around Drake. He was completely smitten, and Drake needed to start believing in that. Their entire relationship had begun with him in denial that a prince could ever really want him. Now, finally, he had to start believing he was a catch, too, before his insecurity drove Cabot away.

“From now on, no more secrets,” Drake said, turning his head to kiss Cabot’s palm. “Swear.”

Cabot nodded, catching his breath, seemingly unable to speak. The hug they shared said it all.

“Can you guys break it up so I can eat?” Ian grumbled, unrolling his fork and knife not because he needed either but because the napkin was necessary. “And take your break, Cab, and sit the fuck down.”