Fit to Be Tied [Marshals: 2] (27 page)

The meal took a couple of hours, and when everyone else was gone and it was only us marshals left, the ten of us, sitting around having beer, Kohn started again.

“I think the rib cage is symbolic.”

“It protects your chest, your heart,” Dorsey chimed in. “So by Hartley taking Wojno’s rib cage, he was taking what was supposed to guard his heart.”

“And that’s why he took your rib,” Ryan agreed. “It was supposed to be the start.”

We were all silent.

“Wojno deserved what he got,” Kowalski told us. “Just because Miro got away from that fuckin’ psychopath doesn’t let him off the hook.”

“Agreed,” Ching said quietly, meeting my gaze. “He would have let it be you instead of him. You can’t forgive that simply because Hartley took out losing you on him.”

“I don’t give a fuck what happened to Wojno,” Sharpe announced, getting up to walk into my kitchen to grab himself another beer. “He was dirty, and when you’re dirty you get what you get. But the report says he was sliced up his back and the rib cage was cut out of him and that it was done—at least for a few seconds—when he was alive.”

No one said a word.

“For that—I’m putting a bullet in that guy’s head myself,” Sharpe growled.

“I just want him caught, one way or another,” Ian said. “I don’t want Miro to keep looking over his shoulder.”

“Yeah,” Ching agreed. “One way or another.”

T
HEY
STAYED
late—it was Friday night—drinking beer, talking, watching ESPN, and telling us what had gone on while we were vacationing in Phoenix.

“Fuck you all,” I groused.

“It’s like this giant glass terrarium that they work in,” Ian was explaining later as I was chuckling beside him. “I mean, seriously, it’s still in the nineties there, and it’s fuckin’ October.”

“You didn’t have to go,” Kohn mentioned.

Ian flipped him off.

“When do you need to sit with the Feds and talk about Wojno?” Dorsey wanted to know.

“Monday,” I sighed. “They’re coming to the office to talk to me.”

Everyone was quiet after that.

Once we had the house to ourselves, Ian took some Cokes and sandwiches out to the cops in the patrol car sitting on our curb. Until Hartley was caught, they’d be there night and day. It was a shitty gig, and I really hoped he’d show himself soon, because if he was still at large in January, we’d have to let the cops camp out in our living room. It would be way too cold to be guarding the house in the middle of winter in Chicago. No car heater could run that long.

I was turning off the big lights and flipping on the ones we left on at night when I heard Ian come in behind me.

“You’re supposed to be using the crutches.”

Looking over my shoulder at him, I watched as he closed and locked the front door—we used a key and turned the deadbolt when we went in or out—before darting over to me.

“Did you hear me?”

“Yeah.”

“So why aren’t you using them?”

“I’m contemplating the stairs.”

He chuckled. “Oh yeah?”

I grabbed hold of the bannister on the left, since on the right there was only the wall, looked him up and down, leering, and then took a breath. “Yeah… contemplating.”

He swallowed hard, and his voice came out like dried leaves. “What’s with you?”

“You. You’re with me.”

“Yes, I am.”

“And I wanna get laid.”

His smile crinkled the lines around his eyes. “I don’t think you can do that with your surgery and—”

“Yes, I can,” I assured him, bracing my arm and leaning so it would take my weight as I hopped.

“Don’t do that,” he ordered. “You’ll tear your stitches.”

“I don’t care.”

“Yeah, but I do,” he rumbled, pushing by and stopping in front of me before kneeling, presenting me with his broad back.

It took me a second. “Oh, fuck no.”

He didn’t even try and hide the snickering. “Come on, M, lemme help you.”

“Just move,” I grumbled, trying to push him out of the way with my knee. “Kage won’t let me out on the street with you if he thinks I can’t—”

“Now,” he demanded, “or it’ll get really embarrassing for you.”

“Meaning?”

“I can caveman carry you up, if you’re into that.”

“With my rib out and all?” I called his bluff.

“It’s gone, it ain’t broken or healing,” he informed me. “It’s the ankle and the stitches in your shoulder at this point.”

“Seriously, I—”

“And you’re not going out with me, you know that.”

“What’re you talking about?”

He turned and sat down, which meant he had to look up at me even though he was above me on the stairs. “You can’t, not until the ankle heals. You’re stuck at your desk until the cast is off and until you complete the PT and you get the all clear from the doctor.”

“No, I—”

“It’s at least six weeks and then however long the physical therapy takes after the cast comes off.”

“You think I’m gonna be on desk duty for two months? I’ll die of boredom.”

“You won’t die of
anything
, actually,” he growled, getting up and shoving by me, charging back down into the living room.

“Oh, I get it,” I said, swiveling around so I could see him at the front door, grabbing Chickie’s leash and pulling on the navy knit jacket hanging there, what we both grabbed to wear to walk the dog, at least until it got cold enough outside to layer. “You want me to sit my ass behind a desk where I’ll be safe.”

“And what the fuck is wrong with that?”

“I’m a goddamn marshal, the same as you. The threat of getting hurt is part of the job.”

“I think you’ve had enough excitement for a while.”

“You don’t get to decide that!”

“No,” he agreed icily. “But your ankle does, doesn’t it?”

I was stunned. “You’re happy I’m hurt.”

“I am not, and that’s a shitty thing to say.”

“You’re happy I’m off the street,” I accused.

“And if I am?”

“What the
fuck
, Ian? I’m your partner. Before anything else, I’m the guy who—”

“No!” he roared. “Before anything else you’re my
life
, you stupid prick!”

Thoroughly gobsmacked, I just stood there as he stormed out of the house with Chickie in tow, slamming the door so hard I was surprised it didn’t splinter.

I sat down on the stairs and tried to put things together.

Us being more than partners was new, but for whatever reason, I was still putting the bulk of my importance to him on the work partnership. And I knew a lot of it was because it was there that I had proven my worth to Ian Doyle to begin with. I was always the first guy through the door after him, and he knew he could count on me. But apparently, whether or not I followed him out into the field, I was still the guy he wanted to come home to.

Getting up, I grabbed the crutch I had left leaning against the stairs, balanced myself as I held on to the railing, and with a sort of rocking motion, up on the right, lift, and lean back to the left, I made it up the stairs.

Earlier in the day, Ian had run garbage bags up to the bathroom and put them under the sink so I’d have them when I took a shower. They would protect the cast that covered all but my toes on my left foot and extended up to under my knee. I secured a bag before I got in the shower. I had to figure out what I was going to wear to work on Monday, since with my boss, sweats and lounge pants weren’t going to cut it.

I was drying my hair, towel wrapped around my waist, when I heard the front door open and close. After limping to the edge of the loft and looking down, I watched as Ian hung up Chickie’s leash, took off the jacket, and went to the kitchen to wash his hands. The point of taking the dog out was so he could take a crap, so even through two layers of bag, it felt gross. Once he was done, I was surprised he didn’t come up.

“What’re you doing?”

He walked out into the middle of the room so he could look up at me. “You had to prove to me that you didn’t need any help?”

He was pissed I’d climbed the stairs alone. “No, I figured out a way to do it that took little effort, and since I’ll have to do it when you’re not around, it was good to practice.”

“Fine,” he said dejectedly and walked back into the kitchen.

“Is that it?” I called out.

“I don’t wanna fight,” came the reply.

“I don’t either.”

“Then leave it alone.”

“Can’t do that, either.”

He reappeared in the living room, staring up. “What do you want from me?”

“So here’s what I thought,” I said softly, done drying my hair and leaning forward on the railing. “If something happened and I couldn’t be your partner anymore, you wouldn’t want me.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“You heard me.”

“Not want you?”

I ignored his tone, how angry he sounded, and the glare. “Part of that is that us being partners, me showing you that I could do the job plus keep up with you—that was how you first started trusting me.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“But it still matters. It’s like the guys on your team.”

“We’re back to that?” he retorted. “You think I’d let anybody in my unit fuck me?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

“You need to know you can count on me.”

“I know I can fuckin’ count on you! I don’t depend on anybody as much as you.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because you always have my back!”

“Exactly,” I agreed. “So what if I can’t? What happens then?”

“I don’t—” He growled before stomping up the stairs. “Why do you always have to make everything so goddamn difficult?”

I chuckled as he appeared in the loft and strode over to face me.

“So what’s in your head now?” he asked, stopping in front of me, arms crossed, muscular legs braced apart, power rolling off him as he stood there and fumed. “If we’re not work partners that I won’t wanna come home to you anymore?”

“It took you a long time to trust me.”

“But I do now,” he said curtly. “And I can’t even remember a time I didn’t. Don’t you—it doesn’t matter.”

“What?”

“Whether or not you get transferred or I do. If you wanted to go back to being a cop or if one of us really wants to move up.” He sighed, raking his fingers hard through his hair. “What’s important now is that we live in the same house, that we sleep in the same bed, and that we try as hard as we can to see each other all the time.”

“Ian—”

“Come on, M, you already deal with me leaving when I’m deployed. I’m gone and you’re here and—” His voice broke. “Don’t you fuckin’ miss me?”

“Of course I miss you! What the hell kinda question is that?”

“Well, then, don’t you think when you’re not with me all day that by the end of it I’ll be dying to get back to the office so we can go home together?”

I had never been particularly good about putting myself in another person’s shoes. I really sucked at it, actually. The only thing that had gone through my head was,
If I can’t be Ian’s partner, do I still get to be his partner in all things?

“Miro?”

I met his gaze and saw the vulnerability there, as well as the hope. I cleared my throat. “I should know better.”

“Yeah,” he replied hoarsely.

“So the partner thing—that’s just a perk at this point.”

“
Yeah
,” he repeated.

I reached for him, sliding a hand over his hip and easing him forward, close to me so I could lean in and kiss his throat. He tipped his head sideways so I could reach more skin. “Nothing will change, whether I’m your partner or not.”

“Not between us,” he said with a soft groan. “But that doesn’t mean you get to be anyone else’s. You’re
my
partner, M. That’s how it needs to stay.”

Yes, it did.

His breath caught as I sucked on his skin. “Are you sure you—Miro!”

To show him that I was indeed up to the task of manhandling him, I stepped back, wrenched him off balance, and threw him down onto the bed face first.

“You know I could hurt you if you’re—”

“Stop talking,” I ordered as I came down on top of him, pinning him to the bed, my knee parting his thighs as I wrestled off first his worn denim shirt and then the white T-shirt underneath. Once I had his broad muscular back bared for my pleasure, I lifted off him enough to kiss down his spine.

“You always—” He was having trouble breathing and so took a gulp of air. “—treat my body like it’s—oh,” he finished with a groan.

“What?” I asked, moving down to his hips, tugging on his pants, kissing lower.

“You have to wait, M. I’m… I… you shouldn’t… I need a shower and—”

“You smell like sweat and soap from this morning, and you,” I husked, my hand sliding beneath him, working open the button and zipper, tugging the gray chinos down, revealing the round chiseled ass I loved. It was as close to perfection as one could get. I especially loved it when I got to watch my cock slide deep inside.

“Miro,” he panted as I put him on his hands and knees before spreading his cheeks and licking over his hole.

He smelled musky and I liked that, but what got me off was the noises he made. The husky groan, the throaty cries, and the pleading where the only word was my name—all of that made me want to see if I could get him to come just from rimming him.

When I pushed inside, tasting, sucking, and took hold of his hard, leaking length, he nearly came off the bed.

“Please,” he gasped. “Lay down.”

Normally I would have done his thinking for him, because that’s how it was for us in bed—what I said had to be followed. But his voice, the sound, so steeped in his own need, made me hesitate.

He scrambled out of reach and then flipped around and tugged the towel from my hips. “Could you…. M.”

He wanted me down on the bed, so I quickly complied, loving that he dove for the nightstand to get the lube.

Already painfully hard myself, it was agony when he slicked me fast and then straddled my hips.

“Go slow, okay?” I cautioned, hands on his thighs. “It’s been a while and—”

“I need you inside because you’re not dead. If you’re here, with me, you’re safe.”

It was not a fast plunge; he didn’t impale himself like a porn star. Instead he eased down steadily, slowly, taking his time so I felt every ripple of muscle, every release of tension, and every second that he shuddered against me.