All Kinds of Tied Down (Marshals 1)

“Hey,” I said again.

His blue eyes flicked sideways and met mine.

“Thank you for having my back.”

“Always,” he grumbled. “You know that.”

And I did.

“You’re bleeding.”

I shrugged. “Every time, you know that.”

“Is your wrist okay?” he asked, grabbing hold of it, turning it over in his hands, checking even before I could form an answer.

“It’s fine.”

“Stop doing shit like that,” he said crossly, letting go, seemingly reassured that the plaster was holding together. “Wait for me.”

“I will.”

“Miro!”

“I promise,” I replied, chuckling. “Don’t fuss.”

It was always weird walking into someone else’s investigation, but since the feds were in charge, it wasn’t as bad as it was just dealing with Chicago PD or state troopers. Sometimes there was a lot of posturing, and I always wanted to tell everyone to whip ’em out and I’d get my ruler and proclaim a winner. Ridiculous.

The special agent in charge, the one running the task force, apologized for his man pulling a gun on me and then waited for Ian to return the sentiment.

“What?” my partner asked irritably.

He shook his head and walked us to the hotel room where the missing witness perched on the bathroom counter, his feet in the sink, looking bored.

“Mr. Bentley,” I greeted him.

“Sweetheart, do you know that you’re bleeding?”

I shrugged, walking into the room before Ian. “Where ya been, Kemen?”

He flashed me a beautiful smile, all perfect white even teeth and dimples. The boy, all of nineteen, was stunning, warm mocha skin and huge green eyes. I understood why he’d been kept, but I grieved for the loss of his childhood.

I remembered his file. He’d been sold by his mother for drugs when he was only ten, then changed hands several times until Taylor Ledesma saw him dancing at a club and took him from the guy who was selling his ass for three hundred a night. Kemen became Ledesma’s sole property and prized possession. The good part was that never again was he raped, gangbanged, or passed around. The bad part was, he had no freedom. He was not allowed outside of the waterfront penthouse apartment.

“I won’t testify,” he said curtly. “Taylor Ledesma was decent to me. I explained that to the police and I’m telling it to you guys. I won’t.”

“That was smart, what you did,” I commented casually.

When his focus shifted to me, I could tell I had piqued his interest.

“Because Ledesma conducted all his business in Spanish, you decided to learn the language so you’d know what the hell was going on.”

“Yeah, sure, made sense, right?”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “And Ledesma never made you leave the room when he conducted business—how come?”

Kemen swiveled to face me, stretching all the tight muscles. “He liked showing me off to men who would never have me. He got off on it.”

“Makes sense. So then what happened?”

“There was a raid on his home. The FBI showed up, and they took me into custody but then handed me over to Chicago PD when they thought I was underage.”

“And then once they found out you were eighteen, they put you into protective custody after you agreed to testify.”

Suddenly his feet were of paramount importance, as much focus as he was giving them. “I changed my mind.”

I put a hand under his chin and tipped his head up to recapture his attention. “And you gave the detectives watching you the slip.”

“Yes.” He inhaled, rubbing his cheek in my palm like a cat. “But I wouldn’t run away from you, marshal. Absolutely not.”

I let my hand drop away. “You’ve been on the run for six months. Are you ready to stop?”

“I’m still not going to testify.”

“The man wants you dead,” I informed him.

“So you say.”

“So everybody says,” Ian promised. “We’ll take you to our office so you can hear the wiretaps. Now get down and turn around.”

“Oh honey, whatever you say.”

Ian scoffed as Kemen slid off the counter, every movement graceful and fluid, pivoted like a dancer, and put his hands behind his back. Long, lean muscles covered his compact frame, and really, pretty didn’t do him justice. But where I differed from others was that I saw a kid, and they saw a piece of meat.

“Man, you look like shit,” Ian said abruptly.

I glanced at him and he gestured at the mirror. I looked.

It was a surprise: my left cheek scratched, bruises darkening along my jaw, and my lip split. But the worst part was my brand-new distressed leather shearling-lined bomber jacket was shredded under the now-tattered raid slicker.

“Aww shit,” I muttered.

“You’re more upset about the jacket than your face, aren’t you, baby?” Kemen sympathized, looking at me like I was pitiful. “I know. It was pretty this morning, huh?”

“It was,” I sighed.

“Are you serious?” Ian asked, his gaze darting between me and our wayward witness.

“Are you?” Kemen demanded. “That jacket is hot.”

“Was hot, apparently,” Ian snickered.