All Kinds of Tied Down (Marshals 1)

I huffed. “I will not be baited into fighting with you on the phone. I’m hanging up.”

“You’re contractually obligated to walk the dog.”

“I’m really hanging up now.”

“You promised to take care of Chickie.”

“When you’re deployed, yeah.”

“He’s your responsibility too.”

I hit the End button and he was gone.

I turned off the lights and collapsed onto the couch, sore from the day’s events. My phone rang and I let it go to voice mail three times before I answered.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, what?”

“What if it was an emergency?”

“The only emergency is that you’re bored out of your mind.”

“Why don’t you wanna walk the dog?”

I sighed deeply.

“What?”

“That guy I hit today and my wrist—man, I’m beat.”

“Oh,” he said, his voice soft, rumbling. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It’s no big deal. I’m just gonna lie here and watch TV until I get sleepy.”

“Okay.”

“So try and have fun.”

“Yeah, I—you’re fine, right?”

“Course.”

“You’re sure?”

“Absolutely.”

“Okay,” he said and hung up.

I never made it off the couch.

Chapter 4

WHEN I got out of the shower the next morning, I heard movement in my kitchen, so I moved to the railing at the end of my bed—there was just enough room there for me to walk—and yelled down that I was armed.

“Yeah? And?” came back the snide reply.

“You could ring the doorbell like a normal person,” I mentioned, smiling in spite of myself when Ian walked out of the kitchen directly below me and into the living room where I could see him.

“But I have a key,” he countered.

“Which you’re only supposed to use when I’m not here.”

“You’re never not here.”

I sighed. “Which if you think about, is really sad. I need a vacation to some tropical paradise so I can get laid.”

He squinted up at me. “Why can’t you just get laid here?”

The question, asked so innocently as he stood in the middle of my townhouse, was like a punch in the gut. Because I could have sex, right there, on the couch… bent over the couch, on the floor, or even better, in my bed. I could get laid anywhere in my home… if Ian were gay. I could. But I wouldn’t, because he wasn’t.

Christ.

“Well?”

“I need a vacation,” I muttered, turning away since I was in a towel and nothing else. “And why’re you dressed like a lumberjack?” I shouted, wanting to make sure my voice carried.

“Why’re you yelling? I can hear you fine.”

There was no winning.

“Just tell me why you’re dressed like that,” I prodded.

“Homeland Security raid at that youth halfway house in Schaumburg. We have a lead on that girl, what was her name?”

I stopped halfway to my closet, having to make new clothes choices. “It’s Lucy, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, that’s right. Lucy Kensington. She skipped out before she could be taken into custody by marshals in Lubbock,” he said as he clomped up the stairs. For a Green Beret, Ian walked really heavy.

“I thought you were supposed to be stealthy.”

“I’m bringing you coffee, don’t be a dick.”

I chuckled as I grabbed a pair of briefs from my armoire, my low-rise jeans, a T-shirt, a Henley, and a pair of socks. “She’s the one who’s supposed to be testifying against some cult leader there, isn’t she?”

“Yeah,” Ian answered, reaching the top of the stairs and walking over to me, a mug in each hand. Instantly he grimaced.

“What?” I asked as I took the one he offered me.

“You have bruises all over you,” he remarked before taking a sip of coffee. “And between that and the cast on your wrist, you’re a fuckin’ mess, man.”

I shrugged. “I knocked down a moose yesterday, you saw me.”

“I guess,” he said irritably, frowning, reaching out to touch my shoulder. “Gross, why’re you slimy?”

“It’s lotion, ya heathen. You have to take care of your skin, use moisturizer on your face, or you’re gonna look like a saddle when you get old.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, obviously placating me. “Is your wrist better today? You sounded like it hurt last night.”

“It did, but it’s fine now. Go away while I get changed.” The coffee was good, he’d used the Kona I kept in the freezer instead of the French roast I had in the pantry.

He pointed at the clothes in my hand. “You can’t wear those jeans to a raid.”

“What?” I asked, drinking down more hot coffee. He was good about adding the right amount of cream so I could still taste it but drink it fast.

“I’ve seen those jeans on, and they’re way too tight. You can’t run in them. This is not Starsky and Hutch.”

I stared at him until he groaned, muttered under his breath, and went back downstairs. But he was right; all I needed to do was ruin a two hundred dollar pair of jeans sliding over asphalt. Returning to my closet, draining the mug as I did, I refolded them and picked something else to wear. Once I was changed, I brushed my teeth and then started putting product in my hair.