All Kinds of Tied Down (Marshals 1)

“Oh yeah? I’m easy to anticipate, am I?” I laughed softly.

“Yeah. Yeah, you are.”

“What can I say, I’m a simple guy.”

“I guess.”

“Hey,” I said cheerfully. “My cast is off, so I can throw you around.”

“What?” he gasped.

“When we square off during practice,” I teased. “You had the advantage when you left, man, but I can hold you down again.”

His breath hitched, and I heard it even over the phone line.

“E?” I said, shortening his name to its first syllable, which I barely ever did, but he was scaring me all of a sudden. “You didn’t get hurt or something, did you?”

“No, I—”

“Remember that time you got paralyzed and they weren’t sure how long it was gonna last and you—”

“That was two years ago, Miro. I barely knew you.”

“Do you remember or not?” I demanded, my voice rising.

“Of course I remember—why you always gotta bring that up?”

“Because you lied to me,” I pointed out.

“And I apologized!”

“Well, is this like that time or not?” I asked, my voice rising.

“Not!” he barked. “It’s not like that at all.”

“Okay, that’s all you had to say.”

He had lied about where he was, and I’d tracked him to a VA hospital in Providence, Rhode Island. I had been so angry at him for pushing me away, thinking that he had to be by himself until he either got better or didn’t. I was livid that he’d thought he had to handle everything alone. He was my partner and I deserved to be thought of better. He should have known that whatever it was, I would be there. I always had his back. There should never have been any doubt in his mind.

“M?”

I coughed. “Sorry, I was just thinking about the last time you were in the hospital.”

“Well, I’m sorry I wasn’t there when the roles were reversed.”

“It’s fine,” I said dismissively. “But you’re sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah, I swear, I’m in way better shape than you.”

“I’m in great shape,” I defended myself.

“Except for your shoes,” Kowalski chimed in with a laugh.

“What’s wrong with your shoes?” Ian wanted to know.

“They’re getting wet from the snow.”

He sighed heavily. “What’d I tell you about that?”

“Yeah, I know, me and Kohn both shouldn’t be wearing our good stuff to the job.”

He was quiet.

“You still there?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, so—”

“Miro?”

“I’m fine, I promise.”

“Where were you shot?”

“Once in the right shoulder and another in my left collarbone,” I reported. “But nothing serious or life threatening was hit either time. There was just a lotta blood.”

“You’re sure?”

“Listen,” I said gently. “I’m fine, E. Cross my heart. Get your ass home and you can check for yourself, all right?”

He cleared his throat. “Yeah, all right.”

“So I’ll see ya when I get home from picking up—” I had to check the paperwork on my desk. “—Drake Ford.”

“He sounds like an actor or something, huh?”

“Yeah, he does.” I chuckled.

“Okay, well, I gotta go.”

“All right, be safe.”

“Always,” he grunted and the line went dead.

“I think that was the most words we’ve ever said to each other,” Kowalski commented, glancing over at me.

“Well, that’s Ian, Captain Communication.”

Apparently that was damn funny. Kowalski choked on his coffee.

Chapter 11

BRENT IVERS had lied.

He’d said he was on a business trip and only visiting the Windy City from Florida. But it turned out the new job was a bust, so he’d moved back. All of that was in a message he’d left me when, as he explained, “that coven of yours wouldn’t let me in to see you after you were shot.” Apparently he’d called when I was in the hospital, and after Aruna informed him I’d been hurt in the line of duty, she went on to clarify that under no circumstances was he allowed to see me. She threatened him with bodily harm, and he reported all of it in his second message. He was still ranting on the fourth one he’d left.

“He sounds nuts,” Kowalski said as he dealt the cards.

I was explaining it to the table at our regular Thursday night card game, this week at Becker’s house. Originally we’d held the game on Fridays, but me, Ian, Kohn, and Ryan were all single, and Friday was the night we were usually out getting laid.

“Maybe you need a restraining order,” Kohn suggested before taking a long drag on his beer. “I can get one tomorrow since you’ll be on a plane with Becker.”

“You don’t need a TRO for your ex,” Mike Ryan—tall, dark, and built like the swimmer he’d been in college—explained to me. “Gimme his address and me and Sharpe’ll go over there and have a talk with him. He won’t bug you after that.”

“Yep,” Sharpe agreed from where he sat across from me.

I laughed. “I can fight my own battles, thank you, gentlemen. And it’s not like that, just funny, is all.”

“Yeah, it’s a riot,” Jack Dorsey said as he walked back into the room from the kitchen and passed Becker a Corona. “But if you see him hanging around, polishing a knife, you let us know.”