All Kinds of Tied Down (Marshals 1)

“Yeah,” Ian said, fidgeting, like he wasn’t comfortable in his seat.

“You want me to drive?”

“No,” he snapped.

I suddenly had the oddest compulsion to take hold of his hand, but since I wasn’t sure how he would take that, I just looked out the window instead.

“What do you guys wanna eat?” I asked Drake and Cabot.

“Yes,” Cabot said, chuckling.

Meaning anything and everything.

“Okay,” I said playfully, patting Ian’s leg. “Drive.”

He caught my hand and held it against his thigh, taking a breath at the same time. “Who wants a steak? I feel like steak.”

Cabot whimpered.

“And all the fixins?” Drake asked hopefully.

“You got it, buddy.”

I turned to look at Ian, and after a minute, he let my hand go and put his on the wheel. “You all right?”

“Fine,” he answered softly.

“So get us steak, man.”

Moving my hand, I checked my e-mail on my phone, and when I put my phone down, leaned sideways and took hold of the back of his headrest.

Every now and then, out of the blue Ian smiled, and I could look at him and see the little boy he must have been. It was all sunshine and happiness and heartbreaking vulnerability. The smile annihilated me and also made me almost murderously protective. So when he turned his head and gifted me with it, I smiled stupidly back.

Fucking Ian.

We stopped an hour later at a place that Yelp said was good, and at three in the afternoon, since it was just us and two older couples, we were guaranteed focused service.

The amount of food we ordered was ridiculous, and our waitress, Jill, was funny and sweet and thrilled with every new menu item requested.

Cabot ate his filet rare and smothered in mushrooms, Drake had a porterhouse I didn’t think a wolf pack could have finished, Ian had a T-bone named the “cowboy cut,” and I had a ribeye. We shared sides—ordered eight of them—and then had dessert.

“Someday, when Drake and I are done with witness protection, will you guys drink with us?” Cabot asked hopefully.

“Absolutely,” I promised.

“And we’ll be staying in Chicago, right?” Drake wanted to know. “I mean—you and Marshal Doyle are—”

“Make it Ian and Miro,” Ian corrected. “After everything, I think we’re done with titles, yeah?”

Drake smiled wide, and I saw Cabot looking at us hungrily as well. They were both starved for male authority-figure friendship. “Yeah,” he agreed happily.

“So,” Cabot hedged, “we’ll be in Chicago, and you guys will check up on us and stuff?”

“Yes,” Ian promised.

Nice to see the relief wash over both of them, Cabot even more so, and I understood why. His whole life had changed in a twenty-four-hour period.

“You both have to go to college,” Ian informed them.

There was lots of nodding, and I heard Ian cackle under his breath.

As soon as we were on the road again, our two witnesses passed out in the back.

“Normally transport marshals don’t do check-in,” he reminded me.

“Yeah, but I think this is a special circumstance.”

“I agree,” he rumbled thickly, twisting his head back and forth.

“What’s wrong with you?”

“I dunno,” he said too fast.

Okay. “What do you think?” I prodded.

He shook his head.

I would have to figure it out later.

“Boss has us with a reservation at the La Quinta Inn & Suites near the airport.”

“All right. I’ll navigate us to there.”

“Let’s actually get a suite, okay? Not just a room with two beds and two cots.”

“Why would you make the boys sleep apart?” I baited him, to which there was no reply.

Nothing.

“Ian?”

“Where am I going?”

“You’re staying on US 23 going south. It’ll turn into I-26. You’ll be on it for another ten miles.”

He grunted.

Something was wrong. “I was thinking that I could start typing up our incident report, since I don’t get carsick.”

“Good idea,” he said as he checked the mirrors.

It was like pulling teeth; the man was back to being his normal laconic self. “Are you pissed at me?”

No answer, which basically let me know that he was, in fact, angry. Since I had no hope of figuring out what I’d done, I gave up and pulled out my laptop.

The thirty minutes of drive time went by quickly as I wrote the report, making sure to include the notes I’d e-mailed Kage and the ones I’d made on my phone. I talked to Aruna when she called to let me know that Chickie was having a very good time playing with the kids as well as Liam. I reported the news to Ian, who merely nodded.

“You’re quite the conversationalist,” I informed him.

He made a noise in the back of his throat.

“You’re being a dick.”

His gaze flicked over to me and then back to the road.

My phone buzzed. A text message from Kage.

“What is it?” Ian asked.

“Apparently twelve members of the Malloy crime family were murdered last night. Orson Malloy is in the wind.”

“Okay, so what does that mean for Drake?”