Twisted and Tied (Marshals 4)

“Fuck that,” I said, turning in the passenger seat of the 1987 Buick GNX we were driving around in. I loved it and even asked Asset Forfeiture if there was any way I could go to the auction when it was put up. The marshal in charge was condescending, but worse, his boss called Kage, who asked if I was high.

“This is a nice car,” Embrey commented, leaning back and wiggling on the leather seats.

I ignored him. “I want to go now,” I told Ian, checking the Hermès Cape Cod watch Catherine had sent me.

Normally her gifts were not so extravagant, but I’d scared her due to my most recent run-in with Hartley, and so she bought something that conveyed the depth of her love. She later told me I should consider it both my Christmas and birthday presents, but since I got pajamas soon after, I was thinking she forgot how much she spent. Not that a neurosurgeon noticed, and with her husband being a composer—he did film and TV scores—it wasn’t like even an Hermès watch would put a dent in their budget.

“It’s three fifteen already, babe,” he told me, turning the wheel like he was going to head back to the office with Embrey. “We can do it tomorrow early. We’ll come before lunch.”

I took a breath.

“Okay?” He sounded nonchalant, like if it didn’t happen today, tomorrow was just as good.

“Ian.”

He turned to look at me and did a double take when he saw my face.

“My honeymoon is already tabled because Dorsey and Ryan got pulled for transport. I will not put off being married to you even one… more… day.”

He fixed his eyes on me, flicked them back to Embrey, who had smartly gone quiet, and then returned his gaze to mine.

“Unless the when of it really doesn’t matter to—”

“No,” he said hoarsely. He whipped us out of the parking spot on the street, directly into oncoming traffic on Harlem Avenue, before flipping a U-turn and flooring the gas pedal. That got us moving pretty damn fast considering the car could hit sixty in about five seconds.

“Jesus Christ!” Embrey gasped from the back seat.

I called Kage.

“Jones,” he said like he always did, like I made him tired.

“We’re gonna be about an hour late getting back, boss. We’re stopping to get married.”

A beat passed. “I’m sorry?”

“Married,” I repeated. “We’re doing that now.”

It took him a moment to respond. “Okay.”

When I got off the phone, I was smiling.

“Happy?” Ian teased as he wove in and out of lanes of traffic.

“I am,” I sighed deeply, putting my hand on his thigh.

“No, no, don’t do that,” he cautioned. “I need every brain cell and all my reaction time for this drive.”

“Yeah, leave him alone,” Embrey muttered from behind me.

I could not wipe the huge grin off my face.

We made it across town in fifteen minutes—which was an Ian Doyle personal best, helped quite a bit by the Buick—and he parked while I went to sign us in. Ian got back to me fast, jogging down the long hall, and I noticed that because we’d been out of the office the whole day, we were both dressed in cargo pants, boots, T-shirts, and heavy hoodies, him wearing a shoulder and thigh holster, me with just the shoulder one, both of us with our badges on chains in the middle of our chests. It was not how I imagined it; us in suits was how it went in my head, with boutonnieres and rings. As it was, none of those things would happen, because I wanted us married right the hell now. I had a terrible habit of insisting on things, only to realize it wasn’t the right choice after the horse left the barn.

Ian sat down beside me and took hold of my hand.

I lifted my head to tell him we could wait, but the smile he directed my way rendered me mute before he passed me a small box. Opening the lid, I found two thick gold comfort bands.

“You had these?” I ground out, lifting my head.

“Been carrying them around for a week,” he said, leaning in to kiss me. “You’re not the only one who wants to get married.”

And that fast, what I wanted, and when I wanted it, was no longer a bad thing. “No?”

He chuckled. “No.”

Fifteen minutes later, after couples went in and out—some looking like they were facing a firing squad, others bursting with happiness, some with family and friends trailing in after them, others alone—I was not surprised to turn and see people making a hole for Sam Kage.

He looked like he always did, polished, strong, like the rock you built on. It made sense he was there, and when he got close, we both stood up.

He offered me his hand when he reached us.

“Thank you for coming, sir.”