Tied Up in Knots (Marshals 3)

“What was that?” he asked, stalking around in front of me as I reached our closet. An armoire that held underwear, briefs, and T-shirts, as well as socks, stood inside of it because we’d needed more space. Well, I had. Ian’s wardrobe was minimalist to say the least.

“What was what?”

He studied me a moment before crossing his arms over his chest. “What’re you gonna make?”

I sighed, thankful that he wasn’t pushing. “Aruna made roasted jerk chicken with carrots and potatoes for us. All I have to do is warm it up.”

“When did she bring that over?”

“Yesterday,” I said, shucking the towel and pulling on a pair of briefs. “And oh, I gotta tell you something.”

He listened as I told him about Janet being pregnant and then smiled as I gently patted his cheek before ducking out of the room.

I darted back into the bathroom just to use the requisite items so I didn’t smell and my hair didn’t stick straight up. Down in the kitchen a few minutes later, I was going to open a bottle of wine, but thought better of it because Ian wasn’t a fan.

“Hey.”

I walked into the living room so I could look up at him in the loft. I was surprised he was standing there naked, and it hurt to see so many new bruises. There were also stiches beneath his collarbone on the right side.

“That looks bad,” I said, pointing.

“That’s what you’re looking at?” he teased, the grin absolutely lethal.

I gave him a shrug.

“Tough room.”

“You could have been killed.”

He shook his head. “It’s nothing.”

“It needed a needle and thread.”

“A long time ago,” he informed me.

“Couldn’t have been that long.”

“Can you just drop it?”

I turned to go back in the kitchen.

“Hello.”

Stopping, I gave him my attention again.

“Are you going to lighten up?”

I remained silent.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have come home at all.”

Any word out of my mouth I would instantly regret, so I swallowed down the attack and kept my eyes locked on him as I crossed my arms. It was a low blow, and childish, and I wanted to climb the stairs and both beat him and hug him as hard as I could.

He cleared his throat. “Okay, so that was a shitty thing to say.”

I lifted one eyebrow in complete agreement.

“Yeah,” he sighed. “Really shitty.”

I felt like I was standing in the middle of a minefield. Any way I turned, there could be another explosion, so I kept quiet, jaw clenched, focusing on that, on being still, instead of blowing up and venting my frustration all over him.

“So, uhm, do we have anything to drink?”

It took a second for me to speak, and when I did, my voice sounded strained and filled with gravel. “I have all kinds of beer for you.”

“Do we have any of the KBS left?” he asked hopefully.

“We do.”

“That’s what I want,” he almost whimpered.

“You got it. Shower,” I commanded before returning to the kitchen.

Things felt odd, unbalanced, like we were off somehow, and I wanted to fix it but I wasn’t exactly sure how to do that. How did you restore normalcy after that talk?

I WAS tossing a salad when the doorbell rang. It was Saturday night, a little after nine, so it was a strange to have someone there, but since Chickie got up and rambled to the door, taking his sweet time, not barking, I figured whoever it was, he knew.

Checking the peephole, I found Barrett Van Allen. He had a bottle of wine in one hand and a bag of what looked like Chinese food in the other.

“Aww shit,” I said as I opened the door. “Did we have plans that I spaced on?”

“Nice greeting,” he teased, smacking my abdomen as he chuckled and walked by me into the house. He didn’t wait for an invite. We’d already established on a number of occasions that he didn’t need one, and he petted Chickie as he passed. “And no, man, how could we? You just got back. But I saw your light on when I got home from work, figured there was nothing in your fridge, and thought I’d help you out.”

It was thoughtful of him and one of the many reasons I’d grown to like him since he’d moved in next door a little more than three months ago.

“But it smells great in here already,” he said, passing me the bottle of the Trimbach Gewurztraminer he knew I liked. “And since I don’t hear any jazz and you’re cooking—is your guy back?”

“Yeah, Ian’s home.”

“Oh, then I’ll go,” he said, trying to give me the bag of food as well. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

I shook my head, holding the bottle out to him. “Don’t worry about it, but take this with you so you—”

“Hello.”

We turned to see Ian in a white T-shirt and jeans, standing at the top of the stairs.