“No, I want to get the wine open because I’m dying to hear what happened to your face there, gorgeous.”
“My fuckin’ asshat ex-partner tagged me.”
“I’m sure there’s more to the story than that.”
“There is, but you’re not hearin’ it,” I teased.
“I need to, though,” Ian reminded me.
“Well, you’re allowed,” I quipped. “But not the lawyer.”
“No? Are you sure?” Barrett prodded, finding his way around the kitchen easily, rummaging in the junk drawer for the corkscrew and going to work on the bottle. “Because I think I need to sue someone.”
I made a face.
“Seriously, the two of you together look like you beat the crap out of each other.”
My scoff was loud. “Please, it’d be no contest. Ian could kill me if he wanted.”
“I don’t know, Special Forces or not, I think you could hold your own, M.”
“You’re hysterical,” I said sarcastically. “You need to go look up Green Berets and what they actually do.”
“He doesn’t have to research shit,” Ian said, having found the bottle of KBS he was looking for and getting the opener out of the same junk drawer Barrett had just been in. “’Cause, yanno, we’re never gonna have to find out who could kick the crap outta who.”
“No, of course not,” Barrett allowed as Ian flipped the bottle cap into the sink before taking a long pull on his beer.
“And I’d only hurt Miro if he begged me,” he said seductively, the look he shot Barrett not altogether friendly.
“Kinky,” Barrett said before turning back to me. “You sure you can’t share?”
“Yeah. Sorry. It’s interdepartmental shenanigans.”
“Well, listen, if anything gets weird between you guys—like if your ex-partner gets representation, you call me.”
“I don’t need a lawyer to talk to IAD and OPR and everyone else. It’s just procedure,” I explained. “Part of the job.”
Barrett shrugged. “Things change fast, I’ve seen it. If they do, you let me know.”
I bumped his shoulder when I passed him his plate. “Thanks.”
The dinner conversation was nice, with Barrett telling Ian about him and his friends finding me and mine at a pub close by.
“All my friends except Miro are all lawyers, right,” he said, laughing. “So he’s playing pool with his guys and we get there and start to do some trash talking, and all of a sudden, there’s some damn serious pool happening.”
Ian was grinning.
“And this is where it gets sad,” I explained dramatically.
Barrett pointed at me. “He doesn’t need to know that part.”
“Aww, I think he does,” I baited, leaning into Ian as I drained my third glass of wine.
Ian bumped his knee with mine under the table and then wrapped his hand around the inside of my thigh. “Tell me,” he pried.
Barrett cleared his throat. “I met Ethan.”
Ian squinted at him. “Sharpe?”
He shifted in his seat and drained his second glass.
I watched Ian lean forward, studying Barrett, his eyes brightening as they hadn’t since he came down the stairs in that sinful pair of ass hugging jeans he had on. “What happened with you and Sharpe?”
Barrett groaned.
Ian’s smile was incorrigible. “Did Miro not tell you that Sharpe hustles pool?”
“He did,” Barrett grumbled. “But I thought, you know, how good could he really be?”
Ian’s snort of laughter sounded good.
“He takes his pool very, very seriously,” Barrett almost whined.
“He does,” Ian agreed, still with the merciless cat-that-swallowed-the canary-grin on his face. “And he never lets anyone out of a bet.”
“Shit.”
“How much are you into him for?”
“It’s not money,” I informed Ian. “Sharpe needs a new wingman.”
“Oh no,” Ian said, cackling. “That’s terrible.”
“Did you know Sharpe frequents dance clubs?”
“I did, yes.” Ian was enjoying Barrett’s distress quite a bit. “He has an entire wing of his closet devoted to club clothes.”
“Oh God,” he moaned.
I started laughing.
“Miro has a fuckton of fashion himself, but Sharpe—and Kohn too—that’s some scary shit.”
“I don’t dance.”
“I’m thinking you do now,” Ian said, waggling his eyebrows.
“It’s like high school all over again.”
Ian’s laughter was such a good sound. When he reached out and patted Barrett’s shoulder, I saw my new friend flip him off.
The rest of dinner was nice, and Barrett told Ian some of his better court appearance stories and found out what everyone who knew Ian had discovered at some point—that having his full and undivided attention was more addictive than any drug. The way he leaned in; how animated his face got as he sat and held eye contact; and the evil, conspiratorial smile at the end—like it was just the two of you in on some big juicy secret—was all its own reward. I heard Barrett’s catch of breath, and when he glanced at me, I gave him the nod.
Later, in the kitchen as he was grabbing the takeout that only he would eat—Ian didn’t like mild anything either—from the fridge, he said “Yeah, I get it.”
“What do you get?” I asked innocently.
He made a conciliatory noise, sort of a grunt and acknowledgment together. “He’s the whole package: pretty and funny and dangerous. I see why you’re so devoted.”