“No, you didn’t,” Ian groaned before eating another of the smoked chicken wings we’d ordered for an appetizer. He really liked the buffalo ones while I preferred the barbecue.
The thing was, Sharpe thought he got the car, but I knew it had been me. It wasn’t like Tony Bayer, the driver of the car, could tell us who put the bullet in the radiator of his Ford Focus, thus making him swerve and hit the side of the split-level ranch, because he’d have to come down from his PCP high, first. He’d violated his parole in Austin, Texas, and then skipped town. But we’d gotten a tip from the Dallas field office that he was out in Northbrook, laying low at his sister’s, and it had turned out he was.
He’d come running out of the house—naked—with a gun, car keys, and his brother-in-law’s wallet. Once he was in the vehicle, he came barreling down the dirt and gravel driveway from the back of the house and tried to run over Deputy US Marshal Chandler White. It was then that I fired at, and hit, the subcompact getaway car. The best part of the whole thing was that his brother-in-law, Bobby Tanner, came out of the house after we had Tony cuffed and facedown on the front lawn and brought us some of Tony’s clothes. He hadn’t wanted to see the guy naked any more than we had.
Sharpe interrupted my thoughts as he pointed at Ian. “Wait. You think Miro shot the car too?”
“No,” Ian grunted. “I shot the car.”
White’s laughter drew all our attention. “Are you kidding? You too? All you fuckers hit the car? Are you fuckin’ kidding me?”
“When,” Ian began sanctimoniously, indicating us all with an imperial wave of his hand, “we get the ballistics report back, you two are gonna be really fuckin’ embarrassed.”
“I hit the car,” I repeated as our waitress brought burgers for me, Ian, and Sharpe and a grilled chicken breast for White. “What the hell is that?” I asked, horrified, pointing at his food.
“That’s why I will outlive all of you by a great many years,” White assured me.
“Maybe,” Sharpe said in disgust. “But we’re gonna have way more fun.”
“I’ll say nice things about you at each of your funerals.”
We all threw fries at him.
AFTER DINNER White got a call from his wife and she wanted him to meet her at the club she was at in Lakeview. He of course didn’t want to go alone, and Sharpe had no choice, as a partner never did. Ian and I begged off, but White was insistent and very whiny, so we all piled into a cab and took the twenty-minute ride, in traffic—because there was always traffic—to join her and her friends.
“Maybe the ballistics report will come in tonight,” I said from the backseat where I was sandwiched between Ian and Sharpe. White was in the front seat with the driver.
“Oh, will you let it go,” White groused, turning in his seat to gesture at Ian. “He’s supposed to be the competitive one.”
Normally Ian was, and for whatever reason, that filled me with affection for him and I let my head fall sideways onto his shoulder.
I realized what I’d done as soon as it registered how comfortable I was, and felt my stomach drop. We had agreed that work was work and home was home and never would we mix the two. With how things were going lately, it was especially important. And even though we weren’t on the clock at the moment, we were still with Sharpe and White, and they fell more into one category than the other. Plus, we didn’t want to make anyone uncomfortable. It was great that no one on our team cared that we were together, but none of them wanted to sit through us making out, either. At least none that I knew of.
I lifted my head a bit, but Ian reached up and pressed gentle fingers into my hair, keeping me there, wanting me there. I loved it when he was affectionate, whenever he let me see his desire, and it took more concentration than usual, as tired as I was, not to simply burrow against him. I really wanted to go home and get in bed with him.
White was texting his wife and Sharpe was asking him about her friends—who was single, if any of them were hot, and which, if any, were married. That last part caught my attention.
“Why does that matter?” I asked, sitting up and turning my head so I could look at him.
“What?”
“The married?”
He shrugged. “If they’re married, they just wanna screw around. There’s no bullshit.”
“Ohmygod,” I said, thoroughly revolted.
“You’re a pig.” Ian passed judgment on him.
“What?”
“You cannot sleep with a married woman,” the cabbie informed Sharpe. “You will go to hell. Consider your immortal soul.”