“That’s because you’re the only one who drank that shit,” Ian said snidely. “All that’s in there is half-and-half now, take it or leave it.”
“Why are you here?”
“Why are you?” Ian volleyed.
“Miro?” Brent snapped, slamming the door of the antique refrigerator before facing me. “What the hell is going on?”
“Listen, I—”
But Ian slipped in front of me, cutting off my words as he advanced on Brent. “Did you move back?”
“No, I’m only—”
“So you thought what,” he said, reaching Brent, his scowl dark as he drilled two fingers into Brent’s collarbone.
“Owww,” he complained, trying to peer around Ian. “Miro, make him—”
“You thought you could just come over here like nothing happened? Like you didn’t fuckin’ bail? Just stay here while you were in town, save on a hotel room, and get laid in the process?” Ian growled. “Is that what you fuckin’ thought?”
“Back off,” Brent warned.
“That’s bullshit,” Ian informed him, voice rising, body tensing for a fight. “So you need to get the fuck outta here before I put my foot up your ass.”
“Miro!” Brent fumed, whipping around Ian and charging over to me. “What the hell?”
“Go already. It’s not a good idea for you to be here.”
“But my mother wants you to visit,” Brent protested.
“That’s low even for you, dickhead,” Ian said, bumping me as he moved close, his body heat making me realize how cold the house was.
“I’ll see you around, Brent,” I lied, stepping around him to reach my fridge, needing the half-and-half, not liking the taste of black coffee the way Ian did. “You take care.”
“God, Miro, I’m so sorry I hurt you. I had no idea you were this damaged.”
“Get out,” Ian ordered. “You saw him, you can use that later to rub one out, but that’s all you’re gonna get.”
“I should kick the shit out of you,” Brent snarled at my partner.
I scoffed as I poured, then opened up a drawer for a spoon. “Bye, Brent.”
He was gone moments later, and Ian slammed the door behind him.
“What did I tell you about opening your door for strangers?”
I chuckled as he joined me in the kitchen and leaned against the counter as he began sipping his coffee. “You’re right. I promise to be more vigilant.”
“And don’t fuck that guy, no matter what.”
“Yeah, okay.”
“No, look at me.”
I gave him all my attention.
“I’m serious. He doesn’t deserve your time.”
“Thanks.”
He held my gaze, and we were silent until he muttered something under his breath.
“What was that?”
“I said, you need to listen to me.”
I was about to say something else when his phone buzzed from the coffee table in the living room.
He went to get it, answered on the fifth ring. As I watched his body language, he drew himself up into a rigid stance like he was waiting to hear something, like he was waiting for orders. And because I could connect the dots, I knew what was happening even before he put the phone down and strode back over to me.
He cleared his throat. “I won’t be able to go with you on transport duty this morning. I have to leave.”
“What do you mean, leave?”
“I mean like leave, leave.”
“What?”
He stepped closer, laid his hand on the counter beside me.
“Tell me now.”
After clearing his throat, he said, “I have to go.”
“Go where?”
“I can’t say.”
“Can’t or won’t?” I pressed.
“Can’t,” he ground out.
I took a quick breath. “Okay, so you’re off to God knows where to do God knows what.”
“Yeah.”
It was always a possibility.
Because Ian was in the Individual Ready Reserve while working as a US marshal, all the Army had to do was call him up and say “we need you for this mission, get your gear,” and he was gone. Officers served at the pleasure of the president at all times, so the Army didn’t have to bother with a contract to bring Ian back. Basically, they put in a call to the marshals and said “we’re taking him, will send him back later,” explained—if they could be bothered—what the mission duration was, plus thirty days for debriefing and out processing and leave time. What it all boiled down to was, when they called, he went.
“Will you be able to call me?”
“I’ll try,” he answered sincerely.
“It would be good, so I don’t worry, yeah?”
The muscles in his jaw clenched.
“You think I’ll get Becker while you’re gone, or Kohn?”
“Maybe Kohn,” he offered, and when I groaned, his smile came fast, the heavy laugh lines around his eyes crinkling. “Be nice to him.”
“Maybe he won’t shoot himself this time.”
“It was a ricochet.”
“Still… his bullet, his gun,” I reminded him.
He lifted his brows like, yeah, maybe.
“So you gonna call Kage from the road or you want me to tell him?”
“I can ride in with you and talk to him.”
“No. It’d be better if you just left, don’t you think?”
It would be easier on both of us that way. Normally we would stand around not saying anything, him leaning on something—wall, desk, window—needing to go but not leaving, and I would cross my arms and drink him in, memorizing every detail, imprinting his face and body on my mind.