Chapter 3

 

IAN LEFT about one in the morning and had promised to be back at seven to pick me up for breakfast. When he wasn’t there by quarter after, I called him, but it went straight to voice mail. Since I didn’t want to be late and the walk to the train platform would take too much time, I decided to drive my truck. I so seldom drove the Toyota Tacoma, I had thought on numerous occasions about selling it. But inevitably, someone needed help moving practically the moment I’d start to seriously consider the idea. And today I was glad I still had it as I headed in to work.

I was halfway there and got a call from Ian.

“Where the hell are you?” I snapped, annoyed and hungry and without coffee.

“I could say the same.”

“I’m starving, asshole; you were supposed to feed me.”

“Do you ever read your texts?”

“I don’t have a text from you.”

“Yes, you—oh shit.”

“Oh shit, what?”

“I e-mailed you, I didn’t text you. Fuck.”

“Just tell me where you are.”

“Oh crap, Kage is calling me on the other line. Hold on.”

“Ian—”

“Wait,” he barked, and then silence.

I had no idea where I was supposed to be driving, but not knowing where Ian was would make me crazy faster than anything. Knowing he was somewhere I should have been too, to back him up and keep him safe, would unravel my well-constructed façade. I needed to find him.

The line went dead, and then my phone rang right afterward from a number that wasn’t in my caller ID. Concerned that it might be my boss, I started hunting around for my earpiece. It rang five times before I gave up and answered.

“Jones.”

“What’s the rule?” The deep and gravelly voice of my boss, Supervisory Deputy US Marshal Sam Kage, rumbled in my ear

“Third ring,” I replied automatically.

“What’s your excuse, then?”

“I was talking to Ian.”

“No, I was actually talking to Doyle, so try again.”

“Well, I was talking to him before you were.”

“Why aren’t you with him?”

“That’s a really good question.”

“Pardon me?”

Fuck.

“Again I ask: why didn’t you pick up your phone?”

Lying to him, about anything, big or small, was a mistake. “I can’t find my earpiece.”

“I’m sorry?”

Double fuck.

“Where is it?” Kage growled.

“It’s here somewhere.”

“So since I’m not on speaker, may I assume that you’re holding your phone?”

No coffee and Kage first thing. FML. “Yessir.”

“Stop the car and find the earpiece, Jones.”

Procedure had to be followed. After pulling over before I got on the expressway, I retrieved the earpiece from the very back of the glove compartment, put it in, connected my phone, and told Kage he could go ahead and start talking.

“I’m sorry?” he asked irritably.

It was like throwing gasoline on a fire. As I banged my forehead on the steering wheel, I prayed he would just tell me what he wanted me to know.

“I need you to meet vice detectives out in the Washington Park area to take custody of Kemen Bentley, a missing witness who was supposed to have testified against Taylor Ledesma, his former lover, before he escaped protective police custody. He got caught in a task force run by vice, the FBI, and the state police. They were cracking down on underage girls and boys working as escorts, and he was there in one of the hotels they raided.”

“Yessir.”

“Doyle is on site.”

“Roger that.”

“Make sure he texts or calls you from here on out.” He hung up without another word, as was his way.

I called Ian.

“Shit.”

“That was fun,” I said, making sure he couldn’t miss the sarcasm.

“I fucked up.”

“Yeah, you did.”

“I was tired.”

“He only calls you because Doyle is before Jones in his phone.”

“I know.”

“Use your phone correctly.”

“Fuck. Yes, fine. I will.”

I felt better. “Okay.”

“I didn’t have breakfast, you know,” he complained. “Or coffee.”

“Whose fault?”

“Stop being mad.”

“I’m not mad; I’m just annoyed. And I hate not knowing where you are. It’s like when you go off on your missions and… but you know that.”

“I do,” he husked.

“Yeah, so,” I began, realizing how miserable I sounded. “When you’re actually here and you disappear—that’s fucked up, Ian.”

Heavy sigh from him. “It won’t happen again.”

“I’m your partner. I should always know where you are.”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” I smiled into the phone. “Now, about food. We’ll get some after we take custody of the witness.”

“So you’re not gonna be pissed all day?”

“Who cares if I am? You don’t have to ride with me.”

“What? No. When we get back to the office, your car stays there.”

“Maybe I wanna drive today.”

“No.” He didn’t like me on the phone in the car, even on my earpiece, because he didn’t think I was a good driver. Having me even a bit distracted annoyed the hell out of him.

“You don’t get to just say no, Ian. Your word isn’t law.”

“It’s not?” He was baiting me.

“Fuck you.”

He snickered. “You want pizza for dinner? I really want pizza.”

“We haven’t even had breakfast yet.”

“Yeah, but I like to plan, you know that.”

I did know that. “Maybe Emma wants to go out.”

“But no deep-dish,” he said, blithely ignoring me. “I want hand-tossed.”

“No one eats that in Chicago.”

“I do.”

“You don’t count.”

“I do too count.”

Yes, he did. He counted more than anyone to me.

“I’m your partner; you gotta take care of me.”

All the words that came out of his mouth that he didn’t actually hear? They were astounding.

“Beer or wine?” I asked, trying to restore normalcy on my end.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” he groused. “Wine? With pizza?”

So much disdain in his voice. “Fine, beer it is.”

“How far out are you?”

“Like twenty minutes, if I wasn’t about to be in morning traffic.”

“Okay,” he sighed. “I’ll get with the guys from vice.”

I snorted out a laugh.

“How old are you?”

“No coffee,” I reminded.

“Yeah,” he agreed, almost sadly.

“What’s with the tone?”

“Nothing.”

“Something,” I said confidently, because I knew him too well, every nuance of his voice categorized and memorized. He couldn’t hide anything from me.

“It’s too late to rethink your lot, M. You’re stuck with me.”

“Where’s this coming from?”

“Just, you know… I’m not easy.”

“Oh buddy, I know.”

“Shut up.”

“And I wouldn’t dream of getting a new partner.”

“Okay,” he said hoarsely, and then he hung up.

The drive should have taken maybe twenty-five minutes, but this was morning traffic on I-90 East toward Washington Park. I’d be lucky to be there before Christmas.

By the time I reached where the raid had gone down, I was more than ready to stretch my legs. Climbing out of the truck, I went around to the trunk of the deVille and opened it. As it was a work car, we both carried keys for it. I took off my jacket and my suit blazer, put on my tac vest, and eyed the raid slicker. SOP said it had to go on, but it was freezing, and my parka with “US Marshal” across the back was at home. But I could imagine getting shot because no one knew who I was and what Kage would say, and worst of all, what he would do to me and what my new job description would be. He was not to be messed with.

After putting my blazer and jacket both back on, I pulled the raid slicker on over that, then removed my badge from the chain around my neck I’d worn out of my house and clipped it to my belt.

“Miro!”

Glancing around, I found Ian dressed in a long-sleeved T-shirt with “US Marshal” emblazoned down the arm, his vest, khaki cargo pants, and a baseball hat.

“Dressing down today, marshal,” I teased, closing in.

He shrugged. “Yeah, well, we both were supposed to, but since I dropped the ball, I guess I’ll be doing all the heavy lifting today.”

“You poor thing.”

“This is what I’m saying.”

“At least I should stay clean today,” I quipped, reaching his side but not getting too close. All I wanted was to grab him, so I kept my distance on purpose.

Except… moving quickly with that fluid way he had, he stepped right into my personal space. “You said you weren’t mad.”

“I’m not,” I said, my voice thick.

“Then act like it.”

“Okay,” I said at the same time a man came flying out the front entrance and started racing across the parking lot.

It happened so fast. I saw the men chasing him, made out the letters “FBI” on their raid jackets even from a distance, and took off, sprinting around the cars to intercept who I figured was a fleeing suspect. I ran a long route, circumventing the other pursuers, and emerged to the right of him. Hurtling into his path, I clipped him on the shoulder and we went down together, rolling, sliding over snow and gravel until a car halted our momentum.

Winded, gasping, I choked as the man shoved me off and tried to scramble away, crawling on hands and knees.

“Freeze, asshole,” Ian bellowed, running up to us, his Glock leveled at the man’s head. “Don’t fuckin’ move!”

I heaved for breath as the man was swarmed, shoved facedown onto the asphalt, and searched for weapons. Checking my wrist, making sure the cast was still intact, I realized from the twinge of pain that shot through it that I needed to take it easy on the tackling until I was back at 100 percent.

“Put your hands up,” one of the agents yelled, coming around the back of the Toyota Camry we had rolled up against, his gun leveled at me.

“The fuck you say!” Ian yelled before he drove the man back, lifting him up off his feet and pile-driving him over the trunk with a forearm in the guy’s throat. “That’s a fuckin’ deputy US marshal you’re pointing your goddamn gun at!”

Lots of movement, and I was hauled to my feet as four state police officers pulled Ian off the agent and crowded around him until he holstered his weapon.

“How ’bout a thank you for catching your suspect,” Ian snarled.

I pushed into the crowd, grabbed hold of his vest, and shoved him backward until we were free, only the two of us outside the throng of troopers.

“Hey,” I said softly, my hands on his sides, slipping to his hips without thought.

“Fuck you!” he shouted at them all. “You don’t draw a gun unless you know what the fuck you’re supposed to be shooting at!”

He was furious, and it was only because I could bench-press more than he could, having muscle on him where he had height on me, that I could hold him still.

“Hey,” I said again.

His blue eyes flicked sideways and met mine.

“Thank you for having my back.”

“Always,” he grumbled. “You know that.”

And I did.

“You’re bleeding.”

I shrugged. “Every time, you know that.”

“Is your wrist okay?” he asked, grabbing hold of it, turning it over in his hands, checking even before I could form an answer.

“It’s fine.”

“Stop doing shit like that,” he said crossly, letting go, seemingly reassured that the plaster was holding together. “Wait for me.”

“I will.”

“Miro!”

“I promise,” I replied, chuckling. “Don’t fuss.”

It was always weird walking into someone else’s investigation, but since the feds were in charge, it wasn’t as bad as it was just dealing with Chicago PD or state troopers. Sometimes there was a lot of posturing, and I always wanted to tell everyone to whip ’em out and I’d get my ruler and proclaim a winner. Ridiculous.

The special agent in charge, the one running the task force, apologized for his man pulling a gun on me and then waited for Ian to return the sentiment.

“What?” my partner asked irritably.

He shook his head and walked us to the hotel room where the missing witness perched on the bathroom counter, his feet in the sink, looking bored.

“Mr. Bentley,” I greeted him.

“Sweetheart, do you know that you’re bleeding?”

I shrugged, walking into the room before Ian. “Where ya been, Kemen?”

He flashed me a beautiful smile, all perfect white even teeth and dimples. The boy, all of nineteen, was stunning, warm mocha skin and huge green eyes. I understood why he’d been kept, but I grieved for the loss of his childhood.

I remembered his file. He’d been sold by his mother for drugs when he was only ten, then changed hands several times until Taylor Ledesma saw him dancing at a club and took him from the guy who was selling his ass for three hundred a night. Kemen became Ledesma’s sole property and prized possession. The good part was that never again was he raped, gangbanged, or passed around. The bad part was, he had no freedom. He was not allowed outside of the waterfront penthouse apartment.

“I won’t testify,” he said curtly. “Taylor Ledesma was decent to me. I explained that to the police and I’m telling it to you guys. I won’t.”

“That was smart, what you did,” I commented casually.

When his focus shifted to me, I could tell I had piqued his interest.

“Because Ledesma conducted all his business in Spanish, you decided to learn the language so you’d know what the hell was going on.”

“Yeah, sure, made sense, right?”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “And Ledesma never made you leave the room when he conducted business—how come?”

Kemen swiveled to face me, stretching all the tight muscles. “He liked showing me off to men who would never have me. He got off on it.”

“Makes sense. So then what happened?”

“There was a raid on his home. The FBI showed up, and they took me into custody but then handed me over to Chicago PD when they thought I was underage.”

“And then once they found out you were eighteen, they put you into protective custody after you agreed to testify.”

Suddenly his feet were of paramount importance, as much focus as he was giving them. “I changed my mind.”

I put a hand under his chin and tipped his head up to recapture his attention. “And you gave the detectives watching you the slip.”

“Yes.” He inhaled, rubbing his cheek in my palm like a cat. “But I wouldn’t run away from you, marshal. Absolutely not.”

I let my hand drop away. “You’ve been on the run for six months. Are you ready to stop?”

“I’m still not going to testify.”

“The man wants you dead,” I informed him.

“So you say.”

“So everybody says,” Ian promised. “We’ll take you to our office so you can hear the wiretaps. Now get down and turn around.”

“Oh honey, whatever you say.”

Ian scoffed as Kemen slid off the counter, every movement graceful and fluid, pivoted like a dancer, and put his hands behind his back. Long, lean muscles covered his compact frame, and really, pretty didn’t do him justice. But where I differed from others was that I saw a kid, and they saw a piece of meat.

“Man, you look like shit,” Ian said abruptly.

I glanced at him and he gestured at the mirror. I looked.

It was a surprise: my left cheek scratched, bruises darkening along my jaw, and my lip split. But the worst part was my brand-new distressed leather shearling-lined bomber jacket was shredded under the now-tattered raid slicker.

“Aww shit,” I muttered.

“You’re more upset about the jacket than your face, aren’t you, baby?” Kemen sympathized, looking at me like I was pitiful. “I know. It was pretty this morning, huh?”

“It was,” I sighed.

“Are you serious?” Ian asked, his gaze darting between me and our wayward witness.

“Are you?” Kemen demanded. “That jacket is hot.”

“Was hot, apparently,” Ian snickered.

“Heathen,” Kemen pronounced.

“Let’s go,” I grumbled. Ian cuffed him, and I opened the door.

Gunfire in the hall stopped me, and several state troopers rushed forward, weapons drawn. They were prepared to go out, but to me, the balcony I’d glimpsed when we came in was the better option.

“What?” Ian asked.

I tipped my head toward the glass door.

“No.”

“Yes.” I nodded. “Come on.”

“Fuck, okay. I’m right behind you.”

Moving fast, we were at the sliding glass door when the gunfire spattered again and I heard yelling behind us.

“That’s not—” Kemen gasped. “—for me, is it?”

“It is,” Ian and I said at the same time.

“Pimps don’t normally come after their meal tickets with semiautomatic machine guns,” I continued, sliding the door open and peering over the side.

“And?” Ian asked.

“We can hang down and drop; from this floor to the third, there’s a lot of room sticking out. We can’t miss it.”

“Okay,” he agreed, tipping his head at me. “You go and I’ll lower him down.”

I knew him better than that. I’d get there, he’d drop Kemen, and then he’d run off into the firefight without me. “No, you first, I’ll cover you.”

He tensed for a fight. “Listen, Miroslav, you should go first because of your wrist.”

“No, it should be you because of my wrist,” I corrected him. “You’re stronger right now. I don’t wanna drop him.”

The gunfire got louder and screaming joined the shouting.

“Now,” I barked, cutting off any further protest.

Shoving Kemen at me, Ian walked to the edge of the balcony, checked the distance, climbed the railing, scowled at me, and then lowered himself down. Only his hands were visible for a moment, and then I heard him hit the balcony below us.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, it’s only like maybe six feet when you’re hanging. Just a quick drop.”

“Easy,” I said to Kemen. “You next.”

“No-no-no,” he said, panicking suddenly. “I can’t go off a balcony.”

“Please, this is not a big deal,” I said, picking the smaller man up and slinging him over my left shoulder like he weighed nothing.

“You’re not even uncuffing me?” he squeaked.

“Nope.” I chuckled, walking to the edge, leaning over, and letting him slip.

He screamed for the second and a half before he was in Ian’s arms.

“You two are insane!” he shrieked as I flipped over the railing, held on for a moment with my one good hand, and then let go.

Ian braced me when I landed, hands on my hips again, like the night before, his chest pressed to my back.

“Thanks,” I said, smiling from inches away.

“Your ideas suck,” he said grumpily. But the bitching was affectionate, and I got that before he shoved his face down into my shoulder. He needed just a second.

“All better,” I taunted.

“Ass,” he proclaimed before spinning me around to face the locked balcony door. More gunfire echoed above us, and because I didn’t like the idea of drawing attention by shooting the lock or the glass, I got out my wallet.

“What are you doing?” Ian whispered.

“These doors are cheap,” I said, sliding my Visa between it and the frame. “Good ones slide into a groove so you have insulation and more security. Cheap ones like this meet up flush, and there’s only a tiny catch on—” I heard the click. “—the lock.”

“Where the fuck did you learn to do that?” Ian squinted at me.

“Misspent youth,” I said, straightening and sliding open the door. “You knew that.”

“I know some of it, but clearly not enough.”

“That was hot,” Kemen said, flirting with me.

Pulling my gun, I went in first, checking under the beds and in the bathroom and the closet before motioning them in.

Ian pushed Kemen ahead of him and locked the balcony door behind them. He sat Kemen down on one of the two double beds as I went to the door, where I flipped the security lock and waited as he called for backup.

I took my first breath when I heard sirens.

Kemen and I glanced up when we heard pounding over our heads, followed by short bursts of gunfire. He turned slowly to me.

“What happened?”

“Someone recognized you. Maybe one of the girls, maybe one of the pimps, or maybe even a cop, but whoever it was, they knew who you were and put in a call to Ledesma.”

He started shaking.

“Are you getting it? Is this starting to sink in?”

Silently, he nodded.

“If you’re gonna stop being an asshole and stay with us and trust us, we’ll take off the cuffs.”

He mouthed the word yes, making no sound.

Ian took them off, and the second he did, Kemen wrapped both arms around my left, attaching himself tight.

“You’re gonna be okay.”

He was quiet and didn’t move.

Minutes later, there was a knock at the door.

Moving sideways so I wasn’t in front of it in case bullets came through, I lifted my gun. Ian stood on the other side mirroring me.

“Federal marshal,” Ching yelled from outside.

“Hey,” I shouted back, which wasn’t protocol at all. “It’s Miro and Ian.”

Ching’s groan came through loud and clear. “What are you supposed to say, asswipe?”

“I forget,” I ribbed as Ian chuckled.

“Fuckin’ Jones,” Ching groused, but I could hear the amusement in his low voice. “Becker, Sharpe, me, and Kohn are out here. This floor’s secured, but nothing else, so you guys stay put.”

“Yessir,” I said, chuckling.

“The balcony, Jones?”

“I think it’s the best way to leave a room,” I apprised him. “Don’t you?”

That time I could hear more than just him laughing.

 

 

WHEN WE finally got the all clear, we put a Kevlar vest on Kemen, put a jacket on over that, and with us all dressed the same, all in the same jacket, exited the hotel. Kage stood in front of at least a dozen reporters shoving microphones in his face as we walked by. I didn’t realize until we were moving through the crowd how many policemen, news crews, and bystanders had gathered around the hotel. It was a zoo.

It was good press for the police sting. There was a real deficit of places teens could be sent if they weren’t bad enough to go to a juvenile detention facility and home wasn’t an option. We needed more programs to rehabilitate them and get them off the street. I didn’t know what the statistics were, but I did know that a lot of the girls, and boys, who got out of a life of prostitution got sucked back in. And a lot of them, like Kemen, were confused and mistook the shelter a pimp offered for love. He related pieces of his life story to us on the ride over to our office from the hotel. I knew most the facts, but hearing him flesh out the details was grueling. Even Ian squirmed a bit.

Once we got to the office, we put Kemen in a holding cell and went back to our desks to start the arduous reporting process. Ian started making the calls to vice to let them know they could pick up Taylor Ledesma. The process to indict him was ready for round two.

I took my jacket off, wincing at the scrapes on it, and put it on the back of my chair. Ian was right; I needed to invest in some crappy clothes for work.

“Coffee,” Ian moaned as he dropped into the chair at his desk that butted up to mine. “I told the kid that we’d bring him back something.”

“Okay.” I chuckled. “Let’s go.”

We put our badges back on the chain holders we wore when we weren’t in the field and walked the two blocks to our favorite breakfast diner, arguing the whole way about the e-mail Ian had sent me earlier in the morning. He finally passed me his phone and told me to make it forward so that when Kage called him, I would get an alert as well. I didn’t think it could be done from Ian’s phone—I thought only our boss could do it—but I fiddled with it just in case. When he got a text message from Emma telling him she’d made dinner plans with friends for them, I passed it back to him.

“No pizza for you, buddy,” I said, nudging him with my shoulder.

“What?”

I ordered three specials and talked to Rosa, my favorite waitress, as Ian texted Emma. I got Kemen a huge orange juice, and Ian and I both even bigger coffees with two shots of espresso in each. We would definitely be awake after drinking that.

“What’s Bastille?” Ian asked when we had our food and were sipping coffee on the way back to the office.

“I know what Bastille Day is,” I threw out.

“No, it’s a restaurant down on Rush.”

“I have no idea. Why?”

“That’s where Emma has us going tonight.”

“Oh, nice,” I said, taking another sip of the elixir of the gods. “Damn, that’s good.”

“I just want pizza.”

“Stop whining, it’ll be fun.”

“I don’t like French food.”

“You’ve never had any French food, so how would you know?”

“I just do.”

“Way to be open-minded.”

“I don’t wanna go,” he muttered.

“Just drop it.”

But he didn’t. Instead, he complained on the walk back, on the way up the elevator, down the hall to the holding cell to pick up Kemen, and finally to the conference room where the three of us sat and ate.

“Bastille is nice,” Kemen offered as he took a sip of his orange juice before he started in on his Mexican omelet. I passed him the guacamole and salsa, and Ian forked over the sour cream when he had what he wanted. “I’ve been there a ton of times.”

“There, ya see,” I said between bites, “Kemen says it’s nice.”

Ian made a jacking-off motion.

“You did not just do that.” Kemen sounded horrified.

“That’s funny.”

“What is?” I asked Ian, ignoring our witness.

He shrugged. “It’s just, whenever a witness is younger than you—or a woman—you use their first name. Older than you and a guy, you use their last. Do you realize you do that?”

I had never actually thought about it, but it was sort of nice that Ian had. That the things I said were noticed.

“They serve fusion Vietnamese-French,” Kemen said out of the blue.

We both turned to him.

“At Bastille,” he retorted, annoyed with us. “It’s called a conversation. We were having one. Hello.”

Ian made a retching noise in the back of his throat.

“Ohmygod, don’t ever do that again when I’m about to eat,” Kemen said dramatically, eyes wide. “Holy crap, he’s disgusting.”

“Eat your food.” I said, trying not to laugh.

“And this omelet is ridiculous,” he passed judgment. “Who eats this much food in one sitting? It’s the size of a pound cake.”

Ian said something back, but he was chewing.

Kemen asked me for the translation.

“He said it’s the Wednesday morning special.”

“You guys shouldn’t eat like this,” he warned. “Nobody should.”

“You’re gonna eat it.”

“No, darling, I’m going to pick at it. I’m not going to eat it all. Who eats like this and doesn’t have a heart attack?” he asked, making a face as he watched Ian hoovering it down. “Oh dear God.”

His horrified expression was the best part of my morning.

 

 

THAT EVENING as I cleaned up after dinner, putting the remaining five slices of deep-dish spinach pizza in my refrigerator, I replayed a conversation I’d had with a very handsome man who’d cornered me after my shower at the gym. He’d been very clear as he leaned into my space that he would love to eat dinner with me, but more importantly, he’d like to take me home.

“We could have a really good time.”

I had no doubt, but I could not have been any less interested. There’d been no one since my ex, and it wasn’t that I was pining over him—it was simply that whoever I dated I had to introduce to Ian. And if I wasn’t going to introduce them to Ian because it was just a one-night stand—what was the point? Besides, no one turned me on enough to want to jump into bed except for my very straight, very unavailable, partner.

The whole thing was a mess. I needed to get laid. As soon as I met someone I couldn’t keep my hands off of, I’d be all over this insane obsession with Ian.

My phone buzzing with a text startled me, I’d been so lost in thought. I was not surprised to find Ian wanting to know where I was. It was a big part of the problem for me, his constant attention, even though I would’ve bet my life that he didn’t realize what he was doing. The fact of the matter was, though, that Ian was as possessive of me and my time as he was of my stuff. It was too bad it didn’t really mean a damn thing.

Ignoring the text, I finished cleaning up and left the plate and wineglass I’d used on the wooden dish rack to air dry.

When the phone rang minutes later, I answered.

“Are your fingers broken along with your wrist?”

“You’re on a date, dumbass,” I informed him. “Focus on the people in front of you and stop trying to talk to me. Endeavor to make a good impression.”

“I can’t.”

“You can’t what? Focus?”

“Yeah.”

“And why not?”

“’Cause now we’re heading over to Ethan’s house to have drinks and maybe play board games.”

I had to process that. “What?”

He grunted.

“You don’t like board games. You like video games.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Tell them you like to shoot stuff.”

“I’m starving.”

I stifled a laugh. “What did you eat?”

“I dunno.”

“You don’t know what you ate?”

“Nope. The whole menu was in French.”

“You didn’t eat sweetmeats, did you, because I think that’s brains.”

“No, I think it was fish.”

“You hate fish.”

“Yeah, I know that too.”

I coughed. “You realize that Emma is doing her damnedest to integrate you and her friends because she cares about you? And you’re being an ass about the whole thing?”

“Maybe she should care less about group stuff and more about her and me stuff.”

“But she knows you guys work when you’re alone, and now she needs to see how you fit into her life with her friends and family.”

“Yeah, okay, what’re you doing?”

He shouldn’t have cared right then. “Ian? I’m hanging up.”

“No, really. What’re you doing?”

He was like a dog with a bone. “Cleaning up.”

“Cleaning up what?”

“Dinner dishes.”

Silence.

“Ian?”

“You had pizza, didn’t you, you shit?”

I laughed. “Well, yeah, but I had deep-dish that you hate.”

“I don’t hate it.”

“Yeah, but you don’t love it.”

“I love it more than French food.”

“Because you have an undeveloped palate,” I criticized.

“Who cares?” he said harshly. “I love… pizza.”

“I know.”

“And Chickie.”

We were going to talk about the dog now? “Get off the phone.”

“Go walk him.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Chickie. I thought I’d be home by now to take him out, but I’m not, so—go walk him.”

“Screw you. I am not the dog walker.”

“He’ll pee in my apartment.”

“Like you’d notice.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

I huffed. “I will not be baited into fighting with you on the phone. I’m hanging up.”

“You’re contractually obligated to walk the dog.”

“I’m really hanging up now.”

“You promised to take care of Chickie.”

“When you’re deployed, yeah.”

“He’s your responsibility too.”

I hit the End button and he was gone.

I turned off the lights and collapsed onto the couch, sore from the day’s events. My phone rang and I let it go to voice mail three times before I answered.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, what?”

“What if it was an emergency?”

“The only emergency is that you’re bored out of your mind.”

“Why don’t you wanna walk the dog?”

I sighed deeply.

“What?”

“That guy I hit today and my wrist—man, I’m beat.”

“Oh,” he said, his voice soft, rumbling. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It’s no big deal. I’m just gonna lie here and watch TV until I get sleepy.”

“Okay.”

“So try and have fun.”

“Yeah, I—you’re fine, right?”

“Course.”

“You’re sure?”

“Absolutely.”

“Okay,” he said and hung up.

I never made it off the couch.