Chapter 2

 

GRANGER’S WAS an older pub downtown, close to The Loop. I had fallen in love with it over the many times Ian dragged me there. It had good cheap beer, great hotdogs, and a haphazard floor layout that sort of meandered from room to room, making it feel bigger than it really was. Ian and I normally staked out a spot between the pool tables and the dart boards where we could still see whatever game was on the TV above the bar as well as the door. Checking who came in was always important to law-enforcement types and was something that couldn’t be turned off.

So I wasn’t thrilled that the table where my gym cronies gathered was toward the back, but I made my way through the crowd to them anyway after stopping at the bar to get an IPA I liked.

“Miro you made it,” Eric Graff, my occasional racquetball partner and one-time fuck buddy, greeted me as I reached them.

The other men and women were also pleased to see me, all except Eric’s new boyfriend, Kyle, who, I was guessing, didn’t love Eric’s arm draped around my shoulders. I would have told him not to worry—I never went back for seconds unless either my mind was challenged or there were fireworks in bed. Neither had been the case with Eric.

Giving his arm a quick pat, I extricated myself and moved through the group until I reached Thad Horton, who was more than an acquaintance but not quite a friend.

“Hey,” I greeted the pretty man who I had swam laps with many a time. He was a tanned, tweezed, manscaped twink, always quick with a smile and a kind word.

“Miro,” he almost squeaked when he saw me, which alerted the gorilla standing beside him.

“Babe?” he asked, checking on Thad before focusing his attention on me. “Who’re you?”

“Just a friend from the gym,” I said quickly. “You must be Matt. Thad talks about you all the time.”

He took my hand, clearly relieved, shaking fast. “Matt Ruben.”

“Pleasure.”

“Oh, are you the FBI agent?”

“Marshal,” I corrected him, watching Thad grimace behind him and mouth the word “Sorry.”

Quick shake of my head to let him know it was no big deal.

“That’s right. Marshal,” Matt went on. “Thad was very impressed.”

“It sounds far more glamorous than it is.”

“Doubtful,” Matt said kindly. “You wanna break, man? We’re just starting a new game.”

“Yeah, sure.”

It was fine, and everyone was nice enough, but I’d made up my mind to leave when the game was over. I was bored, as was the usual with me unless either Ian or one of my very best friends was there. I really was lousy at casual interactions. When my phone buzzed a few minutes later, I leaned back against the exposed brick wall to answer.

“You’re on a date,” I commented.

“It’s actually a group thing, and we’re having dim sum.”

I snorted out a laugh. Dim sum would not fill Ian up. He loved Chinese food as much as me—but noodles, chicken, and pork in large portions, not small pieces in steamer baskets.

“Fuck you, come meet me.”

“Meet you? It’s a date. She wants you to get comfortable with her friends.”

“I don’t care. I feel like hitting a ball.”

Whenever he was bored, he thought about going to the batting cages. “Closed until March, buddy,” I reminded him. “It’s like twenty degrees outside right now, plus snow.”

“What about bowling?”

“What about it?” I chuckled.

Silence.

God, I was ridiculous for even considering going. “Where are you?”

My hunger for Ian Doyle’s company had gone from casual appreciation and friendship to a craving for the man himself that sat like a cold, hard stone in the pit of my stomach. Not that anyone knew; even the object of my affection would never be allowed to see how famished I was for his touch on my skin, his scent on my sheets, his breath in my ear. I hid the yearning well.

“At Torque in River North.”

“That’s not a Chinese restaurant.”

“Like I don’t fuckin’ know that.”

“Then what’re you—”

“I told you, it’s stupid.”

“Are you sure it’s okay?”

“Yeah, I’m sure, just come on.”

“All right,” I muttered, levering off the wall, “Gimme like—”

“Wait, where are you?”

“I’m at Granger’s.”

“Oh, I’ll come there instead.”

“Ian, buddy, you’re on a date,” I emphasized. “You’re not supposed to bail.”

“I’ll just tell them—”

“Just stay put. I’ll be right there.”

A huff of breath and then he was gone.

I made my excuses to the group, drained my beer, handed off my pool cue, and was on my way to the door when I moved to shift around a woman and she turned.

“Jill,” I said, smiling fast.

“Miro.” She beamed for a second and then faltered. “Oh, is Ian with you?”

How her whole face fell, like there was nothing worse she could think of than seeing my partner, was sort of sad. “No, he’s not. I’m actually going to meet him now.”

“Good,” she sighed, clearly relieved, and then she visibly realized what she’d said. “Oh, no, I didn’t mean it like—”

“It’s fine.”

She exhaled sharply. “I’m sorry. I know he’s your partner, but honestly the only good quality the man has is having you for a best friend.”

I smirked. “You don’t think that’s a little harsh?”

“No, I really don’t. You should have a PSA made, Miro. Something like: even though Ian Doyle is drop-dead gorgeous, just walk away, because dating him will be short and disappointing, as he’s clearly holding out for someone else.”

I nodded, moving to leave. “So you’ve given this some thought, I see.”

“I wasted a month of my life thinking a US marshal would be a fun thing to have,” she said, shrugging. “I may be an idiot, but he’s the one guilty of false advertising.”

“Well, I think—”

“And he’s terrible in the sack.”

It was my cue to run; it was too bad I couldn’t. The crowd was too thick for me to bolt, so I plastered on a smile and pushed through. She caught my hand quickly, squeezing tight, letting me know that we were still good, before I pulled away and she was swallowed.

Outside, I moved to the curb to hail a cab, and my phone rang.

“What?”

“We’re on our way to The Velvet Lounge. Meet me there.”

I laughed into the phone. “Ian, buddy, I am so not dressed for The Velvet Lounge.”

“Me neither.”

“You’re wearing a suit, aren’t you?”

“No. Why?”

Lord. “Let me talk to Emma.”

There was some muffled noise and then, “Miro?”

“Hey, Em,” I said softly. “Are you guys going to The Velvet Lounge?”

“Yeah, we are, right after we drive Ian by his place so he can change.”

I coughed softly. “Em?”

“Yes?”

“Was The Velvet Lounge a last-minute group decision?”

“Well, yeah. I’m doing some PR work for the owner, and he just called to say he put me on the list for tonight. How awesome is that?”

“So great,” I agreed weakly. “But would it be okay if I borrowed Ian? My plans fell through, and I don’t know if he told you I broke my wrist today, but—”

“No, he—oh, I’m so sorry,” she said sympathetically. “But ohmygod, yes. Can I pretty please pawn him off on you?” Her voice had dropped to a whisper. “I swear to God, he’s so bored and he’s bringing everybody down.”

I was certain he was. Ian did not suffer in silence. “Yeah, please. Put him on.”

“I’ll owe you big time. Thank you.”

If she only knew how permanently I wanted to take him off her hands. “No problem.”

Again there was the muffled noise of a phone being passed around. “Hey?”

“I’ll grab sandwiches at Bruno & Meade. You come over, bring Chickie, and we’ll take him for a run after we eat, all right?”

“Yeah?” He sounded so hopeful.

“Yeah, come on. Your woman said you can come play with me.”

“I don’t need fuckin’ permission,” he said, instantly defensive.

“Yeah, but you didn’t want to hurt her feelings, which was nice,” I pacified. “But she’s fine, ready to have a fun night, and you’re bringing all the hipsters down.”

“Like I give a—”

“You’d rather be there?”

No answer.

“E?”

“I’ll meet you at home.”

“No, at my place, not yours.”

“That’s what I said.”

It wasn’t what he said unless… but thoughts like that did me no good. “Okay.”

“Yeah, so, all right.”

Which was his version of thank you and I’m sorry for being a dick and everything else. He was very lucky I spoke Ian. “Don’t forget to bring the scoop thing, ’cause I ain’t picking up your dog’s crap.”

He was laughing when I hung up.

 

 

WHEN I got home, the lights were on in my small Greystone, so I knew Ian was already inside. I tried really hard not to like the idea of him being there when I walked through the door, because wanting something I couldn’t have was a recipe for bitterness. I loved having Ian as a partner, we fit perfectly, each playing off the other’s strengths, and I didn’t want that feeling to change. So I squashed down the stomach flip over seeing him in my kitchen, drinking a glass of water as he leaned against the counter.

“Just come in, why don’t you,” I groused.

From around the side of the couch came Ian’s creature. Easily a hundred pounds of powerful muscle, Chickie appeared even bigger than he was with all the long black and white hair. I wasn’t sure what kind of dog he was, and Ian didn’t know either. I had often said maybe timber wolf.

“What are you doing in my house?” I asked the dog, who didn’t break stride until he reached me, shoved his wet nose in my palm and danced for me, so very happy to be included.

“Thanks, M,” Ian said as he drained his glass and sat it down. “You’re the only one he doesn’t freak out.”

“It’s because I know he doesn’t really eat people,” I said, scratching behind Chickie’s ears and under his chin as he wriggled and then pranced after me as I joined Ian in the kitchen. “Maybe we should run him now, before we eat. He seems kinda wound up.”

“Yeah, that’d be good,” he agreed.

“Lemme change,” I said, putting the bag of food down in front of Ian. He was in sweats and a hoodie, so I needed to be dressed the same. “Throw this in the fridge and see if I have any beer glasses in the freezer.”

“What’s wrong with drinking from the bottle, princess?” He grinned at me.

“Dick.”

He started to whistle as I took the stairs to the loft where my bed, closet, and second bathroom were. It wasn’t a whole second level, which I liked about the layout.

Once I was in sweats that had “US Marshal” down the side, I came back down and headed toward the front door.

“Why do you wear those?”

He lost me. “What?”

“The work sweats.”

“I don’t understand the question. We wear these when we train.”

“Yeah, I know, so why the hell would you wear them when you’re off?”

“They’re sweats, Ian. Who the hell cares?”

“They’re flashy.”

My eyebrows lifted involuntarily. “They’re flashy?”

He flipped me off, snapping Chickie’s leash on and stalking to the door.

“They’re flashy,” I repeated.

“People are gonna want to see if you’re a real marshal, and what if they fuck with you?”

“Yeah, that’s true, because, you know, the dog won’t deter anyone at all.”

Again I was flipped the bird before the three of us went out the front door. Locking it behind me, I leaped off the top step of the small stoop.

“One, two, three—go!” I yelled, and I bolted away from Ian, running down the sidewalk like a crazy man and charging across the street without looking, knowing that in my Lincoln Park neighborhood the only thing I was in danger of being hit by would be a snowplow.

It was dark but the streetlights were on, and the sky was a beautiful deep blue with indigo patches that would soon be lit up with stars—though I might or might not be able to see them for the light pollution. I loved the time of night when people were sitting down to dinner and I could see into their homes for just a moment as I jogged by on my normal run. The houses blurred at the moment, as I raced toward the park with Ian and Chickie close behind.

“Miro!”

I didn’t stop, and I heard Ian curse before Chickie was suddenly running beside me. Ian had allowed him to run free off the leash.

Veering right, I ran by one of the poles that kept cars off the gravel path between the field where kids played soccer and the playground with the swings and jungle gym. Chickie caught up with me again, and when I took a different route down toward the jogging path, Ian was there, hand suddenly fisted in the back of my jacket, holding on.

I slowed down, laughing, and he yanked me into him, bumping; his chest pressed into my back. We were both still moving, so he lost his balance when we collided and would have gone down if he hadn’t wrapped an arm around my neck for balance.

His hot breath, his lips accidentally brushing against my nape, brought on a shiver I couldn’t contain.

“Why’d you run?” he asked, still holding on, his other hand clutching the front of my jacket, his arm over my shoulder, across my chest.

“Just to make sure Chickie had fun,” I said, feeling how hard my heart was beating and knowing it had nothing to do with the sprint I’d just led him on.

“Yeah, but you’re cold,” Ian said, opening one hand, pressing it over my heart for a moment before he stepped away from me.

I was freezing the second he moved. “Yeah, I am,” I agreed quickly, patting Chickie, who was nuzzling into my side. “Let’s jog back, get the blood pumping. That way we’ll get warm.”

Ian agreed, and we jogged together along the path, Chickie flying forward, only to come loping back, making sure Ian was where he could see him.

We made a giant loop and made it back home right before we both turned into Popsicles. Since I hadn’t seen Chickie relieve himself, I told Ian he should probably walk him around the block once more.

“But I’m hungry,” he whined.

“Well, I don’t know what to tell you. Your dog did not take a shit, and he needs to.”

Ian pivoted to look at his dog. “Chickie!” he yelled.

Chickie took one look at his master and squatted right there on the patch of grass beside the curb. Ian’s expression of disgust and disbelief sent me into hysterics.

“You scared the shit outta the dog!”

“That’s not funny.”

I couldn’t even breathe, it was so funny.

As Ian pulled plastic bags from his pocket, I doubled over, and Chickie came barreling up the steps past him—right to me—and licked my face, very pleased with himself.

“Stupid dog,” he muttered as I continued to howl. “Stupid partner.”

The man was cursed with both of us.

 

 

IAN TOOK off his hoodie and pulled on a zippered cardigan of mine before he came into the kitchen and watched me put together our sandwiches. I had picked them up from Bruno & Meade, a deli I loved, and what I liked about it was that it didn’t assemble to-go orders. They gave you everything that came on the sandwich, all the ingredients, but the bread was sealed separately so it didn’t get hard—or soft, depending on which kind you ordered—and everything else came in Ziploc bags or small plastic containers.

“You realize this is the height of laziness, right?” Ian commented as he put sliced bread and butter pickles into his mouth. “I mean, seriously, you could buy all this crap at the store and do this yourself.”

“Oh yeah? The aioli mayonnaise, the chorizo salame, and Ossau you like? Really?” I asked, sliding the plate over to him. “You think I could just pop into a Jewel for that?”

He scowled at me.

“The sourdough that’s freshly baked every day?”

Something was muttered under his breath.

“I got the gouda you like, and the marinated olives too.”

“Are you still talking?”

“Why, yes.” I smirked. “I am.”

“Shut up,” he muttered, grabbing a bottle of his favorite beer—Three Floyds Gumballhead, which I made sure was always there—from the refrigerator before he turned for the living room.

“And roma tomatoes are your favorite, so I made sure I asked for—”

“Yeah, fine, you’re a fuckin’ saint and I’m an ungrateful ass.”

I cackled as he flopped down onto the couch and turned on the TV. The sounds of football filled the room. After a moment he turned around and looked at me.

“What? Need a napkin?”

“No, I have a—you’re not gonna argue?”

“Why would I argue?”

“Ass,” he mumbled, turning back to the game.

I joined him on the couch, sitting close like I always did, and he took some potato chips off my plate. “Go get your own,” I said, smacking his hand away.

He shoved me with his shoulder and I almost dumped my plate.

“What’re you doing?”

“Don’t be stupid,” he retorted, nudging my knee gently with his and then leaving his leg pressed against mine. “Since when don’t I eat off your plate?”

He was right. I would let Ian do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. I was his for the taking—as were my potato chips.