Chapter 6

WE STOPPED on the way back to my place, picking up pumpkin pie for me and chocolate cream for him and then clothes for him for the morning. He fell asleep halfway through Die Hard, and I covered him up. When the movie was over, I got up to rinse dishes, and he was completely stretched out when I got back, throw pillow under his head, dead to the world. Amazing how vulnerable he looked when he was sleeping. I wondered how Emma could bear to be parted from him.

I took his phone with me when I went upstairs. It was a small townhouse with a loft above the main floor at the top of the stairs where my bed stood along with a nightstand and a vintage industrial lamp. I’d found that lamp in an abandoned building when I was fifteen and kept it with me ever since. Even moving between foster homes, I managed not to lose it, certain that someday both it and I would have a home.

On the other side of the stairs was my bathroom and my closet, and that was it. Everything else was on the first floor. What was nice was that I could lie on the end of my bed and look down into my living room. At 750 square feet, the Greystone was tiny, but I didn’t need a lot of space. It was mine—I owned it—from the reclaimed barn-wood flooring in the living room to the Philco fridge and polished concrete in the kitchen to the Kohler waterfall showerhead in my bathroom. I had made it my sanctuary. All the accents were mine, black and white photographs of friends and places I’d been, colorful framed artwork hanging on every available wall, and the distressed wood ladder in one corner that I put plants and more picture frames on. I had open shelving in the kitchen to display Fiestaware and Pyrex my friends collected in college that I originally got stuck with but now loved. It was compact, like living in a bungalow, and I liked the feel. I had opted for a picnic table instead of a traditional one, so I never had to worry about chairs and was always surprised how many people loved the idea of sitting on a bench to share a meal. It was a warm place and completely low maintenance at the same time. Compared to the spartan dark-floored gray-walled white-trimmed converted warehouse space Ian lived in, mine was cozy. He always said so.

Stretching out on my bed, I pulled up the pictures of Emma and Phil on Ian’s phone and started deleting them one by one. When his phone rang and I saw her number, I answered.

“Hi,” I greeted solemnly.

“Miro?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you okay? I’ve been calling all night and Ian hasn’t picked up.”

“I’m fine.”

“I… okay, well, is Ian with you, because—”

“He’s passed out. He had a rough night.”

“Don’t you have that backwards? You’re the one who went off my balcony.”

“He knows you’re sleeping with Phil, Emma.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I’m deleting the evidence off his phone right now. It’s not healthy for him.”

A long pause. “I never noticed him,” she finally said.

“Well, he’s trained to go undetected, so that makes sense.”

“I guess.”

I coughed softly. “Was there something else you wanted to say to him?”

“Yes. No.” She sighed. “I don’t know. I shouldn’t have left the voice mail.”

“He played it for me.”

“Of course he did. I would have known you were lying if you said he didn’t.”

“Sorry?”

“Please, Miro, he tells you everything. You’re the other half of him.”

“I wouldn’t go that—”

“And really, since we’re being honest, I could barely stand him when you weren’t around.”

“What are you talking about?”

“What am I—are you serious?” She laughed harshly. “He speaks when you’re there, Miro. He laughs, he interacts.”

“I—”

“And when you’re not, he’s closed up. Winnie and Val had no idea he could laugh or smile until that time you met us out at the bowling alley.”

“And so what, you decided to keep him but have Phil on the side?” I asked, trying not to sound accusatory.

“It was never exclusive between Ian and me.”

If I was ever lucky enough to have Ian Doyle in my bed, I would make damn sure he knew he was the only one welcome and wanted there. He would never get away once I had him.

“And he’s a shitty lover, Miro. You should warn any girl who goes near him,” she said angrily, her voice dripping with disdain. “He’s completely selfish.”

I ignored her. “Is there anything of his at your place or vice versa?”

“You should have advised me that his job is his number one priority, that he would leave in the middle of the night without so much as a phone call to go off on some mission, and be gone for a month.”

“I asked you a question.”

“And then show back up and expect to get laid.”

It sounded liked Ian. “Emma?”

“No! I have nothing of his at my house, and he always scoured his apartment when I left to make sure I didn’t forget anything.” She was furious, and I could hear the wounded tremble in her voice. “There’s nothing that’s not his in his place. He would never allow that.”

But that wasn’t true.

I’d lost count of the number of my T-shirts he’d taken. My University of Chicago hoodie had been appropriated, as had my red cashmere scarf and, apparently, the boots I’d forgotten about. But I’d never given it a second thought. We swapped things; it’s what partners did. I had a sweatshirt of his from West Point and his Burberry wool cashmere peacoat I had borrowed eight months ago and never returned.

I also had a military field jacket that he’d left at my house the last time he got home in the early morning hours. I remembered the knock on the door at 1:00 a.m., excusing myself from the guy all over me on the couch—Wayne something—and opening my door to find my bruised and beaten partner standing unsteadily before me.

“Oh shit,” I gasped, not sure where I could touch and not hurt him.

“I have a concussion,” he announced. “You gotta take care of me.”

I held out my arms for him. “Of course.”

He staggered forward and gave me his weight, head down on my shoulder, arms wrapping me up tight.

“That’s an Airborne insignia,” the guy I would no longer be fucking choked out. “Holy shit, man.”

All I knew was that my partner was Special Forces. I never delved, it wasn’t my place. “You can go,” I said quickly, more content to have the man I wanted leaning on me, almost asleep on his feet, his breath puffing over the side of my neck, than I wanted to have sex with a guy I’d known for a couple of hours.

“Whatever, man, fuck you.”

The slam of the door jolted Ian, and he clutched at me.

“It’s okay. Let’s get you upstairs. You can have my bed.”

“No,” he moaned, “the couch. I dreamed about the couch.”

It was an overstuffed two-piece microfiber sectional sofa. There was nothing remotely interesting about it, but he started stripping as he walked—hat, jacket, belt—and then flopped down on it, toed off his untied heavy combat boots, and shucked his pants, followed quickly by his socks. He shoved one of the many pillows littering the couch under his head, sighed deeply, and stopped moving. After a few moments of admiring the long, muscular body stretched out before me, I covered him with a chunky cable-knit throw.

I picked up after him, put all his clothes in the washer, and sat down to read. After twenty minutes or so, he woke up, moved over, put the pillow in my lap, and lay back down.

“Supposed to watch me,” he mumbled before he fell asleep again.

And I wondered at that moment why he was at my house instead of with Emma, but it didn’t bother me enough to question him, not enough to call her and have her come over and collect him. I wanted him right where he was, solid and in one piece.

“Miro?”

“Sorry,” I said quickly, embarrassed that my mind had been wandering, her voice bringing me back to the present. “And I’m sorry things ended like they did.”

“It’s fine, I’m already over it.”

I hoped that was true. “Bye, Emma.”

“Good-bye, Miro. You were actually my favorite part of knowing Ian Doyle.”

It was sad, and I was still thinking that when I looked up and found him standing at the top of the stairs. “Speak of the devil.”

He grunted. “What’re you doing?”

“Deleting pictures off your phone,” I informed him.

“You get ’em all?”

“I did, yeah.”

“That’s good.” He yawned softly. “Healthy.”

“Like you would know from healthy,” I grumbled.

“Hey, I forgot to grab something to sleep in. I need pajamas or shorts or whatever.”

“Check my closet,” I directed, placing his phone on my nightstand. “Top drawer of the armoire. Take your pick.”

He was shirtless, so I got a nice view of the washboard abs, muscular chest, and the obliques shown off by the worn jeans as he moved around the bed. I could also see a myriad of scars from knives, bullets, and—my favorite—a bull whip. A corrupt warlord in some little cesspool of the world had actually flogged him. I had been horrified when he explained the evidence left behind on his skin, but Ian being Ian just shrugged. I tried not to let my mind drift to the horrors visited on him when I hadn’t been there keeping vigil. As far as I could tell, the people who were supposed to have his back hadn’t been very good at protecting him or… the opposite was true and they were fantastic and whip scars were simply the tip of the iceberg of what could have happened. Not that he talked about it. I only knew about the incident with the whip because he’d confessed it to me late one evening when he was very drunk. I’d wanted to touch him then, and I wanted to touch him now. The desire to slide my hands over his hard muscular frame, to have those thick arms wrapped around me, and to lick every inch of his sleek olive skin was a constant craving. I was ready to taste him, have him, and keep him the second he gave the word.

“Gross, dude, there’s thongs in here,” he called out from the other side of the wall.

Shit.

He was rummaging around in my stuff and that was my mistake. Nothing killed heat like comments on your fucking underwear.

“Just grab something and get out,” I yelled, sitting up, needing to change clothes myself.

“Don’t be so fuckin’ sensitive.” He chuckled, keeping up the running dialogue. “I’m sure guys love it when you wear froufrou crap like this.”

“I have a gun,” I warned instead of screaming. I so needed a vacation far away from him.

“Is this leather?” He snickered evilly.

“Going for the firearm!”

He was back, walking toward me in sleep shorts that hugged his crotch as he walked, outlining the long cock I had seen many a time. He was not modest around me—gym, home, hotel rooms when we were on stakeouts—he didn’t care. Getting naked in front of me was not an issue for him.

“Don’t shoot,” he teased as he brushed by my bed to reach the stairs, tousling my hair in the process. “I just wanna sleep.”

“Take your phone,” I grumbled, hating the playful touch, tossing his phone to him.

“Hey.”

He was stopped on the stairs leading down, so all I could glimpse of him was from the chest up. “Thanks for not dying.”

“Go to bed.”

He snorted. “Going.”

Moments later the lights went off on the first floor as I was on my way to the bathroom. Once I was ready for bed—teeth brushed, changed into pajama bottoms and T-shirt—I walked back to lie down. When I clicked off the lamp on my nightstand, the whole townhouse plunged into semidarkness. The moonlight streaming in from the skylight as well as through my window made everything various shades of deep, rich blue. It reminded me of my partner’s eyes, which of course, didn’t help me sleep at all. When I turned around on my bed and crawled to the bottom, I could see him sprawled out below me. It was nice that one of us was getting some rest.