TALKING TO the staff psychiatrist, Dr. Johar, was something I really tried to put off, but two weeks later after lunch on a Saturday—Kage scheduled the meeting himself—I had no way around it. He’d brought me into our meeting room, where we normally talked to people entering witness protection, and had my file, complete with pictures of my injuries in living color, spread out in front of him.
We were quiet for long minutes before I finally asked if he had any questions for me.
“I do,” he answered, smiling. He was older, early fifties—I’d never thought to ask—but as Kohn had said on a number of occasions, he looked like a shrink, with his mustache and beard, all dark chestnut brown, and his pale blue oxford, charcoal gray tie, and black cashmere sweater. He’d taken off his suit jacket, also black, which I thought he always did to make us feel more comfortable.
“So, normally I don’t talk to the other marshals about one another, but in this instance, I needed to know what they thought about you.”
“Okay.”
“Are you curious about what was said?”
“I dunno.”
His grin was warm. “They said you’re normally quite the clotheshorse.”
It was true, everyone knew that. I’d grown up poor in lots of foster families with nothing of my own. In reaction, I now had too many clothes, too many shoes, and I’d made sure that one of the first things I ever acquired was a thirty-year mortgage on an $800,000 home that had only become manageable after I became a marshal. When I’d first bought the house on my detective salary, my budget had been meager. Now, I could eat, buy clothes, and pay the bank on the fifth of every month.
“Why aren’t you dressing up right now?”
I shrugged. “I’m stuck in the office, and with my broken ankle I can’t wear any of my good shoes.”
“You’re wearing one combat boot, I see.”
It was Ian’s, and since it was already beat to crap, I didn’t feel bad wearing only the one. “Yeah. I don’t want any of my good shoes wearing unevenly so—gotta wait.”
“That’s important to you.”
“What’s that?”
“That your shoes wear evenly.”
“Sure,” I agreed.
He nodded and was quiet a moment, writing. I wondered what deep truth he had ferreted out of me with my confession about the soles of my shoes.
“So tell me about Agent Wojno.”
“What would you like to know?”
“Anything you’d like to tell me.”
I thought a second. “He didn’t deserve to die like he did.”
He stared at me.
“And I’m glad they only told his family that he was killed, but not how.”
“Did you know he was married?”
“He was divorced.”
“Yes, but that’s not what I asked. What I asked was, did you know he was married when you first met him?”
I cleared my throat. “No.”
“Did you have a relationship with Agent Wojno?”
“No.”
“No, you didn’t have a relationship with him?”
“I had sex with him three or four times. It was not a relationship.”
“You didn’t go drinking together?”
“No.”
“You didn’t have him over to eat pizza and watch a movie?”
I leaned forward. “No.”
“Are you sure?”
I met his gaze. “If we ran into each other and it was convenient, we’d hook up. I went to his place once, there were a couple of bathrooms, and his car, if I’m remembering right. I never had him over and we didn’t hang out.”
He nodded. “Well, then, please explain to me why you feel so much guilt over his death.”
I was surprised. “What’re you talking about?”
“Everyone I’ve talked to, including your boss and your partner, say that you’re not yourself. You come in, you go right to the back and sit in the computer room where you answer the phone all day, run searches, and work cases from the desktop.”
“That’s all I can do right now.”
“Yes, it’s true, but also, you wear your White Sox cap in every day, you’re always in jeans or chinos, you’re always in a hoodie and the one boot.”
I threw up my hands. “I have no clue why any of that matters at all.”
“No?”
“I’m doing my job!”
“Craig Hartley is still at large.”
“Yes, I know that.”
“His sister is in WITSEC.”
“I know that as well.”
“Your old partner, the police detective, Norris Cochran, was put on paid leave, and he and his family were relocated for the foreseeable future.”
“I’m seriously waiting for you to tell me something I don’t know.”
“Why don’t you go?”
I scoffed. “We tried that. He found me.”
“Because of Agent Wojno.”
“Yep.”
“But the leak is gone now. It won’t happen again. You could go to another city and work, and there would be no issue.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“Who’s to say? I’d rather be home here where I know everyone, than in another city trying to get acclimated.”
“But there are people here that Hartley might hurt to get to you.”
I scowled at him.
“Marshal?”
“Did you ever meet Craig Hartley?”
“Yes, I did. We were colleagues.”
“Well, then, you know hurting someone I care about is not something he’d do.”
“But you cautioned your friend Aruna not to visit your home while you were in Phoenix.”
“Because if he was at my house and she stumbled onto him, he’d have to hurt her on general principal, from a witness perspective. But he would never go over to her house for the express purpose of harming her to get at me. He wouldn’t see the point of that when he could hurt me directly.”
“And your partner—Marshal Doyle? Aren’t you worried about him?”
“The same dynamic applies. If Marshal Doyle was protecting me when Hartley was trying to hurt me, that’s when he’d get hurt. But hurting Marshal Doyle to punish me or make me suffer is not his way.”
“No?”
“No. He’s got this huge ego, right? If he’s trying to hurt me, it’s me he wants.”
“So you’re only worried about others getting caught in the crossfire.”
“Yes.”
He studied me a moment, his small sepia eyes taking my measure. “Why do you feel guilty about Wojno?”
“I don’t.”
“He betrayed you.”
“He did.”
“He would have let you die to save himself.”
“Yes.”
“When the joint task force between the FBI and the marshals service went through his personal e-mail, downloaded his calls and other correspondence, they found that Wojno was personally recruited by Hartley to get close to you and sleep with you because Hartley wanted to know everything about you, right up to what you were like in bed.”
“I’ve been briefed,” I said sharply because I was so sick of thinking about this, having it all run around day and night in my head, that I was ready to put my fist through a wall.
“Hartley was blackmailing Wojno, yes, but his plan wouldn’t have worked if you hadn’t slept with him.”
“What’s your point?” I asked, frustrated, feeling my anger rise, hating that Hartley, even though nowhere near me, was still the one in control. Because of him I was stuck feeling like shit and having to talk to a shrink.
“My point is that maybe your guilt is not from how Wojno died, but that he was in the position to report to Hartley to begin with only because initially you found him attractive.”
Since I couldn’t deny it, I kept my mouth shut. The truth was, if I hadn’t fucked Wojno the first time, he might still be alive.
Maybe.
I couldn’t say for certain what would have happened to Wojno. He’d made a mistake and Hartley knew about it, and between the time Hartley found out and the time when Wojno turned me over to him, he’d become an FBI agent. It was naïve to think that Hartley wouldn’t have collected his pound of flesh at some point.
As I’d run the last time I’d spoken to him back through my brain over and over, I was at a loss to figure out what I could have done differently.
“Marshal?”
“Okay,” I conceded, so tired of all of it, the second-guessing myself, trying to figure out whether if I’d been able to connect emotionally with Wojno, things would have gone differently.
“Okay?”
“Yeah, I feel guilty, alert the media. What the hell am I supposed to do about that?”
He seemed confused. “You stop it.”
“Just stop it?” I was incredulous. “This is your sage advice?”
He chuckled. “There is absolutely nothing you could have done to save Agent Wojno. He had to save himself. You were the one cut open, beaten, knifed, and hung up like a slab of meat. You were brutalized, marshal, and it’s a wonder you made it out alive. You are in no way responsible for anyone but yourself.”
I crossed my arms because I was shaking and I didn’t want him to see. “Yeah, but what if, right?”
“How do you mean?”
“If I could have been a bit more convincing, maybe I could have gotten him out too,” I whispered, the floor I was staring at beginning to blur. When the tears welled up seconds later, I tried to rub them away fast. Goddamn Wojno, I had no idea why I even cared, other than he absolutely did not deserve to be dead. Rotting in jail, yes, but not dead.
“It’s important to you.”
“What?” I’d lost track of the conversation, as lost as I was in my own thoughts.
“It’s important to you to have saved him.”
“Well, of course.”
“To do what?”
“I’m sorry?”
“He would have spent the rest of his life in prison.”
“But he would have been alive.”
“And would that have suited him? Prison?”
“I don’t know.” I huffed out a breath, letting myself fall back in my chair, crossing my arms as I regarded the doctor. “Again, I think the alive part is key.”
He put down his pen and apparently made himself comfortable as well, hands behind his head, legs stretched out in front of him. “You need to stop blaming yourself for something completely out of your control.”
“I’ll get right on that.”
He was back to scrutinizing me. “May I say that your partner, as well as the rest of your team, all think very highly of you, marshal?”
“Oh yeah? Even my boss?”
He was silent.
I laughed at him. “Yeah, see, I knew it.”
“He’s very guarded.”
“Yeah, maybe you should go head shrink him.”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“You scared?” I baited him.
“Perhaps a bit.”
I stood up. “You’re clearing me for continued service, right?”
His sigh was deep. “I am, yes.”
“Thanks,” I said, heading for the door.
“You’re a very lucky man, marshal. Don’t waste your life mired in second-guessing yourself.”
“How’re you supposed to learn anything, then?”
I didn’t wait for his answer. I left before he changed his mind about me.
I STOPPED at Windy City Meats on the way home after seeing the shrink and was amazed at the cost on the beef tenderloin my regular butcher, Eddie, passed me over the counter.
“Holy crap, are you kidding?”
He shrugged. “It’s some of the best, Jones. Whaddya want me to say?”
“Is it unicorn? Is that why it costs so much?”
The little girl standing close to me gasped, and if looks could kill, her mother’s would have stopped my heart right there.
“Oh, I—”
“Nice, Jones,” Eddie groaned, shaking his head. “You want the hot Italian sausage or the regular?”
I glared at him.
“Fine, hot it is. Howzabout the prime bone-in ribeye?”
“Yeah, gimme two.”
He snickered as he turned away. “Keep your mouth shut while I’m gone.”
I would have flipped him off, but I was still close to the little girl and really didn’t want to do any more to piss off her mother.
Once I was done at the butcher, I went to the farmers’ market and picked up produce before heading home. After checking in with the cops sitting on my house, I hobbled inside and unloaded everything. Because it was hard for me to walk Chickie with my ankle, Ian had dropped him off with Aruna that morning and had plans to grab him on the way home from his stakeout assignment. I was putting away groceries when he called.
“You’re cooking?”
“Yeah. Your choice is between spaghetti or steaks.”
“Oh.”
It was a weird noise. “What?”
“I was gonna cook.”
“You cook?” I was stunned. Since when?
“Why you gotta say it like that?”
“I dunno, because—I had no idea you cooked.”
“I’ve cooked for you before.”
“You have?”
“Yeah.”
“When?”
He was quiet.
“I would love you to cook for me,” I assured him.
“Of course you would,” he said smugly, and I smiled at the sound. Ian clothed in his arrogance, smirking on the other end of the phone, was the best thing I could imagine.
“So I’ll wait for you to get home and cook for me.”
“As opposed to what?”
“You walking through the door at some point tonight and the house smelling like food and me putting a cocktail in your hand as I serve you dinner.”
He was thinking again, quiet as he considered his options. “That sounds pretty good too.”
I chuckled. “When do you actually think you’ll be home?”
“I’m thinking around eight—we’re doing paperwork now.”
“Oh, you guys picked up Aronson already?”
“Yeah,” he grumbled.
“What?”
“Well, guess who’s all mobbed up now?”
I could not bite back the snicker. “No shit.”
“No shit,” he grumbled. “Little Peter Aronson who used to be a CI when he was running with Cantrell and his car theft ring downstate has moved up in—”
“You’re such a snob.”
“What’re you talking about?” He was incredulous. “I’m trying to tell you a story about Aronson and how we have to put that piece of shit into WITSEC and you’re giving me—”
“Downstate,” I snorted. “Really, Doyle? Everything in Illinois that is not Chicago is what?”
“Crap,” he baited me, “and you know it is.”
“You should learn respect.”
“And who’s gonna make me?” I could hear the husky, smoky sound in his voice that signaled his desire to play. He wanted to be home very badly. “You?”
“You’re awfully lippy over the phone,” I said as I turned toward the front door, having decided I needed to take a quick walk down to his favorite bakery and pick him up a blackberry pie. It was his favorite. “Come home and try and give me this much grief.”
“Oh, I’ll give you something.”
“Promises, promises,” I teased.
Silence.
“Ian?”
He cleared his throat. “So if I… if I wanted….”
I’d been waiting for this. Hoping. “Yes?”
“I could—” He took a breath. “—because since you’ve been home, I’ve wanted to—and it’s stupid, but—”
“It’s not stupid.”
“You don’t even know what I’m talking about.”
“Oh, of course I do.”
“What?”
I smiled into the phone. “You want to be inside me.”
No reply.
“Because then you’ll know I’m really here, with you.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“When we—” He coughed. “Two weeks ago, the first time after the kidnapping, I got that all out of my system.”
“What?”
“I felt like you were slipping away, like maybe you thought I couldn’t protect you.”
“I can protect myself. Me getting kidnapped was on me, not you.”
“Yeah, but I’m your partner, your backup. You should know if you can’t do something, that I can.”
“We’ve been through this already.”
I was not weak. He couldn’t protect me from the whole world, and neither did I want him to. Having him put all that on himself, the burden of not trusting me, instead feeling as though he had to watch me when we went out into the field together, wouldn’t serve either of us well. We were partners; he wasn’t there to be my shield.
“I know, and I don’t want to dredge it up because everything got better.”
“After we had sex.”
“Yeah.”
“But now?”
“Now nothing, we’re good.”
“Ian?”
“You can’t think that how we have sex matters to me.”
“I don’t, but I also think that sometimes you want me but you stop yourself.”
“Yeah, so what if I do?”
“Why would you do that?” I sighed. God, getting the man to trust me all the way was going to kill me.
“Because maybe you don’t—”
“What did I say?” I demanded, my voice edged with frustration. Why on Earth would I tell him something I didn’t mean? It was maddening the way he couldn’t tell me what he was thinking and feeling.
“Miro—”
“Ian,” I said sternly. “What did I say?”
“I don’t wanna go over—”
“Ian!”
“God, you’re like a dog with a bone!” he lashed out. “You said that however I wanted you was good.”
“And so what, you don’t trust me? I’m a liar?”
“No, but—”
“Jesus, Ian, you don’t think I’ve thought about it?”
“What?” He was breathless.
“You don’t think I’ve thought of you shoving me up against a wall or down on the bed and just taking what you want?”
“Stop.”
“Your skin all warm on mine,” I mused with a groan.
“I’m at work, dickhead.”
“Your hand in my hair, the other on my cock,” I went on, my voice low and seductive, knowing I was pushing it but loving the idea that I was driving him nuts. “Stroking me until I spill all over your hand?”
“Oh God, now I can’t even walk.”
I cackled, feeling mischievous and powerful at the same time. “You know, sometimes I think, what would Ian feel like moving inside of me?”
I got only a garbled noise from the other end of the line.
“And I know you, so I know you’re worried ’cause you don’t wanna be a selfish prick in bed, but think about that a second.”
“It’s all I’m thinking about at the moment,” he rasped.
“You love me.”
“I used to, back at the beginning of this conversation.”
I scoffed. “Oh, no, baby, I know better,” I crooned. “You love me bad. You ache with it, and because of that, I know you will take care of me when I’m under you in bed.”
The sharp inhale made me grin like an idiot.
“So Ian, come home and I’ll feed you and then you can have your wicked way with me.”
“I don’t wanna hurt you.”
“I know.”
“But I think about having you wrapped around me… in every way… all the fuckin’ time.”
My stomach flipped over and my cock hardened painfully fast in my jeans. “Come home now.”
“I swear to God I will be there as fast as I can.”
“Looking forward to it, marshal.”
“Aww, don’t call me—”
“I’m really good at following orders.”
“Jesus, Miro, get off the phone before I gotta explain to Kohn why I have a boner in the middle of the office.”
I was laughing when I hung up.
SINCE I decided on the way to the sidewalk that pie wasn’t going to hit the spot, I got in my truck and headed over to Webster Avenue instead. I wanted to get some cupcakes from Sweet Mandy B’s, because honestly, they made these awesome jumbo ones we could eat in bed. I had a one-track mind.
After I got dessert, I headed over to The Silver Spoon near west Armitage and north Halsted to pick up the keychain I’d ordered for Aruna. It was a silver circle I’d had hand stamped with her hubby’s and her daughter’s names. She’d been taking care of Chickie so much, I wanted to make sure she knew I appreciated her, and that boutique was one of her favorites.
I had parked my truck around back of one of the buildings, and after I hit the alarm and got in, there was a tap on my window.
Jolting with panic, I turned to find a stunning woman in an outfit that looked like she’d walked off the cover of a fashion magazine giving tips for fall layering. The diamond wedding ring on her left hand was the size of a small ice rink. I immediately rolled down my window.
“Can I help you?” I asked, breathing through my nose, calming my racing heart. Gun-shy was an understatement for what I was.
“Marshal Jones?”
Instantly I was on edge. How the hell did she know my name? “Yes.”
She took a breath and her eyes welled with tears. “I have a daughter—her name is Saxon and I know, what was I thinking? All the boys are going to call her Sax when she gets older and then it’ll be Sexy Saxy and later on Sex instead of Sax but I figured she had time to yell at me, right? She had all the time in the world.”
Oh, she was so scared, and the rambling was only half of it. Her hands were shaking, her voice was going in and out, and she was maybe another minute and a half away from hyperventilating.
“Ma’am,” I began, opening my door a crack.
She slammed it closed. “No! Ohmygod, you can’t get out of the truck! What if I can’t get you back in there after or—he’ll kill her!”
She was now sobbing, pulling in those great gulps of air, totally breaking down. And I understood why, of course.
Craig Hartley was a scary sonofabitch who made good people do very bad things. It was why she pulled the gun out of her purse and leveled it at me. She really needed me to listen.