by Mary Calmes
“I hate that you’re a reservist,” I blurted.
“I know.”
“But don’t ever confuse that with how I feel about you.”
He nodded.
“Are we clear?”
Second nod.
I went to move around him, but again, he stepped into my path. When I smiled, I heard his sigh of relief. “I wanna feed you so you’ll still think it’s a good thing to have me pick you up at the airport.”
He closed the slight distance between us and put his hands on my hips. “It’ll always be a good idea. I’m sorry I didn’t do it before.”
The silky rasp of his voice made my pulse jump, and I moved that quickly from how sweet the man was, to how sexy, to how long it had been since he was in my bed.
When he touched me, the groan that came out of me was needy and desperate. The dirty grin I got from Ian, all heat and lust, sent blood rushing to my cock.
“Oh yeah, I had different plans,” he husked, leaning in and taking my mouth in a hungry kiss that left no question of what those were.
But my brain was playing the conversation over and over and my heart was hurting, so just because he got what he wanted didn’t mean I was ready to go all warm and willing on him.
Easing him off me, I tried to smile and left the bathroom, promising him food as I went.
“What was that?” he asked, stalking around in front of me as I reached our closet. An armoire that held underwear, briefs, and T-shirts, as well as socks, stood inside of it because we’d needed more space. Well, I had. Ian’s wardrobe was minimalist to say the least.
“What was what?”
He studied me a moment before crossing his arms over his chest. “What’re you gonna make?”
I sighed, thankful that he wasn’t pushing. “Aruna made roasted jerk chicken with carrots and potatoes for us. All I have to do is warm it up.”
“When did she bring that over?”
“Yesterday,” I said, shucking the towel and pulling on a pair of briefs. “And oh, I gotta tell you something.”
He listened as I told him about Janet being pregnant and then smiled as I gently patted his cheek before ducking out of the room.
I darted back into the bathroom just to use the requisite items so I didn’t smell and my hair didn’t stick straight up. Down in the kitchen a few minutes later, I was going to open a bottle of wine, but thought better of it because Ian wasn’t a fan.
“Hey.”
I walked into the living room so I could look up at him in the loft. I was surprised he was standing there naked, and it hurt to see so many new bruises. There were also stiches beneath his collarbone on the right side.
“That looks bad,” I said, pointing.
“That’s what you’re looking at?” he teased, the grin absolutely lethal.
I gave him a shrug.
“Tough room.”
“You could have been killed.”
He shook his head. “It’s nothing.”
“It needed a needle and thread.”
“A long time ago,” he informed me.
“Couldn’t have been that long.”
“Can you just drop it?”
I turned to go back in the kitchen.
“Hello.”
Stopping, I gave him my attention again.
“Are you going to lighten up?”
I remained silent.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have come home at all.”
Any word out of my mouth I would instantly regret, so I swallowed down the attack and kept my eyes locked on him as I crossed my arms. It was a low blow, and childish, and I wanted to climb the stairs and both beat him and hug him as hard as I could.
He cleared his throat. “Okay, so that was a shitty thing to say.”
I lifted one eyebrow in complete agreement.
“Yeah,” he sighed. “Really shitty.”
I felt like I was standing in the middle of a minefield. Any way I turned, there could be another explosion, so I kept quiet, jaw clenched, focusing on that, on being still, instead of blowing up and venting my frustration all over him.
“So, uhm, do we have anything to drink?”
It took a second for me to speak, and when I did, my voice sounded strained and filled with gravel. “I have all kinds of beer for you.”
“Do we have any of the KBS left?” he asked hopefully.
“We do.”
“That’s what I want,” he almost whimpered.
“You got it. Shower,” I commanded before returning to the kitchen.
Things felt odd, unbalanced, like we were off somehow, and I wanted to fix it but I wasn’t exactly sure how to do that. How did you restore normalcy after that talk?
I WAS tossing a salad when the doorbell rang. It was Saturday night, a little after nine, so it was a strange to have someone there, but since Chickie got up and rambled to the door, taking his sweet time, not barking, I figured whoever it was, he knew.
Checking the peephole, I found Barrett Van Allen. He had a bottle of wine in one hand and a bag of what looked like Chinese food in the other.
“Aww shit,” I said as I opened the door. “Did we have plans that I spaced on?”
“Nice greeting,” he teased, smacking my abdomen as he chuckled and walked by me into the house. He didn’t wait for an invite. We’d already established on a number of occasions that he didn’t need one, and he petted Chickie as he passed. “And no, man, how could we? You just got back. But I saw your light on when I got home from work, figured there was nothing in your fridge, and thought I’d help you out.”
It was thoughtful of him and one of the many reasons I’d grown to like him since he’d moved in next door a little more than three months ago.
“But it smells great in here already,” he said, passing me the bottle of the Trimbach Gewurztraminer he knew I liked. “And since I don’t hear any jazz and you’re cooking—is your guy back?”
“Yeah, Ian’s home.”
“Oh, then I’ll go,” he said, trying to give me the bag of food as well. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”
I shook my head, holding the bottle out to him. “Don’t worry about it, but take this with you so you—”
“Hello.”
We turned to see Ian in a white T-shirt and jeans, standing at the top of the stairs.
“Hey.” Barrett smiled at him. “Sorry to intrude. Just dropping off some alcohol and takeout.”
Ian smiled back, but it didn’t reach his eyes as he descended. He glanced at Chickie, who was standing beside Barrett, letting him scratch behind his ears, and then padded across the floor in his bare feet to join us.
He reached out, and he and Barrett shook hands.
“Ian, this is Barrett Van Allen. He bought the house on the left,” I explained. “And Barrett, this is Ian Doyle, who you’ve heard all about.”
“I have,” he replied affably. “It’s good to meet you, marshal.”
Ian nodded and withdrew his hand, taking the bottle of wine Barrett had brought over from me. “I heard what you said, and you’re right, there’s no jazz on. Miro thinks I don’t like it, but I just like my music better.”
Barrett chuckled. “Well, I have to tell you, Miro had the windows open the day I moved in, and the music was coming out of here along with the smell of—what was it?” he asked, turning to me, hand on my bicep.
“Pot roast,” I supplied, remembering.
“That’s right,” he sighed, and I heard the regard in his voice, the warmth and contentment. “And the mix of the two of them, and then Miro out back throwing the ball for your werewolf—I felt better than I had in months.”
“Werewolf,” Ian repeated, using my word for Chickie just as Barrett had.
“He took pity on me and fed me, and—well, when you’re new to a city, it’s really nice to make a friend.”
“It is,” Ian granted with a nod.
“And even though I’ve met a ton of new people now—Miro was the first, so I’ve got kind of a
soft spot for him.”
“Sure,” Ian mumbled. “So where’d you move from?”
“Manhattan,” Barrett sighed, giving Ian a lopsided grin. “But it was time for a change, and when Mayhew and Burgess came calling, I had to say yes.”
“I don’t know what that is.”
“It’s one of the biggest law firms here in Chicago along with Jenner Knox and Pembroke, Talbot and Leeds.”
Ian looked sideways at me.
I shrugged. “I had no idea either.”
His smile made my pulse race; he had that effect on me. “We don’t know any lawyers here that’s why, only in LA.”
I was ridiculously touched that he remembered where my friend Min practiced law, and slipped my hand into his.
“You do now,” Barrett interrupted, giving Ian’s shoulder a gentle pat.
“Barrett’s now one of the top defense lawyers in the city,” I told Ian.
“Well, lucky we’re marshals, so we don’t need him,” he said, lifting my hand and kissing my knuckles before he let me go.
“But friends we can use,” I said, flashing him a smile before I went into the kitchen to check on the food and finish making the salad. “Especially ones who bring good wine.”
“Aww, gee, thanks, I feel so loved,” Barrett volleyed before walking by Ian to follow after me, putting the takeout on the counter. “And I got your favorite, the spicy eggplant, so you’ve got to keep it.”
“How ’bout this. I’ll keep that, and you take your weenie-ass mild kung pao chicken.”
His snort of laughter made me smile.
“Not all of us can handle hot,” he said, walking around behind me and putting a hand on my back. “But I’ve got to ask, what did you make? Because it smells fantastic in here.”
“Aruna cooked, not me.”
“Really?” His voice cracked.
“Do you know Aruna?” Ian asked as he joined us in the kitchen.
“Yes, I met her when Miro took me with him to her house on Labor Day. We had this amazing meal, her husband made smoked lamb—which I thought would be disgusting—but it didn’t taste like anything I’d ever had, and the sides she made were just phenomenal.”
“You sound a little starved for home cooking,” Ian observed. “How long’s it been since you had any?”
“Two weeks ago I took Miro to a Blackhawks game and he fed me before that.”
Ian nodded.
“It was just meatloaf and mashed potatoes and green beans,” I commented, because he didn’t need to make a big deal out of such a small thing.
“No,” Barrett said with a long exhale. “It was fantastic and I owe you a good dinner out in return. Next time Ian’s deployed, it’s a date.”
I groaned. “Don’t say deployed. I just got him back.”
“I’m sure it will be a long time from now,” Barrett soothed.
“God, I hope so,” I sighed, checking on the food.
“You should stay and eat,” Ian said, passing the wine bottle back to Barrett. “And open that up for you and Miro. I’ma get a beer.”
“No, man, it’s your homecoming. I don’t want to be a third wheel.”
“It’s just food,” Ian assured him, opening our Philco refrigerator and hunting for the beer he wanted. “There’s no floor show.”
Barrett laughed, clearly liking Ian already.
“Just stay and eat,” I insisted. “Put the bag in the fridge unless you wanna run it back to your place.”
“No, I want to get the wine open because I’m dying to hear what happened to your face there, gorgeous.”
“My fuckin’ asshat ex-partner tagged me.”
“I’m sure there’s more to the story than that.”
“There is, but you’re not hearin’ it,” I teased.
“I need to, though,” Ian reminded me.
“Well, you’re allowed,” I quipped. “But not the lawyer.”
“No? Are you sure?” Barrett prodded, finding his way around the kitchen easily, rummaging in the junk drawer for the corkscrew and going to work on the bottle. “Because I think I need to sue someone.”
I made a face.
“Seriously, the two of you together look like you beat the crap out of each other.”
My scoff was loud. “Please, it’d be no contest. Ian could kill me if he wanted.”
“I don’t know, Special Forces or not, I think you could hold your own, M.”
“You’re hysterical,” I said sarcastically. “You need to go look up Green Berets and what they actually do.”
“He doesn’t have to research shit,” Ian said, having found the bottle of KBS he was looking for and getting the opener out of the same junk drawer Barrett had just been in. “’Cause, yanno, we’re never gonna have to find out who could kick the crap outta who.”
“No, of course not,” Barrett allowed as Ian flipped the bottle cap into the sink before taking a long pull on his beer.
“And I’d only hurt Miro if he begged me,” he said seductively, the look he shot Barrett not altogether friendly.
“Kinky,” Barrett said before turning back to me. “You sure you can’t share?”
“Yeah. Sorry. It’s interdepartmental shenanigans.”
“Well, listen, if anything gets weird between you guys—like if your ex-partner gets representation, you call me.”
“I don’t need a lawyer to talk to IAD and OPR and everyone else. It’s just procedure,” I explained. “Part of the job.”
Barrett shrugged. “Things change fast, I’ve seen it. If they do, you let me know.”
I bumped his shoulder when I passed him his plate. “Thanks.”
The dinner conversation was nice, with Barrett telling Ian about him and his friends finding me and mine at a pub close by.
“All my friends except Miro are all lawyers, right,” he said, laughing. “So he’s playing pool with his guys and we get there and start to do some trash talking, and all of a sudden, there’s some damn serious pool happening.”
Ian was grinning.
“And this is where it gets sad,” I explained dramatically.
Barrett pointed at me. “He doesn’t need to know that part.”
“Aww, I think he does,” I baited, leaning into Ian as I drained my third glass of wine.
Ian bumped his knee with mine under the table and then wrapped his hand around the inside of my thigh. “Tell me,” he pried.
Barrett cleared his throat. “I met Ethan.”
Ian squinted at him. “Sharpe?”
He shifted in his seat and drained his second glass.
I watched Ian lean forward, studying Barrett, his eyes brightening as they hadn’t since he came down the stairs in that sinful pair of ass hugging jeans he had on. “What happened with you and Sharpe?”
Barrett groaned.
Ian’s smile was incorrigible. “Did Miro not tell you that Sharpe hustles pool?”
“He did,” Barrett grumbled. “But I thought, you know, how good could he really be?”
Ian’s snort of laughter sounded good.
“He takes his pool very, very seriously,” Barrett almost whined.
“He does,” Ian agreed, still with the merciless cat-that-swallowed-the canary-grin on his face. “And he never lets anyone out of a bet.”
“Shit.”
“How much are you into him for?”
“It’s not money,” I informed Ian. “Sharpe needs a new wingman.”
“Oh no,” Ian said, cackling. “That’s terrible.”
“Did you know Sharpe frequents dance clubs?”
“I did, yes.” Ian was enjoying Barrett’s distress quite a bit. “He has an entire wing of his closet devoted to club clothes.”
“Oh God,” he moaned.
I started laughing.
“Miro has a fuckton of fashion himself, but Sharpe—and Kohn too—that’s some scary shit.”
“I don’t dance.”
“I’m thinking you do now,” Ian said, waggling his eyebrows.<
br />
“It’s like high school all over again.”
Ian’s laughter was such a good sound. When he reached out and patted Barrett’s shoulder, I saw my new friend flip him off.
The rest of dinner was nice, and Barrett told Ian some of his better court appearance stories and found out what everyone who knew Ian had discovered at some point—that having his full and undivided attention was more addictive than any drug. The way he leaned in; how animated his face got as he sat and held eye contact; and the evil, conspiratorial smile at the end—like it was just the two of you in on some big juicy secret—was all its own reward. I heard Barrett’s catch of breath, and when he glanced at me, I gave him the nod.
Later, in the kitchen as he was grabbing the takeout that only he would eat—Ian didn’t like mild anything either—from the fridge, he said “Yeah, I get it.”
“What do you get?” I asked innocently.
He made a conciliatory noise, sort of a grunt and acknowledgment together. “He’s the whole package: pretty and funny and dangerous. I see why you’re so devoted.”
“I totally dare you to tell him he’s pretty.”
His laughter was warm as he leaned in for a hug. When he pulled back after the tight embrace, he told me he wanted us both to come to his place for Thanksgiving.
“We’ll definitely stop by,” I promised as I started rinsing dishes.
“Good,” he said, giving my arm a pat before he turned to leave.
“You don’t have to go,” I assured him. “I promise I’m not trying to get rid of you.”
“I know, and that’s awfully nice of you, but Miro, come on, you’re awfully easy on the eyes there yourself, and if I was Ian and I just got back from four months away—I’d want the new guy from next door to get the hell out so I could make with the homecoming already.”
I shook my head. “We’re fine.”
“Listen,” Barrett said, leaning in close. “If Ian was looking at me the same way he’s been looking at you all night, I’d have put you on the sidewalk with a plate of hot food in your hand.”
“Uh-huh,” I placated, watching as he crossed the living room to the front door.
“You’re an idiot,” he called over, stopping in the doorway he’d opened, half-in, half-out of our Greystone.