by Mary Calmes
“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 stifle
d 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.”