Twisted and Tied Read online

  “He was going to see his dad; I’m not sure where he is.”

  “Well call him, for fuck’s sake, and find out.”

  “You’re really fuckin’ bossy, you know that?”

  He flipped me off as I tried Ian. Finally on the fifth ring, he picked up.

  “Hey,” he said, no endearment, no warmth, so I knew he was still with the SOG guys. Even though we were married now, he wasn’t letting those guys know anything about his personal life until he was ready.

  “Hey,” I sighed. “Did you get over to see your dad yet?”

  “No, I had to reschedule. The op took way longer than I thought it would. We just got done, so we’re over at Cortland’s gettin’ a beer and some food.”

  “You and the guys?”

  “Yeah.”

  I cleared my throat. “So I guess you’re not meeting us for drinks and then dinner?”

  He was quiet.

  “Ian?”

  “Shit, was that tonight?”

  “It is.”

  “Fuck.”

  “No, it’s fine, don’t worry ’bout it,” I soothed. “I’ll call Aruna and have her keep the dog, and I’ll meet you at home later.”

  Again he was silent, and I couldn’t tell if it was because he wasn’t listening to me—drinking with a lot of guys was distracting and loud—or if he was thinking. I could hear a lot of noise in the background, so I was guessing it was hard to hear.

  “What?”

  Nope. He was distracted. “I’ll talk to you later,” I told him.

  Nothing.

  “Ian?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Bye,” I said and hung up. Of course I was disappointed he wasn’t going to meet me, but I understood too. Ian wasn’t going out on missions with his unit anymore. He was an ex–Green Beret now, so the camaraderie of men in life-and-death situations, that was still something he craved, whether he wanted to cop to it or not. So while I wanted to see him, I got it.

  Sharpe and White were both looking at me.

  “What?”

  “Not a thing,” Sharpe assured me, standing up. “C’mon, let’s see if I have a shirt that’ll fit over all the muscles that my partner’s been noticing.”

  It took a second, and then, “Oh, fuck you,” White grumbled, punching the keys, grabbing the half-eaten apple I passed him and taking an angry bite.

  Sharpe cackled as we walked away.

  WHEN SHARPE, White, and I made it to Howells and Hood over on Michigan Avenue, I discovered Eli had invited several guys from his gym to hang out, as well as the rest of the team. Eli had already had more than a few drinks; I could tell from the way he wrapped his arm around my neck and gave me a sloppy kiss on the cheek.

  Whenever one of us had family in town, the rest of us always showed up to meet or hang with them because it told members of our team that the people who were important in their lives were also important in ours. Ian not being there was kind of shitty, but since all the rest of us were—except Kowalski, who had a legitimate reason—I hoped he wouldn’t notice.

  I thought we were getting dinner, but apparently Ira never got a chance to play pool at home, so when the others bailed to get food—none of us ever ate at the same place we drank, I had no idea why—I stuck with him and Eli, figuring any sports bar we hit would have at least a burger.

  We cabbed it over to Milwaukee to find the pool hall Eli wanted to try crowded, even though it was a Wednesday night. Inside it was hot, and blaring classic rock made it impossible to speak to the person standing beside you without your mouth at their ear. It worked out great: we had enough guys to play teams, and the more drinks Ira had, the louder he got, which was funny since he came off all buttoned-up and buttoned-down, but with a few more beers in him, he was ready to start a fight.

  “Such a nice Jewish boy,” Eli laughed, pinching his cousin’s cheek.

  When I was bent over, ready to shoot, someone pulled my phone from the back pocket of my pants. Turning, I found Eli grinning at me, answering a question from a guy leaning into him. As soon as I was done shooting, having sunk the three ball in the side pocket, I straightened, and Eli bumped into me, put an arm around my neck, and snapped a selfie of us with my phone. He was texting someone, but I was winning, so I didn’t care. It wasn’t as easy to do as usual because the purple silk shirt I had on was tighter than I normally wore. I did actually have a wider chest, broader shoulders, and bigger biceps than Sharpe.

  Once everyone got hungry, I talked them all into Superdawg because it was close. We could walk, and with so much alcohol in our systems, we needed carbs.

  “Where’s the ketchup?” Ira asked after we were done ordering.

  Eli gasped.

  “What?” Ira asked, annoyed, scowling at his cousin.

  “Absofuckinglutely not,” I chided. “No ketchup on the dog, man. Have your lost your mind? This is fuckin’ Chicago, yeah?”

  He looked at me like I was nuts.

  “Get extra fries and tamales too,” Eli told me when I was ordering, head on my shoulder, smiling at the girl behind the counter.

  She was distracted by Eli, gazing at him instead of listening to me, but finally I got my food ordered and moved sideways so the next guy could go.

  “Careful,” one of Eli’s friends said, taking hold of my side so I didn’t step off the curb.

  “Sorry,” I said quickly, grinning wide.

  “No, it’s fine,” he said, letting go but not stepping back. “Really.”

  “I don’t—not sure I got your name at the bar.”

  “And no one could hear shit at the pool hall,” he said, smiling at me, holding my gaze.

  “Right?” I agreed, offering him my hand. “Miro Jones.”

  He greeted me, taking my hand. “Daley O’Meara.”

  I squinted at him.

  “What?” he asked, teasing. “I smell?”

  “No, you….” He smelled great, actually, some kind of woodsy cologne. “I just…. You on the job?”

  His lazy smile got bigger and brighter. “I am. I’m following in my old man’s footsteps.”

  “He a cop?”

  “He’s the commander out at the Eighth,” he explained, and only then did I realize he was still holding my hand.

  “I’m gonna need that,” I said, tipping my head at our clasped hands.

  “Yeah,” he agreed, letting me go but still not taking a step back. “How’d you get hurt?”

  “Oh, you know, a little undercover work.”

  “I don’t, actually. I wasn’t recruited straight outta the academy to do that like you apparently were.”

  “Oh no, I—”

  “Which district are you at? I’m over at the Fourth.”

  “I’m not a cop anymore. I’m a marshal like Eli.”

  “Ah, you and those other guys that bailed, you’re his friends from work.”

  “Yeah.”

  He was quiet a moment, just looking at me, so I figured it was my turn to talk. “So the Fourth, huh?” I grimaced. “You guys got a new commander yet since they canned Vaughn?”

  “Oh man,” he groaned, raking his fingers through his thick hair. “That was such a clusterfuck. I don’t even know how I’m supposed to deal with that shit.”

  Earlier in the month, Leland Vaughn, commander of the Fourth District—which, interestingly enough, was where my first partner worked before he transferred to Boston—was implicated on murder charges, racketeering, drugs…. You name it, he was guilty of it, as he’d been in deep with the Irish mob.

  “He was a piece of shit,” I said, shrugging. “I mean, he deserves what he gets.”

  “Well, you guys gotta watch him, right? We were told he turned state’s evidence and went into protective custody. That’s the marshals’ office, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, but that’s not us here in Chicago, I can promise you that.” As far as I knew, Leland Vaughn was either in Alaska or New Mexico and nowhere near the Windy City. He was an extremely high-profile target. “The
re’s no way to protect Vaughn in this city. The police and the mob are both after him.”

  “It’s been bad. We got the O’Brien crew and the Murphy crew dropping each other like flies.” He sighed. “I hate that it’s just more bad press too.”

  “It’ll run its course,” I offered frankly. “I mean, they always do.”

  He nodded, tipping his head, appreciating something about me.

  “What?”

  “May I just say that this purple shirt is really something.”

  “Oh yeah? You like that?” I snorted.

  “It’s… very purple,” he teased, the grin making his eyes glitter. “I just haven’t seen this—what is this, silk?—in a while.”

  I laughed, not about to give Sharpe credit for the atrocity of a shirt. “Are you kidding? This is my clubbing gear, man.”

  He nodded. “I’m concerned about the clubs that you might frequent.”

  I patted his arm, and he followed me to grab our food. He sat across from me while we ate, and I realized Eli still had my phone.

  “Hey!”

  Eli looked up at me from the other end of the table.

  “I don’t have any calls from Kage, do I? Or a Prescott?” Those were the only two I was worried about at the moment.

  “Uh, no.” He snickered. “Nothing from anyone you work for.”

  “Okay,” I said, returning to the mouthwatering goodness in front of me. I had no idea how hungry I was until I started eating.

  “Why does he have your phone?” Daley asked, and I could hear the judgment in his tone.

  I looked up at him. “He’s a little drunkish and he’s fuckin’ around, but he knows better than to leave with it because, technically, we’re never off duty.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “But since my partner is gone at the moment, and so is his, we’re covering each other’s asses,” I explained before I took another bite. “We’re fine,” I finished with my mouth full.

  He laughed at me and wiped mustard off the corner of my mouth.

  Eli wanted to end the night dancing at a new place called Troubadour over in River North. He’d been trying for a while to get me and the rest of the guys to go there. I could not imagine the others dancing—though Becker assured me that back in his Marine Corps days, he was a total club kid—except me and Sharpe, so I figured since I usually said no, I’d go tonight, especially since I had nowhere to be and it was just a bit after midnight. We all loaded into cabs, and I had Daley wedged in on my left and Eli more or less in my lap with Ira dancing in the front seat next to the driver, who found the sight of a drunk bespectacled accountant quite amusing.

  The club was loud, the music visceral, but interestingly enough, the drinks were not watered down. At all. It made no sense until I realized the stunningly beautiful six-foot-tall Nubian goddess of a bartender knew Eli. Whatever he passed me nearly burned the back of my throat.

  “The fuck was in that?” I asked after I gulped it down.

  “Moonshine!” He cackled in my ear. “Bourbon, scotch, whiskey, rum, and mescal.”

  “Oh for fuck’s sake,” I groused as Daley snickered on the other side of me, sipping a whiskey cola.

  “Even the smell of that glass is enough to make me drunk,” Eli teased, arm draped around my shoulders.

  “I need my liver, you know,” I muttered, taking the old-fashioned he passed me. After a long sip of the drink, I tasted the heavy hand of bourbon in that as well.

  Eli laughed into my neck before following a beautiful woman out onto the dance floor, with Ira trailing him. I drained the glass and then felt hands on my hips before Daley took my empty, left it on the table, and piloted me into the crowd.

  Dancing in a group was fun. I hadn’t been for ages since it was not something Ian enjoyed, and truly, I didn’t miss it that much; it was never my forte. But I used to go with my girls when we were in college, and with them, like now, lots of people moving together, acting stupid, nothing serious, buzzing from a few too many drinks, it was a good time.

  The music never stopped, never slowed, so we were all sweaty and laughing, and when we finally stopped to hydrate, our table had been taken over, so we headed toward the lounge area. I detoured to the bathroom before my bladder burst, ran some water through my hair after washing my hands, gave my face a quick splash as well, and was finished and on my way back out, walking down the hallway, when I was shoved against the wall.

  It was instinctive to fight. Some of it, the heart-pounding, head-clearing spike of adrenaline was from dealing with Craig Hartley, my psyche as permanently scarred as my body. The rest of it, the way I rounded instantly, fists raised, braced for battle, was all training, first as a cop and then as a marshal. The only reason I didn’t pull my gun was because I was wearing an ankle holster, but all I needed was enough room to crouch and draw. When I hit whoever knocked me into the wall, that would give me the space I needed.

  Daley’s laughter caught me by surprise, and then my brain registered “maybe friend and not foe.” I didn’t relax, though, so all things considered, Daley was lucky I hadn’t hit him.

  “I guess I should know better than to jump a federal marshal.”

  “Hey,” I rasped, taking a breath, calming, forcing a smile, not comfortable in my own skin yet, needing another few seconds. “You—”

  He stepped into my space, took my face in his hands, and would have kissed me, but I took hold of his wrists and pushed him back harder than I should have. I didn’t hurt him, but as the motion came directly on the heels of him ambushing me seconds earlier—it was more abrupt than it should have been. Feeling bad about overreacting, I did two things at once: I made certain he couldn’t complete his motion and kiss me but rendered him immobile at the same time. And even though he was a big, strong guy, I did have a lot of muscle on him.

  Everything happened in quick succession, so it was not surprising when his eyes went wide. It took that extra moment for my brain to make the jump from keeping him off me to what was actually going on. He’d tried to kiss me, and now he was looking at me like I’d kicked his puppy. I had to clear things up, so I held tighter when he tried to pull away.

  “Wait, no, it’s not like that,” I soothed, quickly knowing exactly where his mind had gone when it appeared I was rebuffing his advances. “I am gay.”

  “Then what?” he asked angrily. He knew what he looked like—handsome man, great body, with tight, compact muscle—and there had to be reason I was telling him no.

  “I’m married, so I can’t kiss attractive men anymore.” I saw the alarm wash away from his handsome features, and understanding flooded them instead. “Sorry,” I whispered.

  All his irritation and confusion was gone in an instant, and for that, I was thankful. I’d been there myself many times in the past, hitting on the wrong guy. “For what?”

  I shrugged. “I dunno, sending the wrong signals, maybe.”

  He shook his head, reaching up to push my hair out of my face. “You didn’t. I just got excited meeting someone so pretty and funny.”

  I snorted. “Awww. Man, that’s a nice thing to say.”

  His eyes darted to the thick gold band on my left hand. “I saw the ring, but lots of guys wear them. I can’t tell you how many of them I’ve met in clubs, only to be told that it’s just a piece of jewelry.”

  I arched a brow for his benefit, and he squinted in response.

  “What?”

  “You think maybe you’ve been picking up guys who actually are married?”

  “No,” he said defensively.

  “Oh, okay,” I said patronizingly, playfully, feeling better, normal, back on solid ground with him.

  “Shut up,” he grumbled.

  I grimaced. “If you’re not getting many calls back, I think you gotta figure that some of the guys wearing rings are in fact very taken, and that you, my friend, were a booty call.”

  “You really are a smartass.”

  “Maybe stay clear of guys with bling from now on
.”

  “But they’re all so hot,” he confessed, his voice husky.

  I snorted, which made him smile in response.

  “So how long have you been married?” he asked, hands on his hips, still standing in my personal space.

  “Four months,” I answered quickly.

  He nodded. “Your guy away?”

  “No, actually, he used to get deployed a lot, but not now.”

  “So he just stayed home, and you came out?”

  “No, he went out with some guys he was working with today.”

  “Instead of coming with you?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “That is not smart,” he told me.

  “It’s perfectly fine,” I said like it was a given. “I’m made loyal, and I can handle myself, right?”

  “Sure,” he agreed, putting his hand on the wall beside my head. “But it’s stupid to let you out alone.”

  “I don’t—”

  “It is.”

  Ian.

  We both turned to see Ian walking down the hall toward us, and I heard Daley’s breath catch beside me.

  Until that moment, Daley had not seen pretty. Not that “pretty” was the word I would use to describe Ian. “Breathtaking” was the one that applied.

  What I had going for me in the looks department was thick, defined muscles; good hair; and according to my husband, big, dark, beautiful brown eyes. But the man coming toward us had been blessed genetically. From the sleek, sculpted muscles that moved fluidly in a fusion of power and grace that combined seamlessly to put the rolling rise and fall in his stride, to his sharp, chiseled features: strong square jawline, lush mouth with a smirk of recklessness, and killer blue eyes—he embodied breathtaking.