Fit to Be Tied Page 8

  As I took a sip of my beer, I noticed Cabot in the kitchen, caught up against a wall by the same guy who had delivered our beers. He had his hand on Terry’s chest, and it looked uncomfortable. Cabot was clearly distressed, and the thought of that made my stomach roll even as I saw the older man walk away from him.

  Excusing myself, I got up and walked straight to the back. Cabot smiled when he saw me.

  “Miro, I put the pizzas in.”

  “Perfect,” I said, passing him quickly and walking up on Terry, who was now punching orders into a POS.

  He was taller than me, but I had muscle on him, lots of it, and so when I grabbed him by the throat and pinned him to the wall, he didn’t move. Instead he immediately began pleading.

  “Miro,” Cabot gasped, frightened for his job, I was sure.

  “Listen to me,” I said, leaning in close beside Terry’s ear so I could deliver my threat in a whisper. “If you ever put your hands on Cabot again, eye fuck him, or even smile in a way that’s pervy, I will come back here and rip out your lungs. Are we clear?”

  He nodded quickly.

  “Are you sure?”

  More nodding.

  “Excellent,” I huffed, letting him go, leaning back so he could map my frame and get an idea of the muscle I had that he didn’t. Normally I didn’t go in for intimidation tactics, but in this case, it was necessary.

  His eyes flitted to look everywhere but at me. After a moment, I turned, took hold of Cabot’s bicep, and walked him back out to the dining floor with me.

  “Miro, I could have handled—”

  “Drake’s worried that you’re thinking of moving out because you need space, but it’s not that at all. You’ve been trying to figure out how to deal with Terry without having to tell Drake, and it’s been weighing on you, huh, kid?”

  He was holding his breath, but after a moment, he gave up. “Yeah,” he confessed, staring at his shoes like they were important.

  “Look at me.”

  His gaze flicked up to meet mine.

  “You have a problem, any kind of problem—money, scary neighbors, older guys pawing you, a teacher who hits on you, or Drake freaking out—you tell me. That’s what I’m here for, to remove obstacles.”

  “Okay,” he agreed.

  “Whatever it is,” I insisted, “I’ll take care of it. And yes, it’s my job, but you and Drake are a special case for me and Ian. You know that.”

  He smiled sheepishly. “Yeah, okay.”

  “So talk to Drake and clear the air, all right?”

  “I will.”

  “Good. Now get me some food before I pass out.”

  He chuckled and returned to the kitchen as I rejoined Ian and Drake.

  “Something wrong?” Ian asked as I slid in beside him, his hand immediately sliding over my upper thigh. It was intimate and sexy, and when he leaned in to listen to whatever I had to say, his breath on my ear gave me goose bumps.

  “No,” I managed to get out. “Cabot’s bringing out our food soon.”

  “That’s good,” Ian rumbled, his voice like a caress.

  “Let’s go home after this.”

  “Good idea,” he agreed quickly, his fingers tracing over the inseam of my jeans.

  Ian, who had never been sensual in the past, had become sex on two legs. Ever since we first started sleeping together, he thrummed with a new understanding of how his body responded to pleasure, and the new ease with which he carried himself was irresistible. Ian had always been gorgeous, but now he oozed confidence and the promise of wicked pleasure. I wanted him under me again as soon as possible.

  “Excuse me.”

  We all looked up and there, hovering over us, was a man I didn’t know and Terry, whom I had just assaulted in the kitchen.

  “I need you to leave,” the man directed. “I’m Brad Rigby, the assistant manager here, and you—”

  “What’s the problem?” Ian asked, pulling his ID from the breast pocket of his leather jacket and flipping it open.

  Brad blanched when he realized Ian was a federal marshal.

  “Did you want to check his out too?” Ian asked, scowling, tipping his head at me. “Or are we good here?”

  It was hard for someone to back down after they’d been charged up, adrenaline pumping, for a fight. Brad was doing his job, defending his employee; he simply didn’t know that his guy was the one in the wrong.

  Six months ago, Ian would have climbed over me to get out of the booth, physically pushed Brad, and backed him into a corner. The Ian sitting beside me now let Brad collect himself and back down.

  I knew it was because of me. Because I loved him, because he had a home, because he was no longer a stray, it wasn’t necessary for him to win at everything anymore. He didn’t have to be the scariest and toughest. He could be himself, not only strong and brave, but also kind and gentle. Ian was now grounded and secure. He wasn’t angry all the time. He didn’t need to prove himself to anyone because I was the only one who mattered. If only he’d realize getting married was the logical next step in that transformation.

  “Well?” Ian pressed the manager, bringing my attention to the present.

  Brad swallowed hard. “I thought your partner threatened my guy.”

  “Yeah, no,” Ian said flatly. “That’d never happen.”

  “I understand.”

  “Good,” Ian replied, nodding.

  When both men turned, Cabot was there with our pizzas. His boss smiled at him, told him he was doing a good job, and walked away with Terry in tow.

  “What was that about?” Drake asked his boyfriend.

  Cabot put the pizzas, my deep dish and then Ian’s thin crust, down on the trivets already on the table, and his gaze met Drake’s. “The short version is: I messed up and didn’t tell you that I was having trouble here.”

  Drake reached for Cabot, who immediately took the offered hand and allowed himself to be eased down next to him.

  “Forgive me. I’ve just never been hit on before.”

  Drake nodded.

  “I had no idea what to do,” Cabot said, taking Drake’s face in his hands. “I didn’t want you coming down here all pissed off, and, I mean, I’m an adult, right? I should be able to handle my own crap.”

  “But you should always be able to tell me anything.”

  “Yes,” Cabot agreed, his eyes doing the melting thing they always did around Drake. He was completely smitten, and Drake needed to start believing in that. Their entire relationship had begun with him in denial that a prince could ever really want him. Now, finally, he had to start believing he was a catch, too, before his insecurity drove Cabot away.

  “From now on, no more secrets,” Drake said, turning his head to kiss Cabot’s palm. “Swear.”

  Cabot nodded, catching his breath, seemingly unable to speak. The hug they shared said it all.

  “Can you guys break it up so I can eat?” Ian grumbled, unrolling his fork and knife not because he needed either but because the napkin was necessary. “And take your break, Cab, and sit the fuck down.”

  Some things didn’t change.

  DRAKE DECIDED to hang around for the last hour of Cabot’s shift, and Ian and I left him the rest of the pizza, much to my annoyance.

  “I’ll get you more.” Ian laughed at me as we walked out of the restaurant. “You might not want that for dinner anyway.” I grunted and he bumped me with his shoulder. “I could maybe take you out.”

  Turning to look at him, I found him staring back at me. “What?”

  “Like on a date. I could take you out on a date.”

  My grin conveyed my disbelief.

  “What?”

  “You wanna take me out?”

  When he smiled, slowly, the laugh lines in the corners of his eyes crinkled, and the pleasure he got from looking at me was obvious and made me momentarily breathless. “Yeah, I do.”

  “Okay,” I replied hoarsely, clearing my throat. “Bring on date night.”

  He was chuckl
ing when his phone rang as we walked back toward the 1973 Ford Capri with a sunroof we were currently getting around in. I had enjoyed driving the muscle car, but with Ian home now, my days of riding shotgun had returned. He had, in fact, already taken over.

  He moved by me, stepping off the curb to walk in the street to get in on the driver’s side, but then he instead turned and took hold of my forearm to keep me close.

  “No,” he said quickly, his pale gaze meeting mine. “I didn’t realize it was today. I wasn’t staying away on purpose.”

  There went date night.

  “Miro and I will be by at some point.”

  His grip on me loosened but held, sliding to my wrist and then lower, until he was holding my hand. Since Ian was not in any way a PDA kind of guy, the motion was odd and very telling. He was taking some sort of comfort from touching me, but for what, I had no clue.

  “I don’t know that we’ll make it for din—cake is at six, I got it.”

  When he hung up, I waited.

  “My father’s sixtieth is today,” he said, searching my face.

  Colin Doyle was Ian’s estranged father. While I had at one time thought the relationship might be on the mend, I was wrong. They hadn’t seen each other in months. “That’s short notice, huh?”

  “Apparently she sent me an invite that was returned to her. I moved without filling out one of those forms for the post office.”

  “Oh.”

  “I mean, mostly it was just bills anyway.”

  “Sure.”

  “And I got all those taken care of, and no one ever writes me, they e-mail me.”

  I nodded because he was rambling about mail and I cared that he was feeling awkward while explaining it to me, but I couldn’t have cared less that an invitation for his father’s birthday party had gotten lost.

  The move had been seamless. We spent a Saturday moving Ian from the cinderblock wasteland that was his apartment and into my Greystone in Lincoln Park. He went from renting a hovel to co-owning my eight-hundred-thousand-dollar home that would maybe be paid off—since I’d increased the payments—a year or so before I died. It had been quick, yes, but I’d asked and Ian was crazy about the idea of taking on a mortgage with me. He’d been touched that I’d thought to include him, moved by my faith in him, and finally, over the moon about signing a piece of paper that made us more than work partners. It made us life partners. It was my big gesture, shackling him to me, and he took it as it was meant, as permanency. We had told everyone important that Ian lived with me, but apparently that had not included Colin.

  “So,” I said after a moment, “we’ll stop at a liquor store and get him a really good bottle of Irish whiskey.”

  “Because he’s Irish,” Ian teased, brought out of his thoughts by my ridiculous stereotyping.

  I shrugged and his smile was there, curling his lip in a way that made my stomach flip.

  He placed his hands on my coat, tightening, pulling me close. He laid his head on my shoulder without loosening his grip. “Stay by me when we get over there, okay?”

  “Of course,” I replied, hands on his hips, breathing in his warm, citrusy scent.

  He lifted my chin and planted a kiss on me that lasted only a moment but ran through my body like wildfire, heating every cell and nerve ending.

  As we got in the car, I was again reminded why Ian driving was always cause for concern. My hand immediately braced on the dash.

  “This is what hanging with a stunt-car driver is like,” I groused.

  The chuckle made me smile in spite of myself.

  IAN THOUGHT we spent too much, but we were arriving late to the party, plus how many times did a guy turn sixty?

  The drive out to Marynook took some time even though it was Saturday. Chicago always had traffic—morning, noon, and night. Once I had been going home from a club at 3:00 a.m. and got caught in a bumper-to-bumper snarl. It was best never to assume that we’d make it anywhere on time.

  The normally quiet street was loaded with cars, and to find a spot, we had to park a full block away. Once we got close to the house, I saw the front gate open and balloons and streamers decorating the yard.

  “We’ll just go in, wish him a good one, and bail, all right?”

  “Whatever you want,” I agreed, watching him tense, making me uneasy.

  We walked around the side of the house and into the backyard filled with people. They’d set up picnic tables, card tables, those plastic scoop chairs that buckle if you’re not careful, and a wide assortment of other benches, lounges, and folding chairs. The enclosed back deck had space heaters, and guests were walking in and out of the house.

  I checked the bottle of Redbreast Non-Chill-filtered 21-Year-Old Irish Whiskey we’d bought, made sure the red bow was on securely and that there wasn’t a price tag on it anywhere before I passed it to Ian. Looking around, I saw his father in a group of men dressed as he was, in a long sleeved T-shirt under a bowling shirt.

  When we were close enough, he saw us, and I could tell from the flush of his cheeks and the enormous smile Ian got that he’d been drinking. Normally his father was much more reticent.

  “Here’s my boy!” he yelled, spreading his arms for Ian to fill.

  Ian took a quick breath and moved fast. The hug was hard, tight, and if it looked as awkward as it felt, I had no idea why Colin held on so long. But he thumped Ian on the back and then shoved him out to arm’s length.

  “It’s so good to see you,” he sighed, patting Ian’s cheek. “What’s it been, six months?”

  I’d thought, back when Colin told me he couldn’t watch Chickie for a particular weekend, that it was no big deal. I’d asked my friend Aruna and her husband, Liam, to keep the werewolf, and they’d jumped at the chance. But what Ian took that as, was he’d asked his father to do one thing, and that was to be the backup for his dog. So what to me was a nonissue, to Ian was being let down. If Colin had wanted to be there for him, he would have made other plans and kept Ian’s dog. As he had not, Ian made other arrangements. Permanently.

  He asked my friends Aruna and Liam to keep Chickie on a daily basis while he and I were at work, and since they actually wanted him, it was a task they willingly took on. Even though Aruna was a new mother, having Chickie around helped. He was her reason to walk to the store and not drive, to feel safe during the day wherever she went, and she could say “fetch the baby” and Chickie would very gently nudge Sajani Duffy in the right direction. The little girl, all of four months, could do what Ian called a commando crawl, but not any serious moving quite yet. She could sort of undulate across a room, and if Aruna was tired, Chickie would bump the baby with his muzzle to get her going. She would, apparently, follow the dog that dwarfed her mother anywhere.

  The new arrangement had worked out wonderfully for Chickie, but not as well for Ian and Colin. Without a reason to see his father, Ian didn’t see him at all anymore.

  “Yeah, around that,” Ian agreed.

  “So you’ve been busy, then?”

  “I was deployed,” Ian said, which wasn’t the whole truth but was nicer than the truth. “Just got back today, actually.”

  “Oh?” Colin said, and I heard the dare in his voice, like he was baiting Ian. “And you came right over, did you?”

  “Stopped to get you this first,” Ian answered in his modulated, matter-of-fact law enforcement voice as he passed his father the bottle.

  “Oh, well now,” one of the other men said, slapping Colin across the back. “That’s a nice gift there, Col.” All the men agreed the very expensive bottle was one of the best of the day.

  Colin introduced Ian and then me to his friends and made sure to thank me for showing up as well. Just when Ian was about to make an excuse for our exit, Linda Doyle, Ian’s stepmother, popped out of the house to call everyone inside for cake.

  Ian wanted to leave, I could tell, but his father made sure to throw an arm around his neck and lead him inside.

  There was a screen set up in the livi
ng room, and Colin’s son Lorcan and his daughter, Erica, stood at each side of the screen, inviting people to sit down. Linda—a beautiful woman with gorgeous thick gray hair caught up in a chignon that appeared effortless but that I knew, from living with four women, was not—had everyone take a seat and quiet down.

  Colin’s family was all dressed casually but elegantly: his wife in a black wrap dress, his daughter in a denim shirt tied at the waist with black lace skirt and platform pumps, and his son in dress pants and a long-sleeved button-down. Ian in his dark denim jeans, gray Henley and John Varvatos lace-up biker boots—they were mine—didn’t measure up.

  I had tried to stay beside him, but there wasn’t room for me on the couch at the front where Colin led him with that arm around his shoulders. Ian was still wearing my black Dsquared2 leather jacket. The fact he was the only one wearing outerwear, besides me, while inside was strange. It was like they’d hustled him in and not even allowed him to get comfortable. I was torn between wanting to walk up there and rescue him and knowing that if he wanted to leave, he would. Ian was more than capable of simply getting up and walking out. I just had to wait and see what he was going to do.

  “Hello, everyone, and thank you for coming to Dad’s sixtieth,” Lorcan announced to the room, his greeting drawing applause, cheering, and happy whistles. “Erica and I put together this little walk down memory lane of Colin Doyle’s life, and we hope you all enjoy it.”

  There are times when you can absolutely and without a doubt see both sides of something. If I were Colin or Linda or any of their friends or extended family, I would have been touched and awed by the amount of work and time and energy that went into creating the movie. The sheer number of pictures that had been scanned, uploaded, and digitally manipulated was staggering. It also included some home movies, interviews, and letters; it was like watching a documentary on ESPN where they do those 30 for 30 films I was addicted to, except with a side of gushing love. The narration was crisp, funny, and kept everything moving with no lull. There was no way to not be overwhelmed by the production values. Linda was crying; Colin, the man of the hour, was holding her; and everyone else was riveted.