All Kinds of Tied Down Read Online Free Page A

or small plastic containers.
    “You realize this is the height of laziness, right?” Ian commented as he put sliced bread and butter pickles into his mouth. “I mean, seriously, you could buy all this crap at the store and do this yourself.”
    “Oh yeah? The aioli mayonnaise, the chorizo salame, and Ossau you like? Really?” I asked, sliding the plate over to him. “You think I could just pop into a Jewel for that?”
    He scowled at me.
    “The sourdough that’s freshly baked every day?”
    Something was muttered under his breath.
    “I got the gouda you like, and the marinated olives too.”
    “Are you still talking?”
    “Why, yes.” I smirked. “I am.”
    “Shut up,” he muttered, grabbing a bottle of his favorite beer—Three Floyds Gumballhead, which I made sure was always there—from the refrigerator before he turned for the living room.
    “And roma tomatoes are your favorite, so I made sure I asked for—”
    “Yeah, fine, you’re a fuckin’ saint and I’m an ungrateful ass.”
    I cackled as he flopped down onto the couch and turned on the TV. The sounds of football filled the room. After a moment he turned around and looked at me.
    “What? Need a napkin?”
    “No, I have a—you’re not gonna argue?”
    “Why would I argue?”
    “Ass,” he mumbled, turning back to the game.
    I joined him on the couch, sitting close like I always did, and he took some potato chips off my plate. “Go get your own,” I said, smacking his hand away.
    He shoved me with his shoulder and I almost dumped my plate.
    “What’re you doing?”
    “Don’t be stupid,” he retorted, nudging my knee gently with his and then leaving his leg pressed against mine. “Since when don’t I eat off your plate?”
    He was right. I would let Ian do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. I was his for the taking—as were my potato chips.

Chapter 3

     
    I AN LEFT about one in the morning and had promised to be back at seven to pick me up for breakfast. When he wasn’t there by quarter after, I called him, but it went straight to voice mail. Since I didn’t want to be late and the walk to the train platform would take too much time, I decided to drive my truck. I so seldom drove the Toyota Tacoma, I had thought on numerous occasions about selling it. But inevitably, someone needed help moving practically the moment I’d start to seriously consider the idea. And today I was glad I still had it as I headed in to work.
    I was halfway there and got a call from Ian.
    “Where the hell are you?” I snapped, annoyed and hungry and without coffee.
    “I could say the same.”
    “I’m starving, asshole; you were supposed to feed me.”
    “Do you ever read your texts?”
    “I don’t have a text from you.”
    “Yes, you—oh shit.”
    “Oh shit, what?”
    “I e-mailed you, I didn’t text you. Fuck.”
    “Just tell me where you are.”
    “Oh crap, Kage is calling me on the other line. Hold on.”
    “Ian—”
    “Wait,” he barked, and then silence.
    I had no idea where I was supposed to be driving, but not knowing where Ian was would make me crazy faster than anything. Knowing he was somewhere I should have been too, to back him up and keep him safe, would unravel my well-constructed façade. I needed to find him.
    The line went dead, and then my phone rang right afterward from a number that wasn’t in my caller ID. Concerned that it might be my boss, I started hunting around for my earpiece. It rang five times before I gave up and answered.
    “Jones.”
    “What’s the rule?” The deep and gravelly voice of my boss, Supervisory Deputy US Marshal Sam Kage, rumbled in my ear
    “Third ring,” I replied automatically.
    “What’s your excuse, then?”
    “I was talking to Ian.”
    “No, I was actually talking to Doyle, so try again.”
    “Well, I was talking to him before you were.”
    “Why aren’t you with him?”
    “That’s a really good question.”
    “Pardon me?”
    Fuck.
    “Again I ask: why didn’t you