Free All Kinds of Tied Down by Mary Calmes

of my bicep and tugged me after him.
    “How come you changed outta my boots?”
    “Not stylish enough for this outfit,” I patronized.
    “Got it.”
    I snorted out a laugh. “You have no idea why I changed at all, do you.”
    “No.”
    I shook my head. “I really gotta take you shopping. You have a woman to impress now.”
    “I don’t think clothes are gonna fix it.”
    “Fix what?”
    “Nothing,” he said, draping an arm over my shoulder. “Come on.”
    We returned to the kitchen, where Emma was still holding court.
    “You give someone else a turn, sweetie?”
    “Course,” he answered sharply, squinting at her.
    I grabbed his sweater and pulled until he stood next to me, shoulder to shoulder. “Be nice.”
    “I’m always nice,” he grumbled under his breath.
    “It’s an alcohol-to-blood imbalance,” I instructed Emma as she smiled at me. “When there is more beer in him than blood, you’ll notice an improvement in tone and mood.”
    As she chuckled, a guy I didn’t know moved up beside me.
    “Hey, Em,” he greeted softly.
    “Oh, Phil, you made it,” she said quickly, her voice catching.
    “Of course,” he replied, his attention quickly landing on Ian and then shifting back to her.
    Something was up, but when I turned my head to check if my partner noticed, I found his focus elsewhere. He was far more interested in the man who had just come in the front door.
    “What?” I asked, leaning in close to him.
    He dipped his head, his face in my hair as he murmured in my ear. “Is that guy dealing over there?”
    Leaning back, I found the man in question, passing out tiny baggies of goodies for Dennis’s guests. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
    “Oh Miro,” Emma said suddenly, sounding edgy, nervous. “I meant to ask when you came in—how is your wrist feeling?”
    “Roland!” One of the women standing beside Emma squealed and then slipped around the hostess to bolt over to the man.
    “He’s fine,” Ian answered for me absently, his eyes never leaving the stranger who had passed Emma’s friend what looked like something wrapped in foil. “That’s acid or Molly, fuck him.”
    “You strapped?”
    “Course.”
    We both turned around to lean on the counter, and I surveyed the room, taking note of the front door.
    “Ian.” Emma whimpered behind me. “Please. This is Dennis’s party. I’m the one who insisted on inviting you.”
    “Really,” he said, lifting his foot and rucking up his jeans so he could reach down into the biker boot he was wearing. “So your brother didn’t even want me here.”
    “No, Dennis just—it was fine as soon as I told him Miro was coming.”
    He chuckled as he raised what I called his SIG Sauer P228 semiautomatic and he said was an M11, to shoulder level. Whatever name it went by, wielded by Ian Doyle, it was deadly accurate. Reaching into my back pocket where the badge normally clipped to my belt was, I pulled my ID and lifted it high. What was interesting was that it was me, and not my partner with the gun, that the man saw.
    “Sir,” I directed. “I need you to lace your fingers over your head.”
    He finally saw Ian and took a step back.
    “And get on your knees!”
    He glanced from Ian to me.
    “Now,” I commanded even as I saw him decide.
    Turning, he bolted.
    “Fuck,” I swore, realizing that because I wasn’t carrying—it was a party, for crissakes—I had to do the running and tackling. I couldn’t be proper backup; Ian had to be mine.
    The front door was crowded with party guests coming in, which accounted for him running toward the balcony. Maybe. The choice really didn’t make a lot of sense. But when he darted, I shoved my ID at Ian and then was right there on Roland’s heels. People started yelling, screaming, and I saw the blond man cross his wrists over his face before he went straight through the glass patio door.
    I didn’t even think to slow down.
    Following fast, I used him as a shield against the glass flying toward