Somebody to Hold (Tyler Jamison #2) - April Wilson Page 0,28
and I took the boat out, and he seemed a bit shaken all afternoon. When I tried to get him to talk to me about it, he clammed up, said it was nothing.”
“Thanks, Miguel.”
After I end the call, I shut down my computer, strap on my holster and gun, grab my jacket, and I’m out the door. I can’t sit here for the rest of the day worrying about Ian and not do something. Not when I know now that Ian’s been keeping things from me.
I head straight home and race up the front steps and into the townhouse. “Ian! Are you home?” I check the kitchen, our bedroom, and the roof, but he’s not there. I go down to the lower level to check the fitness room, but it’s empty.
He’s not home.
I go out back to check the carriage house and find that his Porsche is gone. So I head to the marina. I don’t see his car in the parking lot, and he’s not on his boat when I search it.
I drive by his parents’ house to see if the Porsche is parked in the back, but it’s not. Layla’s Fiat is here, though.
Great. Now I’ve turned into a stalker.
I try his phone again but get nothing.
Not knowing where else to look, I go back home to wait for Ian to show. The house is dark and quiet, and it makes me realize how much of a presence Ian has. I can physically feel his absence.
After hanging up my jacket and holster, I head to the kitchen to grab a cold beer. It’s a little early to be drinking, but it’s Friday afternoon. I tell myself it’s the weekend and I’m just getting an early start.
I head to the front parlor, where I have a good view of the street, and I pace. And the longer I pace, the more agitated I become. My blood pressure is skyrocketing, and my pulse is pounding.
Ian would never betray me.
He just wouldn’t. There’s no way the man who trembles and cries in my arms would turn to another. We’ve got something really good between us—hell, what we have is amazing. I love him. And I know he loves me.
But I also know how manipulative Turner is—that sadistic son of a bitch. If he has some kind of leverage over Ian, then there’s no telling what—and then it hits me.
Fuck.
Of course he does. Me—I’m the leverage. Turner’s manipulating Ian with the threat of pressing charges against me.
What does Turner want more than revenge on me for beating the shit out of him? He wants Ian.
Ian’s words come back to me. I can’t let you go to prison.
Shit.
Would Ian betray me? No.
But would he do something stupid, like sacrifice himself—trade his body—to protect me?
Maybe.
There’s no telling what Ian would do if he felt cornered and thought he had no choice.
Feeling sick, I walk to the bar and grab the bottle of Glenfiddich from the top shelf. My hands shake as I pour myself a shot.
I feel so god-damned helpless. All I can think about is Turner getting his hands on Ian. I know what Turner’s capable of. I saw the photographs of the men he’s fucked and hurt in the process.
Jesus, Ian, where are you?
I knock back my drink and pour another. I pace, and I worry. What the hell good am I if I can’t protect the one person who means the world to me?
And then my fear and anxiety morph into something ugly, into anger. Why in the hell didn’t Ian tell me Turner was pressuring him? I would have taken care of it. I would have put an end to the harassment real quick.
But no, my obstinate little ray of sunshine thinks he has to protect me, when I’m the one who should be protecting him.
I pour another shot, hoping liquor will make this pain go away. God, I’m so out of my element here. My mind is torturing me with images of Ian with Turner. Images of Ian on his knees. Of Turner fucking Ian. Or worse—hurting him.
My eyes burn as tears well up. As I reach for my glass, I hear a key in the front door lock. I suck in a deep, shuddering breath, overcome with relief.
He’s home.
Quiet footsteps hesitate outside the parlor door, and then it’s dead silence.
When I turn to face the door, Ian is standing there looking shocked. The guilt on his face hits me like a physical blow.