Keeping Promise Rock (9 page)

Deacon broke completely then, and Crick held him, weeping over Deacon’s head as he came completely undone. Oh God… Crick thought he knew pain, and he thought he’d learned a little about death, but nothing, nothing at all had prepared him for this.

Deacon needed him. Needed him completely, in a way that had nothing to do with Crick’s teenage crush and everything to do with family, and dammit, Crick needed to man up.

Crick rocked his brother softly for a long time, and when the storm of sobbing had passed, Deacon lay still, his head in Crick’s lap, shivering in the February cold and the terrible chill of grief. By the time Crick made him sit up, made him move so they could take the truck back to The Pulpit

and deal with all of the awful detritus of death, the hope for Deacon’s love had been put quietly to sleep in Crick’s chest, like a giant sleeping off a magic potion of grief.

Next to that sleeping giant was the slumbering hope for Crick’s future in art school, because he’d be damned if he went off and rode the whirlwind when Deacon was left home, lost and alone.

Two years later, in this same place, Deacon looked at Crick with a sudden slyness, a sudden heat in his eyes, and that giant woke up, screaming to get laid.

cart II

Deacon

Promises Made

JON and Amy got married at Promise Rock in April, when the fields were full of wildflowers and the air was gentle and sweet and the winds sweeping across the valley weren’t too brutal.

Deacon stood up with Jon, of course, and Amy’s best friend from UCLA stood up with her, and the minister was young and perfectly willing to balance on the top of the rock for the brief, simple wedding ceremony.

They could have had a larger ceremony—both their parents had money—but that was not what they wanted. They wanted their friends, their families, and people they knew, and they wanted it someplace special to them. Jon had first kissed Amy during a break from school at Promise Rock, and Deacon had been pleased—more than pleased—to give them a wedding in the place that meant so much to all of them.

The day before, the whole bridal party plus Crick had spent hours hauling out chairs and running streamers, placing vases of flowers, laying that fake lawn stuff, and basically “girling the place up,” as Crick called it, and the result was their favorite place in the world, given a little bit of glitz and romance by the care of friends.

Amy looked beautiful—her dress was white satin, clean and elegant, draping her tiny, vital body like a queen. She had a kiss on the cheek and a smile for Deacon that morning, but now, at the ceremony, she only had eyes for Jon.

And Jon, whose movie-star dimple and oval face had only gotten more handsome in the past six years, looked besotted and tender and basically like the happiest man on earth. The two stood together barefoot (the better to balance on the rock) under the shade of that big old oak tree and repeated the old rituals that bound people together in this part of the world. Deacon watched them with a smile that felt like it split his body and shone outward until the middle of the ceremony, when his attention wandered, and he caught Crick.

Crick was looking at him with such a dark, powerful yearning, he woke a hunger that Deacon hadn’t felt in his belly since he and Amy had last made love under this very tree.

Deacon’s breath caught in his chest, and the heat, which had seemed mild and spring-like, suddenly washed his face and his chest and—oh dear God—his groin. That wash of heat purged away the last two years, which they had spent living together like brothers. It scoured away two years of being roommates, taking care of each other and The Pulpit
.
That one look put an entirely new perspective on two years of simple things like
eating breakfast together, breaking horses, working around Crick’s schooling and shifts as an EMT, and basically existing in companionship and family, and took Deacon back to the torturous two years before his father’s death.

He’d wanted Crick so badly it had hurt like knives and shamed him like poison at the same time.

Yeah, he’d known about Crick’s crush, but Deacon was older—he knew that what you felt in high school didn’t necessarily last. That was why he’d kept Crick at arm’s length, treated him like a little brother, kept his love and support unconditional and independent of everything but Crick’s being Crick. And Carrick had seemed happy with that—especially after Parish’s death had rocked their world.

And Deacon had been so not ready to start dicking with the one family member he had. It had been a good two years—with the exception of Crick’s stop-gap profession.

“What in the fuck?” Crick had come home with the registration
papers in hand, a done deal, about a month after they’d scattered Parish’s
ashes over all corners of The Pulpit. Deacon hadn’t been pleased. “You
gave up art school for
this
?”

Crick shrugged, as though his entire life hadn’t been focused on
getting the fuck out of Levee Oaks. “I deferred my scholarships—I’ve got
a couple of years. It wasn’t a good time to leave, Deacon. Don’t tell me it
60

was. You had to quit your job, give up your schooling. It was worth it. So’s
this.”

Deacon thumped Parish’s Stetson on his thigh. The hat had replaced
his habitual ball cap and was the one thing of his father’s he’d kept out of
sheer sentimentality. “This isn’t what Parish would want, Crick. He was
so proud of you—he wanted you to live your dream, man—you know
that.”

Crick looked at him with hidden hunger then, and Deacon looked
away. “This family, this place, it is my dream. Deacon, don’t tell me you
can do this by yourself—I know better. Please let me stay.”
Deacon sighed. “It’s a done deal, then. But don’t tell me I didn’t
warn you it’s a damned thankless job and the last thing you’re going to
want to do with yourself.”

Crick shrugged. “I’ll be here. It’ll be fine.”
And it had been. Deacon had been right about Crick not being happy as an EMT. Deacon had loved it—the adrenaline, helping people, being the first folks there on the site. He wasn’t a talker, but he had a way of smiling and being quiet in the right places, and people responded to that.

Crick once showed up at a crash site and said, “Holy God, no wonder the guy didn’t make it!” right before the victim opened his eyes and said, “I’m still alive, jackass, now help get this fence post out of my chest!” They’d laughed for a long time about that one, but Deacon had renewed his campaign to get Crick to take those scholarships and go back to school with a vengeance.

And right now, on this day, with a sweet breeze and the joy of friends, that look from Crick sent the whole issue right out of Deacon’s head.

God, it had been so long since someone touched Deacon’s whole skin. He jerked his attention back to the wedding ceremony—it was almost time for him to pull out the ring—but that look, that dark, boiling look from Crick, sat low in his stomach for the rest of the day.

Even Amy noticed it as they were dancing on the little floor of AstroTurf to music from a portable stereo-system plugged into a generator in the back of the truck. The tune was “Always and Forever,”
and
the gentle irony of the song was not lost on either of them.

“So,” she asked innocently, “has it happened yet?” Keeping Promise Rock

Deacon turned his eyes from where Crick was talking uncomfortably with Amy’s parents and looked at his best friend’s new wife with affection—and puzzlement.

“Has what happened?” Crick was pulling at his collar, never a good sign.

“You and Crick—you know, that whole reason you didn’t follow me to school.” Her voice held no rancor, but Deacon couldn’t let the misconception stand.

“Darlin’, you know very well The Pulpit
was the reason I didn’t go away to school.” He smiled as he said it, inviting her to smile back, and she obliged.

“I know Crick was at The Pulpit,
sweetheart—and you’re avoiding the question, so I’ll guess that ‘No, it hasn’t’ is the answer.” Amy grinned cheekily, and Deacon leaned forward and kissed her softly on the forehead.

“Crick was meant for greater things than this town, Amy. But then, so were you, which is why I can’t understand why you came back.” Amy and Jon were setting up their own practice in civil rights law right on Levee Oaks Boulevard, and Deacon was still flummoxed as to why they thought that was a good idea.

“Deacon, if any place on the planet needed someone to fight for civil rights, it would be Levee Oaks—you and Crick of all people should know that.”

Deacon blinked. “Amy, I love you, but I’m not following you.” Amy shook her head. “Yeah, but I bet if that thing that should have happened two years ago had happened, you’d probably know
exactly
what I was talking about.”

That flush came back, the agonizing flush of arousal coupled with the wealth of words that Deacon could never say in any given situation, just pushing at his tongue.

Amy’s cheeky grin grew exceedingly gentle. “Has he figured it out yet?” she asked.

“Figured what out?” Crick had freed himself of Amy’s folks and was now drinking punch with Patrick, both of them looking as though they’d rather be wearing anything but the fitted suits that Deacon had insisted on buying for them. Crick looked damned good in his, though.

“Figured out that when it looks like you’re being all ‘manly and mysterious’, you’re really just being shy.” Deacon actually stumbled. He recovered, picked up the next step in the box pattern, and glared at her. “No,” he said in abject horror. “No. I didn’t think anybody had.”

The absolute pity on her face was enough to make him want to go run behind the rock and hide until the crowd went away. “Jon clued me in, you know. When you and I were dating and I kept thinking I’d said something wrong. He told me that you were just afraid of speaking your mind. You got over it, mostly, with me. I just didn’t know if you’d gotten over it with Crick.”

Deacon looked miserably at the boy, who had just said something to Patrick to make him spit out his punch. “I talk to Crick,” he said with a pathetic attempt at defensiveness.

“Yeah, but does he know he’s one of the few?” Deacon thought about the two of them, side by side, watching television as Deacon went off about baseball until Crick patted him on the shoulder with incredible good nature.
I get it, Deacon—Dodgers bad,
Giants good. Can we watch
Smallville
now?

Deacon shook his head. “Crick’s Crick,” he muttered. “We get along all right.” He always could talk to the kid when he couldn’t talk to anybody else, even his father.

Amy threw back her head, her filmy veil fluttering in the slight breeze, and groaned loud enough to get Crick’s attention. “Jesus, Deacon, you’re killing me. Jon, here, you dance with the stubborn asshole.” With that, Amy whirled around to her father, who caught her in surprise and left Jon and Deacon staring at each other in shock. And then Jon put his hands up in the female’s position and made Deacon’s mortification complete.

“C’mon, big man—you owe me one last dance before you send me off into the arms of the woman who mended my broken heart.” Deacon gaped like a fish, and then, to the encouragement of hoots and hollers around them, put up his arms and took his best friend up on the offer.

“Jesus, you jackass,” Deacon swore, grinning in spite of himself.

“What’re you trying to do, make her jealous? Dude, you’ve
got the girl!
”

Jon’s expression sobered, and Deacon got one of those uncomfortable flashes again, made more uncomfortable by their close proximity. “Deac, you know damned well that if I could have made her jealous this way, we’d be having a very different wedding.” What was it with the two of them? Were they trying to kill him with mortification?

“You were damned young,” Deacon muttered. Jon had come on to him—twice—in junior high, in this very place. Deacon had responded, actually, with some enthusiasm because he’d figured out when he was very small that both kinds of bodies held a serious fascination for him, but Jon had backed out. Gotten cold feet before they could do more than brush lips. Deacon had been willing to let both moments slide—moments from their childhood, when kids didn’t know a damned thing about themselves.

But apparently they had meant something to Jon.

“Yeah,” Jon said, not blushing even a little bit. His hand, held loosely in Deacon’s, was dry. “My spirit was willing, but my flesh wanted something with breasts. But I still love you, man. And I’m starting to worry about you.”

“If you’re going to worry, worry about me breaking an ankle. You don’t follow worth shit.” It was true—Jon had put his feet in the wrong position twice, and “Always and Forever”
was a little worse for the wear.

“Yeah—but I bet Crick would bottom for you just fine.” Then Deacon
did
stumble, and he broke off the dance. “I’m getting something to drink,” he muttered, not wanting to have this conversation anymore.

“Then I’ll come with you.” Together they exited the makeshift dance floor where about five other couples were dancing happily, and a patter of amused applause walked them to the punch table. Crick wasn’t there anymore, Deacon thought, feeling grumpy. He missed Crick’s easy conversation, the fact that his tongue didn’t just knot up in front of Crick, the fact that Crick didn’t expect him to say any more or anything more meaningful than he already did.