Unfinished Hero 04 Deacon (10 page)

The little we had, the minutiae he’d give me,
gone.

He was going to take this, give it, not allow
either of us to have more, leave, and never come back.

He stayed buried, his face in my neck, his
breath coming even, but even if it couldn’t be the most comfortable
position in the world for him when we weren’t doing it, he didn’t
move.

Maybe he was memorizing too.

And he was glorious. Everything about him.
Everything we’d just shared. Everything he made me feel when he
told me I was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. When he told
me in his own particular way how far I was under his skin. When he
kissed me with a ferocity that was dizzying, touched me with
desperation, gave me two orgasms on my kitchen table.

Having all that and knowing I couldn’t keep
it, I had to end this.

Now.

And I did that by asking softly, my voice
just as afraid as I felt, my words dripping with fear and
sadness.

“Now have we changed?”

A low sound tore from his throat as he shoved
his face deeper into my neck and his hands pushed under me, his
arms locking around me.

“Deacon?” I whispered.

“Fuck, you’re killing me,” he murmured into
my skin.

That wasn’t the response I wanted to
hear.

But it was the one I knew I’d get.

I swallowed.

Deacon pulled his face out of my neck, one
arm from around me, and he placed his big hand along the side of my
head as he positioned a breath away.

“We’ve changed,” he said gently.

I closed my eyes and turned my head away.

Deacon pulled out and I moved to roll to my
side and get off that table and to my clothes as quickly as I
could.

I got the roll to my side in before I let out
a quiet cry because I was up in his arms and he was moving out of
the kitchen.

“Wh-what are you doing?” I asked, lifting my
head to stare at his shadowed profile.

He said nothing but came into color as he
walked through the lit foyer to the stairs.

I said nothing either as he moved us up the
stairs.

We entered my room and he took me right to
the bed. I was jostled as he held me and threw the covers back.
Then I was in bed and the covers were over me but he was leaned
into me, a fist in the bed at either side, his face
super-close.

“Gonna shut down the house. Be back.”

He was going to shut down the house.

And then be back.

He was going to shut down the house and be
back.

I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t want hope
to bud, bloom then die an early death, turning to ash.

I didn’t want him to change his mind.

So I said, “Okay.”

I felt his finger whisper along my collarbone
before he pushed from the bed.

So he
could
touch gently.

I was beside myself with glee that I had that
knowledge.

Beside myself with glee.

Which meant for the first time since John
Priest/Deacon Whoever showed up at my door, I was truly happy.

I knew that was wrong.

But I lay there waiting for him to come back,
and try as I might, I couldn’t stop it from feeling right.

Down to My Bones

Pounding sounded on the door downstairs and I
jerked awake, groggily feeling a hard body under me on which I was
partially draped, partially falling down its side.

I lifted my cheek from warm skin and twisted
my neck, my sleepy eyes finding Priest…no,
Deacon’s
dark,
tousled head resting on my pillows, his slumberous, tawny eyes
aimed down to me.

At the sight of him, I forgot everything
except all that involved him. What happened the night before (or
early that morning). What happened when he came back to my room,
took off his clothes, got in bed, gathered me in his arms, and
didn’t make love to me again but fell asleep like he’d held me
close every night of his life for a decade. And when he fell
asleep, he did it deep, like he slept the sleep of a man content he
had everything he needed.

Since he did that, and likely crashing after
all the drama, not to mention two orgasms, I did it too.

The angry pounding that didn’t quit punctured
my thoughts and I blinked.

I focused on Deacon and whispered, “That
kid’s parents.”

At my words, instantly he wrapped both arms
around me, rolled me to my back, let me go, and rolled the other
way, out of bed.

I saw firm, well-rounded,
unhindered-to-the-eye male ass and blinked again as a tingle shot
between my legs.

Then I saw him bend and snatch up his
jeans.

He did this angrily.

Oh man.

I rolled the other way but he was out the
door before I made it to the closet.

I tugged on jeans (commando), a thermal
henley (also commando, but up top, if that was called commando) and
did this hopping, skipping, and in the end dashing out of the room,
down the hall and down the stairs.

“You’re lucky we haven’t phoned the police,”
I heard an irate man’s voice say and I rushed faster down the last
steps to see Deacon, in his thermal from last night, his jeans on,
feet bare, barring the door.

He was so big I couldn’t see beyond him but I
didn’t need to. I knew who it was.

The threat delivered, Deacon, being Deacon no
matter what you called him, unsurprisingly didn’t reply.

“You put your hands on my son!” The man
snapped.

I arrived at the scene on this ridiculous
accusation and didn’t hesitate to press into Deacon’s side, shoving
myself under his arm that had a hand to his hip. I was vaguely
surprised when he didn’t try to hold me back. But when I had my
position, I straightened and saw the parents, man up front, woman
staring angrily at Deacon behind him, both facing off.

“I was there,” I stated as Deacon shifted but
only to wrap an arm around my shoulders and press me tight to his
side.

I didn’t know what to do with that maneuver
except think that it felt lovely. Even me being short(ish) and him
being tall, standing with him like that felt amazing, like we fit
together perfectly.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t give myself time to
enjoy that feeling.

I had to keep speaking.

“He didn’t touch your son.”

The man had moved his angry glare to me.
“That’s not what my son says.”

“I would care what your son said if you
raised a boy with a smidgeon of decency,” I shot back. “Since you
didn’t, I don’t.”

The man reared back but the woman leaned
forward. “You dare!” she hissed.

“We interrupted an attempted rape,” I
announced.

Both of them reared back at that.

“Yep,” I stated. “They also damaged my
property. I’ll be charging your credit card for that.
Unfortunately, there is no charge for scaring a couple of teenaged
girls half to death and teaching them the hard lesson that there
are extreme assholes in the world or I’d charge you for that too,
give it to them, and encourage a serious shopping spree.”

“You will not charge me an extra dime!” the
man barked.

“I absolutely will,” I snapped back.

He moved forward, aiming mostly toward me, in
other words making a big mistake, doing it saying, “Don’t you
think—”

“Step back,” Deacon growled, shifting
minutely but meaningfully. The man shuddered to a halt and jerked
his gaze to Deacon. “Now,” he finished.

The man stepped back but did it talking. “You
can’t—”

Deacon interrupted him, “I can do whatever
the fuck I want. You’re on property that doesn’t belong to you,
motherfucker. Step the fuck back, calm the fuck down, and realize
that you aren’t dealing with fuckin’ idiots.”

“Your language does not need—”

Deacon cut him off. “I took pictures,
moron.”

The man’s head jerked.

“Yeah,” Deacon continued. “Photos of the mess
and shots of those boys cleaning up that mess. Puke. Booze. Drugs.
Smokes. The damage they caused. I did not touch one of them but
they touched two girls and my woman knows where those girls are.
You think, she saved them from the shit those boys were dishin’ out
last night, they would not back her play if she asked, you’re
fuckin’ wrong. They know they got delivered from a world of hurt
that would haunt them for the rest of their fuckin’ lives, hurt
your punk-ass bitch of a son was open to servin’ up. You lucked
out. They wanted to put it behind them and move on. You drag them
into this, don’t teach your son the lesson he deserves, don’t pay
for the damage he and his buds caused, you’re a punk-ass bitch just
like him.”

I was stunned Deacon could use so many words
all at once.

I also thought Deacon calling that kid, and
his father, a “punk-ass bitch” was pretty hilarious.

“It’s hardly necessary to be insulting,” the
man bit out.

“Man,” Deacon leaned in to the guy, taking me
with him, and wisely, the guy leaned back, “last night, we walked
in on one of your boy’s buds in the middle of trying to
violate
a teenage girl and you don’t think it’s necessary to
be insulting?”

The man shook his head sharply, like he was a
woman brushing her hair off her shoulders. “Obviously, I had no
idea that happened.”

“We just told you,” Deacon returned. “You’ll
get a letter with an invoice but your card is gonna be charged a
thousand extra dollars. Suck it up. Don’t challenge the charge. And
don’t ever come back to Glacier Lily. You with me?”

“Like I’d ever come back to this place,” the
man returned snidely.

“Good you feel that way,” Deacon muttered
before he shifted us back and slammed the door in the man’s
face.

I looked up at him to tell him how awesome
that was, how awesome
he
was, and try my luck with jumping
his bones in my foyer.

I didn’t get even a word out because I saw
the look on Deacon’s face and the words died in my throat.

That look being blank. Void. Emotionless.

We’d just had a scene with two parents. He’d
spent the night with me tucked to his side in my bed. We’d had sex
on my kitchen table. He’d told me how he felt about me (kind
of).

And we were back to this.

Then he lifted both his hands, sliding his
fingers along my jaw and cupping them in his palms, his hands so
big, fingers so long, his fingertips glided into my hair, and he
pressed them into my scalp.

I held my breath as I looked up into his
eyes.

Eyes that were traveling over my features,
still void, still emotionless, but taking me in.

I didn’t move, didn’t speak. I felt he was
taking that time, making a decision, and I wanted him to come to
the right one.

I thought he did when he murmured, “Most
beautiful woman I’ve ever fuckin’ seen.”

I loved that. Flipping
loved
it.

But even as that feeling soared through me, I
would find I was wrong.

I knew it when he let me go.

I pivoted woodenly to watch him saunter to my
stairs and up them.

I stayed there, eyes glued to the stairs,
unmoving so I was in the exact same place when he came back, this
time wearing his boots.

That was when I knew I was right to panic
last night.

I’d lost him.

He’d given me something. Something precious.
Making me not feel like a stupid slut who’d let a stranger fuck her
on the kitchen table then took off after getting off and he did
this by spending the night with me, holding me in his arms.

But that was as much as he had to give.

Honestly?

I was surprised he had that in him.

I was grateful all the same.

That said, it didn’t make me feel the
slightest bit better.

He came to me and did the same thing he did
earlier, except just one hand was cupped to my jaw, fingertips
pressed into my scalp.

I took his touch, wanting more, much,
much
more, and I stared up at him knowing I’d already got
more than Deacon was able to give. I did it also knowing no way
he’d let me be greedy.

It was my turn to let my eyes travel over his
features. Take in his male beauty. Memorize it. Do it knowing that
as crazy as it sounded, I’d never forget him. For reasons I didn’t
know and would never have the opportunity to understand, there
would always be a part of me that would long for him. There would
always be thoughts in the back of my mind plaguing me, haunting me,
making me wonder, if he let me in, even just a little, how it could
have been.

I stopped thinking these thoughts when the
pad of his thumb whispered across my lips.

That was when the tears pricked my eyes.

Because I knew that was when he was going to
let me go.

For always.

No check ins. No Suburban at cabin
eleven.

No John Priest.

No man called Deacon.

I was right this time.

Without a word, his hand dropped from me, he
turned, and walked right out the door.

* * * * *

Late that morning, after I’d made the rounds
with the renters who were still in their cabins to apologize for
the noise that night, Milagros and I stood in cabin six with the
windows and doors open.

We surveyed the space.

“I’ll take the throw blanket with the sheets
to clean,” I muttered.

“I’ll need to shampoo the sofa as well as the
rugs to get out that smell,” she muttered back.

She would. The stench was lingering. We could
air that cabin out for a year and it’d still smell like puke, pot,
smokes, and beer.

“I’ll look on
Craig’s List
but maybe
this weekend you might wanna go with me to that antique place in
Chantelle to look for a new coffee table?” I asked and looked to
her at my side.

She was an inch shorter than me. She had
seven years on me. And it was arguable (me arguing that she did,
her arguing that she didn’t) that she had better hair than me.