Deacon

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

  Chapter Five

  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 ba
ck, 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.

  She looked to me. “Manuel can sand that down and refinish it.”

  I moved my gaze to the coffee table. I liked that coffee table. In fact, I’d found it at the antique place in Chantelle and thanked my lucky stars, it was so cool, in such good nick, and so cheap.

  Not to mention, Manuel wouldn’t charge me a thousand dollars to refinish it so I could pocket the rest and that wouldn’t suck.

  I looked back to Milagros. “That’d be awesome.”

  She grinned and replied, “I’ll ask him to come after work and get it tonight. But it might take him past the weekend to get it back to you.”

  That worked for me and I told her so. “That’s okay. This cabin is booked next week but if he’s not finished with it, I’ll bring down my coffee table from the house to act as a stand in.”

  She nodded and grinned at me.

  I gave her a mini-grin (which was all I had in me after the events of last night and this morning) and moved to the pile of sheets on the couch that we’d pulled off the beds. The comforters and shams were in another pile. I’d come back later to get them in order to launder them with a shed load of fabric softener in hopes of obliterating the smoke smell.

  She was headed for the carpet shampooing machine while I headed to the door, saying, “Come by the house for a cup before you go.”

  “Cassidy?” she called as response.

  I stopped at the door and looked at her to see her gaze was on me, kind but assessing.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  Milagros. The mother of five children, the loving wife of a good man, both meaning she could read people easily.

  And she read me because I wasn’t. I’d had my heart broken by a stranger. I didn’t know how that happened. I just knew that it did.

  I actually didn’t know how I was moving, standing, and breathing instead of lying in bed sobbing.

  But since I was, I was going with it.

  I could fall apart tonight, when I was alone in my bed (again) and nothing needed to get done until tomorrow.

  “I’m just tired,” I answered, luckily with the truth. Just not all of it. “There was a lot of drama last night and I didn’t get much sleep.”

  She nodded then told me, “Manuel worries, you being here alone.”

  He, apparently, wasn’t the only one and that didn’t just include John Priest/Deacon Whoever, but by the look on her face, Milagros.

  “I’ve been doing this for six years, honey,” I reminded her.

  She let me have it all when she replied quietly, “We just worry.”

  “I’ll be okay.” I forced a grin. “I’m a tough broad.”

  She grinned back but I knew she wasn’t committed to it, just like me.

  For me, I was heartbroken.

  For Milagros, she didn’t like what went down last night and Manuel, being a dude with three daughters and two sons who shared during my frequent dinners at their house that he’d kicked around for a while so he knew how the world could fuck you (though he didn’t use those words), would like it less.

  Then she said, “You need to take a night. Manuel and I’ll come; you go out with your girls.”

  She was right. I did need to take a night, call some friends, and plan something not Glacier Lily related.

  Though, that something wouldn’t have the normal girl talk that should include, say, your story about the man who somehow managed to steal into your heart over six years then he broke it in one night.

  In fact, I’d never tell them about Deacon. I’d never tell anyone about Deacon. Not just because I didn’t know what to say because I didn’t understand why I was feeling all I was feeling, but because I knew down to my soul he wouldn’t want me to breathe a word about him to anybody.

  That was the last thing I had to give him, I was going to give it.

  “I’ll let you know,” I said to Milagros.

  “That’d be good,” she replied.

  I tucked the sheets close and gave her a small wave.

  She waved back and turned to the machine.

  I walked the sheets up to my shed, where there was a large industrial washer and dryer that I used to do the laundry for the cabins. I shoved the sheets in, filled the detergent and fabric softener slots to the max, squirted in the gel bleach, and set it to going.

  Then I went to my house, sucking in a breath and holding it as I opened my door, eyes to the ground, sure I’d see the key to cabin eleven there.

  Deacon’s Suburban was gone when I’d walked down to the cabins, which meant Deacon was gone. But he wouldn’t leave without giving me back my key. And if I were him, I’d avoid me doing it, as in, wait until I left the house before shoving it through the slot and disappearing forever.

  My breath came out in a soft gush when I saw there was no key.

  He’d told me when he’d checked in that he was going to be here for five days.

  He couldn’t mean to stay the whole visit after all that had gone down.

  Could he?

  And if he did, would that mean in a month or three or eight he’d come back and take us back to the way we were? I’d see him at check in, he’d shove his key though the slot as his way of checking out?

  He’d said we’d
changed.

  Now I was wondering what that meant.

  But I couldn’t think about that. Thinking about that would drive me crazy. Or to the bourbon. Or to bed to sob myself to oblivion and I had stuff to do and comforters to clean.

  I had to think of other things and luckily I ran my own business so I had a bazillion other things to think about.

  I dealt with about five of those, namely checking e-mails, confirming bookings that came in, handling my calendar, dealing with a cancellation, and looking up the phone number to Vista Real Condos.

  I called it and asked to be put through to Annabelle and Peyton’s unit, just to see if they were okay. Reception rang me through but there was no answer.

  I disconnected, deciding not to leave a voicemail and instead get in my Rover and drive there to check on them in person.

  I made this decision when a knock came on the door.

  I looked toward the foyer.

  It couldn’t be Milagros. Shampooing rugs and furniture took forever and the woman was a neat freak. Although the boys cleaned that cabin, she’d go over it again until you could eat off the floors.

  Maybe it was another renter or someone who saw the sign and pulled in, thinking correctly: a night at Glacier Lily was just the thing. This didn’t happen often, I mostly rented through bookings, but it happened.

  I pulled myself out of the chair, walked into the foyer, and stopped dead.

  This was because I could see Deacon’s big body in my front door window silhouetted by the late morning sun behind him and partially obscured by my filmy curtains.

  My heart pulsed hard in my chest and my mind was warring with being annoyed he was dragging this crap out (and I didn’t know him but that didn’t seem very…him) and being overjoyed that I’d see him one last time.

  Leave it to Deacon to check out in person the only time I wouldn’t want him to do just that.

  I pulled myself together, walked to the door, unlocked it, opened it, and looked up into his impassive but impossibly good-looking face, wishing in that second he’d taken me on the table with the lights on so I could watch him do it.

  I did all this opening my mouth to say something.

  I again got nothing out.

  He moved into me and I was forced to move back.