“That’s not how it was . . . not for me,” he said, dropping his head. “I made a bunch of mistakes, especially that first weekend . . . I fucked up. Dealing is what I did to piss off my asshole parents. I never wanted you involved in any of it. Not you, not ever. You were the only good thing in my life. I was better . . . when I was with you.”
“Better? Deacon Giroux, the king of high school?” She shook her head. “The drugs were always first. I don’t want to be around that life and those kinds of people . . . no matter what I may still feel.” Her voice caught on the last word.
“I’ll take the ‘may,’” Deacon said quietly, almost to himself, hope flooding his body. That damn hope.
“I’m lost. What’s going on?” Toby said, scratching his head.
Deacon moved closer to Hannah. “I’ve already promised myself . . . after everything I’ve been through down here . . . the people who have died because of me . . . that if I ever survive this, I’ll give up dealing for good. I don’t want this kind of life anymore . . . not ever.”
Hannah studied his face. Her lips began to tremble; she covered her nose and mouth with her hands.
He cautiously touched her shoulders, turning her toward him. “I’d rather push a broom . . . fix a street light . . . anything but this. I want to build things, not break people apart. Please, Hannah.”
He reached down for her hand. She followed his touch and met his fingertips with hers, ever so lightly. The electricity from her body traveled into his forearm and elbow, and throughout his body. She lit him up from within; he could hardly contain his exquisite joy.
Neither of them moved.
She tilted her head up, revealing those unguarded eyes of hers, emerald pools on the verge of breaking. The depth of her sadness struck something inside of him.
“I’m sorry for what I did. I don’t deserve you.” He dropped her hand.
CHAPTER 49
“WHO’D YOU CALL JUST THEN?” TOBY ASKED AS HE WALKED into the kitchen from the patio, leaving Hannah outside. She hadn’t said anything to either of them since she and Deacon touched hands.
“Just my ever-present camera crew. Eastman Kodak, heard of them?”
Toby crinkled his nose and began opening kitchen cabinets. “Your Miss Ida got any food around here?”
“And who are you?”
Both boys’ heads whipped toward the tiny woman in the oversized cardigan and bright orange hair. She spoke with a clipped tone, though her eyes were gentle and kind.
“Sorry, Miss Ida,” Deacon said. “My brother stopped by for a visit. Your sister and your lady friends called and are on their way over for sewing group.”
“Good, put some more chairs out in the living room.”
Holding on to the counter, she shuffled over to Toby. She wrinkled up her face as she gazed at him. “You’re a big boy! I see the family resemblance. So where’s your lady friend?”
“Outside still,” Deacon said, watching Hannah through the kitchen window.
“You’re going, then?” She squinted at Deacon. “I sure enjoyed hearing the soap opera going on outside my window. It was better than my stories on television, I tell you!”
“I should have said something to you before . . .”
She waved him off. “Paul always knew it was some convoluted story that brought you here.” She smiled through soft, wet eyes. “I miss my Paulie, that big galoot . . . every day.” She sealed her lips together when Deacon placed a hand on her shoulder. “Fix our martini pitcher before you go, will you? Chill the glasses first. Olives . . . here, use this jar. Don’t be chintzy like last time!”
She then turned to Toby. “What are you staring at? The ladies are going to need chairs . . . go!”
Hannah sat in the front with Toby on the drive back to Connecticut. It bothered Deacon big time the way they interacted, his brother teasing about her map reading skills and her joking about Toby’s constant need for another drive-thru or bathroom break. He watched them through gritted teeth.
He may not deserve Hannah, but he’d be damned if he was going to let Toby have her.
He closed his eyes, not wanting to witness her grinning at his brother yet again. These two had clearly formed a sort of bond while he’d been in Miami. Hannah also seemed to quell the nervous energy right out of his brother. Maybe Toby was more normal than he thought. Or, worse, maybe he was secretly in love with her.
Deacon longed for sleep, but found himself wanting to hear her voice.
If it hadn’t been for her coolness toward him, combined with his nagging guilt and self hatred, he would have pulled her into the Stingray’s back compartment with him and never let her go.
He told himself that he needed to wait. The danger was far from over. Chalfont’s henchmen could be in any passing car. He lay low in the cramped space, not wanting to risk anything. He hadn’t come this far, made all these sacrifices to protect her, just to lose her again.
He woke with a start as the Stingray entered the exit ramp. The sun was well up in the sky. Toby had driven through the night.
He untwisted his aching neck from the ledge he’d used as a pillow. It had been a long time since he’d been in the back of that car. He’d hidden there sometimes as a child, curled up under a blanket behind the driver’s seat when his father commuted to work, so he could surprise Brenda, Toby’s mother, who was also his father’s campaign secretary. His fingers trailed over the initials he’d etched in the back of the driver’s side seat, D+B. Brenda had been his first crush.
“Again?” Hannah yawned toward Toby, stretching her arms overhead like she’d dozed off too. She glanced back at Deacon. Their eyes locked for a millisecond before she turned away.
“Yep, that Coke went right through me. Want anything?” Toby asked her, then peered into the rearview mirror, “D?”
“Fine,” Deacon replied curtly. He hated this.
Hannah got out and released her seat forward. She leaned against the car with her arms slung across her chest.
Deacon stood slowly, unfolding each of his long limbs and ducking his head as he rose out of the car.
“Are you even going to look at me?”
“Why? Thought you’d died again back there,” she said motioning to the trunk.
“Ouch.” He rested his body over the hood stretching his back.
“A lot has happened in eight months, you haven’t a clue.”
“Tell me,” he said facing her. “I want to know.”
“My family . . . my mom . . . I dated a couple of guys,” she said without looking at him.
“I knew you would.”
“Some messed up things happened.”
“Do I need to take anyone out?”
“I don’t need you to protect me.”
“I know, I can see that.”
“I don’t need a boyfriend to save me. I can handle things on my own. I can see through my parents’ shit and figure out what I need.”
Toby strolled up the path looking rather pleased with himself, his shirt half out of his shorts, his hands holding a large to-go bag and a drink the size of a Big Gulp. He slowed his pace when he saw them talking and watched while he took long sips of soda.
“I’m trying really hard not to pull you into my arms. It’s killing me.”
“Don’t,” she said, her eyes cold.
“Hannah, I don’t want to waste another minute. I don’t know how much time I have. It’s too long of a story. I’m relieved to finally be out of that hellhole . . . seeing you gave me the courage to finally get out of there. Thank you for that.”
She nodded, unable to meet his gaze.
“I thought I was going to die in Miami before you and Toby showed up. And now I don’t know what I’m going to do. Once the cartel knows my story, where I’m from, it’s only a matter of time. You won’t want to be with me when that happens. I’m never going to be at peace. The people I ratted out, their families, and the other cartels will be coming for my head forever. I’ll always be watching ove
r my shoulder.”
“Xavier Coyne will be hunted, not Deacon Giroux,” Hannah said, lifting her curls off her neck. She dropped them back onto her shoulders and sighed.
“I don’t know who that is anymore,” he said quietly, eyeing a rogue ringlet.
Hannah and Toby exchanged a look.
“We’ll figure it out,” Toby said to him. “Wanna sip?”
CHAPTER 50
THE THREE OF THEM GOT BACK INTO TOWN AFTER midnight. They rented a motel room outside of Darien and fell asleep as soon as their heads hit the pillow.
Deacon was the first one up in the morning. He’d spent most of the night watching Hannah sleep in the bed next to him. She hadn’t invited him to join her. He didn’t know what he was going to do or if he would be able to leave her again.
At the first crack of sunlight, he stealthily grabbed the car keys on the table next to Toby’s head and slipped out of the room. Time to resurrect.
He drove along the familiar streets to his parents’ neighborhood, all the while feeling like he’d aged a couple of years. He entered the garage code. The electronic screen on the keypad flashed another error message after his third attempt. Shit, they changed it.
The humid August morning pricked the little hairs at the back of his neck. Each released breath felt warmer than the next. His hands itched with moisture punching in the numbers again. The screen locked up, refusing further entries. He’d become an outsider. The thought unnerved him.
I’m a Giroux, dammit.
He moved to try another door on the side of the house; then, out of nowhere, the garage door electronically opened.
Deacon glanced back at Toby’s red Camaro coming up the long drive. Where was that car hiding?
He stepped inside the garage without wasting another minute. It smelled of car polish and leather conditioner. Its black-and-white floor tiles were pristine as ever under Kings-ley’s assortment of colorful vintage cars. A few more had joined the collection. However, there was only one he wanted to see.
As a kid, he’d admired his father’s buttercream ’56 Cadillac Fleetwood Coupe De Ville—especially its hood ornament with the flags and tiny ducklings—three legless martlets on either side of the family crest of Antoine de la Mothe Cadillac, the founder of the city of Detroit.
His fingertips brushed over the tiny ducklings, just like they had years earlier. Geez, I’m an idiot, he thought, for not recognizing that damn emblem sooner.
He stared at the door that led into the house. An immovable weight sat upon his chest at the idea of coming back from the dead and seeing his parents after all this time. It’s game time.
He opened the door and stepped inside. What the . . . ? The house had been utterly transformed. The once dark walls and moldings had been repainted in shades of cream. The mahogany wood floors now sported a whitewash finish, making the grand foyer appear more spacious. The huge pedestal table with the clawed feet groped a beige oriental rug instead of the blood-red one. The most dramatic change was the mirrored ceiling, which lent itself to more of a Studio 54 than a country club vibe. Everywhere the air felt lighter and more modern.
I die and she redecorates?
The sensation of sharp claws swiping his back stopped him cold in front of the table of family pictures. Each one featured his parents and Toby’s clueless, hopeful face. The same press pictures he’d once taken with them.
You think you can erase me?
He choked back the golf ball growing in his throat and turned down the hallway with renewed vengeance. The smell of his mother’s floral perfume floating through the corridor nearly destroyed his nerve.
A couple of steps from the parlor, his chest fell to a buried pain he hadn’t succumbed to in a long time. He turned and locked eyes with his mother, who was seated on the settee with one of her paperback romances on her lap. Several seconds volleyed between them, the silence strangling every molecule in the room.
“Shit!” Babette finally exclaimed, slamming the book closed in her lap. Her eyes filled with fire as she stomped her pumps on the floor like an angry child.
“Hello, Mother, good to see you, too. From your reaction, I guess you’ve known all this time,” he said hoarsely, his emotions taking him by surprise. He leaned against the door-frame, not trusting his wobbly legs.
“Of course I did. You think I’m stupid?”
“Geez, missed you too.”
“Why are you here . . . and what’s with that hair?” she snarled.
“Blond and back from the dead,” he said, crossing his arms. The hollows of his cheeks caved in from clenching his teeth.
“You shouldn’t be here. We buried you in the family plot. If people in this town find out you’re alive, we’ll look like fools! You’ll create a scandal, one your father—we—cannot afford!”
He rolled his eyes. “Oh, Babs, I’d be glad to tell them everything. You’ll probably lose your membership at the country club, the yacht club, and at the Four Seasons. Really like what you’ve done with the house . . . especially the new family pictures. That worked out for you, huh? Adding a murderer to the family unit.”
“That damn kid couldn’t hit the side of a barn! You being here is only going to complicate things. We don’t need two of you.”
“There’s a quota, nice. What exactly did you bury, Mother?”
“At least this bastard doesn’t want anything from me . . . he’s not needy like you.”
“That’s because he already has a mother . . . a wonderful one at that.”
“That whore? Oh, please.”
“Hell, if I were married to you, I’m sure I’d find a number of women I’d rather sleep with than—”
Babette sprang from the couch, her taloned hand spread like a lion’s paw, and struck him hard across the face. His head jerked back. Then he grabbed her wrist, making her wince.
“Ungrateful son of a bitch,” she spat.
He tightened his grasp, and she grimaced more. “Got that right, bitch.” He dropped her arm and took several steps backward, his eyes daring her to do it again. He sensed the presence of someone in the hallway and ignored it. He’d come this far and couldn’t stop now.
“What, you can’t figure out a way to make money off of me, too? Two sons have to be worth more . . . get all the sympathy you want. Poor Babs.”
“You had a very expensive burial. I paid big to keep things private.”
“What did you have them bury?”
She folded her arms and lifted her chest. “I just made sure the family name looked good.”
“What . . . across my tombstone? Didn’t you wonder where I went? Worry I’d been kidnapped?”
“Nope. You weren’t my problem anymore . . . still aren’t.”
“Like when you left me at six years old to live with that sadistic, sick asshole? Good ole Pierre. When I wouldn’t play his dirty games, he’d hold me down and burn me with his cigar.”
Babette’s face went white. Her hands pressed to her sides.
Chills climbed up Deacon’s shoulders. He grabbed her wrist again, this time jerking her palm open. “Just like he did to you, didn’t he?”
“Shut your mouth, you’re disgusting.” Babette pulled back her hand, covering it protectively.
“God, who haven’t you slept with, Mother? Who’s really the whore?”
“What the hell is going on?” Kingsley strode into the room with a teacup and saucer in his hands. His outstretched pinky dropped at the sight of Deacon. “My God . . . it’s not possible.”
Deacon cocked his head, his eyes narrowing. His father, dressed in a khaki-colored silk Armani suit with matching monochromatic pocket square and tie, had never appeared more dapper or self-assured, his leading-man features more handsome. He was nothing like the “father in mourning” Deacon had expected to find.
“You knew, as well,” Deacon said softly, the familiar pain spreading through him. “Both of you did. Do you even know what happened to me down in Miami?”
His father r
ested his teacup on the large ivory credenza next to him. He casually stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets like a spectator at a polo match and stared up at him with a practiced blank expression.
Babette lowered herself onto the settee, her book falling to the ground. “Kingsley, you knew all this time?” she said tentatively, her fingers finding her pearls as her lips commenced their silent mantra.
They both knew I was alive and didn’t tell one another?
His father licked his lips. He shifted his weight forward in an attempt to meet his son’s full height. “Yes . . . yes, I did. I signed the papers,” he said, leaving his southern drawl out on the table.
“What papers . . . his death certificate?” Babette laughed snootily like she was holding court at Bridge Club.
Kingsley slipped his long fingers into his breast pocket and pulled out a key. He unlocked one of the sideboard’s drawers and withdrew what Deacon had feared.
His father’s face held the hint of a smile as he waved a manila envelope with the crest of his Cadillac Car Club— legless martlets and all. He cleared his throat like he was giving a speech. “Here’s my copy . . . agreeing for you to be an informant for the U.S. Drug Enforcement Administration.”
“When did you do this? When I was still seventeen?” Deacon said in disbelief.
“Meet Xavier Coyne,” announced Toby, appearing in the doorway.
All three spun around and stared at him. Deacon couldn’t decipher his brother’s tone. Had Toby switched his loyalty back to his parents? He couldn’t think about that now.
He stepped toward Kingsley, lacing his fingers together and bringing his thumbs to his lips in a last-ditch prayer. “You helped them take me away?” he asked, the stinging tears unavoidable now. “But why?”
“They needed your help to catch a few people . . . it was the right thing to do.” His father meandered to the bar and began pouring himself a bourbon. It was still morning. He didn’t seem to care.
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