by Victoria Sue
“Did you keep in touch?”
Deacon looked ashamed. “No. Everything changed when we got the record deal.”
“But you could now,” Maverick pointed out, feeling quite daring because Deacon had seen his residual and wasn’t too disgusted. In fact, it didn’t appear to be bothering him at all.
“You have to remember, after the accident, a lot of people didn’t want anything to do with me. One lady in an ice cream store isn’t a good cross section of the population.”
Maverick grinned. Deacon sounded so serious sometimes. For someone who was only twenty-four, he seemed older, but then, most twenty-four-year-old’s hadn’t gone through what he had.
“Can you lie on your front?”
Maverick nodded and pulled a pillow down to raise him up a little. He had softened as they were talking, but he knew one touch from Deacon would make him hard again.
Deacon went to the window and closed the blinds to dim the light and carried on talking. “I like using jojoba oil because it doesn’t stain and it’s fragrance-free, but this will have to do.” Maverick heard him rubbing the cream onto his hands. “Where’s the pain? Lower back?” And then he climbed on the bed, which threw Maverick for a second until he realized Deacon simply had to be closer to reach him.
Maverick opened his mouth to reply, but the first touch of Deacon’s fingers silenced him. He’d taken his jeans off and left his boxers on, but for a giddy second, he wished he was naked. He tried to muffle a moan that seemed to come from nowhere as Deacon lightly ran his hands over his skin.
“Take a slow deep breath,” Deacon instructed, and Maverick did. Soon Deacon was sliding his hands up Maverick’s back in a smooth gliding motion. “This is called effleurage,” he said conversationally. “I’m moving my hands in the same direction as blood flowing to your heart and warming up your back muscles.”
Maverick might have answered. He wasn’t sure.
“Now I’m using petrissage techniques.” Deacon moved slowly over his entire back and shoulder area, making small circular movements with his hands that seemed to make Mav’s body feel really heavy, and his breaths grew easier and slower. Deacon was talking, murmuring quietly, and Maverick was starting to drift.
Maybe I’ve died. He must have. Maverick had never especially been religious, but somehow, he must have earned himself a slice of heaven. Deacon started lightly tapping on his back and explained they were percussive strokes.
Maverick didn’t care. He could call them whatever the hell he liked, so long as he didn’t stop. Deacon added more lotion to his hands. “This is called a tapotement technique.” And Maverick felt nimble fingers almost walking up his spine. He did groan then, a deep sound of contentment he couldn’t have held back if his life depended on it. He heard the smile in Deacon’s voice.
“That good? Just relax. Feel free to fall asleep if you want to.”
Maverick mumbled something that might have been words, but they had passed through his brain so fleetingly, he wasn’t sure what they were. Deacon changed position and started sliding his hands widthways in opposite direction. They met briefly in the middle, then slid away to each side. “I can’t use the fanning technique because I can’t get above your head, so I’m going to move to your legs. Turn over.”
There was a pause. “Mav, turn over.”
Maverick groaned. He wasn’t sure he might not have fallen asleep there for a few seconds. Zoned out, certainly. He barely opened his eyes as he shuffled onto his back, but the feel of Deacon’s hands pushing the material of his shorts up woke him up a little. Woke him up all over.
Then Deacon moved back and had his hands on his foot. Maverick jerked slightly. “Are you ticklish?” Deacon chuckled.
“A little,” Maverick admitted and shut his eyes again, not daring to look him in the face. He felt exposed. At least on his front, Deacon hadn’t had to look at his scars.
“Shh,” Deacon murmured soothingly, which made Maverick wonder if he’d said his thought out loud, but he was soon relaxed again as the firm fingers treated his foot with the same care his back had gotten. Maverick felt the bed dip as Deacon climbed on again so he could reach higher up Mav’s calf. “Will your residual hurt?”
Mav shook his head, staying mute. It wasn’t his residual he was worried about. Deacon used long, gentle strokes up and down the side of his calf, and soon Maverick was relaxed again. “I’m going to make scooping passes up and down your thighs to stimulate your muscles.”
Maverick had a second to process what Deacon meant, and the first touch of his hands on the inside of Maverick’s thigh made him gasp. He opened his eyes and caught both Deacon’s wrists with his hands. The silence settled in the room. Maverick shook his head in apology. He only had so much control.
Deacon’s eyes narrowed, but he pulled back, and Maverick let him go. “I don’t know what you thought was going to happen, but contrary to popular belief, gays have as much control as the next person.” He straightened and wiped his hands on the towel. “Take your time. The food will be ready in around half an hour.”
And then without giving Maverick a chance to correct him, Deacon slipped out of the door, and Maverick heard him jogging downstairs. Shit. Mav had offended him. But he hadn’t meant to. How could he explain he wasn’t worried about Deacon’s self-control but his own?
By being honest?
Maverick took a breath and reached for his leg. It was probably time. He just wasn’t sure what good that would do either of them.
Chapter Eight
DEACON DIDN’T know whether to be angry or just feel sorry for the guy. He was so sexually inexperienced, he’d still been a virgin before he went to college. He might have made up for it a little then, but when the band had gotten together, it had suddenly been so much more difficult. Because of their contract and their image, Deacon had pretty much stayed alone for the time they had performed together. Not that the other boys being straight had made it any easier. They were all so terrified they were going to screw things up, they lived like monks. And afterward, he had so many greater problems than his love life, or lack of it.
Deacon took a cloth and pulled the casserole dish with the chicken breasts out of the oven to check they were ready, poured the sauce all over them, and then put them back to finish cooking. He grabbed the salad from the refrigerator and put a couple of potatoes in the microwave. He quickly put some silverware and glasses of water on the table, took a steadying breath, and turned around to face Maverick. He’d heard him come downstairs and into the kitchen.
“I didn’t stop you because I thought you had a problem. I stopped you because I seem to have very little self-control when it comes to you.”
Deacon stilled. Was Maverick saying what he thought he was? “I’m not some experiment.” He’d come across that in college.
Mav looked surprised and took a step back. “No, you’re not. What you are, though, is a client, and very much off-limits. You’re in a bad place at the moment, and I don’t want to put you in a worse one.” Mav leaned against the counter. “I had to stop you up there before I embarrassed myself,” he admitted. “You have very talented hands.”
Deacon smiled. Maverick had no idea the effect he had on him. But he was right. He would never admit it, but his own self-control had wobbled some up there. “Hungry?”
“Starving.” Maverick inhaled appreciatively.
“The sauce is just out of a jar,” Deacon said, hoping for a compliment, which was so not like him.
“Stop fishing,” Maverick scolded.
They ate in companionable silence. Deacon was mollified to see Maverick eat everything and have what was left. Maverick stood up, holding his plate, but Deacon stopped him. “I know the rule about cleaning up if you didn’t cook, but you were going to call Jamie and Charlie.” He looked at the clock. Mav followed his gaze and nodded. Deacon watched him walk out of the room and gave himself a mental pat on the back when Mav seemed to move easier.
It took barely a few minutes t
o clear up, and he filled the coffeepot. He could hear Maverick from the other room, but wanting to give him some semblance of privacy, he stayed where he was until he heard quiet, and then he poured out the coffee and carried it into the small room Maverick liked.
Maverick looked up from where he sat on the couch. “Jamie’s going to make some calls and get back to me.” He smiled. “I have to visit, and you have to come with me.”
“Me?” Deacon nearly inhaled his coffee instead of swallowing it.
Maverick sobered a little. “I told her I’m going to the car dealer tomorrow, and she wants to meet the person who has kicked my ass into gear.”
Deacon sipped his coffee. “I’m a good driver.” Didn’t he feel safe with Deacon?
Maverick acknowledged him with a tip of his head. “But you needed a break today, and I should have been able to step in.” Mav paused as if he was trying to decide if that was a joke or not and smiled ruefully. He glanced down at his knee, and Deacon followed his gaze. Mav was wearing shorts, Deacon realized, and he would bet anything that was significant. He’d never seen Maverick in anything but cargo pants and sweats, and he was thrilled if Maverick had managed to relax a little around him. They both sipped their coffee, so when the question did come out of his mouth, it took him as much by surprise as it did Mav. “How did you get hurt?”
Mav’s eyebrows rose, as if the question surprised him. “I was a helicopter pilot, and we were evac’ing US charity workers outside of Mogadishu after rebels were trying to overrun their compound. We weren’t supposed to be getting involved, leaving it to the locals, but they overwhelmed us pretty quickly, and we had to move.”
He stopped, and Deacon searched his face. Why had he asked? But he knew why.
“It was chaos. The locals were running to the helicopter, but we wouldn’t have been able to get everyone in. Even if I dumped some gear, we couldn’t have gotten more than twelve in at the most. Cass was trying to sort it, and I turned just as this teenager ran toward us. I remember one of the aid workers screaming, but it was as if I couldn’t hear her. I always thought it was before the explosion, but the screaming could have been after.” He shrugged. “Seven people died, including five aid workers and the teenager. He was the bomber. I lived because I was in the cockpit.”
He said it so matter-of-factly, but Deacon heard the pain in his voice loud and clear. He saw Maverick glance toward a picture above the fireplace. It was obviously Maverick, but he wondered who the other two were and if they were still alive. His eyes narrowed a little as he glanced at the photo. “That’s the cop,” he said. “Officer Chaplin.” They all looked so young and vital. Maverick was stunning. Whoever had taken the picture had captured such a carefree moment as they all shared a joke.
“Yep, that’s me, Cass, and Charlie. Cass and I trained together. Charlie joined us for two tours, but he left when his time was up because he had problems at home with his girlfriend.”
“And Cass?”
Maverick shook his head. “Killed in the blast.”
Deacon glanced back at the picture. Cass and Maverick were in flight suits; he thought they were supposed to be flame-retardant, but he guessed they wouldn’t protect his face. “Your friend looked surprised to see you.”
“And me him. He lived in Toledo, and as far as I knew, he went back there. I had no idea he’d moved to Atlanta.”
“Maybe you can catch up. Did you talk to him?”
“He’s working now, but he’s going to call me tomorrow.”
“My interview is at eleven.” And he so needed this job.
“Doing?”
“Audio narration.” Deacon met Maverick’s eyes. The room seemed hot, or maybe it was just the look he was getting. Deacon stood up. “I noticed some books in the dining room. Mind if I borrow one? It’s ridiculously early, but I’m beat, and I thought I’d read.”
He tried to tell himself the look he got was regretful as he left even though he knew Maverick had been right. It had been true what he told Maverick about him going a little wild when he got to college, but his three partners had all been the result of alcohol-induced attraction and simple availability. None of them had been looking for any other commitment, and he guessed at eighteen or nineteen, that was about right.
He’d briefly toyed with becoming a counselor for a while, and he’d done enough reading to make the leap between his lack of a loving home and his need for a connection. Deacon grabbed a couple of books and returned to go upstairs. The door to Maverick’s living room was closed now.
The biggest regret of his life was he could never return the care Mikey had shown him. So many wasted years because he had been selfish. He’d apologized over and over to Mikey when they had finally met, but when he’d seen him for the first time after so long, he had chuckled and called him Squirt like he always had done. It had seemed so much more recent than six years ago.
“You were a kid,” Mikey soothed.
“So were you.” They were silent for a while. “What are you doing now?”
“Security.” He patted his pocket, and Deacon’s eyes widened. He had a gun? Mikey chuckled again. “Met any nice boys here, then?”
Deacon gaped at him. “How did you know?” He’d been twelve when Mikey had gone.
Mikey shrugged. “I’m not wrong, though?”
Deacon shook his head, suddenly wondering if he should have denied it.
“It’s no big deal, so long as you’re careful.” He raised a brow. “Do I need to have a safe-sex talk with you?”
Deacon must have turned crimson, and Michael grinned, but then he seemed to get serious. “I mean it. It’s cool, you’re having fun, and you’re way too sensible not to get gloved up, but I didn’t mean just that.”
Deacon frowned. “What did you mean, then?”
“I mean, you’re a one-woman—sorry, one-man guy. You’ve been like that all your life. You had one friend that you hung on to for all you were worth. Remember Tim?”
Deacon nodded. He’d been devastated when his friend had moved away. They’d been inseparable all through kindergarten and up to fourth grade. Then Tim’s mom and dad had gotten divorced, and he’d moved out of state. Mikey had caught Deacon crying so many times. He’d thought his world was ending.
“We may be free of them both, but we still carry that shit around every day.”
Deacon had understood Mikey meant their parents. He even understood Mikey was probably right. He’d just never applied it to Mikey and tried to understand what demons were following him around. The day he’d found out about Molly, he felt like the world was giving him a second chance to get it right with his brother. To make it up to him.
He was going to get this job tomorrow, and he’d give Shirley a call and see if there was any chance of some voice-over work. Audiobooks were huge at the moment, and everyone had told him to give them a try. He could always use another name, but Shirley had hinted that when enough time had passed, curiosity might make people give him a second chance.
He’d dismissed it at the time because he didn’t think he deserved it, but if he was ever to have the chance of giving Molly a home….
Woah. Give Molly a home?
He went over the events of the morning. He’d seen no signs that Molly was deprived or abused. She had everything money could buy. But he hadn’t seen love. And what if Maverick was right? What if his mom was still drinking? If he got himself together, maybe he could get the court to increase the visits and be trusted to have her on his own. His lawyer had said Michael’s wishes normally would hold sway, and he’d encouraged him to fight, but at the time, he’d genuinely believed Molly deserved better than him.
Now he wasn’t sure.
THE NEXT morning, Deacon was awake before dawn, which wasn’t surprising as he was pretty sure he’d been asleep before eight. He took his time getting showered and dressed. The door to Maverick’s room was still closed as he crept downstairs, and he decided to make some coffee and email Shirley before he thought about bre
akfast and what he was going to wear for his interview.
He had three changes of clothes he’d managed to save from the apartment, but his black jeans were clean, and he had a cream shirt that would pair well. He was on his second coffee, and he still hadn’t heard Maverick stir when he decided to make fresh coffee and take some in to him.
Deacon knocked carefully, and when he was met with silence, he gingerly pushed the door open. One look at the room told Deacon exactly why he hadn’t heard from Mav this morning. The room was dark, but the nearly empty bottle of Jack next to the tumbler with some dregs in it told Deacon that Mav wouldn’t be stirring anytime soon.
So much for my bodyguard.
Maverick grunted and tried to roll over. It looked awkward as hell, and he flung his arm out just as Deacon was going to close the door. The glass shattered as it hit the wooden floor, and Maverick jerked upright. “The fuck?”
Deacon met Maverick’s wide eyes for a second, then went to get the brush and pan he’d seen in the kitchen.
Maverick was sitting up with his head in his hands and glanced over at Deacon ruefully when he came back into the room. His leg was on the floor. “I’ll do that,” he said immediately, but Deacon pointed to the mug.
“Drink your coffee first.”
It took a couple of minutes to sweep everything up. Maverick picked up his phone and squinted at it. “Charlie says he will call around after one.”
Deacon picked up the bottle of Jack and started screwing the top on. Maverick’s warm hand wrapped around his wrist. “Empty it down the sink.”
“What?” It wasn’t a cheap brand.
“I didn’t realize how much I’d been drinking until the last couple of days without it,” Maverick admitted. “I thought I could have one glass last night.” He met Deacon’s eyes. “I was lying to myself. It needs to go.”
“Then you need to do it,” Deacon said firmly. It had to be Maverick’s decision. Exactly the same way he had reached his own. The night before he had met Michael for the first time in six years had been the last time Deacon had taken a drink, and he didn’t miss it at all.