by Victoria Sue
Maverick nodded, then glanced at his phone. “We have plenty of time. I’ll get ready, and then we’ll go for some breakfast before your interview.”
Deacon smiled. “I have a better idea. I’ll make us breakfast while you’re in the shower, and we can go to the car dealer before my interview instead.” Deacon tried and knew he had failed to keep the challenge out of his voice, but Maverick held his gaze in silent agreement.
He understood. Of course he did. But Mav seemed so strong, and maybe Deacon’s problems were giving him the focus he needed. There had been a couple of times where Mav had made a decision for him, and it wasn’t that Deacon wasn’t either capable or a doormat, but maybe somehow, they had found a way to help each other.
Deacon heard the knock at the door twenty minutes later before Maverick had come back into the kitchen, and he dried his hands and walked into the hallway just in time to see Maverick letting in Detective Phan. Maverick shook hands with him and led him into the kitchen. Deacon wasn’t especially surprised to see him, and he hoped they might have some news on what had happened to Manny.
He put a black coffee down in front of the detective and glanced over at Maverick. He looked a million times better than when Deacon saw him less than an hour ago. He waited until Maverick glanced his way, wanting to share the memory, but when he did, all trace of humor vanished. Maverick’s eyes glinted, and his normally easy smile had gone. Deacon glanced at Phan, wondering if he had missed him saying something, but the cold in the detective’s expression sent a shiver down Deacon’s spine.
“What’s happened?” Maverick asked.
Phan gave no indication the question surprised him. “At 7:00 a.m. this morning, fire trucks and EMTs responded to a neighbor’s call about a fire at 1173 Wickham Avenue.”
Deacon shared a confused look with Maverick. He was no wiser.
“The home was ablaze when we got there and completely impossible for the fire crew to enter. After it was successfully extinguished, a body was recovered. We won’t have a definite identification until the MEs have looked at her—”
“Her?” Deacon picked up on the word right away.
“It’s an assumption based on the car in the driveway and the homeowner.”
“What has it got to do with me?” Deacon asked. He wasn’t stupid, and this definitely wasn’t a social call.
“Because we think the body is Sara Jeffries.”
Deacon heard the next words through a fog and felt himself being lowered to a seat, and he grasped the arm wrapped around him. Maverick. The room came back into focus along with Phan’s worried face. Maverick was at his side, but he pulled out the other chair and sat down, never letting go of Deacon. He concentrated on Phan’s gray eyes because if he looked at Maverick he might cry, and he knew Maverick would let him. It was all he could do to concentrate on what the detective had said.
“And you can’t be sure?” Deacon managed to get out.
Phan sighed. “It’s an educated guess. And I have to ask if you can provide an alibi for yesterday. Ms. Jeffries’s last known whereabouts was at her office when she told colleagues she was leaving to follow up on a story at ten yesterday morning.”
“He was with me yesterday all day,” Maverick confirmed.
“And last night?”
The hesitation was obvious, and Deacon jumped in. “I went to bed at eight. No one can vouch for me after that.”
Phan looked over at Maverick for confirmation. “If Mr. Daniels had gone out, would you have heard him?”
Deacon recognized the torturous look Maverick sent him. He doubted if a helicopter landing would have brought Maverick out of his drunken stupor. He knew it, and Maverick knew it. “I didn’t hear him go out,” Maverick confirmed, which wasn’t exactly the answer to Phan’s question, and he doubted if the detective would have missed it. Deacon almost shook his head but stopped himself. There was no point borrowing trouble.
“Did the fire kill her?”
“We don’t know yet. There doesn’t seem to be any obvious injuries, but parts of the body were badly charred, so until the ME takes a proper look, we don’t know.”
Deacon rubbed his hands. He was suddenly very cold.
“Mr. Daniels, can you tell me the last time you spoke to Ms. Jeffries?”
Deacon put his hand in his pocket for his phone, then nearly dropped it because his hands were shaking. “The text,” he croaked, and Maverick took the phone. He entered the code, found the text, and then passed it to Detective Phan, who took a photograph of the text with his own phone. “There’s some more, but that was the latest.”
Phan scrolled through all the texts. “How did she get your number after you changed it?”
“I don’t know,” Deacon whispered miserably.
“Are you staying here for the time being?” Phan asked after another few seconds of studying his texts. Deacon didn’t care. He could keep the damn phone if he wanted. He had nothing to hide. Or nothing the detective would care about. Deacon glanced at Maverick.
“Absolutely,” Maverick confirmed.
Phan nodded. “As soon as I hear anything else, I’ll be in touch,” he said, and he left them.
Maverick came back into the room carrying the bottle of Jack and walked over to the sink and emptied it out. He threw the bottle into the recycling bin, then reached into one of the top cupboards and brought an unopened one down, which he solemnly unscrewed and emptied. He washed his hands after and squirted some dish soap in the sink to chase away the strong smell. When he was done and had dried his hands, he turned around and leaned back on the side of the sink.
“I’m sorry, Deacon,” he said carefully, “but I’m not going to be able to offer you personal protection services any longer.”
Chapter Nine
“YOU THINK I hurt her?”
Maverick blinked. “What? No.”
“Then what the hell do you mean?” Deacon burst out.
“I screwed up last night,” Maverick admitted. He had. Anyone could have come in, and Deacon would have had no protection whatsoever. “If you’d have had problems last night, I couldn’t have done jack shit.”
He could see Deacon’s face soften, but the last thing he wanted was Deacon feeling sorry for him. Things could have gone badly wrong last night while he was having his own pity party all because he wanted so desperately to follow Deacon upstairs and join him in bed. He’d had the drink to dampen the urge. He’d had the second because he’d had the first. He couldn’t remember how many he drank, but the first one had been one too many.
“And it’s not only that.” He tapped his leg in case Deacon still didn’t get it. “I’ll be completely honest, when Shirley offered Jamie this job, she intimated a couple of days babysitting while you calmed down.” Deacon stiffened, and Maverick held up a conciliatory hand. “She was obviously wrong and misjudged you and the threat itself.” He swallowed. “Deacon, there is the real possibility that there is a killer picking off people you know. What if he or she comes for you?”
“Maverick, I have no money.”
“I’ll pay.”
“You try and I’ll leave here and check into a motel,” Deacon threatened.
“You’ve just said you’ve got no money,” Maverick pointed out dryly.
“The papers would pay for it.”
“What?” Maverick exclaimed.
“I have three that have offered to advance me the cash for my ‘exclusive’ story.” Deacon finger quoted. “I could be out of here in thirty minutes.”
“Absolutely not,” Maverick thundered, wondering how this was going so wrong.
“Says who?” Deacon challenged.
“Me, for starters.” It was ridiculous. “You can’t go wandering about on your own.” It wasn’t safe, and the thought of Deacon getting hurt made him feel distinctly ill.
“If I can’t have you, I don’t want anyone,” Deacon said firmly. “So make up your mind because I will have to go get my things together.”
“I�
��m no good for you,” Maverick tried again.
“Can you shoot?”
Maverick scowled. Of course he could, but he knew what Deacon was trying to say. “Okay, I’m your protection, but you have to promise me something.” Deacon arched an eyebrow but waited. “You stay here, and I will look after you. If this escalates, I may bring in further help from my contacts who I was going to ask originally when Jamie wanted to start this type of business.”
Mav looked at the stubborn set of Deacon’s jaw, the pale face, and the very light dusting of freckles across his nose that were so like Molly’s. The blue eyes were wide open and flashing fury, and Deacon was standing, hands on his hips, and preparing to do battle.
And how Maverick stayed still and didn’t gather him in his arms and kiss him senseless was completely beyond him.
AN HOUR later, they were ready to go. Deacon seemed quite nervous because he kept smoothing down the too-tight shirt he wore. When Maverick had watched him come downstairs, he had nearly swallowed his tongue. He’d managed to stop himself offering to loan him one of his, even though it would have looked like a tent on him. Deacon was small but had well-defined muscles that the soft material clung to.
That Maverick wanted to cling to.
Shit. He had it so bad. Maybe he needed to think about getting laid, finally. Or maybe he ought to admit that the only person holding his interest was the one standing in front of him. “Hungry?” Maverick was suddenly starving.
“I don’t think I could eat anything,” Deacon nearly wailed.
Maverick kept his face straight. “How about if we go through the drive-through on the way to the dealership? Then we could get a snack and go for lunch after your interview?”
Deacon nodded gratefully, and they both got into the truck. “Where am I going?”
“Marietta Ford on Roswell Street.” He’d been looking at an F-150, and he leaned back while Deacon drove the truck competently. Now that he had decided to drive, he couldn’t wait.
They pulled into the large dealership nearly an hour later after fortifying themselves with a coffee and a breakfast burrito. At least Maverick had. Deacon had just gotten coffee and a water.
Maverick gazed at row after row of brand-new cars. In his mind, he had already picked either the black or the metallic gray, but it depended on what they had available.
The salesman was there before Deacon had even turned the engine off. Deacon and Maverick got out of the truck at the same time, and the young man, who for a second Maverick doubted was even old enough to drive himself, plastered on an eager smile and approached Deacon. The start he gave when he glanced over at Maverick was as equally embarrassing as it was pathetic. For a second—because the way he looked was never an issue to Deacon—Maverick had nearly forgotten the effect his appearance had when people saw him for the first time. It wasn’t going to ruin this for him, though.
“I want to talk to someone about getting an F-150 adapted,” he said. The salesman glanced over at him and then looked at Deacon like it was him who had spoken.
“Of course, sir. What exactly do you have in mind?”
Deacon glanced at Maverick, and Mav took a deep breath. “I’m a right-side amputee.”
The salesman glanced at Maverick nervously, and Deacon spoke up. “Perhaps you have someone who is responsible for mobility adaptations?”
The young man nodded but still didn’t seem to make eye contact with Maverick, which was starting to annoy him. “I’m assuming you are able to have any vehicle adapted?”
“Providing it is less than twelve months old,” he confirmed, “and”—he glanced at Maverick like he was going to eat him—“it, of course, depends on if you need room for a wheelchair.” He looked at Deacon expectantly.
“I’m over here,” Maverick said flatly, and the man shot him another nervous look.
“Of course, sir.” But this time he kept his eyes on the ground, and suddenly Maverick couldn’t be bothered.
“Come on,” he said in resignation and turned back to the truck.
“Are you sure?” Deacon said and glared at the man.
Maverick nodded. He was sure. He wanted to kick himself. He knew what he wanted, but he would try a different dealership. Maybe one that employed grown-ups.
He was so fucking angry. For a second, he nearly ordered Deacon to head for the nearest liquor store, but as the angry words were rolling around in his brain, he felt the featherlight touch of Deacon’s hand on his left leg. “I think you intimidated him.”
Maverick’s anger turned to hurt.
“Some people don’t know how to react when they see someone else is braver, better, and probably smarter than them,” Deacon continued.
“What?” Maverick was confused.
“It’s a confidence thing. He knows he can’t hope to measure up to all this awesomeness.” Deacon’s eyes trailed the length of Maverick’s body, and Maverick couldn’t help how every cell in him reacted to Deacon’s gaze.
“He’s young,” Maverick managed to get out. He dragged his eyes away from Deacon’s with difficulty, then saw the young man still standing in the lot, watching them in apparent mortification. He looked like someone had kicked him. What had Mav just said about adults? It was Maverick who was behaving like a spoiled brat, and he should be ashamed of himself.
Maverick nodded to himself and climbed back out of the car and walked back over to the salesman. “What’s your name?” He nearly added son but managed to stop himself sounding like he was ninety not thirty-four.
“P-Philip Mathewson, sir.”
“Well, Philip,” Maverick said with a friendly smile. “What I should have done was ask how long it takes to get a vehicle adapted.”
The young man was openly staring at Maverick’s face now when he’d been trying to avoid looking at him before, and it seemed baffling to Mav.
“I also need to look into what help I can get,” he added. “My sister says Ford has a special program for veterans?”
The young man nodded eagerly and fished out a business card. “We have a special deal for veterans for up to a $500 free adaptation. Your gas pedal would have to be moved to the other side, sir, and the state of Georgia doesn’t need an evaluation done beforehand. We can even make it easily changeable depending if someone else also needs to drive the car.”
“Sounds good.” Maverick held out his hand, and Philip shook it. Philip opened his mouth but hesitated, clearly wanting to ask something else. Maverick tilted his head enquiringly.
“Can I ask?” He looked at Maverick’s burns again.
“It was the result of a suicide bomber outside of Mogadishu.”
Philip went so pale, Maverick became concerned. “Somalia?”
“Yes.” Maverick frowned. “Why, did you know someone stationed there?”
“No,” he whispered. “My dad was in Baghdad. He died driving over a roadside bomb. The Humvee he was in caught fire.” And suddenly Philip’s reaction to Maverick’s scars made complete sense. It was a stark and painful reminder, and Maverick was so thankful he had swallowed his pride and gotten back out of the truck.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Maverick admitted. “He was an instructor for years, but then his best friend got killed, and he requested a transfer. He did a full tour and called my mom to say he’d gotten it out of his system and he was coming home. She was so happy. The bomb happened the day before he was due to fly home.” Philip glanced down. “I’m sorry if I offended you, sir.”
Maverick was lost for words. It was all complete shit. He glanced back at Deacon, who had gotten back out of the car and was watching him with what he hoped was an approving smile. Philip probably worked on commission only.
“I’m sure you have got guys to help you and your mom, but if you ever want to talk some more about this, I want you to call me, and we can meet for a coffee. Anytime,” he pressed. Philip smiled hopefully. “And now, how about we go discuss colors, and you show me some dotted lines to sign?” Maverick glanced inside the
showroom.
“Of course, sir,” Philip said as Deacon joined them. “But I can get my manager to help you as he has more experience—”
“No, I don’t think so,” Maverick decided. “You’ll do just fine.”
“I THINK you made his day.” Deacon smiled. Maverick chuckled as they pulled out of the dealership an hour later. “Why didn’t you want to trade in the truck? I doubt if you’ll get much privately for it.”
“I’m not going to get anything for it,” Maverick snorted. “But this way you can borrow it until you get your own, or it dies of old age.”
“You didn’t have to do that,” he protested, but Maverick knew.
“Where’s your audition?”
“Shirley’s offices off of Park Street where the new construction is. We can cut behind the back of the Baptist church.” Maverick sat back as they turned. His world seemed so much brighter this morning. “What sort of book—”
But Maverick didn’t get the chance to ask about Deacon’s audition because he had a split second to register the loud rev of an engine, and then he was flung forward against his seat belt as something rammed into the back of the truck.
The fuck? He glanced in the side mirror to see a blue pickup reversing. “Deacon, floor it,” he roared, but Deacon didn’t get the chance to react fast enough to stop the pickup from ramming them a second time. The belt caught again, but the truck was pushed sideways into the wrong lane just as a car came around the bend toward them. Another squeal of tires as by some miracle the driver managed to avoid them. The car’s driver slammed on his own brakes, and Maverick saw the pickup swerve to avoid it, then accelerate and disappear around the bend.
Silence. For a second. For a breath. And Maverick looked over at Deacon, who groaned and leaned back in his seat, hand to his head. “Are you okay? Deacon?” His heart beat punishingly in his chest.