In Safe Hands

by Victoria Sue

  Deacon turned his head, but his eyes weren’t focused. A trickle of blood ran from his temple.

  “Is everyone all right?” The door was wrenched open, and the concerned face of the driver—Maverick assumed—who had missed them coming in the opposite direction peered at him.

  Maverick scrambled. “Call 911.” As fast as he was able, he was out of the truck and around to the driver’s side. The guy from the other car obediently pulled out his phone and did as he was instructed.

  “Deacon?” Maverick had to physically stop himself from pulling Deacon into his arms. “You hit your head. Stay still,” he cautioned as Deacon would have tried to climb out. He took his hand—still cold and even more fragile—and willed the paramedics to get their butts here.

  “My head hurts,” Deacon said as if he didn’t understand why.

  “Shh,” Maverick soothed. “They will be here soon.”

  “I crashed your truck,” he said pitifully, like it was the worst thing in the history of forever.

  Maverick brushed a blond hair from his forehead. “It’s your truck now.”

  “So thassokay?”

  Maverick’s heart clenched as Deacon slurred his words. How long was this fucking ambulance going to be?

  “They’re on their way,” said the other driver as if Maverick had spoken the question out loud. Maverick glanced at the man. He was around forty, worried. He looked like Maverick felt.

  “Stay with me?” Deacon suddenly asked, the question coming out of nowhere.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Maverick tried to reassure him. He wasn’t. Then he heard the sound of sirens, and he didn’t realize how fucking scared he’d been. Everything happened really quickly then. Cops, paramedics.

  No one liked the idea that Maverick insisted he went with Deacon. They seemed to think he should stay with the car and talk to them. Maverick soon changed their minds.

  An hour later, he was sitting in the most uncomfortable white plastic chair known to man when he looked up and saw Detective Phan walking toward him.

  “I wondered when they’d call you,” he started, and Phan sat down.

  “I understand he’s got a concussion.”

  Maverick nodded. They’d called Deacon’s next of kin—Anne—and she’d said she wasn’t interested. Maverick didn’t understand how any mother could be like that with her son. He’d made it clear then and there that he was Deacon’s interested other, as they called it. The nurses were so dumbfounded at Anne’s reaction, they treated Mav like Deacon’s family. Which suited Mav just fine. He even went as far as to hint there was more between them than there actually was.

  He didn’t care. He was waiting while they gave him permission to go see Deacon.

  “We found the pickup truck burned out and abandoned. It was stolen earlier today from a Walmart. I have someone looking at CCTV.”

  “So you believe him now?”

  Phan didn’t rise to the defensiveness in Maverick’s voice. “The driver of the other car witnessed the pickup try and push you into oncoming traffic, and unless this is an elaborate setup—”

  Maverick nearly growled.

  “Which is unlikely,” Phan continued, “then yes, APD are taking it seriously.”

  Maverick eyed the detective. “But this isn’t your case.”

  “I don’t believe in coincidences.” He got out a pad. “Can you tell me everything you know from the beginning? All your dealings with Mr. Daniels?”

  Maverick glanced at the nurses’ station. He caught the eye of the nurse he had spoken to earlier, and she held up ten fingers to him. “I can give you ten minutes.”

  Phan started taking notes. “We will need to confirm everything with Mr. Daniels but not while he has a concussion.”

  “Mr. Delgardo?” It was ten minutes, and then another fifteen after Phan had gone, that someone came to speak to him. It was the doctor who had treated Deacon on admission. “We are in a difficult position.”

  Maverick might have gasped or done something as equally telling.

  The doctor’s eyes widened. “No, sorry. He’s resting comfortably. My problem is unless Mr. Daniels gives us permission, I can’t share any details with you.”

  Maverick grunted. “Can you tell me he’s okay?”

  The doctor nodded and breathed a sigh of relief. He must have thought Maverick was going to cause trouble. “Then that’s all that matters. The only trouble you will get from me is if I can’t sit with him.”

  The doctor smiled. “I’ll let the nurses know, unless Mr. Daniels objects, you are allowed to be there.”

  Maverick exhaled slowly and stood up at the same time as the doctor. “I fully expect Mr. Daniels to be discharged in the morning.” He hesitated. “I wouldn’t want him to be alone for at least twenty-four hours.”

  “Oh, he won’t be,” Maverick assured him. “He stays with me.” He nearly added the words “for a long time.” But wishing didn’t always make something so. He should know that.

  Chapter Ten

  FOR A second, Deacon was back to being eighteen and really stupid. His head certainly seemed to think so. No, that wasn’t right. At the same time as his memory filtered back, he registered the large warm hand holding his own and knew who it was. And suddenly his head didn’t throb quite so much. He tried to pry his eyes open and instantly regretted it.

  It hurt.

  He must have made some sort of distressed noise, because the warm hand tightened. “Hey,” Maverick said quietly, gently. “The nurses gave you something an hour ago, but they can’t give you anything that might increase your chance of bleeding.”

  Deacon would have nodded, but keeping his head still seemed a better idea. He swallowed. “I feel sick.”

  “Mr. Daniels?” It was the doctor, and Maverick moved his hand. The doctor asked Deacon some questions, then checked his eyes. Deacon hated it. “I don’t think there’s any worsening of your symptoms, even the nausea, but we’ll keep you in tonight.”

  “Headaches always make me nauseous,” Deacon whispered. “I got them a lot when I was younger.”

  “Migraines?” the doctor asked.

  “I don’t know,” Deacon admitted. He and Michael would have to be dying before his dad would let their mom take them to the clinic.

  “We’ll see how you are in another hour. Increased pain or if the nausea gets worse or any indication he is confused, please press the call button.” He must have been talking to Maverick.

  “What happened about the guy who rammed us?”

  “Detective Phan’s been in and told me the car was stolen and it was dumped shortly after. The other driver gave a statement, and Phan took a statement from me updating him on everything. They’re taking this seriously.”

  “I guess that’s good.”

  Then Deacon processed the doctor’s words. “I haven’t got any insurance,” he said, despair washing over him. How had he gotten into this mess? Without even being consciously aware, he reached out with his fingers, sighing in relief when Maverick clasped his hand again.

  “You have nothing to worry about,” Maverick said firmly.

  But even an overnight stay could cost thousands of dollars. Taking a deep breath, he tried to open his eyes fully without wincing and pushed up with his elbows. “I need—”

  But firm hands stopped him from moving. “You need to lie down, or I’ll make that nice doctor sedate you.”

  Deacon couldn’t help the smile. “I don’t think you can sedate people who have concussion.”

  “Then I’ll just tie you down to the bed.”

  “You’re into bondage, hmm?”

  He heard the soft chuckle from Maverick and rolled over a little toward him. He took another breath and gripped Mav’s hand. He was really getting sick of worrying.

  THE NEXT morning, Deacon was sick of everything. Sick of being woken up when he wanted to sleep. Sick of being poked and prodded, and especially sick when Maverick wasn’t there. In fact, he told the doctor he would have a relapse if
they didn’t let his visitor in, but the nice nurse finally said they’d found Maverick a cot in their break room because they were worried he seemed in pain from his residual, and he’d refused to go home.

  He could have told them it was his back, but it didn’t really matter. What did matter was Maverick had spent at least seven hours with him without a word of complaint, and Deacon was acting like a baby. So he shut up and closed his eyes. When he heard the nurses sometime later and opened them with barely any headache, he saw two smiling brown eyes looking at him.

  “Hey, you,” Maverick murmured. “How are you feeling?”

  “I can’t believe you stayed,” Deacon admitted honestly.

  Maverick’s smile deepened, and Deacon was struck with just how damn good he looked. The scar was bad, yes, but Deacon had stopped seeing it and started noticing the dark umber skin warmed even more by the full lips that smiled indulgently at him, and the deep brown gentle eyes framed by lashes so thick he knew Sascha—the makeup artist who had always fussed with his makeup before a magazine shoot—would have gone crazy for them.

  And bashed up, lying in a hospital bed, maybe wasn’t the best place to start noticing this kind of thing. Who are you trying to fool? He’d been noticing Maverick like this since the first time he had seen him. Especially how Mav had stood up to his mom.

  His breath hitched as he remembered Maverick bending down and staying completely still while a two-year-old kissed his damaged cheek. If it had been him, Deacon didn’t think he could have been so gentle. So understanding. There was something so touching about a huge guy being so protective about a little girl.

  Okay, so it might have been bone-meltingly hot as well. But it went further than that.

  “I’m your bodyguard.” Maverick interrupted his thoughts, answering his question. “I have to be here to protect you because I think there’s at least one nurse who wields her thermometer like a scalpel.”

  “Was that the only reason?” Deacon tried not to groan. He didn’t bother with the excuse of the no-filter problem and hoped Mav might blame the concussion. But he knew it wasn’t that simple. He was falling for this big Ranger-type SWAT Special Forces guy that could kill him with his little finger whether he could fly helicopters or not.

  “No,” Mav replied softly, and Deacon opened his eyes. He just lay there and smiled and hoped that this might be his new reality.

  Well, not the hospital bed, because that would suck.

  A few hours later, the doctor discharged Deacon with what seemed every warning possible short of a nuclear apocalypse, and gave strict instructions to Maverick to rush him to an ER if he was at all worried. Detective Phan—apparently—had some questions but would meet them at Maverick’s later that morning. The nurse he liked wheeled him solemnly to the main doors, and only then did it occur to Deacon the truck was likely damaged.

  “Are we getting a cab?”

  “Nope,” Maverick said and pointed to the APD car that a smiling Charlie was standing next to.

  “I’m pretty sure this is illegal,” Deacon mused as he was helped into the back seat.

  Charlie shook Maverick’s hand and grinned. “We’re a full-service police force,” he explained dryly and got in. They were back at Maverick’s in thirty minutes.

  “Do you have time for a coffee?” Maverick asked Charlie as they pulled into Jamie’s neighborhood.

  “Shit,” Charlie swore, obviously not answering Maverick’s question, and Deacon leaned sideways to see. Charlie had to slow down as reporters swarmed out of two news vans when they approached. Deacon heard Charlie calling it in as they stopped.

  Mav turned to him. “We need to get you inside as quickly as possible.” At which Deacon wanted to swear himself and sarcastically say, no, of course he wanted to chat to the nice reporters, but all he did was nod his agreement.

  Maverick opened the door and tried to ignore the shouted questions as he helped Deacon from the car that seemed to have child locks on. “Deacon Daniels,” the cry went up, and Deacon felt Maverick’s hand tighten on his arm as he pulled him up to the house. Deacon clung to Maverick but for as much Maverick’s benefit as his own. He knew Maverick would suffer later for the clip he was walking at. Then another cop car rolled up, and Maverick unlocked the door as two more cops took charge and stopped the cameramen from walking up Maverick’s pathway.

  He shot Mav a desperate look as his phone started ringing, and seeing it was Shirley, he answered it immediately.

  “Deacon, are you okay? Have you spoken to the police?”

  “We’re with them now. What’s the matter?” He listened in disbelief and promised he was staying there and if anything changed, he would let her know. Shirley wasn’t bad. Not like Manny. But her motives were businesslike just the same, even if her methods weren’t as questionable. What Shirley might think was good for him might differ from what he himself thought.

  He looked at Maverick. “Someone’s told the papers about both murders.”

  “I’d say,” Maverick agreed somewhat flippantly. The telephone in the hall started ringing, and so did Deacon’s cell. He eyed the screen and pushed the mute button. Maverick strode to the telephone, answered it, listened for five seconds as the reporter started to introduce himself, then hung up. He set it to silent and glanced at Deacon. His phone started buzzing, and he answered it cautiously.

  “Mr. Daniels?”

  He breathed a sigh of relief. “Detective, we’re being mobbed by the press. How did they find out about this?”

  “Unfortunately, there are a hundred ways, not least the fact that Ms. Jeffries was a reporter herself. I wanted to check you were at Mr. Delgardo’s so we can come and interview you?”

  Interview me? It sounded so serious. But he confirmed he was fine.

  “That was Detective Phan. They are on their way.” There was a knock on the door, and Maverick quickly let Charlie in.

  “My sergeant’s authorized us to stay. We’ll make sure the reporters stay off your property.” Deacon breathed a sigh of relief. He liked Charlie. “I’m going to walk around and shut all your blinds,” he said calmly and did so.

  Deacon shivered, and Maverick noticed immediately. “Come and sit down. You’re supposed to be resting.”

  “I don’t know what’s happening,” he admitted and knew Maverick understood what he meant. His whole life had just spiraled out of control again. He sat down on the couch, suddenly so cold. Maverick frowned and took his hands.

  “Jesus, you’re freezing.”

  Deacon closed his eyes. He was exhausted between the stress of yesterday and being constantly woken up by the nurses to make sure he was okay. Maverick was warm, and he leaned closer trying to soak up the heat.

  “I can make coffee?” Charlie said from the doorway, but Maverick shook his head.

  “Jamie’s got some teas in there. Stick a chamomile one in some boiling water, will you?” Charlie must have gone because the room became quiet again, and Deacon kept his eyes closed but inched a little nearer. It was nice, and he yawned.

  “Sorry.”

  He felt Maverick’s chest rumble, and with a start realized not only had he actually nodded off for a few seconds, he was now leaning on Mav fully. He ought to move. But he didn’t. Then he heard Charlie open the front door and knew when he heard Detective Phan that he must have nodded off for longer than a few seconds. He sat up blearily, and Mav solemnly handed him the cooling tea.

  Phan walked into the living room, shook Maverick’s hand, acknowledged Deacon because he had both his hands wrapped around his mug, and took a seat. Charlie left them to it, but Deacon didn’t expect him to go far. Phan fixed his gray eyes on Deacon, and Deacon sipped his tea for warmth, missing Maverick’s body.

  “We have definitely identified Sara Jeffries.”

  “And was she dead before the fire started?” Maverick asked.

  Phan hesitated, then shook his head. “Not according to the ME.”

  Oh God. Deacon clamped a hand over his mouth in co
mplete horror.

  Maverick glanced at him in sympathy before turning back to Phan. “And so, you’re what? Thinking it’s the same person?”

  “The only evidence linking the two fires is the lack of it. The accelerant wasn’t a special preparation and could be commonly bought at a retail store. The main differences were that Emmanuel Jones was dead before the fire started, and Sara Jeffries wasn’t. The only connection the two of them ever had to each other was you.” Phan looked right at Deacon. “Coupled with the threats and the accident yesterday, we are worried that this may have something to do with your joint history.”

  “You mean connected to the poor lady that died?” Deacon asked. “She had no family that came forward. Or none that we knew about. My attorney was worried about a lawsuit, but they couldn’t even find the little boy’s father. No mention of him at all, and he’s not recorded on the birth certificate.”

  “And why now?” Maverick asked.

  “There could be any number of reasons. The loss of custody could be a trigger—”

  “But surely if someone has it out for me, that would make them happy?” Deacon interrupted. That made no sense.

  Phan inclined his head as if agreeing with Deacon’s point. “It also might be down to opportunity and planning. The custody issue might not have anything to do with this.”

  “So….” Maverick tilted his head as if concentrating. “Are you thinking someone is punishing those they think had anything to do with Shelley Young’s death?” He glanced at Deacon, and Deacon recognized the worry cooling the usual warm brown eyes.

  “It’s one theory,” Phan agreed.

  “Which means what? Protective custody?”

  But Phan was shaking his head. “We will ensure the house is regularly patrolled, but apart from that, unless there is a definite attempt on Mr. Daniels’ life, my hands are pretty much tied.”

  “You are joking,” Maverick burst out. “What do you call the car wreck?”

  “The reason the APD will put a car outside your house,” Phan said dryly. “And there is nothing that makes this case a federal one to access their funding.” He glanced at Deacon. “I’m assuming Mr. Daniels will stay here until this is sorted out?”