Second Chance Hero

by Rebecca Sherwin

  “Deacon?” I’m suddenly sitting next to him, vaguely remembering the rush to get there.

  “I don't know why you don't get it.” His voice is muffled, and I can barely hear what he’s saying.

  “Talk to my face, not your table.” I pry his head up with both of my hands. He’s crying, “Baby, you need to talk to me.”

  “It’s me, I swear to god I’m the same man.” He sighs and I wipe a tear away from under his eye, “I can't put it into words; it’s why I haven’t said anything back. I’m not supposed to be the one lost for words. I’m supposed to be the hero.”

  I smile, I can't help it. He is literally trying to be a hero, and I love him for it.

  “Who says heroes don't need a hero every now and then?” I ask, brushing his hair back from his face, “It’s okay to need help.”

  He shakes his head, “No it’s not. Not for me.” He grips my wrists and brings my hands to the table before smothering them with his, “He died for us, Jen.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “My dad.” I relax, realising he isn’t talking about the man who hit his car, “He died so we could be together. I don't know how I know it I just do. And I’ve been a coward since then. But never more than now.”

  “You probably need to sleep.” I say, stepping off the bench, “I can help you upstairs.”

  “I love you so much it hurts.” He says, and a whimper from somewhere deep inside me escapes as he gestures at his injured body, “More than all of this. It hurts because even if I live ‘til I’m a hundred, it won't be long enough to show you how much.”

  “You... you love me?” I feel the tears build, and for once I don't try to keep them in, “You don't want me to leave?”

  “No. And I wish I’d never let you leave all those years ago.” He struggles to his feet, keeping his broken casted leg bent, “It’s you. Just me and you. Like... Sonny and Cher.”

  “Why Sonny and Cher?” I ask, the tears pouring now and I’m surprised I’m able to speak.

  Deacon frowns, confused, “I don't know.”

  He strokes away my tears with one hand, the other keeping my hand in a firm grip by his stomach.

  “I love you.”

  “I’ve been waiting years for you to say that.” I smile when the tears stop, “I love you so much.”

  Deacon crushes me to him and an embrace that thaws out the remaining ice from my heart, and I squeeze him as if he’s going to disappear. He nearly did. It isn’t lost on me that if things had swung the other way, the last thing Deacon would have said to me would be the reminder that he’s been there, when everyone else judged me, or ignored me. I let go and jump back when I feel Deacon tense beneath my touch and a gut-wrenching growl of pain vibrates through him. He’s shaking.

  “I forgot,” I reach out and touch his chest, “I forgot.”

  “I’ve got to have you,” he growls.

  “We can't,” I step back, thinking distance will put out the fire roaring through me at the thought of Deacon’s need for me.

  “I’ll find a way, Jen.”

  I cover my mouth with my hand and shake my head. He’s hurt, really hurt, and I’m positive there are injuries he hasn’t declared to anyone. I can't let him hurt himself any more.

  “We can't,” I step closer, knowing he can't throw me around as much as usual and take his face in my hands, “I’m yours. You’re mine. You have my heart, my soul and my body. And I want yours. If we do this now my checklist won't be complete.”

  “At least come to bed with me, let me hold you.”

  “Forever,” I whisper, darting across the room to find the crutches, and return them to him.

  It’s a sleepless night for both of us. When Deacon can't get comfortable, I pretend I’m asleep so he doesn’t suggest sleeping separately so he doesn’t disturb me. He has a pile of pillows under his leg, and I lose count of the number of times he wakes up swearing because his leg has slipped off or he’s laid on the wrong side. I almost laugh when his leg falls from the pillows and his foot crashes to the floor, but the pained scream that escapes reminds me that this is serious. It’s why I’m awake – I’m the only person here who can get help if something goes wrong. The only reminder of the crash is the broken leg and scattered bruising. To everyone except me. I’m not convinced that the inside is safe – it’ll take a lot to persuade me, because I witnessed every moment his heart rate spiked, or blood pressure dropped; I saw every wire on his body, heard every beep of the machines. The fact that he’s home with a few boxes of painkillers isn’t enough to prove to me that he’s safe. So I lie awake all night, listening to his strained breathing when he sleeps, and his painful groans muffled by him holding a pillow over his mouth.

  I think I finally lose consciousness as the sun begins to rise. I don't fall asleep; I’m still aware of every movement Deacon makes, but eventually my body and mind give in and I drift in and out of overdue sleep. When I open my eyes again, it’s clearly well into the morning, and Deacon isn’t in bed. I sit bolt upright, panicking and pull on his t-shirt that’s on the floor, while I’m climbing out of the bed and walking towards the landing. I had obviously fallen asleep, failing again to do something I’d planned to do. The house is silent and I worry, knowing Deacon wouldn’t have been able to go out anywhere; his house is only in walking distance of fields – he can't walk and can't drive, so my panic goes into overdrive.

  A loud laugh suddenly shakes the house and I freeze in the spot. I’ve never heard that laugh before. And then I hear Deacon’s sweet yet restrained laugh and feel instantly better. The sound is coming from the garden, and he obviously has a visitor, so I go to the kitchen to make coffee and check my messages. I brave the coffee machine, realising it has a simple on button which sets it going to heat the water and grind the coffee beans. I have messages from Emma, Mum and Jade, all asking how Deacon is doing. I send the same reply to each of them:

  ‘He’s happy to be home. Went straight to bed last night. Speak soon, J x’

  I know everyone is worried, and I know it’s only a matter of time before the visits begin. Eventually Deacon has to get involved in everything again. And selfishly, I want to keep him to myself for as long as possible. Everything seems to be fine when we’re on our own, in our little bubble of complicated feelings and unsaid words. Until last night. I’ve wanted to hear him tell me he loved me for as long as I can't remember – I can't recall there ever being a time where I wasn’t in love with Deacon. I don't want to share him with the world, which always seems to burst our bubble with their opinions and judgments and interferences. I even want Deacon’s visitor to hurry up leave, and I haven’t got a clue who it is.

  After a few minutes of leaning against the counter and looking out of the kitchen window at the fields beyond Deacon’s drive way, the alarm on the coffee machine goes off and I grab a coffee cup, the blue-top milk he has stored in the fridge, and pour myself a cup of much needed coffee. The exhaustion thrums in the distance, behind all the other thoughts in my head, and I realise I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in God knows how long. But I think the shock and adrenaline of Deacon being hurt, and then the innate drive to keep an eye on him and keep him safe is starting to wear off, and my body is realising just how tired it is. My muscles ache, I’m aware of the effort it takes to move one foot in front of the other, and the masculine laughter booms through my head again. I have to find out who this man is.

  “Deacon?” I call, peeping my head around the blind-clad French doors, after I pull a pair of my pyjama shorts on.

  “Did I wake you up?”

  I shake my head as I step out into the garden and get a look at the man sitting at the table. He’s about my dad’s age, with a receding hair line, a beer belly and an incredible smile. It’s on show and gleaming as he stands to greet me, offering me his seat.

  “Jenna, this is Ted. He...was my dad’s business partner. He runs things down in London,” Deac says as I reach out and take Ted’s hand, “Ted, this is Jen
na. She’s-”

  “I know who this is,” Ted holds my hand in both of his, and I wonder how the hell he knows me, “Dom showed me pictures of his future daughter-in-law.”

  I jerk my hand back, and I know my cheeks are red because I feel the heat in them. Daughter-in-law? Dom called me that? Oh god, he really did have a plan for us. Why didn’t you tell me, Dom? I didn’t mean to be rude, but it shocked me that this stranger knows more about my would-be father-in-law’s plans for me, than I do. But when I look up at Deacon, I know it’s shocked him too.

  I’m silent, still in shock as I hear Deacon and Ted talking around me; and for some reason we’re all still standing. I find it impossible to look anywhere but at the floor, or move my body to sit at the table. I notice the burn on my knuckles from gripping the coffee so hard, but when I look up, it’s just me and Deacon in the garden.

  “What happened?” I ask, finally able to drop into the chair that seems closer than it did last time I checked.

  Deac rests his crutches on the table and eases into the chair next to me, his short-clad leg brushing mine, with the skin to skin contact I’m craving but can't have.

  “He had to get to work.” I gasp when Deacon slides his hand under the table and grips my thigh. I stop with my coffee half way to my mouth and look at him, “He’s looking after the yard until I’m a bit quicker on my feet.”

  I nod, not really listening to what he’s saying, because all I can think about is the pattern he’s tracing with his finger on the inside of my leg. It’s mesmerising, comforting, and has direct access to my libido. I swallow hard, before I speak.

  “I’m starving,” I stand up, spilling coffee and watching Deac’s hand drop to the side of his chair, “are you hungry? I’ll make lunch.”

  Chapter 32

  Deacon

  I’ve never had such a long dry spell since the afternoon I lost my virginity to Stacey Needy in the park when I was sixteen. I get hard just thinking about Jenna; finally she’s mine, living in my house like it’s hers, and walking around in tiny shorts and thin vests, while she busies herself looking after me. I want nothing more than to get her in that nurse’s uniform just so I can watch the buttons scatter as I rip it off and give her everything that’s been building since the last time I had her. It’s been too long.

  I lie on the sofa, with my fucking leg elevated on the pile of pillows Jenna insisted on, while she clatters about in the kitchen making breakfast. And this is our routine. We’re finally together, and I’m so ecstatic I could scream it to strangers passing in the street. Except I’m housebound. I feel like I could walk to the end of my road, and straight off the cliff and still land on my feet. Except the foot on one fucking leg doesn’t work.

  So for the last week, I’ve been watching shit TV, and watching Jenna as she cleans the house, or bakes cakes, or sits in the garden reading. Whatever she does, I watch it and it all reminds me that we’ve been living together for a week and I haven’t yet made her scream at the top of her lungs that she’s mine, while riding the crest of ecstasy. Fucking car crashes.

  I use the back of the sofa to pull myself up and attempt to put the weight on my broken leg. The leg that’s held together by pins, broken in three places, and is stopping me from working out. It’s the only thing other than sex that I take my frustrations out on.

  “You need some help?” Jenna calls from the doorway of the kitchen and I wonder how she knew I was up.

  It takes a while to answer, because I have to hold my breath to stop from shouting out in pain. Aren’t I supposed to feel better after a week?

  “Deac?”

  “I’m fine.” I wave my crutch in the air and make my way into the home office, “I’ll be in here.”

  I have no idea why I have an office in here, considering I live next door to my actual office. I added the office to the plans for the house when my dad died and I discovered the old shoe box I had decorated for my football trading cards when I was younger. I had given in to curiosity at first when Mum brought one home for each of us, when she had been to go over Dad’s will. Once I had opened it and seen the envelopes inside, I closed it. I never opened the lid again; not even when I put it on the shelf in the dark, windowless office. I couldn't bear to look inside it, but I felt like I needed an entire room to dedicate to the day I did. For some reason, I hobble, straight over to the shelf and slide the box off into my hand. I sit at the desk and put the box in front of me, staring at the worn drawings of footballs and little stick men, with ‘Deacon Reid’s Card Box’ scribbled on top of the lid. I sit back and cross my arms; I remember decorating this box. Dad bought me a new pair of trainers and my first pack of trading cards when we went out to the shopping centre when Mum was sick. Brad came too, but I think he got a Star Wars toy and decorated his box accordingly. I can't believe Dad kept them.

  I run my thumbs along the lid of the box and prepare to open it, wondering what other plans my dad had for my future if he saw me marrying Jenna.

  “Breakfast is ready.” I look up to see her standing in the door, “I made omelettes. I did call you but you didn’t hear me.”

  “I wasn’t hiding, baby.” I stand up, leaving the box on the desk and limp over to Jenna, leaving my crutches against the desk.

  I slide my hands round the back of her, pinning her to me with my arms which will need some serious work when my leg is better. Jenna takes a deep breath, and before she can rebuff me again, I close the distance and press my lips to hers. She relaxes into me, grips my neck, and lets me explore her mouth with my tongue. She tastes like toothpaste and coffee, and I’ve missed the way her perfect lips fit with mine. I kiss her greedily, letting my hands roam across any part of her I can reach, but when I step us sideways and crush her against the wall, my cries drown out hers.

  “See!” She says, shoving me off, “I told you you’re not ready!”

  “Jen, I’ve got to have you. I need you.”

  And I to fix my body before she’ll let me touch her.

  “Deac, you have me.” She kisses my cheek and I feel it everywhere, “Look at like delayed gratification.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s the ability to wait, not for an immediate reward, but the reward you’ll get for being patient.”

  “But how does that have any relevance here? I could spend my entire life buried in your hot, tight little-”

  “Imagine how hard you’ll come when you’ve been dying to have me. I’m aching to touch you, Deac. But I’m thinking of the look on your face when I suck you off, the feel of you inside me, and I can't wait until I feel everything you have to give.” I’m stunned into silence, rock hard, and painless, “Breakfast is going cold.”

  I hobble after Jenna, desperate for her to tell me some more. It’s clear that thoughts of each other are all that is getting us through not being able to tear into each other. I can't stomach food; my body is too awake, too interested in watching Jenna eat her fruit and yoghurt. She chews every mouthful slowly, taking sips of her orange juice in between, and does this ball-busting thing where she looks down and then looks up at me through her eyelashes. It makes her look cute and sweet, but tempting and sexy as hell.

  “What are your plans for today?”

  She frowns and narrows her eyes, “Am I supposed to have plans?”

  I shrug, “I just thought you might want to get out of here.”

  “Should I?” I shrug again in response, “I’ve never lived with anyone before.”

  “I don't know how it works either, remember?” She takes another mouthful of fruit and I stumble over my words watching, “I thought you’d want to see your parents.”

  “In other words, you want me to go to town so I can bring you something back?”

  No, that’s not what I was thinking, but I’ll go with it. Come to think of it, I’ve been craving sweets for the last three days. It must be the pills.

  I manage to persuade Jenna to go into town and see her parents for a couple of hours, and bring me back
some Haribo and a tub of ice cream. It’s the visions of her naked in her bed while I lick ice cream of every inch of her soft creamy skin that send me flying off the sofa and out into the garden. In the couple of hours it takes Jenna to do her thing in town, I’ll pass the pain threshold far enough to be able to spend the night showing her how much I love her.

  A few hours weren’t enough; it just made me ache and pass out on the sofa before Jenna got home. I wake up in the middle of the night and notice she’s covered me with a blanket, left the lamp on by the TV and set a bottle of water and my painkillers out on the table. I reach for the water, groaning when my muscles protest but grab it, noticing Jenna’s writing on a post-it stuck on the label: I love you.

  I unscrew the cap, drink the water down in one and walk, a crutchless, limpless walk, up the stairs and climb straight into bed. Jenna stirs when I pull her body into mine, and kisses me softly. It’s the best night’s sleep since before the crash – I know I made myself feel better.

  I spend the next few days finding reasons to send Jenna into town, or asking her to go and help out with some paperwork next door. I feel terrible, and she takes another step back from me, thinking I’m trying to get rid of her. I am; but for all the right reasons. My leg is still messed up, but I’ve been working on my posture, my arms, my core and the other leg. I just don't want her to see the slow progression – I want her to think it just happened one day. Like a superhero. I don't know what my obsession is with needing to be her hero, but I’m going with it and it’ll give her the shock of her life knowing I can throw her on every flat surface in the house and fuck her like I’ve wanted to for weeks.

  ~

  It’s Saturday, the last Saturday of the month, which means tomorrow is the last Sunday and I’m going to have to go to the country club for family day. I can't even play golf because my leg is still in cast for another three weeks, before I get another x-ray and then a consultation to see if I can be freed, and need physio.