by RJ Scott
“Broken leg, bruising, his operation scar looks clean, his vitals are good. I’ve sedated him again, and it should kick in soon, but he’s pretty drowsy. Thinks he’s in the hospital, called me Doctor Meadows, very out of it.”
“But he was okay to move – you said it was okay to move him.” Deacon listened to himself, felt the panic in his chest. Maybe he should have left Rafe in the hospital.
All Kayden did was frown. “Of course he was okay to move.” Evidently he didn’t like that he’d been questioned. “I said so, didn’t I?”
“Well, forgive me for not knowing who the fuck you are,” Deacon snapped.
Kayden’s frown dropped, and he shook his head. “Jesus, drama queen much?” he said, dropping the towel on the counter.
Deacon stepped into Kayden’s space, wanting to ask and say a lot more.
In an economic movement, Kayden did this…thing, and that was the best explanation Deacon had, because he went from standing to lying flat on his back, winded, in an instant.
Then, to add insult to injury, Kayden toed his side. “He’ll be fine. Stop thinking of him as if he’s a baby; he’s a grown man, healthy, he’ll heal.” Then he turned to Sam. “You know how to reach me.”
“Thanks,” Sam said.
Kayden looked down pointedly at Deacon, and Deacon looked back just as steadily, then gave a grudging thank you.
At which point, Kayden held out a hand to help Deacon stand. He took it, and for a brief moment had the idea of twisting and getting Kayden on his back on the floor, but the idea immediately fled. There was something dangerous in Kayden’s soft smile, as if he was daring Deacon to make a move. Deacon was a former cop, and a freaking good one, but he didn’t have the ninja going on that Kayden obviously did.
With Kayden gone, that left Sam and Deacon in the kitchen.
“What the hell is this Sanctuary? Are they all like that?”
Sam huffed a laugh. “No, Kayden’s…special. He doesn’t have time for anyone’s shit. He’s the brother of the owner of Sanctuary. They look out for people in need. I don’t know much more than that, except that Mac does some work for them on and off.”
Deacon nodded, then yawned widely.
“You should sleep,” Sam chastised him. “You look like shit. There’s a room on the second floor.”
Deacon couldn’t recall the last time he’d slept properly; probably right before the specter of the Martinez family had reappeared in his life.
“I’ll stay with Rafe,” he said. “Take the chair in there.”
Sam sighed. “You know this is Mac’s house as well. No one gets into town without being surveilled, let alone anywhere near the house.”
“I’ll watch Rafe.”
“And if he wakes up and sees you sitting by his bed? You shot him in the shoulder and he still thinks you’re a bad guy.”
“I’ll talk to him, reassure him. It will be fine.”
Who was he kidding? Rafe would probably go into shock, and he thought maybe he could ask Sam to sit with him, but when he thought it through, he knew it had to be him. He wanted to be by Rafe’s side. Whatever. And Rafe would listen when he woke up, and everything would be fine.
He turned on his heel, then remembered his manners at the last moment, turning back to see Sam watching him go. “Thank you,” he said.
Sam nodded. “You’re welcome.”
Deacon settled into the chair next to the bed, watching Rafe sleep, searching his features in the soft light for any sign of the Rafe he’d known for such a short time.
The Rafe he’d kissed.
But knowing in his heart that the Rafe he’d known was dead.
Chapter 7
Rafe opened his eyes, attempting to focus on the ceiling above him. He tried to lift his hand, but it felt as if there was lead in his veins, everything heavy and he couldn’t move. They’d told him he was getting better, so what the hell had happened? Had he relapsed? Why was he convinced that they’d taken him somewhere in an ambulance? That he’d leaned against a leather jacket that smelled of sunshine and soap? He blinked until the ceiling finally coalesced into the tiles he was familiar with.
Only there were no tiles.
Instead, the ceiling was a smooth white, and there were no strip lights, just a lampshade in a curious shade of blue. He blinked again. This didn’t make sense.
But when he opened his eyes, nothing had changed. The ceiling was still white, the lampshade blue, and the drapes at the window matched the shade. The drapes. There were drapes at the window. Confusion morphed into panic and he turned his head to the right to get a better feel for where he was and he saw…him.
Sprawled awkwardly in the chair, his head back, long limbs this way and that, clearly too big for the chair, was a specter from a past that wouldn’t leave him alone.
Deacon.
Intense fear sliced into Rafe.
They’d found him, had him strapped to a bed…was it Deacon who’d tracked him down and driven a car at him? He was paralyzed with a fear that made it hard to breathe, and he yanked at his hand, hoping to escape his restraints, only he wasn’t tied down, there was no rope. Instead his hand came up fast and he rolled sideways. Catching himself and coming off the bed, forgetting the fact that his leg was in a cast and toppling sideways, falling with a crash into a cabinet. He flailed but couldn’t stop himself falling, and he knew this was it – this time he was really going to die.
Deacon was up and at his side in an instant, and Rafe wanted to shut his eyes, wanted to block out seeing Deacon’s face again as he died, but he had to watch. He wanted Deacon to see his fear, and maybe that would stop him; maybe he could make Deacon stop and think.
“Shit, Rafe— Craig,” Deacon said, and reached for him, grasping his arms.
Terror became ice inside him, and Rafe stopped fighting; like a deer caught in headlights, he froze.
“What happened?” A second man stood in the doorway, someone Rafe didn’t know – tall, dark and dangerous-looking. Maybe this new arrival could stop Deacon?
“Help me,” Rafe forced out, looking past Deacon, scrambling to stand as the ice melted and he pushed himself to move.
“He woke up, saw me, and fell out of bed,” Deacon said, and the other man came right in. There were two of them, and there was little Rafe could do to get away. There and then, he screwed his eyes shut; nothing was going to save him now.
But there was no pain, no bullet. Instead, the two men helped him to stand, and then he felt the bed at the back of his thighs and they sat him down.
“Are you okay?” Deacon asked. Even with his eyes shut, Rafe recognized his voice. He would never forget the tone of it, or the coldness of the man who’d tried to kill him. He said nothing.
“Open your eyes,” the other man asked.
No.
“Craig? Rafe? My name is Mac. We’re here to help you.”
But fear was choking him and he couldn’t breathe. “No,” he managed between attempts to inhale enough oxygen not to pass out.
“He’s panicking. What the hell did you do, D?”
“Tried to fucking kill him three years ago, remember?”
“Talk to him.”
Rafe’s chest was tight and he could feel the noose around his neck. He didn’t want to die like last time. He didn’t want to feel the bitterly cold water over his head, didn’t want the panic, and abruptly he opened his eyes and looked right into Mac’s.
“Help me.”
“You’re safe here,” Deacon said evenly, his hands on Rafe’s shoulders, pushing him down on the bed, holding him still.
Rafe pushed up against them, shoved him away.
“Help me!” he shouted loud, hoping someone would hear him.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” Deacon snapped, and stepped back and away, his hands out in front of him in a gesture of innocence. “I’m saving you.”
Rafe saw his chance. There was space between Deacon and the door, and he didn’t even consider how far he’d get, but
he wasn’t giving up easily this time. He darted for the door, as much as a man in a cast could dart, and ended up running into the second guy, who rounded the door just as Rafe reached it. Desperation made him scrappy, but he wasn’t going anywhere.
“Calm the fuck down,” Mac said, holding his arms. Deacon was behind him, touching him. With nowhere to go and the inevitable ending only moments away, his body shut down and he let himself fall, scooting back as best he could and leaning against the wall. No point fighting. He’d spent three years looking over his shoulder, finally settled into a job, even begun to make friends. He’d been good at what he did, he’d been safe, and in the space of a few days, he was back here and about to die all over again.
“Give us a minute,” Deacon murmured, and Rafe heard the door shut.
“Am I going to die?” Rafe asked softly, his words muffled in his hands.
“No, I promise.”
“You shot me.”
“I had to. I didn’t want to.” Deacon’s voice moved away as he spoke, and Rafe opened his eyes to watch Deacon lean back against the bed. He sighed. “I was undercover, a cop, sent in to work the Martinez case—”
“You shot me,” Rafe repeated. “You tried to kill me.” He pressed a hand to his shoulder, recalling the pain, the fear, the water closing over his head. The word “undercover” meant nothing to him; he knew the meaning of the word, but where it applied to Deacon? He couldn’t make sense of it.
“If I’d wanted to kill you…” he made a gun shape with his fingers and pointed it at his head, “I would have shot you right between the eyes.” He immediately regretted his action when Rafe’s eyed widened.
“I shot you in the shoulder so I could minimize the damage, but where the impact would send you back into the water, where my partner was waiting.”
“Your partner?”
“Evie. She was the one who pulled you out. You remember that?”
He sounded uncertain, but Rafe absolutely remembered that. All of it. Every painful, terrifying, awful moment. He closed his eyes again.
“She was monitoring what was happening in the house. I said out loud that I was taking you to the lake. Can you remember me saying that?”
“Fuck you.”
“I’m a cop,” Deacon continued. “Was a cop,” he amended. “I was undercover, and you were never supposed to be there. We were observing…shit, I wasn’t even supposed to be in the house, and then you turned up, and they had to put me in so I could watch out for you. Only I ended up as your bodyguard.”
Rafe gave a heavy sigh.
“You wanted to kill me,” he repeated.
“They expected me to. You weren’t the first person that had been removed; we knew your uncle was involved in three deaths of low-level drug dealers, we just couldn’t prove it.”
Rafe’s chest tightened again. He wasn’t going to trust a man who’d shot him. What he needed to do was get the hell away from Deacon and his crazy-ass friends. Evidence didn’t point to Deacon killing him right at this moment, and Rafe didn’t know what kind of game he was playing, but he’d go along with it until he could find a way out of there.
“Are you listening to me?” Deacon asked, his voice loud enough to pierce Rafe’s thoughts.
Rafe nodded and scooted a little further away. “I’m tired,” he said, and looked at Deacon steadily.
Deacon instantly looked contrite, stood, and extended a hand, which Rafe took before Deacon helped him to the bed.
“Are you hungry?” Deacon asked.
“No.” Then Rafe pointed at the chair Deacon had been sitting in. “I don’t want you staring at me.”
“I get that,” Deacon murmured. “I’ll be outside.”
“Where outside?” Rafe asked. “Listening at the door and watching me through a hole in the wall?”
Deacon alternated between bemused and affronted. “No.”
Rafe shifted onto his side, however uncomfortable that may be, his back to Deacon. “Get out, then.”
The door half-closed, and Rafe waited the longest time, dozing off between formulating plans to get away from Deacon. The clock in the room said it was three a.m. Outside the window, it was dark, and there wasn’t much in the way of moonlight. He wouldn’t put it past Deacon to be right outside the room, making sure Rafe didn’t make a run for it. Not to mention the door wasn’t entirely shut so he had to be extra quiet.
The only other way out was the window, and carefully Rafe curled up enough to swing his body weight up and off the bed without putting pressure on his bum leg. Every inch of him hurt, muscles twisted, skin bruised, not to mention the headache that banded his head. They’d reassured him he didn’t have a concussion, but he didn’t believe it for one second.
He yanked at a hoodie left in a pile of clothes on the dresser and attempted to pull on the sweats that went with it. At least they didn’t have tight bottoms at the ankle, but still it was an exhausting task attempting to bend enough to be able to put them on. His surgery site ached like a bitch with the bending and pulling, and for a second he was winded and nauseated with pain.
The same pain he recalled when he’d been shot; a cramping agony that took his breath away.
There were no shoes, but he’d figure out what to do about that when he got out of the building.
After a few seconds of calming the hell down, he tested the window, convinced it would somehow be locked down, but it slid open easily. He examined the small drop. They were on the ground floor, and assessing his current ability, he sat on the windowsill and thought carefully about what to do next.
That was the kind of person he was. He thought long and hard about everything in his life, from deciding to go live with his uncle, to buying a freaking coffee. Consequences were always part of what he did, and the inevitable conclusion he reached at this point was that a non-graceful fall would be the only way out of there.
Something nudged his leg, and he let out a yelp before looking down to see a dog bumping him and softly whining. Where did a dog come from? Was he dreaming he was awake? He pushed it away and no, this was a real dog, then tried to get his leg up and over, but the pain banding his chest, his scar, his leg… He had no energy left to get out the damn window.
The dog bumped at him again and let out a low bark.
Shit. Damn thing will wake everyone up.
He reached down awkwardly and scratched the dog’s head. “Hey, boy,” he said, not entirely sure this was a male dog but knowing it was the friendly tone that was important. He’d had a dog as a kid; she’d be long gone over the rainbow bridge now. “Stay quiet now, right?”
“He’s letting me know what you’re doing.” The familiar voice came at him from the room behind him, and Rafe’s stomach sank. Mac.
He was stuck, halfway out of the window. No way would he be able to get out and outrun anyone with his leg in plaster, but maybe he could call for help.
“What do you want?”
“This is Cisco,” Mac said, like he was just making conversation, and he stepped closer.
“I’m leaving,” Rafe said quickly, leaning further out of the window. “You can’t stop me.”
“Okay,” Mac offered pleasantly, and whistled low. Cisco left Rafe’s side in an instant, coming to a halt right next to Mac, who was no more than six feet from Rafe.
“Okay?” Rafe was suspicious of that casually thrown-out word. Mac was probably biding his time, no doubt waiting for Deacon to come into the room and steal him back.
“Okay, you can go – no one is keeping you.”
Rafe looked out at the dark, moved a little to center himself, but Cisco was there, gripping his pants leg with sharp teeth.
“Shoo,” he said, and made a waving gesture with his hand. “Get your dog off me.”
“He won’t leave you unless I do.” Mac’s voice was way too close, and Rafe spun on his heel, which was hard and wrong and he nearly fell on his ass out the window.
“Tell him to stay with you.”
“He�
��ll stay with me,” Mac confirmed, but then he stepped a little closer.
“You said I could go.”
Mac nodded, as if he was agreeing that the weather was lovely, or that the food he’d just eaten was fine. “You can, but where you go, we go.” He peered around Rafe at the ground outside the window. “You still in a lot of pain? I bet when the car hit you it was hard enough to throw you over the roof, eh? I know you lost your spleen, broke your leg, but I bet you’re a mess of bruises. Not to mention sprains all over, and don’t get me started on your intercostals. You must be in so much pain—”
“Jesus,” Rafe snapped.
“Deacon’s a good guy, you know,” Mac said conversationally.
“Good at killing,” Rafe snapped.
“He doesn’t hurt the good guys,” Mac pointed out.
“He killed me, for fuck’s sake, so sue me if I don’t think that’s reassuring.” Rafe’s chest was tight and breathing difficult, and he realized he was losing control here. The night was cold and he was shivering.
Mac sighed and placed a hand on Rafe’s arm and rubbed it gently. He tried to shrug free, but Mac wouldn’t let go.
“He shot you to save you. He was undercover; he didn’t want to hurt you. The people who want to hurt you, they’re the ones he’s protecting you from.”
“No one is left who wants to hurt me,” Rafe said. “My uncle and one cousin are dead, and my other cousin is on a psych ward. Who is left to want to hurt me?”
Mac sighed and finally let him go, then he stepped back and slipped off his jacket, handing it to Rafe. “Put this on,” he said, “You’ll freeze out there in just that hoodie.”
Rafe took the jacket. “Fuck,” he snapped, but slipped it on anyway. The decision was made; he was going out of this goddamn window, and he would find the first house he could and knock on the door, get inside to a phone and call the cops.
“I’ve got it from here, Mac.” Deacon joined the weird group, the two big men and one dog in his bedroom.
“Hell, no,” Rafe said, and leaned his body over, ready to fall out onto the ground, but Mac stepped forward. So did Deacon. It was Deacon who held him close and whispered in his ear the terrifying reason why this was all happening.