“Are we expecting someone?” she whispered to Deacon.
This time she didn’t imagine the way his muscles stiffened. Hell, he froze in the carpeted hallway and flat-out stared.
Emma clutched at him for reassurance. “Deacon, are you okay?”
He pulled his hand from hers and shook his head, a watery gaze trained at their front door.
The couple spun at the sound of Emma’s voice, and she gasped.
Chapter 24
Deacon’s body felt numb, and a rush of cold spilled down his back as the blood drained from his face. Emma was still looking at him, her eyes huge and anxious, but the world narrowed down to the two people in front of him, and all he could do was stare.
Five years. This weekend would have been five years.
It still cut like a knife.
There was no air in his lungs, so he didn’t know how he found the breath to speak.
“Mom?” Deacon’s lips shook around the word. “Dad?”
His heartbeat in his ears was an ocean. He was going to drown on dry land.
His mother moved first, rushing across the hallway in a trench coat that was too heavy for the season to wrap him in a hug. “Oh, honey.” Her voice so sorrowful he was surprised she wasn’t already crying.
When his arms stayed at his sides, she dropped her hands and stepped back, her eyes glassy.
His dad didn’t even try to touch him. He just nodded at him and whispered, “Deacon.”
“What are you doing here?”
His mother started to reach for him but dropped her hands. She shoved them into the pockets of her coat instead. “We’re here to honor the anniversary.”
Emma’s gasp was a handful of dandelion seeds in the wind. Floating. Distant.
Still, it was enough to make his mother flinch. She turned to Emma. “I’m sorry, we didn’t introduce ourselves. I’m Nora, and this is my husband, Ken. We’re Deacon’s parents.”
Deacon had spent the last five years drinking tequila, riding his bike, and looking over his shoulder, wondering when the other shoe was going to drop. Now he finally had an answer. Today was the day payback was going to come to claim him. He’d forgotten the anniversary, and whether it was better or worse to be reminded, his parents were here, anyway, so he could never move on. Never let it go.
Emma, his Emma, shook their hands.
“You’re Deacon’s—?” his mother probed.
Emma darted a desperate glance at him. “Roommate.” She cleared her throat and dropped her eyes to their suitcases. “Would you like to come in?”
His parents exchanged glances, and his mom nodded. “Yes, that would be nice.”
Deacon’s shame pulsed into anger, and his hands fisted at his sides. “It won’t be necessary.” They weren’t going to come here and rub this in his face. Not now. Not ever.
His father stepped forward. “Son, we need to talk.” He looked around the narrow hallway and lowered his voice. “Maybe some discretion would help.”
Of course, he wouldn’t want his dirty laundry aired for the upstanding residents of the Centennial Apartments.
Deacon’s jaw clenched. “Fine.” He broke his paralysis, pulling a key from his pocket and jamming it in the door. “After you.”
He held the door open while he ushered his parents inside. He caught Emma by the elbow before she passed over the threshold.
“You’re my roommate?” he whispered in her ear. Why did that feel like such a betrayal, too?
Emma’s skin was pale, and the faint smell of sex lingered on her skin. “I didn’t know what to say.” She touched a hand to his shoulder, the laughter from the bowling alley and the car gone from her eyes. “Tell them whatever makes you comfortable.”
“Right.” He nudged the door open wider and followed her inside.
Deacon’s mother stood at the kitchen table, pushing a finger through the furniture sketches he’d left scattered on the surface.
No.
She didn’t get to dig through his life.
He gathered the pages in a stack and shoved them into a kitchen drawer. The paper crumpled as the drawer closed, and Deacon winced.
“Why don’t you have a seat in the living room and I’ll get us some water,” Emma said. Her voice was unnaturally bright. So thoughtful. So accommodating. Deacon wished she would send them away.
“That sounds lovely. Our cab from the airport didn’t have air conditioning, and I’m parched.”
His dad, once again stoic and silent, said nothing as he crossed into the living room. He just tugged out the knees of his khakis and sat.
Emma cracked a few ice cubes from the tray in the freezer, the sharp sound a contrast to the breath they were all holding. Then she poured water from the tap while Deacon gripped the edge of the kitchen counter. This returning paralysis was a real bitch.
Emma carried the glasses into the living room and handed one to each parent. “So you just arrived today, then?”
“We did.”
Emma looked at Deacon for help, but he didn’t move. “Are you staying long?”
“We’re just staying for a long weekend at the Renegade. We’ll head home on Monday.”
Emma’s lips twitched into a frown. “Are you sure? You should stay here with us.” Deacon narrowed his eyes and jerked his head no, but Emma didn’t catch the hint. “You can have my room, and I can sleep on…the couch.”
“That’s very sweet of you, but we’re okay.” His mother turned her eyes to him, her face hopeful. There were more lines around her eyes than when he’d last seen her, and the lipstick had smudged at the edge of her mouth. “I was just hoping we could have some time to catch up. To connect.”
Emma shot another glance at him, her frown deepening. “Right. Well, I know it’s been a long day for us. Tiring.” She coughed, and a hint of color reached her cheeks. “Why don’t we revisit this in the morning?”
His mother pressed a hand to her chest. “Of course. It’s so late.” She stood without having touched her water, and his dad climbed to his feet.
“The morning, then,” his dad said. “Maybe ten o’clock?”
They wheeled their suitcases through the front door, and Emma closed it behind them. The latch slid into place with a small snick.
She sagged against the door, the wood against her back. “Holy shit, Deacon.”
His paralysis finally broke. He stalked toward her and wrapped her in a hug. “Thank you,” he whispered in her hair.
She clutched his back and sighed. “Ten o’clock tomorrow.”
“Right,” he said.
But there was no way in hell he’d show.
Deacon knocked on Noah’s door, flinching at the curses and crashing noises issuing from inside. His head throbbed—the residual pounding that had started after he closed the door last night still echoing in his skull.
Noah opened the door in a pair of jeans and a T-shirt riddled with holes. He took one look at Deacon’s face, groaned, and rubbed a hand over his jaw. “Just because you’re an unemployed bartender now doesn’t mean the rest of the night owls in the world don’t need to sleep.”
“Product ambassador,” he corrected without heat. He lifted the iced coffee and Red Bull he’d brought as an offering.
Noah made a face and reached for the Red Bull. “You don’t have anything stronger?”
“One thing at a time.” Deacon shook the iced coffee in his hand. “First we have breakfast.” He slipped a flask from his pocket and flashed it at Noah. “Then we have dessert.”
Noah grunted and led him inside. “I assume you’re here to use my tools?”
“No, Noah, I’m here to see your pretty face.”
Noah grinned. “I thought you had a pretty face waiting for you at your place.”
Deacon winced. He’d left Emma alone in his bed this morning, still asleep, her hair damp from the shower she’d taken before she’d climbed under the sheets with him. He was such a chickenshit, but today he couldn’t be there.
&nbs
p; Not to see his parents.
Not to see Emma’s soft face crumpled in pity.
Not to sit in a dark room with any of them and cry.
He planned to spend today like he’d spent every anniversary for the last five years—out of his mind wasted. So numb he could almost sleep through it.
Since Noah didn’t know shit about Simon, his house was the perfect safe haven.
Noah reached for the flask. “I’m going to do both of us a favor and hold onto this until you’re done playing with power tools.”
“You don’t want to take a trip to the hospital today?”
“No, actually. It’s not on my agenda.”
Deacon shrugged and made his way toward Noah’s garage, his fingers itching for a saw. Or, better yet, a hammer.
He wanted to hit something. Hard.
But the project he’d started last time was assembled. Just final steps, then. Smoothing out the boards. Applying a stain.
Deacon reached for a piece of fine-textured sandpaper, and his shoulders relaxed as he scraped it across the surface of the wood.
If only memories could be sanded down to dust.
He looked over his shoulder at Noah. “So, hey. You know how you said I was unemployed?” Noah nodded. “Technically, that’s true. But I’m starting my own furniture business.”
Noah slugged back some Red Bull. “Out of my house?”
“For now.” Deacon shrugged. “Maybe eventually from my own shop.” Emma’s comment about having a car that could haul wood rang in his ears, but he shook it away.
Today was not a day for life decisions.
Today was a day to get through.
He put his head back down and got to work.
Chapter 25
Emma lay on her back on the couch, staring at the water stains left by the leak from the upstairs neighbors. The apartment’s maintenance team had mended the pipes inside the walls, but a seam still puckered the far edge of the stain like a scar.
It hadn’t been that long ago.
It felt like a lifetime.
Down the hall, the hinges creaked as Deacon swung open his bedroom door. She listened to his footsteps without moving as he made his way into the kitchen.
The fridge door opened with a suction sound, juice sloshed from a carton into a glass. The door closed again.
She kept her eyes trained overhead.
Deacon had withdrawn, and wherever he’d gone, she hadn’t been invited.
Emma drew a shaky breath. Spoke. “Are you mad at me?”
“No.” His voice was a lit fuse.
Deacon’s footsteps stopped at the edge of the carpet, but she couldn’t meet his eyes.
“Okay,” she continued, “because you abandoned me with your parents yesterday and came home out-of-your-mind drunk.”
No answer.
Emma closed her eyes. “Just tell me you didn’t drive.”
Deacon sighed. “Noah dropped me off. But it doesn’t affect you.” The dull tone of his voice was enough to make her open her eyes and tear them away from the ceiling.
From here Deacon’s face looked gaunt, haunted. Purple circles bruised the skin under his eyes, and shadows flickered in his gaze.
Emma’s chest tightened, and her eyes watered. “It does affect me.”
His voice was a sneer. “And why is that Emma? Because you’re my girlfriend? Because you care?”
Her throat scratched like she’d been caught in a thorn bush. “Yes.” She sat up and scooted back against the armrest, drawing her knees to her chest. She wrapped her arms around her knees, making herself small. “All of the above, Deacon.”
He shook his head. “You just don’t get it.”
“I don’t get what I don’t get.” Emma’s voice cracked, and her hands shook against her thighs. “Explain it to me.”
He wheeled on her, his voice rising. “I was too happy, Emma. So happy I forgot about the single most important day in my life.”
Her eyes stung. “So this is my fault? Because I made you happy?”
“It’s not your fault, Emma. I wanted to do this, but I can’t.” Deacon’s voice was raw, and he slowly shook his head. “I’m too fucked up.”
Her heart seized in her chest. “Do this?” Her voice was small. “Do us?”
“We were a mistake.”
No. She was not going to lose him over this. They’d been through too much to throw their relationship away.
Emma shook her head and set her jaw. “We’re not a mistake, and you’re not any more fucked up than any other human. I’ve got my own issues, too, but we can work past them.” She straightened her shoulders and held his eye. “The whole thing about being in a relationship is that you help each other get through the tough times, Deacon. You can’t push me away just because it’s easier than talking.”
“Not happening, Emma.”
She lowered her voice. “I’m sure seeing your parents was triggering. I’m sure every miserable hour of yesterday was triggering. But you need to decide if you’re going to punish yourself for your brother’s death forever, or if you can forgive yourself.”
“It’s not me who needs to forgive.”
Emma furrowed her forehead. “You mean your parents?” Deacon made a bitter sound, and her stomach twisted. “All your parents want is to help you.”
“How could they? I’m the son who killed their golden child.”
Her muscles tightened, and she made her voice go firm. “You are not. There was a drunk driver, Deacon, and it wasn’t you.”
“Close enough.” His hands bunched into fists at his sides.
“Stop. Don’t talk about yourself this way.” Deacon’s savage glare turned her chest to ice, but she continued. She couldn’t watch him tear himself apart. “I didn’t know Simon, but I’ve heard his song enough times to get an idea about his character. He would want you to be happy. To live your life.”
“Don’t pretend to know anything about my life.”
“Fine.” Emma threw up her hands. “Maybe I don’t know about your life because you haven’t let me in. But I sat with your parents all day yesterday, and I do know a little about them. Your parents are hurting just as much as you, even if it’s in a different way. They came all this way for you. You should at least consider seeing them.”
Deacon shook his head and took a step backward. “It’s non-negotiable.”
“You may want to sink the ship, Deacon. But you don’t get to take all of us down with you.” Emma pressed the heel of her hands against her eyes. She couldn’t lose him. Not after what his parents had told her. “Are you going to push away everyone who cares about you? Because they love you.”
“No one loves me.”
Oh, Deacon. Poor, hurting Deacon.
Emma’s jaw shook. “I do.” Nothing in her life had ever been more true. He had to know that. “I love you.”
Deacon’s sigh was weary, defeated, done. “Then you’re a fool. The last person who trusted me with his life is dead.”
His words were a cannonball in her rib cage, blasting everything apart. Her chest was filled with splintered bone.
Emma climbed to her feet and pushed past him, her throat painfully tight. “Another house rule, Deacon. I never said it, but you should have known.”
His frown carved a valley on either side of his gorgeous, anguished mouth. “What’s that, Emma?”
She pressed a hand against her chest as she walked away. “Don’t break my heart.”
Emma yanked her suitcase from her closet shelf, pulling it onto the ground with a thud. She’d finally emptied all the books out of it and arranged them on the shelf Deacon had built her, only now she was going to have to pack them up again.
She scraped through her drawers with frantic energy, tossing in whatever looked remotely clean. Did she pack underwear? A hairbrush? She couldn’t be sure.
Emma darted her eyes to her bedroom door hoping Deacon would rush through it and stop her from leaving.
But he didn’t.
She pulled her phone to her ear. “Bex, can you come get me? I don’t think I should be driving right now.”
Bex’s voice pinched with worry. “I’m over at The Walton. Sit tight, and I’ll be right there.”
Emma zipped her suitcase closed, and down the hallway, the apartment door banged shut.
Oh god.
Any hope of Deacon changing his mind rushed out along with him.
Emma’s shoulders sagged, and nausea twisted her stomach. She waited an agonizing minute before she rolled her suitcase through their silent apartment and onto the elevator. Then she stood on the corner outside, the late June heat blasting her face. Cars streamed by on the street, wafting the smell of motor oil and gasoline, but Emma was numb to it all.
Bex’s car pulled to the curb, and Emma caught sight of herself in the reflective glass windows. She looked like one of those tourists who came to Vegas, gambled it all, and lost.
Maybe she had.
Bex’s arms were around her before Emma noticed that she’d even gotten out of the car.
“Emma, honey. What happened?”
She collapsed against her friend. “It wasn’t just a fight, Bex. He gave up. On himself. On us.” A sob wracked her body. “He told me I was a fool to love him.”
“Loving with your whole heart is never a mistake, Em.” Bex rubbed a circle on Emma’s back, trying to soothe her with a touch. “It’s going to be okay.”
But it wasn’t.
Even a fool like her could tell.
Chapter 26
The perks of being an unemployed tequila ambassador with no obligations were that Deacon had loads of extra alcohol and no one to call him out on day drinking.
As far as he could tell, those were the only perks.
He was two tequila shots into his breakfast on Monday when a knock came at his door. Because, of course, someone was going to knock on his door today of all fucking days.
The day after Emma. The day after he’d just proved himself right by destroying everything good in his life.
His Invitation (X Enterprises Book 3) Page 14