Deacon's Law

by RJ Scott

  The kiss was gentle this time, a press of lips and then deeper. This wasn’t a kiss to go along with frantic rutting against a wall, this was a kiss that meant something real. A connection or a promise. They kissed forever, and it still wasn’t long enough, Rafe carding his hands through Deacon’s thick hair then holding tight. Deacon’s hands moved, rested on Rafe’s hips, holding him still, the two of them hard against each other.

  And then he gently eased Rafe away and the forever-kissing stopped.

  Rafe was bereft and chased for more kisses, but Deacon stopped him with a smile and a subtle shake of his head. For a second, Rafe considered listening to him, but then he thought one thing. Fuck it.

  And he was back, pressed against Deacon, and he ignored the pain in his side and the ache of his leg; all he could do was focus on this one point.

  He heard Deacon groan into the kiss, and he might not feel like fucking against another wall, but he was lost in the sensations of how goddamn nice this was.

  Chapter 12

  The vibration of his phone woke Deacon, and he eased away from Rafe, who didn’t stir a single inch.

  Padding out of the bedroom, he answered the call after seeing Mac’s name on the screen.

  “This is big,” Mac said without introduction. “There are numerous agencies after this guy now. Sightings in Saco and Portland. At one point they closed in on him, but he’d gone. There’s more bodies, D. A hooker and a cab driver.”

  Deacon closed his eyes. “They think—”

  “There’s no thinking. He’s blatant about what he’s doing and he’s been caught in various surveillance shots. I’m sending everything to your phone.”

  “What about the place you work for? What is Sanctuary doing on this?”

  “Chasing as many leads as they have. Between us, we’ll get him, D. Get some sleep.”

  Mac ended the call, and Deacon waited for the information to arrive. What he saw made him feel ill. Felix was sick. The hooker looked like she was asleep, apart from the line of scarlet across her throat. On the other hand, the cab driver was unrecognizable, as if Felix had gone to town on him. In fact, the cab driver, sprawled on the sidewalk, looked like Bryan back at the Martinez House; beaten to death.

  He read the reports and flicked through photos. Felix wasn’t hiding his face. City cops were on his back, the feds, a team from the unit he’d been incarcerated in, and Mac with his Sanctuary backing.

  But it wasn’t enough, Deacon knew that.

  Somehow, Felix was slipping through the gaps, sidestepping anyone who could stop him, and he probably wanted to finish Rafe.

  Deacon closed his phone, then his eyes, and for a few moments he sat in absolute silence. Then he pulled his gun from the holster and checked the bullets inside it. Checking the windows and doors one more time, he berated himself for not thinking this through. Felix was in the city, but that was no more than a couple of hours from here.

  He scouted the blueprints of Rafe’s place in preparation for their arrival. How secure was the bakery below this apartment? What about fire? Was there a way out of this place if the stairs were blocked? He scouted the various escape routes, found a couple of options he was happy with, and then there was nothing else he could do.

  He crept back into the room, Rafe still sleeping, and curled back into the position of big spoon, holding Rafe protectively close to him. Felix would have to go through Deacon to get to Rafe.

  Deacon didn’t sleep again, and Mac arrived at the door a little after four a.m. He looked resigned, focused, and gestured for Deacon to shut Rafe’s door.

  “We need to talk about you and me finding this man and putting him down ourselves,” Mac began without introduction. “If we could get him to come here?”

  “Why would he come here again? He has to know there will be people waiting for him.” Deacon saw the quick change in Mac’s expression and was filled with horror. “No,” he said, “We’re not using Rafe as bait.” He didn’t want to hear that putting Rafe in harm’s way was a good idea, or that the only way to stop a madman was to put the man he loved in the path of danger.

  The L-word. He slumped onto the sofa, dejected, overwhelmed, and wondering when in hell his life had taken this turn.

  The minute Rafe looked at you the first time he met you. That was when everything changed.

  “It might be the only way, D,” Mac murmured. “People are dying.”

  “I can’t, I love him,” Deacon said softly. Then he looked at Mac. “I love Rafe.”

  “I know.” Mac sighed and took the seat opposite. “And that is what makes everything so much harder.” He paused and wriggled a little, a familiar gesture that Deacon remembered from when they were kids.

  Mac was tightly wrapped up, impenetrable, and when he felt as there was any chance he’d show weakness, he wasn’t able to just be still. He wriggled and looked like he’d rather be a million miles away.

  “The minute I admitted the way I felt about Sam, I was done. I’ve seen so much hate in this world that I wanted him to stay at home, all the time, every day, not work, just stay here, safe. He got into here,” Mac tapped his chest, right over his heart, “and the thought of seeing him hurt or in danger…”

  Mac didn’t need to continue; Deacon understood being exposed. He’d spent so much time cultivating the hard undercover cop that he’d never stopped to think about letting anyone in. Loving someone made you vulnerable, so he’d never fallen in love.

  “Then I met Rafe,” he said out loud, but he didn’t need to explain the rest, because Mac was nodding and looking thoughtful.

  “Remember the treehouse in your yard back in Mass?” he asked.

  Deacon blinked at his friend, not following the change in conversation. Medford, Massachusetts, the treehouse in his sprawling backyard. He hadn’t thought about that in a long time. The last thing his dad had built before cancer had stolen him away. He and Mac had spent hours up there, playing cops and robbers.

  “I remember,” Deacon said.

  Mac laughed. “I tried my first judo moves on you—”

  “You never brought over enough snacks—”

  “You never wanted to be the bad guy—”

  “You used to eat everything I took up there.” Deacon huffed.

  “You made me eat a worm.” Mac looked horrified at the memory and gagged a little.

  “You said you could survive on nature,” Deacon said, and shrugged.

  “Not worms.”

  They grinned stupidly at each other, everything happening around them forgotten.

  “Being ten was all kinds of awesome,” Deacon said.

  “Except for the fights we had, about who would play the bad guy, because even at ten we had these ridiculous hero complexes.” Mac shook his head. “Sam called me on it, said I needed to stop treating him like the one who always needed saving, because you know what?”

  “What?”

  “Sam is perfectly capable of saving me right back.”

  Deacon opened his mouth to tease Mac, but saw the honesty in his best friend’s eyes. Was that what Rafe was doing with him? Saving the rough cop one kiss at a time?

  “That doesn’t mean you would let him be a target.”

  Mac continued, “Rafe is strong, and with us backing him up, we can smoke this Felix guy out and keep him safe all at the same time.”

  “Would you put Sam in this situation?”

  Mac paused, then leaned forward. “I wouldn’t want to. I would fight it every step of the way, but yeah, I would have to, because the alternative – not facing this head on – would leave the man I love in danger. Not to mention all the others this psycho will kill.”

  Deacon wanted to call bullshit, but he knew Mac, and this wasn’t bullshit at all.

  “What kind of backup can we get?” he finally asked.

  Mac nodded; clearly he approved of moving on to the strategy side of this heart-to-heart.

  “Not much, but we’ll have what we can work with.”

  �
�I don’t want Rafe in harm’s way. How many people has Felix killed now?”

  “What?” Rafe’s voice told Deacon that he was wide awake and standing behind them. Deacon sank in his seat; he’d assumed that Rafe would be asleep for a while. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing—”

  Mac interrupted whatever Deacon had been going to say to get Rafe to go back to bed.

  “Felix is in Portland, and authorities believe he is responsible for the murders of at least two people.”

  Deacon died a little inside. Why did Rafe have to know? Why did he have to face the choice of making himself a victim just to take this fucker off the streets?

  “I want it done,” Rafe said, and joined them on the sofa. “I want to face off against Felix, and then it’s finished. He comes after me, you’re waiting, it’s done.”

  Rafe’s voice was flat, but his expression was determined.

  “No,” Deacon said. “I won’t let you do that.”

  Rafe looked right at him. “You don’t have a choice. Mac, get it done. How do we get him here?”

  “An interview, maybe? Anything to get your visibility up so he knows you’re here.”

  Deacon could do nothing except listen as Mac and Rafe went over the options of things they could do to get Felix there.

  Then Mac left, and abruptly it was just him and Rafe, and he didn’t know what to say.

  “Why would you agree to this?” he finally said into the silence.

  “Because I don’t want more people to die because I’m scared. We know that someone else could die because of me, and I won’t let that happen.”

  “Never because of you. Felix isn’t killing because of you. He’s killing because he’s a murderer.”

  “I want to do this. I’m going to do this, whatever I can to get him to come to me, so you and Mac can take him down.”

  “Jesus, Rafe. Give me a minute to just think,” Deacon snapped.

  “Think about what?” Rafe shouted back at him. “How many people should I let die before I go home?”

  What? No, that wasn’t what he was doing. “Jesus, Rafe, no.”

  “Well, are you weighing up the pros and cons of other’s deaths compared to mine?”

  “No. Stop it, let me think.” Deacon shook him a little, and Rafe yelped at the sudden tug in his side, meaning that Deacon let go of him. “Shit, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  Rafe looked as though he didn’t know what to say. He pressed a hand to his side, and Deacon was flooded with guilt.

  “I don’t know what I’m doing,” Deacon finally admitted, and in that moment Rafe’s expression changed from mutinous and determined to one of compassion. Deacon was lost, here, and Rafe was the strong one.

  “We’re doing this. The interview, spreading the word, antagonizing Felix, getting him to come here,” Rafe began. “You’ll watch out for me, Mac will be here, and all of us together…no one can beat that. No one else has to die.”

  Deacon reached out and traced a finger down Rafe’s face from his cheekbone to his chin, then pressed to tip his face up a little more.

  “What if something happens to you?”

  Rafe shook his head. “You won’t let it.”

  Deacon’s heart beat faster, his chest tightened, and he knew he would die for this man.

  He just had to make sure nothing happened to Rafe in the process. Right now, all he wanted was to kiss Rafe. He cradled Rafe’s face, tilted his head and kissed him deeply, and Rafe tangled his hands in Deacon’s hair, holding on tight.

  “How’s the leg? Are you okay?” Deacon asked. Because, hell, nothing else was making a whole lot of sense in his head at the moment. He was there to look after Rafe, not take advantage of the man when he was down.

  Rafe shook his head, then quirked a smile. “We’re really talking about my leg? Now?”

  “What about your scar?”

  “Deacon, fuck’s sake, man. Take me back to bed.”

  Deacon bit his tongue, then shrugged in reply and walked them backward into the bedroom. He closed the door and leaned back against it, watching as Rafe awkwardly backed away from him on his crutch until his leg hit the bed. Very slowly and deliberately, he dropped the crutch and shifted his weight so the bed supported him, then he removed his sweats.

  But not in one go. Nope. This was all slow and careful, and he was slipping the material from his hips an inch at a time, until all Deacon wanted to do was step forward, shove him onto the bed, and help him.

  “What do you want me to do?” he asked, cautiously, in case he broke the spell that Rafe was weaving in this room. How can I make this better? How can I make you see that I don’t want to lose you?

  Rafe didn’t answer. He hooked his fingers into his boxers and pushed the material low enough that Deacon got the first real look that wasn’t medically related at Rafe’s groin. The tease of hair, the V of his hips, and his soft belly were there for Deacon to stare at, and then when he thought that was as far as Rafe would go, the material slid down his legs and only briefly caught on his cast. He shimmied out of them as gracefully as he could, and Deacon stepped forward to help, but Rafe gestured him back with a wave of his hand.

  Was this Rafe’s attempt at some kind of life-affirming sex? Should Deacon be thinking this through with him?

  Crossing his hands over himself, Rafe grasped the hem of his T-shirt and lifted it up and over his head, exposing the warm, toned flesh and cinnamon nipples that were the stuff of Deacon’s fantasies. He tossed the T-shirt to the floor, then held out his hands to his sides.

  “And?” he asked, and God knew what he was waiting for. Was Deacon expected to say something at this point? Wax lyrical over Rafe, when he was blinded by lust and pain and fear?

  “Your wound looks better, less red,” Deacon managed, and looked pointedly at the puffiness around the scar, which Rafe had left uncovered.

  “Deacon,” Rafe growled a warning.

  He really wanted this now? With his leg in plaster and his operation scar looking as it might hurt, and with the specter of Felix in the room with them? He wanted Deacon?

  “I don’t have anything with me,” he said, a little helplessly, even though he was harder than fucking iron and he wanted to be right over there with Rafe, kissing him, and sucking him down, and fucking him into tomorrow.

  Because clearly I’ve lost all sense of respect.

  “I have it, here.”

  Oh shit, this just gets worse. Make everything easy.

  “Condoms. Lube. I got them from Mac and Sam’s room.” Rafe pointed at the things on the bed, the familiar packages that Deacon hadn’t even noticed.

  Some detective you are, he thought. Were, he amended.

  Just the sight of that and a naked, aroused Rafe had Deacon losing what little control he had left, although he had the presence of mind to make sure the door was closed. Then he unbuckled his belt, unbuttoned his jeans, crossed to Rafe, and pulled him carefully in for a kiss. Rafe was warm and smooth and just the right height and size and everything that Deacon wanted at that moment.

  Together, they pulled at Deacon’s shirt until Deacon himself popped a few buttons just to get the damn thing off. Rafe attempted to get at his jeans, but Deacon was so hard that he was the only one who would be able to pull them off and not get his erection caught. He toed off his socks, pushed down his jeans, and with them around his thighs he couldn’t wait any longer to have Rafe against him, and he yanked a little too hard.

  Admittedly, Rafe didn’t yelp, but then they were kissing, and any pain would be masked by the slide of tongues frantically twisting in a desperate kiss.

  “Tell me,” Deacon ordered, “if it hurts.”

  “You’d better not stop—”

  “Rafe—”

  “I’m not a delicate freaking flower.”

  “Okay.” Deacon had said his bit and Rafe wasn’t listening. “We can find other ways—”

  Rafe cut off the explanation, deepening the kiss, then pushed at Deacon’s j
eans.

  “All off.” He had demands of his own.

  Finally, blissfully, naked, they tumbled back on the bed – or at least Deacon did, and he gently took Rafe with him until Rafe was sprawled over him, just like at the lake. Sense memory of the first time they’d kissed flooded Deacon, and he closed his eyes to the depth of it.

  “You have to tell me,” he murmured.

  “What?” Rafe asked into a kiss.

  “If I hurt you, then you have to tell me.” Deacon reached up and carded his fingers through Rafe’s short hair. “This used to be longer.” He was speaking his thoughts out loud, didn’t expect an answer, but got one anyway.

  “Part of the new me – all grown up, short hair, teacher and respectable townsperson of Cambridge Falls, Maine.”

  Deacon wanted to ask him so much about the town, about his new life, about Felix, but he couldn’t, because Rafe looked so needy, leaning over him and kissing his chest. When Rafe bit gently at his nipple, sucking on it, all thoughts of talking fled completely.

  Deacon stroked his head and arched up into the touch, sliding his hands down until they rested on Rafe’s lower back, letting them lie still and enjoying the attention.

  “Come here,” he said finally, and tugged at Rafe’s arm, wanting kisses, but then more. He kept tugging, inhaling as the weight of Rafe’s erection brushed his own. It took everything in him not to grind up against Rafe and get them off like that.

  “Further up,” he encouraged, until Rafe moved higher, and with a pillow under his head, Deacon could finally get a taste of Rafe. The access was awkward, the angle off, but it didn’t matter, and as soon as he circled Rafe’s cock with his lips, Rafe moved up and angled himself just right. Deacon had never quite managed deep-throating, but he’d happily lose the ability to breathe when he could see the expressions passing over Rafe’s face. He sucked and licked and moved his hands to cradle Rafe’s ass, guiding him, until Rafe jerked away.

  “I don’t want to…” he murmured. “You inside.”

  The words were jumbled, but the actions spoke for themselves when he reached for the lube, popped the lid, and squirted way too much onto his hands. Deacon saw frustration and then relief when Rafe reached behind himself and…fuck…he was opening himself up, pushing in lube, and Deacon was trapped under him.