Deacon's Law (Heroes Book 3)

by RJ Scott

  “Rafe, jeez.” Blindly, he felt around for condoms, rolling one on as Rafe closed his eyes and pressed back on his fingers. His movements were becoming messy, uncoordinated, his cock against Deacon’s thigh, and Deacon lost it completely. He’d wanted to take his time with Rafe, suck him off, stretch him, but fuck if this wasn’t the hottest thing he’d ever seen.

  “Ready?” Rafe asked, his voice broken.

  Deacon didn’t have to answer. He held his cock as Rafe slid down, and they stopped momentarily, Rafe’s eyes shut in concentration. Then he rested his entire weight on Deacon, and Deacon was in heaven.

  Rafe opened his eyes and looked down at Deacon, then smiled; a small, secretive smile with an added wink. “In your own time,” he said.

  And Deacon laughed.

  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed during sex, but there was something about this man that pulled him through the whole spectrum of emotions, from anger and fear right through to lust and love. Although he refused to think about that last one too hard.

  “Hold on,” he said, and tilted his head back a little to indicate the headboard. Rafe got with the plan, wincing once as he moved and reminding Deacon not to do what he really wanted to do. This needed to be all about soft and careful, and he moved slowly, bracing Rafe’s hips and careful of his leg, and with mutual sighs they moved together. With every push up, Rafe moved down, circling his hips, waiting a few seconds before letting Deacon lift him up, and he was heavy-lidded, his mouth open, moaning softly at each grind.

  “I’m close,” he said.

  “Touch yourself,” Deacon ordered. Then he softened it a little. “Get yourself off, please.”

  Rafe removed one hand from the headboard and, unbalanced, his eyes widened before he realized Deacon had him steady. Then he circled his cock and began to run his hand up the length, slowly, pressing against the tip, pushing, groaning, his eyes closing, then running his fingers down to where Deacon was fucking up into him. Deacon knew that was game over, feeling his touch where they were joined, and he sped up a little, still taking care but becoming uncoordinated.

  “Open your eyes, Rafe.”

  He opened them, and shuddered as he was coming, and with no words spoken Deacon fell over the edge, his orgasm slamming into him and Rafe arching back.

  Rafe was the one who came back down to Earth first, so practical, dealing with the condom and then sliding to Deacon’s side, awkwardly and cursing a little.

  Deacon drew him close.

  “What hurts?” he asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Don’t lie to me.”

  Rafe looked up at him, and he had the most beautiful hazel eyes. They were sparkling with humor.

  “Mostly everything,” he admitted.

  “I’ll get you some meds.” Deacon started to move away, but Rafe clung like a spider monkey.

  “In a minute,” he said, and yawned. “Nap first.”

  He slept, and Deacon lay awake for every moment of it, his thoughts spiraling from ecstasy to agony and everything in between. He doubted, he talked himself out of the doubts, and then he came to a decision. They weren’t doing this thing where Rafe put himself in danger. He would hide Rafe somewhere and he and Mac would go into the city and track Felix down and kill him themselves.

  No way was he letting Rafe get hurt.

  He watched Rafe wake up, the instinctive stretch, turning in his arms and snuggling in close, that soft moment before he grew into realization of where he was and what was happening. Rafe buried his face in Deacon’s throat. He’d said he was willing to put himself in danger to stop others being hurt, but the bravado wasn’t there in these first few moments of waking.

  “Fuck,” he murmured, gripping Deacon tightly. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

  Then he cried.

  Chapter 13

  “D? You in there?”

  Mac’s voice, and Rafe saw the moment when Deacon became the trained cop, like a shutter came down in an instant. Mac was back and ready to plan whatever they needed to do to get Felix here.

  “I’ll see you in the kitchen,” Deacon called to Mac.

  He eased Rafe away and slid out of bed, pulling on his jeans and tee.

  “You okay?” he murmured. Rafe nodded, eased off the bed, dressed and picked up his crutch. They heard Mac’s retreating steps.

  “You think he has a plan for us now?” Rafe asked, unable to keep the fear out of his tone.

  “I don’t want you doing it.”

  “I know, but I have to – you know that.”

  Deacon’s tight expression was enough for Rafe to see exactly how he felt about all of this, not that he didn’t know that anyway. Deacon went out first and Rafe followed, both of them going into the kitchen and finding a very serious-looking Mac leaning against the counter, his arms crossed over his chest. He didn’t hang around in what he had to say.

  “He’s dead. They found his body in a burned-out car.”

  Rafe’s leg’s buckled, and he reached for Deacon to steady himself.

  “Jesus Christ, Mac, don’t just throw that at him,” Deacon snapped, but Rafe held up a hand.

  “Really?” he asked.

  “They’re waiting on dental records, but he was under observation and they’re sure it was Felix Martinez in the car.”

  “So it’s done? It’s finished?”

  Mac nodded. “Yes.”

  “I think I need a drink,” Rafe murmured. He didn’t know who passed him a Coke. That wasn’t the kind of drink he was talking about, but then the meds wouldn’t go well with an entire bottle of vodka, and it was only eight a.m. He sipped it as Deacon and Mac talked about forensics and checks, but he didn’t care what they needed to do to check anything. The danger had passed, the man who had got out and who could well have tried to kill him was dead.

  How was he supposed to be feeling?

  Not numb. Surely he should be happy, relieved; everything was done now. He didn’t need to put his life in danger, Felix was dead…hell, Deacon didn’t need to look out for him anymore.

  Deacon could go back to his own life, and the danger that had thrown them together was over.

  “I’m going home,” he said, softly at first, and then when neither man in the kitchen reacted to him, he raised his voice. “I’m going home.”

  “No you’re not,” Deacon said. “You’re not well, and until I see forensic proof that it was Felix in that car—”

  “I’m going home.” Determined, Rafe stood up and stepped toward the Deacon/Mac wall. He stopped with inches between them. “Let me through to get my stuff.”

  Given that his stuff consisted of borrowed clothes and a razor, it wouldn’t take him long to pack. He just needed to cut this off now. No point in prolonging the misery while Deacon found reasons their infant relationship should stop now. Because, let’s face it, this was just sex, and it was sex born of fear. Didn’t matter that Rafe had fallen for him all over again; he wasn’t forcing Deacon to stay around him any longer than he needed to.

  Deacon looked torn, and it was Mac who stepped aside and let Rafe through. Rafe made it all the way to his room before he was stopped by a determined Deacon overtaking him and leaning back against the handle.

  “Wait,” he said.

  “I’m leaving. It’s okay, you don’t have to worry anymore.”

  “You’re not going anywhere,” Deacon said, “because no one will take you.” He seemed almost triumphant at the thought that Rafe was stuck there, and that got Rafe’s back up. Why would Deacon want him still there when there was no reason?

  “Mac will take me,” Rafe said, and pointed at Mac, who was hovering by the door. He looked as torn as Deacon. “I’ll pay him or something.”

  “Please, Rafe, think about this. You can rest here, stay just for a while, until the weekend.”

  “I’m not your problem anymore.”

  “We made a promise,” Deacon said, and moved nearer to Rafe, pulling him close. “Let’s just stay until Saturday
.”

  Why was Deacon holding him? Rafe stiffened in the hold and eased away, and a confused-looking Deacon let him go.

  “Rafe?”

  Rafe couldn’t look at him or Mac, slipped into his room and shut the door, hoping that Deacon wouldn’t follow him in. People had died. Felix was dead, his parents were gone, and the weight of it – the sheer enormity of what had happened – hit him like a sledgehammer. Running back home wouldn’t stop the way he felt.

  The first thing he found was his crutch, and he threw it so hard it crashed into the wall. He picked it up, nearly losing his balance, then beat the mattress with it, over and over, cursing and shouting and crying until there was nothing left. He felt Deacon, then, taking the crutch away, easing him back onto the bed, sitting next to him, holding him.

  But the acid that burned away inside him didn’t stop.

  “It’s my fault. If I hadn’t been at the house, you could have stopped them earlier, you could have caught Felix before this, but you had to watch me, and he was killing, and I fucked up.” The words just tumbled out in a mess of nothing at all, and Deacon remained quiet.

  Then, “Felix was born a killer,” Deacon said into his hair, hugging him from behind. “Doesn’t matter if you were at the house or not; he liked to kill. You can’t blame yourself for a psychopath’s actions.”

  None of it made Rafe feel any better, because his thoughts were all over the place, and his leg hurt, and his side ached, and he was so fucking done with everything.

  He must have fallen asleep, because he never heard Deacon leave, and the clock showed it was midafternoon. He fought disappointment, but then he was the one driving a wedge into whatever they had so that Deacon would feel okay to walk away. Right?

  Why would Deacon stay with me anyway?

  Chapter 14

  Things went from bad to worse. Deacon wanted Rafe to stay, but Rafe wanted to go. He shied away every time Deacon went to touch him, and shut himself in his room for the best part of Thursday and Friday.

  He was fixated on a single point, that moment when he’d walked into his uncle’s house, kept repeating that if he hadn’t been there, then Deacon could have got to Felix, Chumo and Arlo earlier. Then Felix wouldn’t have killed anyone. The logic was so flawed, but Rafe wasn’t listening. Breaking point came when Rafe wouldn’t even let Deacon cook him dinner on the Friday evening.

  “You don’t need to cook me anything.”

  “It’s no bother,” Deacon said, and pulled out the pasta and meat.

  “No, I don’t want you to. I’m going home tomorrow.”

  “I’m cooking for myself.”

  Rafe cursed under his breath. “Doesn’t mean you need to cook for me. We’re done here.”

  That was when Deacon lost it, big time. He’d been trying to talk, to hug, to kiss, to reassure, and all Rafe wanted was silence and alone time.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you? Just because I won’t take you home you’re sulking like a child who doesn’t get what he wants for Christmas!” Deacon wished he could have pulled the words back as soon as he’d said them.

  Rafe scrambled to stand, awkwardly with his leg, bracing himself on the wall. “Fuck you, Deacon, just…fuck you.”

  Then he hobbled out of the hallway and through the door to the bedroom, slamming the door behind him. Deacon knew he’d handled that horribly; he’d just wanted to say something that would ease the pain in Rafe’s eyes, and had made it worse. He knew that he saw things in black and white, but this was different – this was all the colors in between, and Rafe was suffering from it. He stood and brushed at his pants, anything to delay the inevitable, then opened Rafe’s door.

  “I’m sorry,” he said from the doorway before Rafe could tell him to go fuck himself again. Rafe was on his bed, sitting on the side, hunched over. All Deacon wanted to do was go over and hug him, try to make him feel better, but his form of comfort wasn’t cutting it in this situation.

  “I think you need to leave me alone,” Rafe said tiredly. “It’s okay.”

  “It’s not okay, I thought we had…something.”

  “You don’t have to worry anymore.”

  “I don’t understand this. What happened?”

  “Proximity,” Rafe mumbled. “I got way too close too fast and forgot who I was. You don’t have to worry about me anymore. You didn’t want me before – proximity pushed us together, and now we’re done.”

  Deacon couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Cautiously, he moved closer. “You think just because Felix is dead that I want to draw a line under what we had going?”

  Rafe threw him a quick look. “It was just sex.”

  Deacon shook his head. “No, it was more than that back when we first met, and it’s more than that now.”

  Hope flickered in Rafe’s expression, and Deacon forged ahead with more. “I didn’t sleep with you because you were here. I did it because I can’t imagine a life where I don’t get to touch you, or think about you, or just know that you’re mine.”

  Deacon let out the breath he’d been holding to say all that and crouched in front of him.

  “I want more,” Rafe said. “I’m not sure I deserve it… I don’t…” He stopped and closed his eyes.

  “What do you mean?”

  “All those people dead. I should never have gone to that house.”

  “I killed a man,” Deacon murmured, the story inside him welling up from the dark place he’d hidden it. He moved to sit next to Rafe, not touching him but close enough that he felt as if he could share the secret quietly. “A year back, I was at a gas station that was being held up. I had a gun, he saw it and he took a hostage, used her as a human shield. She was terrified. I shot him between the eyes, right over her head. The department designated it a clean shot, but I never got my head around that one thing; what if I’d not been armed? He would have taken what he wanted and left us all alive. He just wanted money. He didn’t want to die.”

  Rafe unclenched his fists on the quilt and moved one of them closer to Deacon, nearly close enough to touch but not quite. Deacon wanted to take his hand, but he didn’t want pity, he just wanted to explain.

  “So I quit.”

  “You were doing your job.”

  “That wasn’t what made me quit. There was an internal review and I was taken off active cases for two months, and in those two months other people were hurt, or died. Drugs made their way onto the streets, and I felt responsible for it all. I took that all on me, everything going back to that single moment when Edgar Mackie wanted money and responded to seeing me armed.”

  “You felt as if you had to save everyone?”

  “Yeah, and it took me a while to get my head out of that spiral. You’ll find your way out of this one day.”

  “I wanted to find evidence that my uncle killed my mom, and then my dad. That was all I wanted; not justice for everyone in the entire world.”

  Deacon thought they were talking at cross-purposes, and he debated telling Rafe about the people he’d saved after the family had trusted him, after he’d shot Rafe and gained their twisted respect. Maybe he’d save that for another day.

  “I’m tired,” Rafe said quietly, and bumped shoulders with Deacon.

  “There’s something I want to ask you,” Deacon said into the quiet of the room.

  “Uh-huh?” He wasn’t listening now, he was more than done with everything.

  “I’d like you to have a tracker on you.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Rafe, are you listening to me?”

  Deacon sounded stressed, and Rafe looked up to Deacon holding something out to him. A small black disc.

  “Put it in your pocket, just in case.”

  Rafe took it, but stared at it, not quite knowing what to say. “Why?” he asked.

  Deacon shrugged. “Humor me?”

  Rafe nodded, he could do that. He slipped it in the pocket of the jacket he’d borrowed from Sam. No point in putting it in his jeans; nothing was going to happe
n to him here with Deacon next to him. Anyway, Sam had said he could keep it, and he liked it, so decided he would. He’d wear it anytime he wasn’t with Deacon, problem solved.

  Seemingly happy with that, Deacon scooted back to rest on the pillows, and pulled Rafe back with him until they were spooning on top of the quilt. Maybe they should have rethought that, got undressed and under the covers? There was a blanket at the base of the bed, and Deacon hooked it with a foot and pulled it over them.

  Rafe pushed back into him, wriggled a little to get comfy, but there was nothing sexual about it. Rafe needed a hug, Deacon needed to hug him, and together like that, they slept.

  Chapter 15

  All Rafe could think about in the car was whether Deacon was scared.

  From Sam and Mac’s place to the small town of Cambridge Falls was only a morning’s drive, even though they had to cross two state lines to get to it, blink and you’d miss it through New Hampshire, then just over the state line into Maine. The journey was quiet and flew by, not much talking from either of them, but, yeah, the whole concept of a scared Deacon was something that Rafe couldn’t shake.

  “Are you ever scared?” he asked when they were little more than twenty minutes or so from Rafe’s small house on Main in the town.

  “Of you getting hurt, yes,” Deacon answered without any real thought.

  Rafe had nothing else to say, and let Deacon concentrate on driving. This northeast corner of the US was beautiful in Fall; a blanket of gold and red swept as far as the eye could see, and lush grass carpeted the ground. When he’d been asked where he wanted to go, when he’d been given a choice, he’d remembered the conversation with Deacon at the lake and said Massachusetts.

  They hadn’t outright laughed at his choice, but Maine had been as close as they could get.

  “You knew where I was put in WitSec, didn’t you?” He’d meant to ask that before, or state it as fact.