Keeping Promise Rock (33 page)

“The only thing that worries me is that Benny will make the same mistake I did,” he told her.

“And what’s that?”

“She’ll shit all over it instead of believing it’s true.”
Crick @DP—Deacon?

DP @Crick—? ? Crick? ?

Crick @DP—Are we going to be okay when I get home? Are we
going to know how to talk to each other?

DP @Crick—Not at first, I would imagine.

Crick @DP—I’m nervous, dammit. Don’t go all shy and mysterious
now.

DP @Crick—I’m a different person to you. I’ve let you down. I’ve
fucked up. You’ll probably be disappointed at first.

Crick @DP—SHUT THE FUCK UP.

DP @Crick I’m being serious here.

Crick @DP—So am I.

DP @Crick—I dread the moment when you look at me and decide if
I’m a god or a man. Either way, you’ll be disappointed.

Crick @DP—News for you: I had that moment. You’re beautiful
either way.

Crick @DP—Deacon? You still there?

DP @Crick—We’ll be fine, Crick. Noworryss.

Crick @DP—What’s wrong?

DP @Crick—Hands shaking. You wrecked me. Simple as that.

KEITH Alston might have been a good-looking kid, if Deacon hadn’t been looking at him with the taint of what he did to Benny tarnishing that dimple-cheeked, pretty face.

“Yes, your honor. I’m here to confess to what I did. Anything that’ll get me out of child support, right?”

The judge—the same one who had seen to Deacon’s trial—raised his grizzled gray eyebrows and looked drolly at Jon. Jon smiled back with enough innocence to rehymenate an entire brothel.

“Son, are you sure you don’t want a lawyer?” Keith shook his head. “No, sir—I just want to wash my hands of this brat and get the hell out of here.”

Judge Crandall narrowed his eyes, and Benny smiled sweetly from her spot on the plaintiff’s bench with Parry Angel on her hip.

“Then by all means continue there, son.”

And that’s all it took to get the spoiled little rich kid to confess to statutory rape—after he’d signed away all his rights to baby Parish.

DP @Crick—You should have seen the look on the kid’s face as the
bailiff hauled him away!

Crick @DP—I’m glad Benny doesn’t feel threatened by him
anymore.

DP @Crick—Yeah, lots of celebrating here.

Crick @DP—Good.

DP @Crick—That’s a little restrained.

Crick @DP—I’m worried about when Benny moves away, that’s all.

DP @Crick—Way to piss on my parade—thanks. Thanks a lot.

Crick @DP—Well, it’s not like I haven’t hurt you enough by leaving.

I just don’t want it to happen again.

DP @Crick—Aren’t you getting ready to leave soon?

Crick @DP—Tomorrow morning, actually.

DP @Crick—So let’s be happy for right now. Can’t we be happy for
right now?

Crick @DP—Yeah, Deacon. We can be happy for right now. Not a
problem.

Crick looked at the cell phone and swallowed the weird emptiness in his stomach. So close—he was so close to being home. What if Deacon took one look at him and didn’t want to see him anymore? What if Crick was the one with the mystique, and Deacon had forgotten what a pain in the ass he could be?

DP @Crick—Screw that. I’ll be happy when you’re home.

Crick @DP—Are you sure I’m worth it?

DP @Crick—Absofuckinglutely.

THE next day, Crick threw his duffel over his shoulder, shook hands with his CO and all the other guys in his unit, and hopped in the ambulance because Lisa had asked permission to drive him to the airstrip in Kuwait so he could ship out. He was just about to get into the passenger seat when he groaned.

“Awww… fuck it all!”

“Whatsamatter, Punky? Forgot you signed up for another tour?” Lisa grinned at him cheekily from underneath her flak helmet. The road hadn’t necessarily been safe in the last month or so.

“No—I forgot”—he looked furtively around, feeling like an asshole.

“I left some of my shit in your lockbox,” he said meaningfully, and Lisa’s eyes widened. Their entire convoy was already gearing up and shipping out, and she still had his sketchbooks, not to mention some of Deacon’s letters. Some of them he still had in his wallet or tucked into his flak helmet, but he couldn’t keep them all there.

“Well shit, Punky—I’ll have to send it to you. I’ve got your address.

I’ll ship them out as soon as I get back.” Crick’s face relaxed into a smile. “Thanks, Popcorn—I couldn’t have done this without you, you know?”

“I know!” she said cockily, hopping into the driver’s seat. He followed on his side, pulling out his cell phone as he went.

Crick @DP—On the road, Deacon. See you soon. Love you lots. The
butterflies and palm sweats have begun.

DP @Crick—Don’t be nervous. I’ll only eat you ’til you come.

It was the dirtiest thing Deacon had ever texted—what could he say?

He got a little giddy on that last night. Crick was coming home.

Crick @DP—Dammit, Deacon, I’m gonna have a hard-on for a
week if you do that again.

They texted a little as Crick pulled away, but Crick signed off so he could talk to Lisa, saying goodbye to her with conversation as they traveled.

DP @Crick—See you soon, Carrick James. Love you.

Crick @DP—Love you back.

THE family didn’t know about the ambush on the convoy until the next day. The DOD called them at eight in the morning as they were shoveling oatmeal and scrambled eggs and talking about where they’d take Crick out for dinner when he got home.

cart IV

Keeping Promises

A Long Trip and a Short One

CONFUSION. So much confusion.

If Crick was dead, Deacon was pretty sure his heart would simply stop, and that would be the end of it. If Crick was going to stay in the hospital in Germany, that was easy—Deacon, Benny, the baby—they all had their passports and travel visas in order for exactly that reason. But the dry voice on the phone that first morning had been adamant that hauling ass to Germany was a less-than-perfect idea.

Son, if he’s not good enough to make it until he’s stabilized and
transported back to the States, all you’re going to do over here is grieve in
a strange place instead of a familiar one. We suggest your family sits
tight, and we’ll let you know when he’s on his way to the Medical Center
in Virginia.

Which left Deacon sitting on the kitchen floor, gasping, trying to come up with a plan. His vision was black, and he didn’t think he could breathe, but… he had to, right? He had to come up with a plan. He had to pull money out of his ass to buy plane tickets, make a schedule, ask Andrew and Patrick if they could cover, make sure the baby was well enough to travel, and….

His vision was still black. Crick was hurt….
“Lieutenant Francis
and his driver were caught in the shelling outside of Kuwait this morning,
son. Lieutenant Francis is in surgery and will be for quite some time.”
Oh God—his driver too. “Lisa?”

“We’re sorry, son—Private Arnold didn’t make it.”
Keeping Promise Rock

Deacon tried to catch his breath now. Crick was going to be devastated—his one friend over there, hell, his first actual friend-without-benefits ever—and she hadn’t made it. And Crick could have been just like her.

Deacon rested his forehead on his knees, wishing he could just faint like a girl because consciousness was not doing him any fucking favors, when he felt little hands on his shoulders.

“Deek-deek….”

“Heya, Angel,” he rasped and then looked up through the dimness in his vision. Benny, Andrew, and Patrick were all standing over him, waiting for the news.

“He’s in surgery,” Deacon managed. “When”—
when!
—“when he’s stabilized and on his way to Virginia, they’ll call us, and we can go meet him there.”

Benny whimpered a little and flopped limply next to him. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and held her as she quietly fell apart.

“Patrick, you said someone showed interest in Lucy Star’s yearling?”

“Yes, sir.” The older man looked suddenly ancient—Deacon was reminded that he’d been on the verge of retirement this year, but he’d decided to stay until Crick was home to help with things.

“See if you can make that sale—we’re going to need the money. And while I’m gone, see if you can’t pull out some of our sperm stock and knock her up again this season.” They had been going to let her lie fallow this year to give her a break, but she was going to have to dig in deep like the rest of them. They’d need that horse to sell later.

“Yes sir,” Patrick said quietly. He crouched down and ruffled Deacon’s hair. “He’ll be fine, Deacon. I have faith.”

“It’s more than I’ve got,” Deacon said, staring at the peeling finish on the kitchen cabinet with empty eyes. “I’ll have to borrow yours.” They packed and put tickets on standby at Sac International and then simply went about their day. What else was there to do? Deacon was distracted—Shooting Star bit his fingers hard enough to bruise and he barely remembered to cuff the old bitch, and he almost let Even out in the same pasture as one of their in-season mares—which wouldn’t have been 228

so bad, but she was a relative of Even’s and they were planning to inseminate her with another sample.

When Deacon almost got kicked in the head by one of the skittish young yearlings, Andrew saddled up Lucy Star, walked over to Deacon with the reins, and said, “Go ride. Just go. Don’t worry about us here. Just go. You’ve got your cell. We’ll call you when there’s news.” And that was how Deacon found himself out at Comet’s grave and then at Promise Rock.

His body liked the ride. It liked moving with the horse—Lucy still had a smooth-as-lube gait, and Deacon’s legs and stomach fell into that rhythm, the one that said as long as his body could move, his soul would be okay.

He thought he’d end up staring morosely at Comet’s grave, but as it turned out, he just didn’t have that much melodrama in him. It hurt too much to look there, at the greened-over impression in the soil. It was getting hot again, but the ground was wet enough that there were still yellow wildflowers all over the field. That damned horse had loved to eat those wildflowers, and Deacon and Crick had always loved this time of year at The Pulpit
.
Looking at death was going to make him suicidal, and he couldn’t. He had to keep Benny and Parry Angel in mind because they needed him. He was their family.

He eased away from that place, then, and urged Lucy into an easy canter toward Promise Rock.

The place was full of ghosts—not all of them Crick’s.

Parish had taken him there at least twice a week the summer after his mom died. That September, after Deacon started kindergarten and the press of bodies and personalities had sent him home in tears on a regular basis, Parish had told him to pick one kid, just one, and make that kid a friend. If Deacon could do that, Parish promised to take them both to Promise Rock every week until it got too cold to swim.

That’s how Deacon had gotten Jon—easy-going, grinning Jon.

Deacon had caught him sobbing in the bathroom that very week because his parents were going away again and they wouldn’t be there when he told them about school, and Deacon invited him swimming, and that had been fate.

Jon had tried to kiss him at Promise Rock. Deacon hadn’t minded. It had seemed so natural. Girls were great—girls gave him a hard-on, same Keeping Promise Rock

as boys, but Jon already knew him, so that was easier. Jon had seemed more disappointed than Deacon when it stayed just a brush of uncertain lips and a fit of giggles, but since it meant that Deacon wasn’t going to lose his friend, he was fine with things.

He and Amy had lost their virginity here. Her body had been so sweet—small, vital—her skin had been smooth, and her breasts had been soft, fleshy miracles in the palms of his hands. The inside of her had felt so smooth around his cock—sweet and satiny and precious, like fine fabric. Amy’s body had been sweetness, softness, all joy. Almost too much joy, it seemed sometimes. Deacon felt awkward with that much comfort; it made him feel a little weak—silly, like a steel-toed boot in a perfume store.

And then there had been Crick.

Deacon had known. That first time Crick had visited the swimming hole with him and Jon, Deacon had known about Crick’s crush. He’d known it and thought,
He’s so pretty, and I love him already, but not yet.

Crick had been too young, plain and simple. He’d been too young in high school—Deacon could see that, but, oh God, he had seemed so lost.

The night of Brian Carter’s funeral, they’d put him into his own room, and Deacon must have gotten up six times, walked to Crick’s door, heard him crying, and put his hand on the knob.

The only thing that had stopped him was knowing that if he did that, Crick would have no choice in his future, none at all. That goofy smile, that fine mind—Deacon had believed Crick could do anything. He hadn’t been shy and happy in the quiet; he’d been fearless. Why would he want to stay in this crappy town with someone who knew—even back then, when he was barely twenty—that in spite what of his test scores said about his future, his heart wanted the simplest of lives?