Making Promises (16 page)

You ready to go?”

“Which way we goin’?” Shane asked, bemused.

“This way,” Deacon said, going right on the battered road from his driveway. “Jon only lives about a half a mile this way, and with any luck, we won’t have to roust him out of bed.”

Jon, Deacon’s best friend, was, in fact, waiting for them as they rounded the corner. Jon and his wife Amy were lawyers, so their house was bigger and newer on the inside, with less acreage of land on the outside. Jon was stretching his movie-star body along his white picket fence as they neared.

In spite of being sort of a prick to Shane when they’d first met, Jon had turned into a decent person. In appearance, he looked like Brandon—a dimple in his chin, movie-star blue eyes, streaky blond hair. In personality, he was loyal, brave, and faithful—both to his wife and to his best friend for life, Deacon. So basically, Jon was the anti-Brandon, and that made Shane like him in spite of the bad introduction.

Together, the three men started running, following Deacon’s lead and listening to Jon’s mindless banter. Shane could see that Deacon and Jon had run together before—they fell almost naturally in stride. But they were both conscious of Shane on the other side of Deacon, and they adjusted, and Shane wasn’t a slacker, and he was sort of proud of the way he kept up with them. The morning was crisp but not cold, and the roads were near to empty in the gray-to-golden light. Even the horses ignored them as they trotted past, using the dirt and grass stubble margins between the fences and road to spare their joints.

An hour later, he was proud of the way he didn’t pass out as they slowed in front of his house to drop him off.

“A… little… farther… than I’m used to…,” he gasped as he clutched the porch rail and watched black spots dance in front of his eyes.

Jon patted him on the back. “Yeah, Deacon could run five miles a day when he had mono—his dad damned near had to tie him to the bed to keep him off the roads.” Jon had the decency to sweat when he said it and to sound a little winded himself.

“I like running,” Deacon said mildly, and Jon did the mature thing and stuck out his tongue.

“What he’s not saying,” Jon panted in a mock-confidential tone, “is that he runs just as well emotionally as physically. And he wants us to be his enablers. Can I hit you up for some water, big guy?”

“Yeah,” Shane panted, pulling his house key out of the Velcro pouch on his wrist and gasping a few more times as Jon took it. “Just don’t let out the—” There was a sudden ruckus and a howl and Jon saying, “Holy shit!”

“Oh. Fuck. Dogs.” Shane defied his own predictions of never moving again and sprinted to the gate of the fence that stretched around his property, slamming it shut before the damn critters could scatter across the county.

So the dogs got let out early, and Deacon damned near had to scrape Jon off the floor, he was laughing so hard. “Jesus…,” Jon giggled as Deacon hauled him up by his armpits into the house. “I swear two of those were Deacon’s yearlings. Holy shit, Perkins—did you put out an ad for furry freeloaders?”

And at that point the cats—from Orlando Bloom to Judi Dench—all came trotting out because the dogs were gone and that was the cue for chow time, and Jon started laughing again, and this time Deacon let him just flop ass-first in the hallway as he went in to get his own water.

“You like animals,” Deacon said quietly as Shane poured out kibble and started opening cans of soft food. Dame Judi Dench had a hair-trigger stomach—she didn’t do kibble anymore, not at her age.

“They don’t think I’m weird,” Shane told him with a sigh, realizing not for the first time that having a dozen or more creatures flopping in what should be his dining room sort of put him in the “weird” category permanently.

“You’re not weird,” Deacon said surprisingly. “What are their names?” He had learned the names of the dogs when he’d come to feed.

Shane knelt down and started scratching ears and necks of loudly chomping felines. “This one’s Orlando Bloom,” he said, rubbing the big tortoiseshell with the white socks behind the ears. “This is Kirsten Dunst,” the delicate white one with the blue eyes, “Robert Downey Junior,” a battered gray bruiser with torn ears, “Jensen Ackles,” a very handsome dappled brown cat with hazel eyes, “Maura Tierney,” a feisty looking long haired Himalayan mix, “and Judi Dench,” an aged yet dignified gray striped cat with a delicate nose.

Jon had recovered and was helping himself to a glass of water, but as Shane continued with the list of names, he set the glass down carefully on the counter and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Okay… at the risk of going off again, I’ve got to ask….”

Shane grinned at him. “The names?”

“Oh yeah,” Jon said. Deacon, who was looking a little wide-eyed himself, just nodded.

“I figured the damned things sleep with me anyway, I might as well dream!”

Deacon laughed—it was a quiet, hearty sound, and it made Shane proud to have caused it. It was Jon who made the connection and said,

“Judi Dench?”

Shane ducked his head. “She’s an old cat,” he muttered. “And I like dry, sarcastic people.”

And then they both laughed, but they clapped him on the back and grinned at him as they did, and he realized that he’d impressed them. It was a sort of warm feeling, knowing you had friends that not even your most eccentric behavior could frighten away.

It wasn’t until the guys left that it occurred to Shane that, in spite of telling them about his sister and her asshole boyfriend and the Renaissance Faire and the trip to the beach he’d taken Sunday before he got to Deacon’s in time for dinner, he hadn’t once mentioned Mikhail.

It just seemed too perfect, he thought. Like talking about it would ruin it—sort of like cutting wild flowers for a vase.

Of course talking about it wasn’t the only thing that would ruin it.

“You signed us up for what?” he asked Calvin again.

Calvin Armbruster was his partner—sort of. Most of the time, the local patrolmen rode in their own squad cars alone. Sometimes, when the municipality was expecting a lot of traffic—or needed everybody on duty—they would pair up. When they did, Shane ended up with Calvin.

Today they were paired because Calvin’s car was in for maintenance, and he was talking up a storm. Calvin was one of those whip-skinny blond kids who would probably get beefy when he passed thirty but for the moment had shoulder blades like coat hangers. He was twenty-four, which was older than Crick, but he didn’t seem older, needy wife, wide-eyed children, and all.

Calvin liked to talk, and he seemed to like Shane fine because Shane didn’t often talk in front of strangers, and they got along all right.

Today, he was talking about signing Shane up for shit duty.

“We’re working
what
?”
Shane asked in horror.

Calvin was nonplussed. “You know—Homecoming. The whole town shows up. You and I are part of the unit that hangs out on the field, keeps folks from getting rowdy. It’ll be fun! We’ll be up close and personal and see the game—the Levee Oaks Trojans may get picked to go to State this year! It’ll be awesome!”

Shane looked at Calvin, just looked at him for the duration of the red light, a little pucker woven between his eyebrows. When the light turned green, he looked back at the road and stepped on the gas, just shaking his head.

“Why? What’s wrong with working Homecoming?”

Shane grimaced. He’d done the math. Monday was too soon. So were Tuesday and Wednesday—but Thursday was just about right. And as far as he knew, Mikhail didn’t work Friday night, and he obviously would be in Gilroy on the weekend, and Shane’s whole “I’m not stalking you, but I’m stalking you” plan
depended
on finding him at work. And being there for Homecoming meant being there for the frosh
and
the JV and varsity games, and that meant Thursday.

And it’s not like he could tell Calvin any of that.

Shit.

Shane sighed and shook his head again. “Calvin, has it occurred to you that I might possibly have plans on Thursday or Friday? Man, the least you could have done was consulted me….”

“Well, do you have plans?” Calvin wanted to know. He’d been nosy beyond nosy into Shane’s personal life, and Shane had to breathe slowly for patience.

“I might have, but it’s more than that.”

Calvin sent him an eloquent look and Shane sighed again.

“Man—what in anything we’ve said to each other in the last six months has made you think I’d be excited about high school football?” Calvin blinked. “Wasn’t everyone? I was on the team—hell, I was first string, wide receiver. How about you?”

“I was in the band, fucktard. I played the goddamned clarinet, and I did a damned fine job of it. And no, I’m not all that excited about the football team. Some of those kids are punks, we roust them every weekend, and the only reason they haven’t had some damned nasty consequences is because they’re on the team. I don’t get why they get a free pass, but the kids with the eyeliner end up in juvie lock-up every damned time. It’s not fair, and I’m not in the mood to celebrate it with the rest of this cold-assed town!”

The silence on Calvin’s side of the car was both digestive and a little defensive. “You know,” he said after a minute, “if you wanted the town to be nicer to you, maybe you better spend a little less time out at Deacon Winters’ place. People talk.”

Shane jammed on the brakes and swerved onto the road shoulder, which was right in front of the supermarket parking lot entrance, and he could give a shit. “You need to find another goddamned partner.” His voice had never been colder.

Calvin’s mouth dropped open. “Jesus, Perkins….”

“I’m not shitting around here. This fucking town is bass-ackwards and cold as a fish in a glacier. The one group of people I find that wants to give me the time of the fucking day, and they’re not good enough for you?

What the fuck’s wrong with you, Calvin?” Shane rubbed his stomach, all of Deacon’s and Kimmy’s and even Mikhail’s misgivings coming back to burn a hole in there. God, they were right. Nobody wanted him in this job, in this place—he needed to find something else to do.

“Man, I’m just sayin’—they’re all queer over there. Except for the Leavens, and there’s been rumors. Hell, that little girl had a baby all her own, and then put the father in jail—”

“Because maybe he was a fucktard who got her drunk and date raped her?” Shane was starting to like the word “fucktard.” It just seemed to encompass so much of the world that pissed him off.

Calvin shrugged uncomfortably. “But, you know, her brother’s queer… maybe she gave off… I don’t know. Vibes or something.” Shane took a deep breath, smiled thinly, and said, “You say one more word about that girl and ‘vibes’, and you’ll be pulling your teeth out of the back of your throat for a week. And you know what? Crick is a decorated war veteran, and Deacon has done nothing but worked his ass off to provide for his family—”

“But they’re not his family!”

“They are to
him
! And you’ll sit here and judge them, and judge me for going over there, and you’ll give the drunken little bastards on the football team a free pass because they bang their girlfriends in the back of their cars instead of other boys. I think that’s fucked up, and I think you’re fucked up, and I think the only place in this town that shouldn’t get flushed down the shitter is Deacon’s place. And mine, but that’s mostly cause the dogs are there. Find someone else to work your testosterone glory hole with you. I don’t want any part of it.” There was silence while a line of cars waited not-so-patiently to get past Shane’s squad car to get into the little grocery store parking lot. Shane Making Promises

sighed and put the car in drive and pulled away, trying to figure a non-obtrusive way to go back to the station so he could find something else to do besides be in the car with Calvin.

He gave Calvin a glance, and the boy was chewing over the words

“testosterone glory hole” to try and figure out if they meant what he thought they did, and Shane fought back a bitter laugh. Maybe he should find a job where people actually spoke words bigger than two syllables.

The silence grew lead wings, and Shane was damned if he’d break it.

He was surprised when Calvin did.

“Look,” he said softly, “I’m sorry I disrespected your friends. You’re right—this town ain’t been real nice to Deacon and Crick, and he is a veteran and all. I’ll… I’ll try not to repeat every fool thing I hear the guys at the bar say, okay? We can still be partners, right?” Shane sighed. “Why do you want to be my partner, Calvin? You think I’m weird.”

Calvin looked at him in surprise, as though he didn’t know how Shane would know this extraordinarily top secret little tidbit, and then he had the grace to flush. “You talk funny—but you know, you’ve got all those dogs?” Calvin had been with Shane a time or two when he’d swung by to check on them, so Shane nodded.

“I’ve always wanted dogs. If I had any money left over after the new baby, I’d have a shitload of ’em. I don’t know—I figure a guy who has dogs can’t be all that bad.”

Shane puffed out a breath. “Okay. Fine. We’ll start with that.” He ended up leaving a dumbassed message on Mikhail’s phone.
Hey,
Mikhail? I was gonna come by on Thursday, so as not to scare the shit out
of you because some big dumb cop is stalking you, but I ended up working
on Thursday, so I’ll be by next week, I swear. I promised, dammit, and I’ll
kee—