Making Promises (57 page)

Kimmy took some of those classes with Shane, figuring, in her words, “There’s no rehab counselor like an old addict,” and Shane was so proud of her—of them—jumping into this together like the twins they’d never really been.

Mikhail did not take those classes. He figured he would be helping to run the place enough, he would let Shane and Kimmy do the paperwork, and he would do what he was best at: dance and listen. He was really, Shane often told him, the best sort of listener.

They bought the vacant field next to The Pulpit, and Deacon, for one, was very relieved. For one thing, developing the land meant having someone level all the weed growth on the property, and that helped keep the snakes from living there, which also kept the snakes from migrating onto Deacon’s property, and that was a concern.

But mostly Deacon was happy because his muckrakers would have a place to live, and Shane would have easy access for a place to employ the kids in his shelter. Between the lot of them, they spent long nights discussing how the shelter should be built and how to make sure 354

everybody had their own room and how to make the living room central to it, so everybody could sit and eat and be safe.

Between them all, the simplest, most obvious name for the place was Promise House.

It was a beautiful dream—Shane just couldn’t believe how many people shared this beautiful dream, how many of them wanted it to come true.

Kimmy and Mikhail bought out Kurt’s portion of the dance troupe, and Brett joined them, and the dance went on after all. It kept them busy, but when school started in September, Shane was unable to go see them perform as often as he liked. Sometimes, though, he brought his schoolbooks and did his homework with Kimmy during the downtime.

This meant that every now and then, he could put on the clothes Mikhail had helped him pick out one giddy, golden October day the year before and go watch them dance.

They still took his breath away. They were the most beautiful things in his life.

One Sunday evening, Mikhail pulled The Purple Brick into the driveway, and an hour later, they were lying on their stomachs in front of one of the drawers in the pedestal bed that used to be Mikhail’s. Shane and Mikhail had their chins propped on their hands, and Kimmy was hanging upside down over the edge of her mattress.

They were watching the miracle of birth.

One of Shane’s “rescue-ees” had called Shane from the shelter in tears because her favorite cat had yet to find a home and was going to be put down. Mikhail had taken one look at the tiny-boned, pregnant feline with the long black and white hair, called her Angelina Jolie, and elected to make her his.

“I’d call her Britney Spears,” he’d said disdainfully, “but Angelina can pump out children and still maintain a little class.” When they’d arrived home from the faire, they found that Angelina had made herself at home in Kimmy’s sock drawer and was in the process of squeezing out some babies.

They were all fascinated. A little grossed out—especially when Angelina started licking the afterbirth off the icky thing she’d just Making Promises

produced—but fascinated. Eventually, she was done squeezing them out, and there was an eclectic line of four kittens nursing and a tired Angelina, still licking the nearest one occasionally, just for form.

“Hmm…,” murmured Mikhail, pushing himself up to take a better look at the kittens. He was on his elbows with his feet raised above his knees and crossed at the ankles. He looked like a teenaged girl at a slumber party, but Shane wasn’t going to complain. He was also still wearing his faire clothes, and Shane didn’t have to be at class until ten the next morning. He figured there was still some time for some hot, costumed sex, especially since Kimmy had fallen asleep and was curled up on the mattress above them, snoring gently.

“She
has
been a kitty slut.” Mikhail turned to him, nodding vigorously. “Look at her—there isn’t a single tuxedo kitten in the bunch.” He grinned indulgently. “Well, it is a good thing you went out and had your fun, Angelina, yes it is. You will be fixed before you can shake your ass again, and won’t that be a surprise?”

Shane chuckled. “Go ahead and kill a girl’s dreams,” he muttered, and one of Mikhail’s shoulders lifted in that snitty little shrug that could still make Shane’s abdomen clench.

“She will live. It will be especially nice to have her not screeching for hot tomcat loving all over the neighborhood, I think we will both agree. Do you think I could touch one?” he asked abruptly, and Shane nodded.

“Yes, but only because you’re her favorite. Here—stick out your finger to her, and wait to see if she’ll rub her cheek on it.”

“Ahh… the introduction.” Mikhail did what Shane said, and the cat rubbed her nose and then her cheek repeatedly on it, until she finally settled back, purring.

“Yeah—and now your finger smells like her, so it won’t freak her out when you touch her babies. Go ahead—one finger.” Gingerly, Mikhail extended that finger—fine-boned and long and tan—and stroked the top of a fuzzy, ginger colored head. The expression on his face was one of careful awe. He finished and tucked his elbows back under his body, and they continued to watch the new family in the happy quiet.

“You do know a lot about making strays feel at home, don’t you, big man?” Mikhail murmured into the peace.

Shane shrugged—it wasn’t nearly as graceful—and then flattened his arms and tucked his chin into his hands. “You just have to let them feel powerful,” he said, thinking hard. “If they feel like they have options, most of them will take the option to like you.” Mikhail lay flat, too, and turned serious blue-gray eyes to him. “I did,” he said with a faint smile, and Shane bristled.

“You weren’t a stray,” he muttered. “You were… are… like a big jungle cat. I just… I took one look at you, and damn. I just wanted to run with you, that’s all. Even if you clawed my heart out.”

“I almost did,” Mickey told him gently, and Shane’s returning smile was whole and adoring.

“Yeah, but the results were so worth it.”

Mikhail blinked rapidly and swallowed hard, but he didn’t look away. “We should make promises,” he said, and in this perfect, quiet moment, it didn’t sound abrupt at all.

“Promises? I thought we already did.”

“No—in front of friends and family. You know—a wedding, I guess, if two men may have such a thing. Maybe Deacon and Crick would let us use the same place.”

“A wedding?” Shane liked the idea. He liked it very much—even when it made him blush. A lot. “Think we could dress up? You know, like this?” Mikhail looked so very much himself in his Ren Faire outfit. Shane was enchanted by the thought of him in front of their family and friends the same way Shane saw him.

The look on Mikhail’s face was priceless, though. “If we wanted to break the gay-o-meter, why yes. Sure,
lubime
, we can dress like this.” He shook his head in bemusement. “But we should do it.”

“When?” Shane asked, warming to the idea.

“In February,” Mikhail said decisively. “It will be cold—and maybe that alone will keep us out of costume”—he rolled his eyes—“but,” and now his voice dropped, and he looked melancholy for a moment, “but, Making Promises

maybe, if we have it in February, and play Tchaikovsky, Mutti will hear.

Maybe she will visit and watch. She really did love you, you know.”

“I loved her,” Shane admitted painfully. Mikhail’s mother had been a miracle, just like her son. “I think that’s an awesome idea, Mickey. I’d love to marry you.”

“Make promises,” Mikhail amended. “Marriage is for the sentimental.”

“And we’re not sentimental in the least,” Shane told him gravely, smiling.

“Stop that, you irritating man. I can hear your smugness from here.” Shane scooted closer then so his body was warmed with Mikhail’s heat and raised himself up on his elbows again, leaning in to kiss Mikhail’s cheek. He was pleasantly surprised when Mikhail turned his head and they met lips instead, and the familiar taste of his lover flooded him, and he sighed and fell into the kiss. They pulled apart for a minute and resumed their watch on the new family.

“We can keep a kitten?” Mikhail asked happily.

“Buddy, you’re the one who cleans the cat boxes.”

“Yes,
mishka
, I am. You are right. We will keep one.”

“Mickey, what does
mishka
mean? You’ve been calling me that for months.”

Mikhail’s look at him was sly and predatory—just like the jungle cat Shane had mentioned. “If you are very nice to me in bed, I just may tell you.”

Shane grinned and stood up to go shower, lowering his hand to help Mickey up. He came up and popped happily into Shane’s arms.

“I am always very nice to you in bed,” Shane assured him, and Mikhail’s smile became serious.

“You are always very nice to me, period, my beloved. I am so glad I found you.”

Shane blushed. “Yeah. Me too—can we go have sex now?” Mickey’s grin was open and free and perfect. “Absolutely.” 358

They were walking quietly to the bedroom when he added, “Love you, Shane.”

“Love you too, Mickey.”

It was really the only promise they needed.

AMY LANE teaches high school English, mothers four children, and writes the occasional book. When she’s not begging students to sit-the-hell-down or taxiing kids to soccer/dance/karate—oh my! she can be found catching emergency naps, grocery shopping, or hiding in the bathroom, trying to read without interruption. She will never be found cooking, cleaning, or doing domestic chores, but she has been known to knit up an emergency hat/blanket/pair of socks for any occasion whatsoever or sometimes for no reason at all. She writes in the shower, while commuting, while her classes are doing bookwork, or while she’s wandering the neighborhood at night pretending to exercise and has learned from necessity to type like the wind. She lives in a spider-infested and crumbling house in a shoddy suburb and counts on her beloved mate, Mack, to keep her tethered to reality—which he does while keeping her cell phone charged as a bonus. She’s been married for twenty plus years and still believes in Twu Wuv, with a capital Twu and a capital Wuv, and she doesn’t see any reason at all for that to change.

Visit Amy’s web site at http://www.greenshill.com. You can e-mail her at [email protected].

Revisit Levee Oaks with AMY LANE

Carrick Francis has spent most of his life jumping into trouble with both feet.

The only thing saving him from prison or worse is his absolute devotion to Deacon Winters. Deacon was Crick’s sanity and salvation during a miserable, abusive childhood, and Crick would do anything to stay with him forever. So when Deacon’s father dies, Crick puts his college plans on hold to help Deacon as Deacon has helped him.

Deacon’s greatest wish is to see Crick escape his memories and the town they grew up in so Crick can enjoy a shining future. But after two years of growing feelings and temptation, the painfully shy Deacon finally succumbs to Crick’s determined advances and admits he sees himself as part of Crick’s life.

It nearly destroys Deacon when he discovers Crick has been waiting for him to push him away, just like Crick’s family did in the past. When Crick’s knack for volatile decisions lands him far away from home, Deacon is left, shell-shocked and alone, struggling to reforge his heart in a world where love with Crick is a promise, but by no means a certainty.

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