The 51st Thursday (2 page)

Chapter Two

Deacon watched Thursday turn pale as panic filled his eyes. Obviously he hadn't thought tonight's misadventure through. On the other hand, whatever significance Thursdays held for him outweighed common sense. Either way, Thursday really was up shit creek without the proverbial paddle or the boat, and he was going to need both to get all the way across the city before all hell broke loose.

"I'd offer to give you a lift, but I don't particularly want to be out in this on a motorcycle."

"I don't blame you. Thanks for the offer. I got myself into this mess, I'll get myself out... Guess I'm walking, huh." He ran his hand through his hair in a gesture of irritation that had Deacon's hands itching.

"Hey, Thursday, do me a favor, will you?" He refused the money Thursday pulled out of his wallet. "And I'll do you one in return."

"Sure, I guess. What do you need?" His eyes were leery, his words hesitant.

"Start stacking those sandbags in the entry while I pull the shutters. It's getting bad out there and I don't want the place to flood."

"I can do that. Did you call me Thursday?"

"Yeah, sorry, I don't know your name."

"It's Shelby." Deacon noticed he didn't give his last name, or maybe that was his last name. In the South it was sometimes hard to tell.

"Everybody just calls me Deacon."

"I know. I, uh, where do you want those sandbags put?"

Deacon could see the unease in his eyes. He seemed nervous. "Come on, I'll show you."

He led him out onto the sidewalk past the piles of sandbags, the wind so heavy it nearly knocked him over. "Stack these as close to the door as you can and as high as you can. The waterline with Katrina was about knee high, including the step up. I'll be back to help in a few minutes. Oh and Thursday, I'm not letting you walk home in this mess. You can stay here until this thing blows through."

He didn't look at him to gauge his reaction. He had to get the shutters set now while there was a break in the rain. He raced headlong into the swirling wind, disappearing around the corner to get the side windows first. He slowly worked his way back to the door, where Shelby had a nice wall of sandbags nearly waist high; he was just waiting for him to jump the low section before he filled it in.

"That should hold. I got the back door this afternoon. All of the upper windows are covered. God it's eerie out here." It was too dark, too quiet. The streetlights seemed blurrily deranged as the rain and wind slashed and whipped around. "And cold. How the hell is it cold with a damned hurricane coming? Anyway, let's get out of this. Are you hungry? I've got a ton of burgers left over from the hurricane party."

"I could eat." Shelby ran his hand through his hair again, this time to tame the wind-tossed mane. "And uh, I appreciate the shelter. It was stupid coming out in this. I'm sorry to stick you like this, man."

"Not a problem. I own the whole building, I've got tons of room; an extra body around won't bother me any." Deacon pushed the heavy wooden door closed and turned the dead bolts. Instant silence filled the room just as the lights flickered overhead. "Electricity will go soon and I'd just as soon not be caught down here when it does. Let's get some food and move upstairs."

* * * *

Grateful for the shelter, Shelby shook off the unease that plagued him since finding himself alone with the enigmatic bar owner. Deacon was probably a few years older than his thirty-three years and good-looking in that rough way that former military, or cops, or even football players were good-looking. His laughing eyes took the edge off his rough exterior. His lantern jaw nearly always softened when he smiled, which he seemed to do quite often. He kept his hair short, the blond so pale it was almost white. Occasionally Shelby caught him studying him as they walked through the vast kitchen area grabbing food and drinks and carrying it up three flights of stairs.

Deacon looked away every time Shelby met and held his gaze. It unnerved him to think the man might have nefarious thoughts. He liked Deacon, enough to come back to his bar each week, but he didn't like Deacon, hell, he didn't know Deacon. Deacon could be a serial killer for all he knew.

The second and third floors used to be apartments back when the building was new, Deacon explained as they climbed. "Back then the bar had been a general goods store and the owner and his extended family lived above it. Then the Depression hit and wiped out the store. My grandfather bought the building after World War II and turned it into a bar. We've used the floors for storage or apartments or whatever. I took the fourth floor when my dad retired and left it to me."

"So Deacon isn't your name then?"

"Last name. Joseph Albert Deacon the Fourth. I'll stick to Deacon, but Joe works too. While we're sharing, is Shelby your first or last name? Could be either."

"First. Bainbridge would be the last name."

"Oh yeah, like the Shelby Bainbridge whose daddy is a senator, the same one who took Alabama to the SEC championship two years in a row and the BCS bowl once. That Shelby Bainbridge?"

Shelby felt the heat begin in his ears and work around to his face. "I used to be that Shelby Bainbridge."

"But now you don't know who you are? I get it. Why didn't you go on to play pro ball?"

"I went to law school. I planned to follow my dad into politics, even made partner in his law firm." Shelby shrugged. That wasn't him anymore. He followed Deacon into a large open studio filled with neon signs and lots of chrome. There was a chrome and black and red kitchen area, the concrete floor painted black with silver sparkles. The furniture was black leather, and supercontemporary. Across the room, he noticed a large bed on a raised section of floor. The long floor to ceiling windows beside the bed were covered with metal louvered shutters. Somehow, the sight of the bed made him shiver.

"Oh yeah. Bet you had the whole deal too, blonde wife or girlfriend, the white-columned house, and a golden retriever. You look like the golden retriever type." Deacon moved around the room lighting candles. The electricity sizzled again, going brown but not out altogether. "There's a radio on the island. I have a small ton of batteries and these flameless candles stored one floor down. Enough food and drink to last a week and a small generator. The only thing I worry about is tornadoes. Other than that, this place is Fort Knox."

Shelby was grateful Deacon wandered away from the original observation. He didn't talk about that, wouldn't talk about that part of his life. He picked up the remote. "Can I turn this on?"

"Yeah, sure, knock yourself out. I'm going to grab a quick shower before hell breaks loose. After Katrina, I didn't have hot water for a week. It was my own fault for getting rid of the gas water heater and going electric. But hey, live and learn. Make yourself at home."

"Sure, thanks." Shelby looked away when Deacon pulled his T-shirt over his head but not before he caught sight of a set of six-pack abs, complete with a jagged scar that disappeared beneath the waist of his jeans.

The weather pretty much dominated television. Updates on shelters that were still open, closings for the late shift or the next day, which pretty much encompassed everything except for emergency and military personnel at this point. New coordinates and other news on the actual storm would come at the top of the hour, which was about ten minutes away. Radar showed a solid green scan with red squall lines of concentrated storm. He turned the sound down to barely audible and listened as the wind howled around the building.

As he listened, he realized he could hear the shower running and his imagination threatened to go places best left unexplored. He turned the sound up and moved on to a different channel, finding nothing but horror movies or kids' holiday offerings for his trouble. Weather Channel was down in Gulf Shores, interesting. Wrestling was on Syfy. Why was wrestling on Syfy? A smarmy bunch of girl movies about sissy vampires and not one damned thing to watch that wasn't holiday or weather related.

He hated Halloween.

Shelby put the TV on one of the local channels and set the remote down just as Deacon exited the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist. "Is there anything on besides vampire movies and hurricane minutiae?"

"Wrestling and chick flicks, that's about it. They're going to update the track in a couple of minutes; after that it's pretty much a teenage wasteland." He kept his gaze riveted to the screen but he could hear the man moving behind him as drawers opened and closed.

The electricity crackled again but didn't go out. Deacon dropped on the couch dressed in nothing but a pair of blue jeans. He handed Shelby a cold bottle of beer. "May as well drink 'em while they're cold. Tomorrow we won't be so lucky."

Shelby agreed and tipped his bottle back while the weathergirl spouted out the latest info from the hurricane center. Downgraded to a Cat Three was good news. And as the storm moved farther into the colder waters of the Northern Gulf she would weaken further but a Category Two was still a dangerous storm.

"Well that's something at least." Deacon slung a foot up on the glass and chrome coffee table. He seemed oddly relieved. "Is this your first hurricane?"

"Yeah, is it that obvious? These things are killers. How can you be so...I don't know...cavalier about the whole thing?"

"Let's just say this isn't my first rodeo. Frederic damn near destroyed the city when I was a kid. I remember coming down here on horseback because we couldn't get the truck through. Standing in line for water and food and that was in September 1979. It was so damned hot. Ivan and Katrina were bad but not that bad, at least not here. No power, no gas to be had for days. We cooked up all the meat on the grills and fed the neighbors after the river receded. After that we ate potato chips and canned green beans. Believe me, the storm isn't a big deal if you're far enough away from water. It's the aftermath that will kill you."

"Wow. Okay. So how long will the streets be flooded?"

"Depends on the storm. We had one about ten years ago that sat over us and poured for three days, but it sucked all of the water in the bay out to the Gulf. It was freaky as hell. I got bored and went walking out past the battleship on dry land. Okay, I was drunk or I wouldn't have done it, but still. You never know what's going to happen so you close up shop and get as safe as you can and hope for the best."

Shelby heard something hit the metal shutters outside. "Not helping," he said when Deacon laughed.

"Probably just a sign or something came loose. Don't worry about it. Hey, we could go upstairs and shoot some hoops if you want." He slung back his beer and flicked off the television. "Or do you just throw around the football? I've got one of those too. Come on, it beats sitting around down here and looking at each other."

"Sure, why not." Shelby grabbed his beer and followed Deacon back to the stairwell and up one more flight of stairs. The room they emerged in was just a large, bare-walled concrete and brick room with no windows and a high ceiling with hanging bare bulbs for lighting.

"I'm not really sure what they used this floor for back in the day. I'm hesitant to say they had a sewing factory up here but I've found some things tucked away. Whatever, this is one huge room so I did the only thing that made sense."

"You hung basketball goals on each wall and put in a killer sound system." Shelby had to admire a man who had his principles in the right places.

"I hung basketball goals on each wall and put in a killer sound system," Deacon echoed, grinning from ear to ear. "How's that for a fucking man cave?"

"Pretty sweet." Shelby had to agree when Deacon grabbed a ball off a rack and tossed it to him.

"Take it out, Thursday."

Shelby grunted from the impact of the ball. He was out of shape; he was still paying for the months of forced inactivity while his leg healed. "Come on, dude, let's see what you got."

"Bring it." Deacon grinned again. He leaned over, bringing his height down to a threatening level, the look in his eyes almost primal. Something familiar swirled in Shelby's gut. He'd forgotten how much he loved the game, any game. The smell of sweat, the sound of teeth grinding in frustration, grunts of pain.

Shelby kicked his shoes over to the wall beside the ball rack and without a second thought he put the ball into motion.

Deacon was a formidable opponent. He used his body like a wall, his shoulder became a weapon, and before long, Shelby was soaked to the skin in sweat and his own frustration. "Take off your shirt, pretty boy. Nobody here but us to see your pathetic man gut."

"Screw you." Shelby climbed up off the floor, panting as he wiped sweat from his forehead with his soaked shirtsleeve. Deacon watched as he undid the few buttons and tossed the shirt aside. He hesitated with the undershirt. It had been a long time since he bared his body for anyone, much less a stranger. The scars from that night were still livid.

"Maybe later, honey. Are we going to play ball or what?" The music flipped over to Bob Seger's "Old Time Rock and Roll" as he pulled the thin scrap of fabric over his head. "Those are pretty. Did he leave you your dignity after he cut you up?"

"Asshole." Shelby didn't flinch. There was no pity in his voice, just the familiar shit talk. "You got a lot of room to talk. Looks like someone tried to cut your dick off but missed."

"Good thing too or I wouldn't be able to make your mother scream every night."

Shelby grabbed the ball and slammed into him, twisting around his body to tip the ball into the hoop. "What was that you were saying about my mother?"

"She likes big dicks." Deacon slammed him hard in the gut, knocking him to the floor. "So does your wife."

He felt his teeth slide across his bottom lip as something primal welled inside him. He launched his body from the floor, flinging himself into Deacon just as he twisted into a layup. He hit the floor hard and the ball dribbled off across the floor, coming to a stop in the corner of the room. Deacon roared and with a move Shelby didn't see coming, Deacon grabbed his wrists and flipped him onto his back.

He lay between Deacon's legs, breathing heavily, fury hot and sour in his chest.

"So there was a wife? I wondered. There used to be a ring." Deacon didn't budge. If anything, he held on tighter to Shelby's wrists as he held him pinned to the floor. "That explains some things."

"Get off me." Shelby lifted with his hips, hoping to dislodge the bigger man. The erection pressing into his belly stopped him cold. "I think you've got the wrong idea. I like women."

"I do too." A light burned in Deacon's eyes that sent something sizzling through Shelby's body. "Most of the time. Nothing like sweet perfume and soft curves, is there?"

Shelby didn't say anything. He couldn't break Deacon's mesmerizing gaze.

"Nothing except the hot, hard body of a man all sweaty and furious after a game of tag football that turned violent and ended with dirt in places dirt isn't meant to go. Or a man's mouth on your cock, god, there is nothing like a man sucking you off, Thursday. Have you ever been sucked off by a man?"

"No. I'm not gay. Get off me, you perv." Shelby panicked, using his body to buck. He tried to unseat the man but only ended up out of breath.

"Then why is your cock hard?" Deacon smiled as he slid his hips down until he was almost lying on top of Shelby, his rigid cock resting beside his, his breath hot against Shelby's ear. "Come on Thursday, I've been in locker rooms, I know what you jocks do. You can't be seriously telling me there were no postgame shenanigans in which your dick ended up in a place it shouldn't have. No nights at the gym all alone with a stranger that curiosity got the better of you? Not one mutual masturbation scene in the shower?" Shelby shook his head to each question. "My mistake."

Deacon released his wrists just as the electricity sputtered and died, plunging them into almost total darkness. With the glow from a lantern and the battery-powered boom box the only thing left on, the song changed to Seger's "Beautiful Loser", and something inside Shelby snapped.

A year of pent-up rage in a single breath of air, he lifted Deacon off his body, twisting as he tossed him onto his back, and in a second he pinned him. He could see his face in the dim lighting, the shock in his eyes that became something else. "You son of a bitch," Shelby growled just before he slashed his mouth across the lips that turned up at the corners, mocking him.

He could pretend the lips were tender, that the chest pressed to his was soft and that the fingers in his hair were dainty. But he knew it was a lie. Deacon's mouth was hard, unforgiving as he took control. His tongue touched Shelby's, tangled with it before he sucked it into his mouth. "What do you want, Thursday?"