Keeping Promise Rock (15 page)

“Medic, sir,” he said, “smartly” turning to “sharply” at the memory.

His captain nodded, almost as though he understood. “Fine, Private.

Medic it is. Consider yourself an officer upon completion of your training.”

“Sir, yes, sir!”

“And if nothing else, it will keep you as far from any sort of firearm as possible as a member of this man’s Army. We’re a superstitious lot, here, Private—I’m not fucking with our mojo, no matter
why
you and the M-16 seem to be at odds.”

Crick let a smirk show through, and the captain managed to hide his own. “I hear you, sir. Am I dismissed?”

“You may go.” The captain turned to make some notes on Crick’s paperwork, and Crick pivoted to leave. He was stopped at the door.

“Private?”

“Sir?”

“Will she be waiting for you?”

Crick couldn’t hide his surprise. “Sir?”

“The girl… the stuff… everything you wanted in the world when you thought you were going to be kicked to the curb—will it still be there when you get out?”

Crick didn’t know what his expression was, but he knew he felt naked and exposed, and he didn’t give a shit. “That’s the plan, sir.” The captain nodded. “I’m glad to hear it, son. Now double-time it back or you’ll miss chow, and you’re a little on the thin side as it is.” That night, he had a precious fifteen minutes to write to Deacon, and he used it.

Deacon—

I’ve posted the dates in June when we’re on leave before shipping out. It’s only three days. It’s hot as hell and twice as wet—we may not want to plan on doing much while you’re here. Otherwise, things are fine. I mean things suck, but I expected them to suck so it’s not much of a surprise.

In fact, I even got a promotion….

Crick wrote three letters while he was at Fort Benning, and Deacon knew them all by heart. He’d gotten into the habit of writing a short paragraph to Crick every night and then finishing up the letter and sending it off. Stupid stuff—how the horses worked, what Patrick had said, whether or not Jon had called. He tried to see Crick’s sisters twice but had Keeping Promise Rock

been turned away at the door both times. It galled him, but step-Bob was right—Deacon had no blood claim to the girls, just an obligation to Crick.

The last time he’d been there, planning to take them to the movies, Bob had been there with a couple of drinking buddies to run Deacon off.

Deacon had taken one look at the array of pipes and chains on the Coats’s living room coffee table—as well as the meaningful looks of step-Bob’s cronies—and said, “You should be ashamed of yourself, you useless fucker. You don’t want me coming around and trying to be a parent to your kids, you need to get off your ass and do it yourself.” He hadn’t quite dodged the eight-inch length of lead pipe that went flying towards his head, and the girls had peered anxiously at him through the back bedroom window as he’d driven away, trying to staunch the bleeding in his temple. That had been two weeks before his flight to Georgia took off, and he wasn’t sure what to tell Crick about his promise to look after the girls, and he really wasn’t sure what to tell him about the fact that Patrick had wrecked Crick’s Gremlin (fucking useless car, but Crick had loved it) when the damned thing had
lost a tire
while taking the back roads to Wheatland to broker a deal for Even’s stallion spunk. They were going to have to buy another car, but worse than that, Deacon’s vow to keep home
home
for Crick was unraveling one broken promise at a time.

Crick,

I’ll be there—here’s the hotel name and the number. I would imagine you can just walk right on up and knock.

I’ve got some good news and some bad news for you. The bad news is that you’ve got a brand new Hyundai Hybrid to drive when you get back from Iraq. The good news is step-Bob’s fucking useless toe-licking friend can’t throw worth shit….

Deacon opened the hotel door carefully. Crick hadn’t needed to say anything—they were in the middle of fucking Georgia, barely a mile from Camp Benning—if anyone saw them, Crick would be toast. Crick rushed in and closed the door, and they stood for a second, looking at each other cautiously.

“You look tired,” Crick said at the same time Deacon said, “You got thinner!” and then Crick’s goofy grin spread over his narrow, high-cheekboned face, and Deacon shoved him back against the door. His cast was off, and he used his thinner, paler hand to cup Crick’s cheek while his good hand held Crick by the collar. They stood there, smiling and panting, and then Deacon smoothed shaking hands through Crick’s cropped hair and claimed Crick’s mouth with everything in his soul.

Much later, they lay tangled in the sheets, naked, sated, and still breathless, with Deacon’s arm wrapped around Crick’s chest and Crick’s head on Deacon’s shoulder.

“Your new haircut?” Deacon murmured against Crick’s short, sweat-soaked hair.

“Yeah?”

“Hate it.”

“Me too. First thing I’m doing when I get back—growing that shit out.”

Deacon laughed a little, and Crick shivered under his gentling hand.

“I’m hoping you’ll have some shit to do while you wait for that to happen.”

Crick laughed too, and Deacon suppressed a whimper because he’d
missed
that sound.

“So how’d you get promoted?” Deacon asked to keep the sadness at bay.

Crick told him the story—the one that didn’t come through in the letter, and when they were done laughing, Crick turned over to his stomach and grew sober. “So, this is what you define as ‘bad aim’?” He fingered the still-healing cut above Deacon’s left eye.

Deacon winced a little and shrugged. “He was trying to knock me out. He failed. Damned straight I called that bad aim!” Crick’s face went unaccountably sad. “Now see, Deacon, this is what I’m afraid of.”

Deacon wondered if he looked as puzzled as he felt. “You worry that step-Bob’s asshole friends are going to randomly bonk me with lead pipes? ’S’okay, Crick—I think this was a one-time gig.” Crick rested his forehead on Deacon’s chest for a moment and choked on a strangled laugh. “No, idiot. I’m afraid horrible, horrible shit is Keeping Promise Rock

going to go down while I’m gone, and you’re going to write it off with,

‘Yeah… it was no big deal. Everyone gets their dick ripped off in a hideous farm equipment accident! And they always swell to six times their normal size and turn green after they’re reattached. You worry too much, Crick! I’ll let you know when I’m really hurt’!” By the time he was done, Deacon was convulsing with laughter, and Crick was repeatedly socking him on the arm.

“It’s not funny, Deacon! Goddammit! Take this seriously!” Deacon looked at him and rolled his eyes. “Trust me, man. I take getting my dick ripped off
very
seriously! Especially now that I remember how to use it again!”

Crick finished off with one final smack on the arm and threw himself back against the pillows and scowled. “That’s not what I’m talking about, asshole, and you know it!”

Deacon rubbed that dark, short hair again, kind of liking the way it prickled against his palm but not enough to want it to stay this short.

“Then what
are
you talking about, baby?” They both froze for a moment—it was an endearment, one they hadn’t used before, and Deacon froze to see how Crick took it. He imagined Crick froze to taste it on his ear for the same reason.

Crick pulled the hand that was rubbing through his hair and kissed the palm gently, with a little bit of tongue, and Deacon found he was getting all squirmy again. “Please call me that again sometime,” he said softly, “but right now, listen to what I’m saying. I’m leaving you alone, Deacon. I know I’m about the only soul on the planet you talk to besides Jon, but Jon isn’t going to be there every day like I was. It kills me to think of things getting bad—really bad—and you there, alone, not able to tell a soul. If you can’t even write it down—not even to me—where will you be, Deacon? I just want to know you’ll be okay while I’m gone. If you’re not honest with me, I’m not sure you’ll be okay when I get back.” Deacon sighed at the end of this little speech and threw himself back against the pillows and crossed his arms over his chest self-protectively.

“You know what kills me to think about?”

Crick rolled over to look at him, but Deacon kept his gaze fixed firmly on the yellowing plaster ceiling of this less-than-opulent hotel.

“Please tell me—baby.”

“I worry that you won’t come home. I worry that you’ll be thinking about some dumbass complaint I make about my day-to-day bullshit, and you’ll make some sort of fatal error, and then there will never be a time for you to come home and for things to get better. So tell me….” Deacon pinched the bridge of his nose hard to make the congestion in his head stop, to make the sadness go away until Crick was no longer there to be burdened by it. “Tell me what you want, Crick. I would rather push all my funky bullshit off until the end of the term, so when you get home you’ll get it all, than to not have you come home at all, or to… to….” Fuck.

Fuck. Fuck.
Say it, Deacon, make it real for him too, you spineless
bastard!
“To have the worst happen on either end, and have you think it’s all your fault and that you ever let me down. That right there is my worst worry, Carrick. So I’ll make molehills out of mountains all I want, because once you’re home, once I’ve got you back, odds are pretty fucking good they’ll really be molehills, okay?” Crick nodded, sniffled and sniffled hard, and Deacon finally looked at him and cursed himself because he made Crick cry. He reached out his arms, and Crick went willingly, sobbing his heart out on Deacon’s chest while Deacon rubbed his back. He may have let a few tears slip, but not many. Carrick needed him—he could be anything, do anything, while Carrick needed him to be strong.

The three days went by so fast. They ordered in, took lots of showers, and used an entire bottle of lube. Crick was surprised that Deacon brought condoms (since Deacon had been celibate since Amy, and Crick had been celibate until Deacon) until he caught Deacon shoving them in Crick’s duffel bag.

“Deacon!” Crick whined, and Deacon could tell he felt like a little kid.

“Crick!” Deacon whined back.

It was the night before Crick had to be back, and they were packing so Crick could get up in the morning, shower, dress, and walk out the door. Deacon would leave a few hours later, after Crick had taken the bus back to base.

Deacon had a towel wrapped around his waist, and Crick was wearing his boxers, and Crick came up behind him and started playing with the knot at Deacon’s hips. “You really think I’m going to just wander into someone else’s bed after this?”

Deacon’s lips quirked up in spite of himself, but he didn’t turn into Crick’s long arms yet. No. Crick wouldn’t just “wander” into someone’s bed. “You actually saved your virginity for me, Crick. Do you have any idea how rare that is? If you were a girl, we could have sold you for extra cows or something.” He stared thoughtfully—and a little too hard—at the zippered pocket where he’d shoved the condoms. He’d give anything for that pocket to never be opened.

“Then why….”

Deacon couldn’t look at it anymore. He turned into Crick, and, rarity of rarities, rested his head on Crick’s chest, because Crick was taller and it only made sense. Crick hadn’t taken a shower since the last time they’d made love (fifteen minutes earlier), and he smelled tangy, like sex and sweat. Deacon put out a tight little tongue and tasted the sweat from a chest so hairless it might as well have been waxed.

“You’re going to be a long way from home, farmboy,” Deacon murmured, like they both didn’t know this. “And there’s going to be a big part of yourself that you’re not going to be able to tell
anyone.
If you… if you get a chance for someone to hold you… to give you comfort… hell, just to know that part of you….” Deacon looked up, proud of his dry eyes until he saw Crick’s stricken face. “Just take it, Crick. Think of it as a gift.

It won’t have anything to do with me—I know that.” He wrapped his arms around Crick’s waist and pulled him in tighter. “It will just be loneliness. I can’t stand to think of you lonely, Carrick. It just….” It just broke his heart way, way worse than thinking of Crick with someone else.

Crick nodded, breathing hard into his hair. “I won’t use them, you know.”

“Please don’t hurt yourself keeping that promise. Just let them be.” The next morning they both woke with the alarm, and after Crick shut it off, they spent a minute—just a minute, Deacon looked—lying in the morning stillness with Crick’s arm wrapped around his chest and Crick’s warm breathing against Deacon’s cheek.

“Stay in bed,” Crick murmured. “I want to think of you all soft. You smile at me different when you’re in bed.” Deacon looked over his shoulder and, well, smiled. “How’s that?”

“Any other time, your smile’s all tight and busy….” Crick punctuated this with a hard kiss. “When you’re in bed with me you smile sweeter… it’s the one time you look most like your dad.” 104

Deacon knew his mouth fell open in surprise, and Crick took full advantage of that and kissed him, hard and thoroughly and well enough to short out Deacon’s brain and take the hurt away. He must have done it on purpose, Deacon thought with a little bit of bemusement, because by the time his brains were unscrambled, Crick had hopped out of bed and was halfway to dressed.

“You’re not going to take a shower?” Deacon asked, feeling muzzy.

Crick had topped the night before. He’d asked to.
I want to know all of
you.
And now Deacon’s body ached in unaccustomed places, and his heart ached all over, and he wasn’t sure if he could make his body move fast enough to catch the new, improved, quick and efficient Crick as he charged through his morning routine.

Crick flashed a broken grin. “I want you on my skin as long as possible.”

Deacon blushed, and Crick’s broken grin fixed itself a little. He’d pulled on his T-shirt and his fatigue bottoms, and he leaned over, fully dressed, and kissed a space on Deacon’s pale chest. Deacon had a classic farmer’s tan, and he looked down and realized his skin was blotchy with his embarrassment.