The Lucky Ones(36)

“If you knew why you had to leave, you could stay?”

“I’m not thinking that far ahead.”

“You’re a terrible faker,” he said.

“Okay, maybe I am thinking that far ahead. Might be nice to spend Christmas with someone.”

“We always celebrated Christmas together.”

“On the twenty-seventh,” she said. “Never on Christmas Day. You were always with your kids on Christmas Day.”

“Cricket, I—”

“I know. You’re sorry. But you shouldn’t be. Not about that. Christmas is for family, and I was never part of your family.”

“And Roland is?”

“He used to be.”

“So you’re planning on staying there awhile, then?”

“Long enough to see Dr. Capello.”

“All right,” he said. “Have it your way. But if you decide to stay longer, check in with me every now and then so I know you’re alive.”

“If you insist.”

“I insist,” he said. “And let me know if anything weird happens, okay?”

Allison heard something outside. She looked up and saw someone standing on the deck. A man in black. All black. Black jeans, black boots, black sleeveless T-shirt, black hair and black tattoos all the way up and down his arms.

“McQueen, I’ve gotta go.”

“What’s up?”

“Something weird happened.”





Chapter 13

By the time Allison had slipped on her shoes and made her way out to the deck, her mysterious man in black had seated himself on one of the lounge chairs with sunblock on his nose, one leg crossed over his knee and a book in his hands. All in all, he was doing a fine impression of a California beach babe baking in the sun. He ignored her as she came to stand in front of his chair. He merely turned a page in his paperback without giving her a second glance.

“Hello, Deacon,” Allison said.

He pushed his sunglasses down his nose to look at her before pushing them up again to resume his reading.

“Hi, sis,” he said.

“What are you reading?” she asked.

“Book I picked up at the library this morning,” he said. “Little ditty called Flowers in the Attic. Ever read it?” He looked up at her and grinned as manically as the Joker. Allison glared at him.

“Ohh...” he said, shuddering. “You give a good death stare. Almost better than Thora’s.”

“Roland is not my brother. I am not his sister. We are not flowers nor are we in the attic,” Allison said.

“True, but No Flowers in the Beach House doesn’t have quite the same ring to it,” he said, and tossed the book back over his shoulder, where it landed on the deck in a flurry of bent pages. The book lover in her died a little inside. “Walking funny today?”

“That’s a very crude question.”

“He hasn’t gotten laid in years. Plus he’s six feet tall and weighs two hundred twenty pounds. I’d hate the big behemoth if he weren’t my brother. I can’t break one-eighty wet with boots on. Maybe I need bigger boots.” He held out his leg to show off his motorcycle boots.

“I’m fine,” she said. “Thank you for asking.”

“Did you have fun last night?” he asked as he pulled his legs in to make room for her to sit down on the lounge chair. “He definitely did. Grinning like an idiot all morning. Which is kind of weird in a hospital, but hey, Nero diddled while Rome burned, right?”

“Deacon?”

“Yes?”

“I hate you.”

“Aww... I love you, too.” Deacon reached out, grabbed her and pulled her down into his lap. To make it even worse, he started to rock her back and forth. “Our little girl’s all grown up.”

“So much hatred. Burning, burning hatred.”

“Be happy, poopsie,” Deacon said. “You got the good monk to stay up after his bedtime for something much more fun than praying. You must be a miracle worker.”

“Roland warned me about this,” Allison said with sigh. “You, I mean. He warned me about you. He should have warned me way more.”

“You have to let me enjoy this. If men had hymens his would have grown back by now.”

“Can you take the sunblock off your nose?” she asked. “It’s getting on my shirt.”

“You’re no fun.” He pushed her off his lap, and wiped the sunblock off with the corner of his beach towel. All at once it struck her how handsome a man Deacon had grown into. Not handsome, she reconsidered, but beautiful. Like many people on the West Coast, he had some Asian ancestry, which had blessed him with high cheekbones, elegant dark eyes and thick eyelashes sooty as cinders. A striking man. If someone put him in a Tom Ford suit and sent him down a runaway, he’d be America’s next top male model.

“You’re pretty, too,” he said.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “How did you know I was thinking you were pretty?”

“I assume that’s what everyone’s thinking.” He winked at her.

“You’re a menace,” she said, rubbing her forehead. Deacon was so easy to love and yet she also wanted to strangle him. But with love. But also strangling. In a loving way.