Deacon (Unfinished Hero #4)(93)

I felt her pain.

For a while.

Now I didn’t feel anything.

Or, at least, I told myself that.

I got her in the kitchen, whispered, “Be good. Be quiet. And stay.” She looked up at me with her sweet brown eyes and sat on her furry booty.

My Boss Lady.

I closed the door, shored up my defenses, and stood in my foyer with eyes to the front door.

Moments later, Deacon walked in, closing the door on the cold behind him.

Bossy heard him enter and barked, deep and resonant, no longer a puppy (well, still my puppy but mostly she was a dog).

Deacon’s eyes went to the kitchen door.

I shouted, “Be good, Bossy!”

She quit barking.

I launched in immediately and his gaze shot back to mine.

“I think you know there’s nothing to say. But since you’re here, I figure you think there is. In order not to upset Milagros, and get Manuel involved, you’re here. But now that she’s gone, I’d request that you be the same.”

“My wife is dead. She’s been dead for ten years.”

I fought falling back on a foot, his words feeling like blows, staring in his face, seeing nothing but believing every word he spoke.

But why hadn’t he told me that before?

“She died ugly. I didn’t protect her from it. I didn’t save her from it. I loved her. She died but she didn’t let go. I left you, I broke you, and my man Raid reamed my ass, but it didn’t penetrate.” He dug in his pocket, pulled his hand out, and it was sheer reflex that I lifted my hands to catch the flash drive he tossed my way. “That penetrated. You taught me to let it penetrate. Listen to that, Cassidy. I’ll be upstairs waiting.”

He’d be upstairs waiting? Was he high?

He walked my way.

He was high.

I moved quickly to bar the stairs.

He stopped in front of me.

“You’re going the wrong way,” I informed him. “You need to use the front door, Deacon, or I’ll call the cops, and we both know you don’t want that.”

“Don’t give a f*ck you do, except that’ll prolong this and I wasted enough time.”

He didn’t care that I called the cops?

“Deacon—” I started.

“Listen to what’s on the drive, Cassidy.”

“I’m not listening to anything.”

“I listened to yours. A million f*ckin’ times, I listened to it. You can give me once.”

He listened to mine.

A million times?

No.

No, he was not getting in there.

“You left me, Deacon, time and time again, left me empty, broken-hearted, lonely, and you did it for seven years,” I reminded him. “And you know exactly what I’m talking about.”

“Listen to it.”

“I’m not letting you do it again.”

“Listen to it.”

I shook my head. “You let me get used to you and clean gutters and someone to get me a beer and go grocery shopping with and sleep beside at night, and it’s easy, Deacon, so f*cking easy to get used to that. But it’s hard, unbelievably f*cking hard, to get used to losing it. Now I’m used to it so you need to go.”

I got in there. I knew because he winced.

I didn’t let that penetrate either.

“I’m sorry your wife is dead but clearly it’s f*cked you up in a huge way and clearly I’m not the woman to sort that out.”

He dipped his face to mine. “Listen to it, Cassie,” he whispered.

But I was struck dumb by the look that had entered his eyes.

Eyes that were making me feel exactly what he wanted me to feel.

I struggled to fight it.

He kept talking before I could win.

“Listen to it, baby,” he kept whispering. “Then meet me upstairs.”

He said no more and didn’t let me say a word. He edged around me and took the stairs.

I turned stiltedly and watched him do it, willing my body to go to my cell and call the police. Then I begged my body to do it.

But instead, my head bent, my hand lifted, and my fingers opened.

The flash drive was silver.

The one I gave him was pink.

“Call the police, Cassidy,” my lips whispered.

My eyes went to the stairs.

Then my stupid feet took me to the office.

I shoved in the drive and just to be ornery (because that was me), I opened my desk drawer and nabbed my headphones, plugging them into the computer so when I listened, he couldn’t hear me doing it.

When I pulled up the drive, what I suspected was there. I didn’t understand the file name, but I knew that would be the extension.

BeautifulWar.mp3

I could listen then call the police.

Or I could listen, walk upstairs, and tell him he needed to go. He no longer meant anything to me. We were done. I was taking no more of his crap.

If he didn’t leave, then I’d call the police.

I put my headphones in, brandished my mouse, and hovered over the file.

“Damn the man,” I whispered and clicked on the file.

iTunes came up and the song started playing.

I listened.

I did not call the police.

I listened again.

On the third go, I went to Google and looked up “Beautiful War” lyrics.