Forever Promised (50 page)

Crick’s smile was almost girlish in complete glee. “Oh
hell
yes! Like the best birthday ever!”

“Good. I’ll flip you for jobs—which one of us gets thank-you cards, which one of us gets cleanup?”

Crick looked at him in horror. “Oh hell. Cleanup, no question!”

“Too bad. While you’ve been eating cake with the lady of honor, Mikhail and I already cleaned up.”

Benny looked up and realized that most of the trappings—the diapers loaded with chocolate bars, the wrapping paper and the ribbon, the empty plates with daisies on them and the empty drink cups—had all been thrown away. She was sitting in the recliner, and after shifting her weight against the pillow at her back and checking her fluid levels (she predicted a preemptive pee would be needed in twenty minutes), she thought she might take the pregnant woman’s prerogative and catch a fifteen-minute sleep. (She’d need five minutes to maneuver her amazingly swollen waddly body off the damned recliner when she
did
have to pee.)

Crick was giving Deacon shit about the thank-you notes, which was funny, because everyone knew that while Deacon’s notes would be warm and gracious, Crick’s would be frickin’ hilarious. While warm and gracious were
great
qualities in a hug
,
a thank-you note that read “Thanks for the plastic things that makes diapers into little white bag-covered turds. Best goddamned toy
ever
!” was something the people in
this
house would treasure for
always
.

The boys were fine, Benny thought, contentment filling her chest. The boys were fine, Drew had promised her a foot rub tonight, and Parry Angel was currently impressing everybody by making a little bonnet out of package bows.

Benny put her hands on her stomach and cocooned herself with the little person inside her.
Don’t worry, little fish. I’ll have to leave you when you come out, but I think you’re in good hands.

A
LL
of the people were gone, all of the trash thrown in the recycler, and Crick managed to finish the thank-you notes while they were nibbling on the last of the lunch spread for dinner. Deacon was impressed.

Drew had taken Benny home, which was probably a relief to
her.
Crick, much to Deacon’s disgust, had wanted her to stay. In the middle of the shower, she’d dozed off and started snoring. Crick had taken footage on his camera, and Deacon had been in the middle of telling him to knock that shit off when she’d farted, choked on a snore, and rolled out of the recliner and onto all fours, screaming, “I’m
up
,
Parry, I’m on my way!”

Deacon had been the first one to her side to make sure she was okay, and she was, but Crick had to be beaten over the head with a pillow before he’d get off the floor and stop laughing. Collin had done the beating. After Benny got up and Drew helped her to the bathroom, choking on his own snickers, Deacon snatched the pillow from Collin’s hands and said, “Collin—
wiener!
” just to watch him fall apart. By the time Benny got back from the bathroom, everybody could pretend they hadn’t seen
her
little gaffe, because Collin was in a fetal ball of his own.

So there had been a lot of laughter, and some awkwardness (Deacon’s least-favorite moment had been smelling the candy bars in the diapers. Benny too. Both of them had looked at each other and wrinkled their noses. They remembered the real thing—hadn’t been that funny then, wasn’t that funny now). There had been small moments of grace—watching Missy help Parry put on her ribbon bonnet had been one of those. Watching Jeff and Collin take turns cuddling the baby doll in the crook of their arms and talk about how best to pick up the real thing had been another.

All things considered, it was nice to have the house back to their own, with the exhausted donkey/dog crashed out in the front room and the frightening pile of presents resting in the newly painted mint-green and earth-brown guest room.

“We didn’t get any clothes,” Crick said thoughtfully. He was exaggerating—they got a packet of unisex T-shirts and a packet of unisex onesies, but in general, no. Most babies were up to Mama’s eyeballs in outfits by now. Parry had been, and Deacon and Benny had put the little tiny pink things away in the drawers with awe and a terrible fear there wasn’t enough, there could never be enough, and that the baby would spend her first six months wearing a diaper and nothing else.

“We will,” Deacon said, taking a bite of the chocolate pudding cake while Crick wasn’t looking. His health was great—the pacemaker and the laser surgery seemed to have cleaned him right up, and he was careful, most times, without Crick’s nagging. But everyone had their secret vices, and cake was cake. And those little shortbread cookies with the fudge in the middle were all gone, so Deacon was eating cake, with little daisy frosting things on top, and not regretting it in the least.

Crick looked up and scowled, and Deacon grinned through a mouthful of chocolate and frosting. He swallowed and washed it down with the milk at his elbow and said, “It’s Benny’s secret plot. Everyone
knows
what sex the baby is, and when she has the baby, they’ll all bring clothes.”

Crick put down his pen, stole Deacon’s fork, and scooped himself a bite of chocolate cake. He didn’t wait to swallow after he put it in his mouth. “How in d’hell d’you know dith?”

“Gimme that!” Deacon swiped the fork and got another bite—there was really only a largish piece left. They should clean that up, right?

Crick swallowed. “Answer my question!” He was so damned cute! Lean little mouth pushed out in a pout, big limpid eyes narrowed with playfulness. They were sitting kitty-corner, and Deacon reached over and scooped a last blob of green icing off Crick’s cheek with his thumb. He popped his thumb into his mouth and sucked off the frosting, regarding the love of his life with dancing eyes.

Crick’s mouth worked as he struggled to keep his pout, but the smile won out in the end. “Yeah, you’re sexy as hell. Now tell me how you knew that!”

Deacon’s laugh snuck past his thumb, and he pulled it out and shoved in the next bite of cake, just to make Crick wait until he was done.

“You think you’re clever, don’t you?” Crick asked, his eyes narrowed.

Deacon nodded, his mouth sealed shut as he savored the chocolate cake.

“You think I can’t
make
you tell me?”

Ooh… there was a wicked arch to his eyebrows, and Deacon smirked, then swallowed half the bite in a definite challenge.

“I can make you tell me!” Crick growled. He stood up carefully and grabbed the cushion he’d been sitting on—it was one of Benny’s hemorrhoid pillows, but Deacon’s mouth was still full, so he didn’t have much room to smirk. He concentrated on swallowing that last bite instead so he’d be ready when….

Oh yeah.

Crick threw the cushion on the ground and knelt gingerly, careful of his leg, and then lowered his head to Deacon’s crotch. He grabbed the corner of the button fly with his teeth and tugged gently while kneading Deacon’s groin with his good hand.

Deacon sighed and slouched down, thrusting his pelvis out to give Crick better access. He’d wanted this so bad.

The first button gave, and then the second, and then Crick gave it up and used his good hand to pull and his game hand to anchor. Deacon shifted and Crick fumbled down the front of Deacon’s briefs, gasping when he pulled Deacon out, more than partially erect.

“The cake made you hard, huh?” he asked, still miffed.

“You made me hard, dumba—” Crick engulfed him completely in his mouth. “—sssss….”

Hot, wet, hard. Crick was good at this. Deacon lifted his hips again and shoved his jeans and briefs down past his knees and spread his thighs, giving Crick an all-access pass to his body. Crick took the e-ticket ride, starting out with his crooked hand giving a soft, uneven stroke up Deacon’s cock and his good hand going for the skill work, fondling Deacon’s balls and stroking back in the recesses to tease the crease of Deacon’s ass.

“See?” Deacon hissed as Crick sucked the crown of his cock to the back of his gulping throat. “All you!”

Crick was going to try to argue, but it was hard to do when your mouth was full of erection, and Deacon puffed out a laughing breath as he bucked deeper. Crick made a noise of protest, then grabbed Deacon’s shaft with his good hand and squeezed deliberately.

Oh yeah, they were doing this in earnest, weren’t they! Deacon thrust up into Crick’s wet fist and then pulled back. His crown was constricted by the “o” of Crick’s fingers, and every thrust ramped him higher, and higher, and—

“You’re gonna get hard again, right, Deacon?” Crick actually
pulled back
to ask him that.

Deacon growled, grabbed his hair, and shoved him back down. “You think I’d leave you hurting?” Deacon panted. “Don’t you know by now that I’ll
always
take care of you?”

Crick sighed then, and took him deep, and pulled back, and again, and again and….

“Augh!” Deacon came inside Crick’s mouth, spilling over Crick’s tightened fist, and Crick swallowed as quick as he could.

It didn’t mean his mouth wasn’t still glazed with spit and come when Deacon’s breathing stilled. Deacon’s hand still clenched in his hair, and he tugged gently, giving Crick a hand to grab and help himself up. Deacon let go of his hair and stood with him, then grabbed it again and hauled Crick down, tasting his spend on Crick’s mouth, around his lips, tasting Crick’s laughter and his love, and only, just a little bit, tasting the last of the chocolate cake.

They left the cake on the table, and the rest of the buffet, and called it a real holiday and went to bed.

And yes, Deacon got hard again, because no, as long as Deacon could move and breathe, he’d
never
leave Crick hurting.

When they were done, Crick was facedown on the bed, spread out, with Deacon tucked under his arm, facing him.

“You never told me,” Crick mumbled. “How did you know about Benny’s plan?”

“I gave her the idea,” Deacon said back, almost falling asleep. “She’s telling Mikhail first.” He didn’t mention that he’d told her to do that at Christmas, when Mikhail’s heart had been weeping loud enough to hear it across all of Levee Oaks.

“You are just a scary, scary general in the war for our souls, aren’t you?” He didn’t even open his eyes to say it.

Deacon laughed softly. “Yeah, well, I won yours. Made me greedy.”

Crick leaned close enough to give him a kiss good night in the dark. “How long, do you think?” he asked. “The waiting is killing me.”

Deacon smiled as he said it, so happy he could have waited a whole other year just to hold on to this moment here, when they were two. “When it’s ready, Crick. You know that. Babies come when they’re ready.”

A
WEEK
after the shower, well into the heat of May, Benny couldn’t sleep.

Drew rubbed her feet, and she complained because his touch was too hard. She took a shower, and the water was too hot. She
would
have taken a bath except her back hurt too much. The salad dressing was too salty, Parry’s cartoon was too loud, and why couldn’t everybody leave her alone and let her knit, thank you very much? She’d finished the blanket—it was wrapped and ready with the bag she’d packed for the hospital—but she was still trying to knit Parry a sweater for next year. She’d gone up a size, and it was taking forever, and the squishy pink yarn with the little fuzzy things sticking out wasn’t a picnic.

Drew looked at her, eyebrows raised, half-fearful, like a quizzical hound dog, then just put in
How to Train Your Dragon
and did what all men did anywhere when their mates were pregnant: shut the hell up and stayed out of the way.

Good thing too, because she was getting Braxton Hicks again. Damned practice contractions. They’d been plaguing her all week. Oh fuck. There was another one, and this one she needed to breathe through. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck—that one
hurt.
Fuckers.

She scowled and worked another three rows of the sweater, and then… oh no. This one was gonna crack the motherfuckin’ world. Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Oh fuck. One more….

Okay. Thank God. That one was over. And yeah. Great movie. Great score. Loved the movie. The dragon was
great.
Except… there it went…. Oh fuck. Oh damn. Oh hell. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck….

She set the knitting down and breathed through the next one, and looked up, aware Drew was on the phone, and
dammit
,
what was he doing on the phone when she was trying to watch the goddamned….

Oh fuck. Oh
fuck. Oh hell
to the
fuck no
!

And was there a knocking at the door? Really? Who was visiting her
now
?

She put her knitting down again and looked up at Drew, suddenly too tired to even yell at him for being on the phone.

“Drew, I don’t think these are practice contractions,” she said, feeling suddenly vulnerable, like her body was going out of control without her. Had it felt this way the last time? Had it always been like being pushed off the top of a downhill ski jump?

“No shit, Bernice,” Drew snapped. He bent down and shoved his shoulder under her arm. “You’ve been contracting every seven minutes for most of the damned movie.” He grunted and stood, and she allowed him to haul her to her feet. “Kimmy should be here in about thirty seconds for Parry. Crick and Deacon are waiting outside. Now let’s move it, okay? All stations are a go!”

“No,” she murmured, suddenly stricken. “Drew, I don’t think it’s time yet. It can’t be. It’s not ready to leave me yet. It
needs
me. I’m the mama, and it’s not time, and—
oh hell!
”

She couldn’t walk through this one. Couldn’t talk either. Parry had been a quick labor, she remembered that, but this one looked like it was going to jump the gate and run.

When she was done, Drew was on one side of her and Deacon was on the other, and they half walked, half carried her between them. Parry gave her a quick hug and a kiss, which was good because she did
not
want to be touched right now. Kimmy kissed her cheek, and when did Kimmy get there? And suddenly she was being belted in Crick’s car while it was moving down the driveway, and her entire body screamed with the indignity of moving
right the hell now.