Chapter Three
Deacon stared at himself in the bathroom mirror, feeling like an idiot and clutching the sink for dear life. “Get a grip, Jameson,” he muttered at himself, but it did little good. Blood was quickly rushing away from his head and toward his nether regions, making it difficult to think clearly. He wanted Michael, more than he’d ever wanted anyone, but that wasn’t saying much, considered how few people he’d been with.
He closed his eyes and tried taking calming breaths, but before they could do any good, there was a soft rap on the door.
“Deacon?” came Michael’s muffled voice. “Are you okay?”
“No,” he growled to himself. He didn’t say anything else, hoping the young piano player would go back to bed.
He didn’t. “Look, I didn’t—”
Deacon threw open the door and Michael, who’d been leaning against it, almost toppled into him. Deacon caught him and, suddenly, they found themselves pressed together in the doorway. Michael untwined himself and started to move back, but the detective held firm, breathing hard.
“I’m sorry,” Michael said. “I thought you—”
Deacon shook his head, hard. His hand slipped up the back of Michael’s t-shirt, feeling the lean muscles around his waist. He smiled as one stiffened up in reaction to the tickling touch. Then he looked up into the man’s eyes. The sight of them, so kind, so sincere, took his breath away. For a moment, he faltered though.
“I have no idea what I’m doing,” he breathed, glancing back down. Then he felt Michael’s hands wrap around him too and his head snapped up.
“Nobody ever does,” Michael teased and leaned down to kiss him. He respected the detective’s hesitation, leaving it to him whether to deepen the gesture. After a moment, he felt Deacon’s mouth open, his tongue begging for entry. He gladly gave it to him, their mouth’s pressing hard and tongues entwining. Deacon tasted like gumbo and stale coffee.
When they came up for breath, the detective felt weak in the knees and gestured toward the bed. He let the younger man pull him there as his hands began to explore. “Must be all the running,” he muttered as he felt more muscles, his voice husky.
Michael laughed and sat down on the bed. He looked over Deacon, standing before him and then pushed up his shirt. He pulled the man closer and ran his tongue around his belly button. He smiled as Deacon moaned, but was then interrupted by his laughter.
“I’m sorry,” Deacon said between laughs. “That tickles. I’m not used to…” He looked down into Michael’s mischievous face and then yelped as he was pulled down beside him. Before he knew what was happening, the piano player was on top of him, pushing his shirt further up. His fingers were long and nimble from years of playing and skillful in ways of touching that Deacon hadn’t even known existed. As Michael’s hands slid down his sides, pushing down the waist of his pants ever so slightly, Deacon let out a gasp.
“Sorry,” he breathed and laughed nervously.
Michael shook his head and stopped what he was doing. “If you’re not sure…”
“Oh, I’m very sure…my body is anyway.”
Michael smiled softly. “We don’t have to do anything.”
“No, I want to,” he assured him and then sat up to kiss him again. After a moment, he felt the two of them moving toward the bed. He wrapped a hand around Michael’s back again and pulled him closer. The pressure from his body felt surprisingly good, safe somehow, and he was a little disappointed when the younger man moved back again. He looked down, questions in his eyes. Michael had a mischievous look and something about the way he bit the corner of his bottom lip drove Deacon wild.
Slowly Michael undid the buttons on Deacon’s pants. Then he gripped his hips again and carefully pulled them down, underwear and all. He took a moment, looking over the large, round scar on the man’s hip. Then he smiled at the sight of his lover’s straining cock and took it in one of his long, slender hands. “Shh,” he soothed when Deacon jumped in surprise again. Unhurried in his movements, he moved his hand up and down the shaft, until the man beneath began to move with him.
When Deacon’s breath turned to short grunts, Michael stopped and leaned over him again. His lover’s eyes were closed, and he kissed each one gently before moving to his collarbone. He nipped lightly at the thin skin there and then rolled his tongue over the red wounds. He felt Deacon squirm beneath him and he smiled. Then he whispered sweet nothings in his ear before giving the lobe a tug with his teeth.
Deacon let out a whine, feeling desperate and ready to get on with things. He reached down and gave Michael’s head a nudge, but only got a chuckle out of it. Finally, he felt the tongue move further down and he picked up his head to see deep red hair settle above his hips. He squeezed his eyes shut as Michael took his cock in his hand again and then let out another hiss as he felt the wet warmth of his mouth. He grunted and pushed his head back as his lover slid down his shaft. Before long, Deacon was bucking his hips to meet his mouth and holding on to the bed for dear life. He lifted his head, wanting to watch.
Michael was enjoying the pleasure he brought to his lover, but he also knew the man wasn’t going to last much longer, so he reached back with his other hand and found his own hardened cock. He quickly matched the pace of his mouth, groaning along with his sucking.
“Sweet Jesus,” Deacon moaned as he felt the added vibration along his cock. He pushed up harder, causing him to fill his lover’s throat completely. When Michael’s pace quickened, he cried out and dug his hand into his lover’s hair. A strangled string of “yes” left his lips as he came, bucking up hard, his muscles taut, as Michael continued to move up and down his shaft. It had been a long time since he’d cum this hard and he’d never enjoyed it more. As he settled back to the bed, he opened his eyes and watched as the younger man stroked himself, moaning, until he came too. The sight was almost enough to make him hard again.
When he caught his breath, Deacon laughed and said, “You have real skills, there.”
“A man’s gotta be good at something,” he retorted.
Even though Deacon knew it was a joke, he sat up and said, “You’re a gifted musician too.”
Michael sat down next to him and nodded. “Thanks for saying that. It really does mean a lot.” Then he leaned over and gave his lover another kiss.
Deacon smiled, feeling shy, and then scooted off the bed. “How about we finish dinner?”
“OK,” he answered with a grin.
The gumbo was room temperature, but still tasted good and, in the end, Michael ended up finishing off both his and Deacon’s po’boys.
“You really do love those things, don’t you?” he joked as the two of them fell back into bed.
“Po’boys are my favorite!” Michael answered as if it was the most ridiculous question in the world.
The two of them considered another round of love-making, but were both so exhausted that it didn’t get very far. They fell asleep, wrapped around one another and stayed there in their peaceful slumber until violently pulled from it the next morning by Deacon’s ringing cellphone.
The short, scruffy man tumbled out of bed and then flailed for a moment on the floor. He’d completely forgotten where he was, and it wasn’t until he spotted Michael, trying to hide his giggling, that he remembered the night before. Then he felt around for his cellphone, under the bed, like everything he possessed always ended up. He answered it with an annoyed, “Yeah?” It was Susie, from the library. “Susie?” He didn’t even realize she had his number. She sounded upset and more annoyed than he did. “What is it?”
“Some men came in yesterday asking about that song. Somehow, they managed to trace your search back to the library,” she answered.
“What? That’s not possible.”
“Yeah, well, they managed it. They knew you’d been looking things up about them. I didn’t tell them anything about you, just said it was impossible for me to keep track of what everyone’s doing and had no idea what they were talking about.”
“Thanks, Susie,” Deacon sighed.
“But Deacon, if they can track you to the library, they might be able to find out who you are and where you live.”
“Yeah,” he mumbled and then thanked her again before hanging up.
“What is it?” Michael asked.
“Your friends have somehow managed to put a trace on keywords about Vires et Spiritu. They tracked me down to the library where I was searching for information about them.”
“Shit,” Michael breathed and rubbed his forehead.
“I’ve got to go back to my apartment before they find me.”
“Are you sure that’s safe?”
“No,” Deacon admitted, “but I’ll just grab a few clothes and my computer and come right back here.”
“I want to come with you,” Michael insisted.
Deacon shook his head. “You’re in too deep already. They’re probably looking for you. It’s too dangerous.” He quickly got dressed and pocketed his phone. “Stay here and lay low. If you need anything, just call me.”
Michael nodded, reluctantly and then gulped as he watched the small, dark-haired man disappear out the door.
This time Deacon didn’t bother with public transport. He quickly hailed a cab and muttered, “Esplanade,” as he plopped into the back. It wasn’t a long drive, but New Orleans’ maze of one-way streets made it seem excruciatingly slow. When they finally got to the right neighborhood, Deacon handed the driver what he had, told the man to keep the change, and bolted for his building. A moment later, though, he stopped in his tracks. Police cars with lights flashing and an ambulance were parked outside.
His mind reeled. This was definitely not what he’d expected to find. He cautiously made his way around the cars, trying not to be spotted, but it didn’t work. Two EMTs were standing outside his neighbor’s door, along with his neighbor. The man had a large gash on his forehead and did not look happy at all, especially when he spotted Deacon.
“You!” he said and pointed at him. “This is your doing, Jameson!”
Deacon cringed as the EMTs seemed to glare at him. Then he snuck around to the back of the building, hoping to get up to his apartment without any more to do. He quickly scaled the back steps and made to unlock the door, but it was already unlocked. He carefully pushed it open, wishing he still had the gun he’d refused to carry since being shot. His apartment was full of police officers and looked like it had been ransacked.
“Hey!” he blurted out, his face red with annoyance.
Everyone turned, including Detective Ramirez-Montague. The man had a somewhat self-satisfied look on his face that Deacon didn’t really care for.
“Detective Ramigue,” he said, good-naturedly and then his face fell. “Shit, did I say that out loud?”
The detective smirked. “This is a crime scene, Jameson.”
“Is it?”
“Yeah, in case you hadn’t noticed all the police presence.”
“Oh that. Yes, I had, actually.” He gave the man a cheeky grin and put his hands on his hips. “So, what’s the story?”
“Apparently, there was a robbery, though, it’s hard to tell,” Ramirez-Montague answered and gestured around Deacon’s living room. “Your neighbor heard the commotion and went to investigate. It seems they thought you lived alone. They knocked him out for his trouble. What happened, Jameson? Jilted client finally come to take his revenge.”
“I don’t know,” Deacon said, absently. “I wasn’t here.”
“Yeah, we got that impression. Why don’t you look around and make a list of what’s missing and then you can take a ride down to the precinct and give us a statement?”
Deacon nodded and made a cursory look over the apartment. He had to squeeze around crime scene technicians looking for fingerprints and other evidence. The truth was, though everything was out of place, nothing seemed to be missing. He found his laptop by the bed. It seemed the intruders had finally managed to break it and he hoped they hadn’t looked at it first. He knew this had to be the work of the people after Michael. He just hated having to tell the police about it.