Making Promises (14 page)

Ylena’s laughter was warm and sweet, as Mikhail was sure his would never be. “It is a good promise. For my part, I promise to live that long. Good night,
mal’chik
.”

“Good night, Mutti.”

Mikhail hung up the phone and turned it off to save power in case he needed it. While he’d been speaking, his body had warmed in the sleeping bag, the soft heat releasing the scent of the oil he’d put on the shirt he still wore. Shane. He closed his eyes then, moved his hands under his shirt and over his chest, not thinking about masturbation, just thinking about the pressure of Shane’s hard warmth against his narrow body.

Stupid man, making stupid promises. A day at the Faire was a moment, that was all. It was nothing to base promises on.

Mikhail closed his eyes, breathed in that scent, and pretended that Shane’s warmth was his. He would dream, he thought rather self-indulgently. He would close his eyes and dream that Shane had stayed, kept him warm in his tent for a night. He would dream, maybe, of dancing again and seeing that look again on a solid, handsome face with a pair of warm brown eyes.

A man could not be held accountable for dreams, could he? The gods would surely give him those.

THE next day, he and Kimmy danced beautifully. Kimmy felt it too—a sort of electricity, the kind of thing that made the audience’s hair stand on end and the whole world hold its breath as they performed each move, shushing appreciatively in awe.

As they took their final bow and the last tipper toddled away (the children who wanted to tip always charmed them, without exception), Making Promises

Kimmy looked at him through slanted eyes. “My brother should visit more often,” she murmured, conscious of Brett’s stony silence behind them.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you are talking about,” Mikhail said blandly, and Kimmy took his arm, pulling him away from Brett’s glower and dodging Kurt’s smarmy wooing of the crowd.

She pulled him quickly behind a bank of vendor’s tents and demanded, “Tell me you’re going to be good to him!” Mikhail couldn’t meet her eyes. “We are not dating,” he said to the dirty canvas behind her. “It was simply a wonderful day.” Kimmy’s fingers—strong, like any dancer’s—caught him under the chin and jerked his eyes to meet hers. “Don’t bullshit me, Mikhail. You two really had something. My brother doesn’t just have
days—
not with his girlfriends, not with that fucker who got him shot—”

“I’m sorry?” This hadn’t been mentioned.

“His old partner—the guy who outed him in front of his department and then just walked away to let him get ambushed—”

“
Mudak
!” Mikhail felt his chest freeze. Oh, and here he was, thinking he had the secrets, he had the pain—how could he not have learned that everybody had secrets and pain? Kimmy was looking at him in surprise—he did not often let his Russian slip when he was not talking to his mother. Mikhail looked away again, trying to get his emotions into control.

“He talked of pink bricks,” he said, almost to himself. “Pink bricks and blue bricks, but not about”—his mind fought for the word—

“…betrayal….” Mikhail did everything but stamp his foot. Oh, what an
irritating
man. “Of course not. Why would he tell me?”

“Because he doesn’t talk about it,” Kimmy said sternly. “Just like there’s shit that you don’t talk about to anyone but me, right, Mikhail?” Mikhail scowled at her. “Of course he didn’t tell me!” he snapped, not sure who had pissed him off more. “Why would he tell me that? We knew each other for a day….”

Kimmy laughed softly, interrupting him before he could continue.

“Okay, okay…look. He’ll find you, trust me. And when he does, I’ll let
him
tell you that story. But… right now? Just promise me….” She looked away. “Man, just promise me you’ll take him seriously, okay? Shane…

he’s so earnest. People don’t take that seriously these days. They laugh at it….”

“Your brother isn’t a joke,” Mikhail said, part angry and part bitter.

The man had certainly carved a damage path through
his
complacency, hadn’t he?

Kimmy nodded and patted Mikhail’s cheek a little, some sisterly tenderness escaping her stern expression. “He got to you, didn’t he?”

“You should go live with him,” Mikhail told her seriously, taking that hand and kissing it. “He wants to be your family.” A shrug, a self-sufficient firming up of all of her resolutions—

Mikhail knew what she was doing just by watching her body language. If he’d had a mirror that morning, he would have seen the self-same gestures. “I want to be a better sister for him. But I’m glad he has you.” Mikhail was opening his mouth to say, “He
doesn’t
have me, dammit!” when they heard Kurt calling for the both of them, and what came out instead was, “Can we see your asshole boyfriend doesn’t cheat me out of my tips this time?”

Kimmy nodded soberly. “I swear he won’t.”

She kept that promise, actually—but it was close.

“This is not enough,” Mikhail said mutinously as Kurt was handing him his pay envelope, and Kurt shrugged.

“It’s what I counted, little man!”

“Bullshit,” Kimmy said, surprising them both. “You promised him an equal share—that’s not what I got, that’s not what Brett got, so that’s not equal.”

Kurt rolled his eyes. “It’s a few dollars, babe….”

“Don’t ‘babe’ me—Mikhail needs that money, and you
don’t
need more coke, so cough up his share before I call my brother down here to make you!”

Kurt’s face grew hard and furious at the mention of Shane, but he reached into his own pocket and produced another sixty dollars. “Look, bitch—don’t make me get all hard-ass with you.” Making Promises

Kimmy looked at Mikhail to see that he was okay. Mikhail nodded, and Kimmy gave a smile—a losing smile, a conceding smile—that made Mikhail’s stomach churn.

“No worries, sweetheart,” she said sincerely. “I’m just looking out for my guy, ’kay?”

“Yeah, we’ll see if it’s okay if I leave you here tonight.” The threat sounded half serious, and Kimmy closed her eyes as though putting on her armor and then walked a sinuous hand down the back of her boyfriend’s neck.

“C’mon, baby—don’t be that way. We don’t get good dancers if we don’t treat them right, mmm?”

Simpering, begging, she took up Kurt’s attention, and Mikhail slipped out of their battered RV, where the money transaction had taken place.

He wanted the right to go in there and slug the guy and throw Shane’s sister over his shoulder and take her away from Kurt. The desire made him shake with the violence of it. Kimmy didn’t deserve that…

that…
mudak
, and for a minute he felt the absurd compulsion to go fight for her honor as she had fought for his paycheck. His steps were slow enough as he walked away that he was still there when Kurt popped his head out.

“Hey, little man—you still on for next weekend?” His hair was out of its queue and his jerkin was half unlaced, and Mikhail made himself wonder what Kimmy had said to prompt the worry at this point in her seduction.

Mikhail met Kurt’s eyes with undisguised contempt—for himself or for Kurt, he was not sure which. “Yes. I’ll be here.” He turned to leave again, his leather boots making soft puffs in dust over the gravel, and there was a murmur from the RV before Kurt called out again. “Hey! Kimmy says to tell her ass-fucking brother ‘hi’ for her!” Then he turned back inside, snarling, “You owe me for that, bitch,” and slamming the door behind him.

Mikhail scrubbed at his face with his hands.
Damn you, cow-woman—damn you!
That was a sacrifice is what that was. Kimmy knew what a sacrifice would mean to Mikhail—she knew it was the one thing that would make him keep a promise.

Fine. Fine, big heifer cow. If your stupid brother comes to see me,
I
won’t tell him to fuck off, how is that?

With a sniff and a great deal of acting squandered on dust and sunshine, Mikhail went to find his ride.

Mikhail didn’t like horses, but Rose and Arlen MacAvoy came down from Grass Valley with the horses for jousting, and they had been nice enough to give him a ride when he subbed in Gilroy. He always considered himself supremely fortunate that they didn’t make him ride in one of the trailers in the convoy, the ones with the gigantic animals, letting him crouch in the backseat of the extra cab instead.

This evening he stowed his pack in the adjoining jump seat and belted himself in behind the passenger seat, pulling out his iPod and getting ready to be in his own head for the trip. He had no idea what made him sit, poised, earbuds in hand, and wait for the older couple to situate themselves in the front until the truck’s diesel engine was ready to start.

Rosie looked back at him quizzically, and he caught the significant look between her and Arlen and hated himself for not just putting his earbuds in and pouting until they forgot it and left him alone.

“Did you have a good run, Mikhail?” Rosie asked after a moment, taking off her battered felt hat and smoothing her graying hair back into a fuzzy bun. She was a thin, wiry woman with a pleasant, round face.

Mikhail had often wished that he was better at introductions—Ylena would like her. “I saw you walk by the horses with a nice looking young man—a new friend?”

“He knows horses,” Mikhail said, feeling awkward. “I do not know horses, but he is unafraid.”

Arlen chuckled a little. “That’s key when working with horses—

don’t be skittish, and odds are they won’t be.” Mikhail nodded. That suited Shane. His presence was… soothing.

“I….” God, why was he saying this? He couldn’t. He couldn’t confide in these people, no matter how well-meaning. “He has friends who deal in horses. He seems to admire them a great deal.”

“Anyone we’d know?” Arlen asked curiously. “We know most of the names in northern California.”

Mikhail frowned. “He talks a great deal about a man named Deacon, and a place called The Pulpit. The place is in trouble. They are like family.

He worries.”
Excellent, Mikhail—you can’t give your own confidences, so
you blather someone else’s into the ether. What a prize you are—so much
incentive for the man to return.

Rosie furrowed her brow. “Seems to me I’ve heard of the place—

Deacon Winters, right? Some sort of scandal with the police—always seemed they got a bad deal, but I’m not good with the details. You say they’re friends of your friend?”

Mikhail nodded and struggled gamely onward. “Yes. He… I get rides from you all the time. I know nothing about horses. Will you tell me?”

He felt like a first class asshole, but it seemed to work. Rosie and Arlen spent the next three hours telling him about horses—that it was hard on the body but good on the soul and how much they loved the big animals and what made a good horse and what made a skittish horse and what made a right old bitch that should be shot for dog food.

“Just like people,” Arlen said pragmatically. “Some of ’em are sweet, and some of ’em are sour, and some of ’em are just plain evil. But the ratio is skewed, to my way of thinking.”

“Yeah!” Rosie laughed. “There are a lot less plain old evil motherfuckers in the horse world than there are in the human world, that’s for damned sure.”

Arlen nodded in agreement and started talking about studs and mares, and Mikhail’s eyes glazed over a little. But he had time to reflect that they did that a lot, spoke off the other. Two people who had been together so very long that they were confident the other would be there in as much as a heartbeat. The ultimate promise. Then something Arlen said brought him back from his musings.

“Yeah… I sure am going to hate to leave it!”

“Leave it?” Mikhail asked, a little panicked. Where would he get his rides now? “When?”

Arlen laughed as though he could read Mikhail’s mind. “Not this season, Mikhail—maybe not even next season—but Rosie and I are getting on in years. It’s time to sell the business and retire with a couple of easy-going pasture horses, take it easy for a bit, you know?” Mikhail nodded. “Yes,” he said, thinking about his mother, who had worked until the cancer made it impossible. “It is good to enjoy life while 80

it is yours.” He would be sorry to see Arlen and Rosie pass out of his life, he thought with a little melancholy. They were nice people—they had been good to him.

The trip back went much faster than it usually did, and Mikhail felt bad. He so rarely made an effort to involve himself with the people around him—his mother, Kimmy, Anna his boss at the dance studio—these were the extent of his human contacts, his friends. And here Arlen and Rosie had been ready to be friends, and he had thought of them only as a ride home.

They pulled into Citrus Heights around eight o’clock, and Mikhail started to get his gear ready as they neared the first bus stop—it was where they usually dropped him off, and he was surprised when Arlen didn’t slow down.

“Since we’re on Greenback, Mickey, show us where you live—we can drop you off there.”

Mikhail didn’t seem to know how to refuse the offer without being offensive. With some embarrassment, he found himself directing Arlen down Greenback then left on Sylvan. It was a tetchy little neighborhood, although the apartment complex on Sylvan was respectable enough. As Mikhail hopped out of the little side door of the extra cab and stood on the step-side to pull out his camper’s backpack, he looked shyly at Arlen and Rosie for judgment in their eyes for the quality of the neighborhood or the smallness of the apartments inside their little box-like buildings.