Making Promises (20 page)

It was nice of her—I promised her I’d wear it.”

“It looks warm,” Mikhail acknowledged with a touch of envy, and before he knew it, the scarf was over his shoulders, tucked in at his neck under his little denim jacket. He hardly had time to protest, and then he couldn’t, because it was soft and squishy and had been warmed by Shane’s body heat (a little too warm, Mikhail recognized, because the big man looked more comfortable with it off) and it smelled… mmmm….

“You used the oil,” Mikhail said dreamily, tucked into the soft wool scarf and the heat and the scent. It was Shane, all of it, and it was wrapped around him, cedar for protection, chamomile for comfort, and big, sweating, sweet-as-chocolate man… oh, God, it was better than heroin, and Mikhail would know.

Shane was blushing. “Yes, well, I figured you gave it to me for a reason, right?”

Mikhail nodded, too caught up in the scarf and the warmth to say anything, but he was flattered. He was more than flattered—he was as enchanted as a child. He was afraid that if he opened his mouth, all of his self-reliance would desert him, and he would be left begging this man to take him home.

Shane talked instead, and Mikhail got to hear about the football game and the brave woman who had stood up for Shane’s friends. There was something in Shane’s voice, and Mikhail looked at him sharply. “She was pretty, this teacher?”

The way those brown eyes peered at him sideways put Mikhail especially on edge. “Yes, yes she was.”

“And single.”

“Oh yes.”

“Then she must have been crazy,” Mikhail snapped without thinking.

“Otherwise she would have hit on you.”

Shane was fighting a self-satisfied smirk, and Mikhail could have kicked himself. Oh, he had walked into that trap so easily. “Who says she didn’t?”

Mikhail clutched the scarf closer and folded his arms tight around his chest. “Well, then, if she wants you, you should date her. She is probably more suited for you. I would imagine she has need of someone to take care of her. I have no such need.”

“Of course not.” Mikhail couldn’t read the expression in Shane’s voice. He might possibly be laughing, but he sounded so neutral, Mikhail could not be certain.

“So you will date her?” He felt very noble. This interlude would end, and Mikhail would remember this good smell and be happy that Shane was happy. Mikhail caught himself casting a wistful look at the big man striding beside him. Shane deserved to be happy.

“No,” Shane told him, and Mikhail was surprised to feel a strong arm draped over his shoulders. It was not sexual, not really—but it was intimate, and Mikhail made his strides a little closer to Shane’s (which 114

was hard because the man was over six feet tall, and that wasn’t fair) and adjusted his body position so as to not shake that arm off.

“No?” Fucking hope. It would kill him.

“Nope. I told her I had an equal opportunity pecker and a one-chance heart, and I was giving that heart a chance somewhere else.” The smug satisfaction in Shane’s voice was almost enough to make Mikhail shrug him off—but not quite.

“Then she was a foolish woman. She should have tried harder.”

“She did,” Shane told him softly. “Put herself in my phone under

‘just-in-case’. I told her that Deacon might want to have her to dinner some night, since she’s a friend and all. She seemed to understand.”
I wish I did.
But Mikhail didn’t say it. It stayed quietly in his head until the rest of conversation from that night drowned that little voice right out.

They wandered the bookstore for a few moments, coffee in hand.

Mikhail went to the travel section and pulled out a full-colored photo essay on Mexico and sighed at the price. “My mother would love this,” he murmured, “but she will love the real thing more.” Shane took the book from him and thumbed through it. “You’re going to Mexico?”

“Oh God, I hope so.” And then Mikhail truly lost his mind, because he told Shane the whole story, foolish promise and all. “I’ve made two promises to my mother since she brought us here,” he said in the end, as they were walking back through the parking lot. “The first was to stay off the streets, and the second was that I would take her some place to bake herself in the sun before she died.” He shook his head. “I swear, were it not for the first promise, I could have worked a weekend and the second promise would be a sure thing.”

Shane was so surprised he stumbled on a curb and spit out his coffee.

Mikhail looked up at him in horror and wished he could swallow his tongue.

“I was joking!” he said a little desperately, watching as Shane stopped dead and bent over, hands on thighs, and tried to choke through some coffee he’d inhaled.

“Thank God!” Shane managed, but Mikhail kept pounding him on the back anyway. “Ouch, dammit, you’re fucking strong!”

“Sorry!” Mikhail stopped pounding on his back immediately, and started massaging between Shane’s shoulder blades where he’d been pounding. Shane stopped talking and the quality of his breathing grew more even, and then it grew strained again, and then he straightened abruptly.

“Thanks,” he said gruffly, pulling away.

“I have offended you,” Mikhail said miserably, watching as Shane took a couple of stiff steps. “See. I am no good with people. You will leave and call the teacher woman, and she will know how to not make you choke on your—” He stopped because Shane had stopped and turned around and was advancing on him with an expression half of exasperation and half of determined good humor.

He walked right up to Mikhail’s space, and then into it, until Mikhail’s eyes were even with the throbbing pulse in his neck. Then he grabbed Mikhail’s hips and pulled them flush with his own, and there against Mikhail’s belly was the grand-bitch-mother of all erections, straining through his jeans.

“It’s not exactly San Francisco, here, Mickey,” Shane rasped, catching his eyes meaningfully. “I didn’t think making out in the parking lot was such a great idea.”

Mikhail nodded dumbly, thinking that Shane’s breath smelled like coffee and his five-o’clock shadow was dark and rough, and that the dent at his clavicles seemed deep and tender, and that his lips looked so strong.

Mikhail was trembling as Shane pulled away, and he made no argument when that heavily muscled, casual arm looped around his shoulders and pulled him close to Shane’s side. They were quiet—quivering with tension but quiet—until they got back to the car.

Shane started the ignition and said “Where to?” and Mikhail directed him up Sunrise to Auburn, and then left. It was longer than going down Greenback, and he knew this, but he was reluctant for the moment to end any sooner than it had to. He was a selfish bastard sometimes—he knew this also.

“You should tell your mom I’m coming next week,” Shane said as they pulled into the apartment complex. “I’ll give you a ride home and bring dinner. We can watch
Up
.”

“Turn left here,” Mikhail directed, so shocked he waited for the last minute to give the direction. “I will see you next week? This complex here. I am on the second floor—apartment number 225.” Shane found an empty space (a miracle unto itself) and put the car in park, turning off the ignition. “Yeah, Mikhail. What—you think I get a hard-on for just anybody? It’s been a while; I’d like to see if I remember what to do with that thing.”

“How long?” Mikhail asked, looking at him in surprise.

Shane shrugged. “A year and a half, but who’s keeping score?” Mikhail’s eyes practically bulged out. “Oh God. A year and a half? I hope you’ve been relieving yourself, or you’ll kill me!” Shane turned to him, laughing—hard. Mikhail just watched him, his head thrown back, his teeth glinting a little in the pale soda light above the parking lot, and wondered how such a generous man had ended up buying him dinner. Oh God—he wanted this man to come back. He wanted to laugh with him some more, talk with him some more. He was funny and had good stories and would risk irritating his date to put a poor cat out of its misery, and he kept his promises.

His mouth went suddenly dry. “I’m sorry,” he said suddenly. “I… I should make you stay away. I… you would be very happy with the teacher woman. I could find you someone else—my boss is Russian, she would make you a very good wife….”

Shane stopped laughing, and his exasperation came back, but this time, instead of saying anything, he grabbed Mikhail by the front of the jacket and hauled him in for a kiss.

Mikhail shut up and opened his mouth. Mmmmm… so good… so very good. Shane’s lips were firm, and his tongue tasted like coffee and caramel. One hand was still clutching Mikhail’s jacket, but the other was cupping the back of Mikhail’s skull, holding his head in place so he could adjust the angle of the kiss and plunder some more. Mikhail whimpered and clutched at Shane’s shoulders. They were broad and solid, and Mikhail inched his hands under the bomber jacket so he could feel Shane’s Making Promises

warmth seeping through a yellow shirt. Mikhail wanted closer than that.

He fumbled with the buttons on the shirt and pulled back, indignant.

“You have a T-shirt on!” He had not pulled back that far, and Shane’s face was only inches away—just far enough in the darkness to see his lips curve up in a faint smile.

“Shut up and keep kissing me,” he commanded, and Mikhail was helpless. He was fumbling again at the shirt when Shane caught him by surprise and simply pushed his hands up Mikhail’s stomach and under his own dress shirt, and they were warm and sensual, and they touched his tender skin with appreciation. Mikhail gasped, heard Shane chuckle, and then Shane’s big hands were circling, rubbing the bare skin of his back, sliding down the back of Mikhail’s jeans, and Mikhail groaned and tilted his head back.

Shane kissed his chin and then his throat and then the skin on the side of his neck, still warmed by the brown wool scarf. Mikhail turned his head a little, and Shane kissed his way up to his ear, his tongue coming out to play with the little stud he wore, and then he was breathing harshly into the hollow.

“Mikhail?”

“Da?”

“I’m not fucking you in the parking lot in front of your mother’s apartment.” His voice was unsteady, panting, breathless—and unbelievably firm.

“I hate you very much a lot.” To emphasize this, Mikhail grabbed one of Shane’s hands and brought it to the front of his own jeans and then arched his aching cock against Shane’s palm. Shane squeezed his hand, and Mikhail knew he was watching Mikhail's expression. He let go and shut his eyes, throwing his head back against the car seat, then stayed there for a minute until his breathing evened out.

“I’m not so happy with myself at the moment,” he acknowledged, and Mikhail blew out a breath.

“Next week?” he asked uncertainly, and Shane opened his eyes and looked at Mikhail sideways, which did terrible things to a pulse that was thundering as it was.

“You can count on it. I’ll bring dinner. What do you want me to cook?”

Mikhail stared back at him with stunned eyes and shook his head with a shrug. “I have no idea. I’ll tell Mutti—she will be pleased to have company who is not church people, telling her to repent.” Shane reached out a hand, his head still tilted back, and cupped Mikhail’s cheek then rubbed his swollen mouth with a rough thumb. “I promise to behave for your mother, Mikhail—I’ll try not to be too weird for her.”

Mikhail captured the hand and closed his eyes. “You are not weird,” he whispered, and then he grabbed his food from under the seat and got out of the car before he could say anything else embarrassing. When he got to his stairs and up the door, he heard the car start up, and he turned around and waved with an unsteady hand. Shane’s hand appeared out the window and waved back, and Mikhail started up the stairs again. It wasn’t until he got to the top of the stairs that he realized he still had the scarf around his neck.

The front door of his apartment opened into the kitchen, and he went straight to the shelves for the dishes.

“You are late,
mal’chik
. I was worried.” Yes. She would worry. “I’m sorry, Mutti,” he called, putting the cool food into a bowl and setting it into the microwave to warm. “A friend came and took me to eat. I brought you some.” He walked into the living room and gave his mother the expected kiss on the cheek.

“A friend, yes? What did you bring me?”

He smiled and turned on the way to his room. “Panda Express,” he told her proudly, and was pleased at the way she lit up.

“Oh, it is a very good friend—did he give you that scarf?” Mikhail grimaced. “He lent it to me—it was a gift for him, he could scarcely gift it back to me, now could he?”

Ylena nodded, her expression catlike. “I suppose not. And yet he buys you food and lets you wear his scarf and maybe buys you coffee, if I smell right?”

Mikhail’s slight grin betrayed a lot of things, but then, he could never hide anything from his mother. “Da. But he is not for me.” He turned to go.

“Wait—why not?”

Mikhail’s expression grew sober, and his lovely, light mood fell with it. “He keeps his promises, Mama, and we both know I do not.” He tried to go then, but he was not fast enough. Her eyes grew bright and she said, “You need to forgive yourself,
mal’chik
.”

“Mutti….”

“Nyet!” And she so rarely spoke angrily that he had to stop and walk deliberately back to her to have this out.