Making Promises (46 page)

him—he’s got two kids and a wife. He just knows I don’t trust anyone else.”

Mikhail shook his head silently and took the empty bowl from Shane’s hands. “We will go shopping tomorrow, before your shift. I can throw something in your slow cooker, if you have one, and if you can take me to work, there will be food waiting for you when you get home.” Shane smiled, knowing it was the shy sort. “That would be wonderful. I get off around ten—you want me to come get you? Or I could ask nice and have someone get you when you get off.”

“I don’t want to put anybody out—more than you already have,” Mikhail said, with a wry roll of his eyes. “But I would like to see you tomorrow. And the night after. And the night after that.” He smiled slyly, and leaned forward, touching a tongue to the corner of Shane’s mouth and licking off the little bit of soup still there. There was a mrowr, and Mikhail dislodged Maura Tierney without the slightest blink of conscience so he could lean all the way forward and give Shane a man-in-the-arms full body kiss.

Shane took him up on it, his muscles shuddering as Mikhail’s bare chest mashed against his. Damn… just… oh damn… he felt so good….

Their mouths were meshed in an out-and-out tongue tangle, and Shane used one hand to rip back the covers (and dislodge some of the cats) and shark-roll so that Mikhail was underneath him and they could keep kissing.

It was all he seemed to be capable of.

There was a pounding desire to move on to the “more interesting parts” of Mikhail’s body, but he was pliant and giving and so, so sweet underneath Shane. Mickey’s hands were everywhere—on his face, his neck, his shoulders, digging into his back and urging him closer and closer, and Shane responded by rubbing his body closer, and Mickey answered him by wrapping his legs around Shane’s hips and grinding his groin up into Shane’s. It was as far as either of them seemed to want to move.

Mickey’s hands came up to rub his chest, and he even tried to slip it between the two of them to hold or grab or stroke or something, but that would have meant separating, even a little, and when Shane tried it, Mickey whimpered and pulled him back. Shane tried to move away, too, to kiss his way down Mikhail’s chin, down his jaw line, down his neck, Making Promises

with intentions toward parts hard and erect and soon-to-be-known, but Mikhail took his face in both hands and moved him back up to keep kissing as soon as Shane got to his collarbone.

So the kiss went on and on, and their bodies grew aching, turgid, and oh-so-sensitive. Shane’s cock—still covered in soft cotton—found a home in the crease of Mickey’s thigh, alongside Mikhail’s cock, which was leaking pre-come enough to soak through both their boxers. Mikhail thrust up against him, and Shane answered with a thrust of his own, and their lips and tongues kept up the very vital business of never, ever, ever parting.

Suddenly Mickey’s thrusts against him got frantic and rhythmic, and Shane’s cock was caught on the ridge by something down there, and they just kept grinding, faster and harder and with purpose and… oh God… oh geez… oh….

“Dammit, dammit, dammit…,” Shane panted. “Damn, Mickey, I’m gonna….”

“Aaahhhhhhhh….” Mickey groaned beneath him, arching, spasming, and Shane felt the thick wetness coat their boxers, their stomachs, and seep through to his bare skin, and the thought of being covered in Mikhail’s come, of having this man—this reserved, cagey, man—come apart in his arms just from a kiss and some dry-humping….

“Come…gonna come gonna come….” Shane squeezed his eyes shut and buried his face in Mikhail’s neck and wrenched out a groan as he did exactly what he promised and came and came and came.

They stayed there panting for a bit and finishing up on that long, intense kiss before Mikhail grunted a little from the weight, and it became necessary for Shane to roll off Mikhail and off the bed. Mikhail stayed where he was, shaking his head in bemusement and holding his hand in front of his eyes.

“I can’t believe we just did that,” Mikhail muttered, and Shane chuckled softly before reaching down and shucking off his lover’s boxers, enduring an indignant glare.

“Came from dry humping?” Shane shook his head, wadded the underwear up together, and tossed them in the open hamper at the foot of the bed. “Yeah, well, I haven’t done that since high school. That was something.”

He moved to the bathroom then and came back with a washcloth, half wet, half dry. Very tenderly, he used it to clean Mikhail up and then himself so he could climb into bed and they could touch each other skin-to-skin without the sticky aftermath. He tossed the washcloth in the hamper and did just that.

“Move over, Mickey—I don’t want to fall off the edge.” The bed was pretty big, but Mikhail was in the middle of it. Still appearing to be bemused, he scooted over and then turned in Shane’s arms so they could hold each other face-to-face.

Shane reached over and turned off the lamp, and Mikhail said, “I’ve never done that. I’ve never just… just….” He shuddered in Shane’s arms.

“My God,
lubime
, the things you do to me. The way you make me feel. I thought I knew about sex—I was a
whore
, for God’s sake!” He was still shuddering, and Shane could do nothing but smooth hands over his shoulders and whisper to him until he stopped. When his breathing had evened out and his body was a tight bundle against Shane’s chest, Shane tried to say something intelligent—or at least coherent—to calm him down.

“Mickey, you know, in some places people eat cats.” Mikhail jerked his head back and stared at him with horrified eyes.

“What an appalling thing to say!”

“Yeah, I know.” Shit. “I’m going somewhere with this, and I’m pretty sure you’ll follow. Now see, they eat them, and use their skin for fur and probably make them into gloves and hats for all I know….” Orlando Bloom had perched on Mikhail’s hip as soon as he’d stopped shivering, and Mickey started stroking him protectively. Shane, as tired as he was, fought a smile.

“And?”

“And these people know cats inside and out. They use them for sustenance and warmth and practicality. But you know what?” Shane knew the exact moment when Mickey caught up with him.

His eyes lightened, and a faint, ironic smile touched his sulky little mouth.

“What?” he asked softly.

“They don’t love them.”

Mikhail stopped stroking Orlando and started stroking Shane’s chest instead. “You are very wise,
lubime
.”

“I try, baby.”

And that was about as coherent as he’d get before he fell asleep.

MIKHAIL woke him up after about five hours of sleep, and they went shopping in Natomas for food. Going to the little grocery store in Levee Oaks was right out—besides being incredibly expensive.

They got back and Mikhail made Top Ramen (after starting chili cooking for dinner) and they managed a whole half-hour to talk before Shane took him to work and then clocked in himself. An hour before he got off, Mikhail left a message on his cell phone.

He’d taken a bus and was cheerfully walking from Elkhorn Boulevard to Shane’s place, and Shane had heart palpitations for an hour as he answered a domestic call and took in the intoxicated father. The fact that it turned out to be Crick’s stepfather (and Benny’s father) made things even more complicated—as did the fact that StepBob (as they called him) had vomited blood on the way to the jail and had to be taken to U.C. Med Center, off of Stockton. By the time Shane got to a place where he could even call someone to make sure Mickey got home okay, Mikhail had left a message saying just that, and Shane was on his way home to see him.

“Jesus, Mickey,” Shane said as he all but stumbled in, “you can’t
do
that!”

“Can’t do what?” Mikhail asked, looking from the couch. He was watching a movie, and Shane could see from the pile on the table that he’d brought a box of DVDs from his apartment. The thought warmed him, but darn it, he had a point.

“Can’t walk in the dark out here in open field land. Do you know how many drunken psychos there are in this little town?” He headed straight for the kitchen, where something wonderful was cooking, and dished himself up a bowl. Mikhail came in when he was about to crunch a package of crackers into it and took the whole works from him, tutting.

“There’s cheese, cornbread, and onions in the refrigerator, please. If I’m going to cook, you need to treat it with respect.” 286

“Cheese?” Shane perked up and opened the fridge to root for the promised condiment. He found it—grated—and some minced chives and the gallon of milk they’d bought. Mikhail took the armload from him and shooed him to the small table where the chili waited on a placemat that Shane hadn’t seen in a month.

Shane grunted. “That’s a little fancy.”

“You are being served by a gay man who, until recently, lived with his mother. There are certain things you need to get used to. Eating at a table is one of them.”

“I ate at your house. Your mother sat at the coffee table.” But he sat down happily anyway.

“That was when she was sick. Before then, we ate at the table during dinner. Breakfast, lunch, we were on our own. Dinner? It was always placemat and table. For Mutti it was almost a religion.” Shane took a bite of chili and groaned. “I could worship here,” he admitted. “But about walking three miles in the dark in Levee Oaks….” Mikhail shrugged. “I ran wild on the streets in Saint Petersburg when I was a child. What is there here I could not survive?” Shane scowled. “Just because you could survive it doesn’t mean I want it to happen to you. Besides—you were lucky. You were more than lucky—you were like a goddamned miracle. I just don’t want my miracle to wind up as material for a
CSI
episode, okay?” Mikhail crossed his arms and sighed and then moved closer and jerked his pointed chin at Shane’s spoon. “Eat your chili so you can go take a shower and we can sleep.”

“Mickey….” But he said it through a full mouth, and Mikhail sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

Then he gave that snitty little shrug that Shane was coming to treasure. “If you are going to ask for a miracle, I wish you would ask for a better bus system. The one here is vile—that bus took forever, you know.” Shane smiled and rolled his eyes. “I’ll make a note of it. But for now, can we try not to let the one miracle I
do
have end up on a crime show?” He sobered. “I’ve been on a couple of those scenes, you know. If we found you out there, I’d die.”

Mikhail put a warm, firm hand on his neck and started to massage.

“Fine,” he huffed. “Next time I will ask for a ride from the bus stop, how is that?”

Shane felt a little bit of relief and finished up his chili, and Mikhail backed off enough to let him. While he was waiting, he picked up Jensen Ackles and scratched his tummy until the cat rolled over and purred in the cradle of his arms. When he spoke again, he had a rather catlike expression on his own face.

“Shane?”

“Mmmbblff?”

“If the Drunken Psycho of Levee Oaks
did
attack me, do you think he’d make me into a hat, or would he make me into gloves?” Shane almost choked on his chili, but when he got it down (with a wash of milk to help) he said, “He’d make you into a loincloth with a matching purse, you goofy kid—Jesus, what a thing to say!”

“Yes,” Mikhail replied smugly, “but that is because the Drunken Psycho of Levee Oaks does not love me—do you think?” Shane wiped his mouth on a napkin and grinned at him, making sure the last of the chili was gone from his teeth as he did so. “C’mere, dammit,” he demanded, and Mikhail grinned and put the cat down and then did just that.

But the transportation thing continued to be a big, giant pain in the ass. Mickey and Benny started studying together to take the written driver’s permit test, but that was a long-term goal, and it didn’t stop the short-term inconvenience of getting Mikhail to and from Shane’s house when he wanted to be there. (Besides, Mikhail had very shyly admitted that he didn’t have much formal schooling—his handwriting, unlike his texting, was rough and nearly illegible, and when he was reading English—as opposed to speaking it—he often stumbled over pronunciation and meaning.
And this is why your miracle barely has a
GED,
lubime.
It is a shame that the best thing about English class was the
stories the teacher read us from the book.
) And Mikhail wanted to be at Shane’s place a lot, to Shane’s immense gratification. More than once Shane got home, prepared to shower, change, and trek out to Citrus Heights to go get him only to find that Deacon or Crick or even Jeff or Jon had gone for him, but they had 288

lives, too, and Mickey was starting to be embarrassed about coming to rely on their kindness to get into his lover’s bed.

“But I do not sleep well in my own bed anymore,” he complained peevishly one night when they were talking about it.

Shane had to admit, as little sleep as he was getting thanks to work, he’d be getting even less if Mikhail wasn’t there most nights to keep him company.

“You could always just live here,” Shane complained another night over the phone. He was frustrated and tired and his day had been shitty, and he had a whole six hours until his next shift and going to get Mikhail and then drop him off just wasn’t feasible.

He heard a surprised gasp on the other end of the line and kicked himself, remembering that Mikhail still had a bit of rabbit in him, and then, fuck-it-all, just continued to blunder on.