Making Promises (54 page)

“I am still stoned, and I’m a little wired, and I think I’m starving,” she said honestly, and he grinned. You never had to worry where you stood with Kimmy—she was very good at telling you.

“Well, then, come into the kitchen. I will warm you up some leftovers, and we can eat them on the couch in front of the television. We have movies—your choice.”

Kimmy sat herself up a little. “Does Shane still like children’s movies? Because I just got
Coraline
, and I haven’t seen it yet.” They cuddled very chastely on the couch. Mikhail found comfort just from her presence, and he knew he was helping to keep her calm when the drugs were trying to make her climb the walls. They watched the movie without the 3-D glasses (because Kimmy said that was just too weird on as much blow as she’d just done) and Mikhail was impressed.

“Very… very lovely,” he said at the end. “I particularly love the part about if a person is too good to be true, they are not real.” Kimmy sighed. In the past half hour Mikhail had literally felt her Making Promises

blood pressure drop as the last of the drugs burned their way out of her system. “Unless you’re Shane,” she murmured.

“Even Shane has his damnable irritating blind spots,” Mikhail retorted acidly, and Kimmy shifted in his arms a little and made an effort to wake up before she slipped into the drug crash.

“What happened to him?”

“This time? This time he was beaten by a lead pipe. Or rather by a redneck motherfucker who was holding a lead pipe. Deacon said his ribs were cracked—Shane actually left the hospital against orders to come riding to our rescue.” Mikhail shook his head. “Miserable, obstinate, irritating….”

“This time?” Kimmy interrupted. She sounded tired and puzzled, and Mikhail made an effort to pull himself out of his own anger.

“Yes—this time. As opposed to last time.”

“He called at Christmas—said he’d been sick. You don’t get sick on the job, do you?”

Mikhail looked away. “Jesus,” he muttered. Yes. It was true—real people were not perfect. Not even his beloved Shane.

“Mikhail?” Kimmy scrambled out of his arms, where she’d rested for the movie, and onto her knees. “Mikhail—what happened to him?” Mikhail sighed. “Yes. Yes he was sick. He was sick after a knife wound got so infected they had to pump him full of shit he was allergic to so they could stop him from going septic.” Mikhail shivered. “I… I had to leave, you see, before we knew he would live. Worst week of my fucking life—and that includes the week my mother died and I broke up with him because I am a selfish, cowardly asshole.”

Kimmy put her face in her hands as she was kneeling on the couch.

“Oh shit… Mikhail—why wouldn’t he tell me?”

Mikhail stood up and moved to the end of the couch to comfort her.

“He didn’t want you to worry, little one….”

Kimmy sniffed disdainfully in an oddly familiar way. “What happened to cow-woman?” she asked. “I liked that better.” Mikhail laughed and kissed her hair. “Very well—I shall call you cow-woman. He didn’t want you to worry. He is always okay, you see. He always expects the worst and is happy when it turns out better than that.

He always assumes the world will shit on his head, so he wears his good cheer and graciousness like an umbrella and simply shakes it off.” Kimmy gave a frustrated groan in his arms. “Gaaawwwdd… that is so
like
him.” She sighed and burrowed further into Mikhail’s arms—he was her brother as much as Shane was now, Mikhail mused. “Brandon called, spewing something about Shane’s money. I told him to fuck off…

but Kurt. No, that asshole
had
to get some back, you know? Backhanded me”—she fingered the bruise to her cheek, one of many—“called me a whore, and grabbed the phone, and they started making plans. That’s when I grabbed my stuff and went. Called you from the lawn. I just….” She had been rambling and now looked up at him, her face bleak. “I could take it for myself, you know? But I’d be damned if I let my brother get it in the teeth.”

Mikhail snorted. “Oh, cow-woman—the things you do not see. You are just like him. You just swear more.”

Kimmy frowned at him, a line between her eyes, and Mikhail shook his head and just took her to bed, tucking her in with her pretty blankets and Orlando Bloom and Kirsten Dunst, both of whom were kitty-sluts and
would
sleep with anyone who wasn’t having sex or wrestling around in bed.

Then he went and showered and slid into bed next to Shane. Shane wasn’t sleeping well—for a man who was so stoic when he was awake, he often muttered or moaned in his sleep when he was hurt. Mikhail knew this from when he’d been in the hospital. This time was different, though.

This time he knew to take Shane’s hand, knew to stroke the inside of his wrist and to whisper to him—in Russian, now, since Shane was sleeping—and to tell him that Mikhail would not leave. Not this time. Not when he’d promised.

When he woke up, Shane was in the shower, and Mikhail sat up in bed in time to see him struggling into his underwear using one hand to hold the boxer shorts and one hand to balance himself on the dresser.

Mikhail tutted and stood irritably, taking the boxer shorts from him and holding them out so Shane could step in. Then he did the same thing for Shane’s sweats and his T-shirt, and then he set out a pair of leather moccasins he’d found in Shane’s closet that had never been worn because the stubborn man would rather go barefoot, even in the winter, and made Shane step into those too.

Shane grinned at him crookedly. “You know, for a man who was so determined to be alone, you have a lot of mothering skills that would have gone completely to waste.”

Mikhail returned his grin with a scowl. “You want to see how much like my mother I am? You just wait until the big fight we’re going to have.”

“Now I thought I got an extra day!” Shane protested, and he tried to hold his hands up and then winced because it hurt and he hadn’t had his pain meds yet, and Mikhail’s scowl got worse.

“That depends on my temper, big man—and right now, it’s on a spiderweb.”

Shane’s face fell a little, and some of his playfulness faded. “You weren’t a little happy to see us yesterday?” he asked plaintively, and Mikhail relented.

“I was overjoyed to see you—yes. The help was very much appreciated.” Very gingerly, Mikhail moved in and put his arms around Shane’s waist and leaned his head on Shane’s chest. He fit so very nicely—never in his life had he been so happy to be short until he saw how well he fit in Shane’s arms. “I would be very sorry to never see you again, you understand? This big hairy fight we’re going to have—it all hinges on that. Just you remember that when we’re fighting.” Shane sighed and dropped a kiss on the top of Mikhail’s head. He started to say something, then changed his mind and started to say something else, and then sighed again.

“Maybe we should talk about something else if we’re going to postpone this,” he said at last, and Mikhail already had a plan.

“Let’s talk about getting something in your stomach so you can have your pain medication, how is that?”

“Aces,” Shane replied dryly, and so the big hairy fight was postponed for exactly one hour and eighteen minutes. Mikhail knew because he looked at the clock—it was nine in the morning. He was wondering when the promised assholes would arrive and tangle things up even more than they already were.

All he wanted was hot cereal, which irritated Mikhail, too, because it was just putting oatmeal in the microwave, but Kimmy woke up and went hunting for eggs, so Mikhail worked out some stress making them 338

omelets. Shane didn’t even look at the omelets, which meant he was feeling worse than he let on, and that put Mikhail in a deeper funk.

The phone rang as Shane was slipping the last of his oatmeal to the dogs, who had not yet been let out, and Mikhail answered. It was Calvin.

“How is he?”

“He is in pain,” Mikhail muttered. “What happened?”

“Not his fault, Mikhail—I swear. We were arresting Bob Coats on a D ’n’ D, and this fucker just comes hauling ass out of nowhere with the pipe—neither of us saw him; he was hiding in the garage and apparently even drunker than Bob. He knew Shane—knew who he was, at least—

started screaming about how faggots were going to ruin the American way.” Calvin blew out a breath. “Dumb motherfucker. Anyway, Shane took him out pretty neatly, you know? But the guy got some whacks in too. All this backup outside, and Shane’s almost taken out by some sneaky bastard with a lead pipe—it’s a good thing he can duck!” Mikhail closed his eyes and felt ill. “Thanks for that,” he said sickly.

“Did you want to talk to him?”

“Yeah—he’s in some trouble for leaving the hospital early. Wanted to give him the heads-up.”

Mikhail handed over the phone and listened grimly as Shane shrugged off the irritation of his captain. “Yeah, well, it was a family emergency…. No, my sister. She’s here with me now…. Yeah, well, the trip to Monterey sucked. Hangover’s almost as bad…. Okay, go ahead and tell him to kiss my ass. My med leave is six weeks—I know, asked the doctor. I’ll have my paperwork in tomorrow.” Big sigh. “Yeah—I know that means I have to go back in to the hospital.” Wince. “Make that the day after tomorrow, would ya? Not the smartest fucking thing I’ve ever done.” Pause. “Yeah, it was worth it. They needed me.” Mikhail, who was listening, heard that last and felt some of his blinding, sick anger dissipate. Aha. A weapon. The perfect weapon. He met Kimmy’s eyes across the room and could see her thinking the same thing.

Shane finished talking, and Mikhail took the phone silently from him, then picked the cereal bowl off the ground and took them both into the kitchen. He came back with Shane’s pain meds and some milk, which Shane downed obediently, and went about introducing Kimmy to the dogs Making Promises

and to their routine.

“Out in the morning, and in when we come in—or in the evening, or they bark and the neighbors complain,” Mikhail told her.

“What about the cats?” she asked. Orlando Bloom had made her his personal pet, and her fingers tightened in his fur. She didn’t want to let him go.

“The cats mostly stay inside,” Mikhail said. “Especially since the dogs are outside in the day. Besides—there are coyotes out there, and Shane says they like a little pussy when no one’s watching, so it’s best they stay inside.” Shane’s exact words, actually, and Mikhail smiled a little. Oh, yes. His lover was very good with the wordplay. It was a thing they would enjoy for many years to come.

He turned to Shane then and saw that the milk was gone. “How is your side?” he asked pleasantly, and Shane smiled.

“Better, thank you. I’ll be able to clean up dog crap in no time!” Mikhail nodded civilly and pulled out a chair across from him, sitting on the edge of it and leaning forward earnestly. “Good. But first, a more difficult chore. When are you quitting your fucking job?” Shane’s eyes widened. “Yeah, this really
is
a big hairy fight, isn’t it?”

“He’s got a point, Shaney,” Kimmy said, getting off the club chair and letting the cat plop to the floor. “You don’t need to work, and dammit—you’re getting hurt all the time.”

Shane tried to pull up a shoulder in a shrug, and then winced and stopped. “You both know it’s a part of the job.”

“No,” Mikhail denied. “There are risks, and then there is you. You put yourself out on the line when you don’t need to. And it’s not your risk to take anymore. It’s ours. And it’s unacceptable.” Shane wrinkled his nose a little, obviously unsure what to do with out and out rebellion. “Mickey—you knew this about me when you signed on—you knew who I was….”

“I
do
know who you are. You are a good man. You are kind, and you are strong, and you are brave….” Mikhail had to look away. “So brave.” He turned around to face his lover again and to be brave himself. “But you are
not
this job. This is
not
what makes your heart beat in your chest, this 340

is
not
what gets you up in the morning.” Shane’s crooked grin almost did him in. “Well, yeah, Mickey—but I don’t see anyone paying me to make love to you all day, do you?”

“Why do you even need money?” Kimmy exploded, and Mikhail was grateful because this was not a subject he could broach in comfort.

“Shane, man—you’ve got a seven figure insurance settlement, just sitting in the bank making
more goddamned money
! And that’s probably
half
of what’s in your fucking trust by now, do you know that? Why you got to do
this
job,
this
motherfucker of a fucking job, and one that you don’t even love… I will never fucking know!”

Shane looked away from his sister, looked away from Mikhail. “I didn’t know I still had the trust,” he said by way of explanation.

“Did you think they just disbanded it?” Kimmy asked, surprised.

“It’s a fucking tax shelter—Hadley told me so herself!”

“Who’s Hadley?” Mikhail asked, distracted for a moment.

“Our mother,” Shane and Kimmy answered in tandem, and Mikhail looked quickly back and forth between them and saw for the first time that yes, they were really twins.

“So it’s not the money,” Mikhail pursued, trying to get back on track. “It’s not the money, it’s not the love….”

“I wouldn’t say it’s
all
not the money,” Shane admitted unwillingly.

“I… I’ve sort of got this plan, you know? To donate the money for a shelter—you know, for all those kids on the streets who don’t know how to go home.” Shane’s brown eyes met Mikhail’s with pure, shining intentions. “You know—kids like you might have been, if your mother hadn’t been a goddamned miracle, right?”