28. Chapter 28
The ridiculous contrast between Deacon's car and his dirt road driveway only adds to the lightening of my mood.
One that began to perk up significantly as soon as the car doors shut, closing us both inside.
The sun is shining and the air coming in through the open windows is warm without being sweltering, which is rare in this part of the south.
It took a lot of browbeating and even more sexual favors to convince Deacon to take me out, but as loose gravel gives way to the smooth pavement of the main road heading to Savannah, I know it was worth it.
He did return the favors which technically makes us even, but I didn't point that out.
After weeks of being cooped up in the house, I think we both need this.
It did take a lot of convincing, including reminding him that Savannah is a heavily populated little area and that the likelihood of Dante or any of his men spotting us is unlikely, but he eventually relented.
Since the day I played for him, something between us has shifted.
He still cloisters himself away for long periods of time, doing his "research,"
but he's begun spending equal amounts of time outside of his cave with me.
Doing mundane things like watching TV, playing board games, and even gardening.
Well, he chops wood or works around the yard while I garden.
I never thought I'd be the type to wanna stick my hands in the dirt, but you'd be surprised what hobbies you can come to enjoy when you have limited choices.
Deacon's taken me out few times in a little boat that he keeps by the river near the house.
We've definitely come a long way from the days of him being so overprotective that stepping out onto the porch would start a full-blown argument.
The small home and its surrounding swampy landscape have somehow shifted in my mind from feeling claustrophobic to almost … quaint.
In our isolation, Deacon and I have found a routine of sorts.
He finally broke down and ordered proper groceries instead of relying on daily deliveries of take-out or the occasional drop off of a meal's worth of food at a time.
I loved Chinese food as much as the next person, but if I had to eat one more carton of lo-mein, I'd barf.
The now-cleaned and fully-stocked fridge has prompted me to teach him how to cook.
Despite that first meal he cooked for me when I got here, I've been convinced that the man could burn water.
In actuality, he's proven to be a surprisingly fast learner.
Maybe it's because of our newfound relaxation with each other that he finally broke down and agreed to take a day trip to Savannah.
As we make our way down a two-lane highway bordered by dense trees on both sides, Deacon punches the gas pedal, propelling us forward at a speed that would probably scare the shit out of most people.
I wasn't like most people.
Letting loose a laugh, I tilt my head toward the open window, letting the wind whip through my hair as the sun warms my face.
Eyes closed, I smile and release a sigh that seems to take weeks' worth of stress along with it.
What's left afterward is a feeling of relaxation and blind trust that Deacon isn't gonna get us killed.
That, too, is new.
Somehow, over the course of these last few weeks, I've come to believe that when Deacon speaks, the majority of what he says is true.
Sure, he bullshits a lot and his sarcasm is off the charts, but I can't pinpoint one instance when I've caught him in a lie.
Is he careful with his words? Yes.
Is he an expert at evasion? Definitely.
But openly lying to my face? No, not from what I can tell.
Like I said, we've come a long way.
I know there are still things he's keeping to himself, but considering I'm doing the same, I can't really judge him.
After talking to Amelia on the phone a week or so ago, I've now boxed myself into telling the group about my history with Dante.
She, Merrick, and even Alexi are coming over in two days to discuss the situation.
After talking it over with Deacon to ensure he wouldn't flip his wig over the security issues, we decided it was best just to have them come over and get it out of the way.
I only wanted to have to tell this story once.
If I'm honest with myself, the prospect is terrifying.
I don't know how my friends will look at me once they know the full extent of our relationship and that it was my own poor choices that landed me there.
After the decision was made, I think Deacon could tell that I was more high-strung than ever, and that could also be a contributing factor that prompted our little outing today.
Once I can see spots from the bright sunlight staining the inside of my closed eyelids, I pull my head away from the window and sink back into the plush seat.
Tilting my face to the left, I catch Deacon watching me between glances at the road.
He's slowed back down and we've reached a speed that won't rack up a thousand dollars in tickets with even the nicest state trooper on the planet.
At this speed, I don't really mind how often he takes his eyes off the road to look at me.
Every time I see him glance over from my peripheral vision, my stomach does a little summersault, which is absolutely ridiculous.
I'm not a teenager, for God's sake.
Still, I can't help the small smile that tugs at the corner of my lips, and it isn't until I see his hand reach up, brushing his thumb over the little quirk, that I realize he's noticed.
I can feel my face flush, which apparently is also evident to him.
"Don't go shy on me now, brat," he says.
"Oh, shut up,"
I retort, though the smile has only tripled in size.
My sass causes a grin of his own to break out, and then we drive in companionable silence.
At one point, his hand lifts again, and I expect him to be going for the radio, but, instead, he reaches over, slipping his hand beneath my own, where it's been resting on my left thigh.
Palm up, he threads his fingers through mine, squeezing once before relaxing into the hold.
It's firm but not tight, and if that isn't the perfect metaphor for our relationship, I don't know what it is.
Since I've been with him, I've discovered many things about Deacon.
While some are endearing, others have the ability to bring me to a near-homicidal rage.
But when it comes to how he treats me, he's like the handhold.
Possessive but not oppressive, protective but not domineering, and somehow constant without being pestering.
It's an intoxicating combination and one that I've never experienced before.
If I'm not careful, I could become attached to him in a way that isn't healthy for a woman with a history of believing the flapping of red flags and butterflies feel the same.
If madness is making the same mistake repeatedly and expecting a different outcome, I can't afford to be committed.
I've never looked good in white.
And yet … I leave my hand where it is, even curling my fingers around his.
I'm clearly a glutton for punishment.
Before I know it, we're entering the city limits, and traffic slows to a pace unique to the south.
It's not because there are too many cars on the road or because of people rubbernecking the scene of some fender-bender, but because time and life, for that matter, are just unhurried here.
The copious amount of pedestrians doesn't help, though I've seen my fair share of sightseers living in downtown Charleston.
While many people would make comparisons between the two cities, each has its own unique charm.
Looking through the eyes of a tourist, I'd see a city full of rich history, elegant restaurants, quaint shops, and beautiful parks.
Late-night ghost tours, trolley rides, and riverboat dining.
With my hand still resting comfortably in Deacon's, I take in my surroundings as we make our way further into the heart of the city.
Wondering where Deacon is taking us or whether he even thought to make a plan, I open my mouth to ask just that when the car pulls to a stop alongside a curb directly across from Forsyth Park.
The famous white fountain shines like a beacon beneath the midday sun.
Deacon finally releases my hand, and almost reflexively, my fingers curl into my palm as if they miss the feel of him.
Turning the car off, he looks over and says, "You wanna walk a little?"
"You're gonna park your car on the street?"
I ask, my brows practically rising to the ceiling.
With a deadpan face, he says, "If someone spits within a half block of my car, I'll know about it."
Laughing, I shake my head and follow his lead as he exits the car.
Just as he rounds the hood to meet me on the sidewalk, a group of adolescent boys walk by, practically drooling as they point and take pictures of the car with their cellphones.
Without breaking stride, Deacon points at the boys and says, "Don't even fucking think about it.
If I come back to your ass print on the hood of my car…"
They take the threat good-naturedly and laugh, making jokes about how much ass he must pull with a car like that before they realize we're together.
One of the boys let out a low whistle in my direction, and I blow him a kiss with my middle finger, which just makes them laugh harder.
As Deacon reaches my side, he retakes my hand; for whatever reason, it doesn't feel awkward, weird, forced.
It feels comfortable and natural.
We walk towards the fountain, passing by couples huddled together on wooden benches, families having picnics in the grass, and the countless tourists taking pictures with everything ranging from a cellphone to thousands of dollars worth of camera equipment.
While I'm observing them, Deacon's splitting his focus between watching me and eyeballing every person within a half-mile radius, as though he's just waiting for someone to step out from behind a tree and take a shot at us, I can't blame him.
Nerves jitter inside me at the mere prospect of running into one of Dante's goons.
But soon, the soothing sounds of the water and the chittering of squirrels begging for peanuts, distract me from the threat of imminent danger.
That feeling that I've carried around since I was 16, the one that feels like a ball of lead-lined fear, lightens slightly, and I allow myself a little while to just live in the moment and enjoy it.
As we pass people, some tip their chins in an age-old greeting that's just another thing unique to the South.
We nod back, and with our fingers intertwined, it's so easy to believe that we're just another couple out to enjoy the sunny day and fresh air.
I soak in the idea, and my gut reaction is to scoff, but then … I don't.
Instead, I entertain the idea of what we'd be like if we were that couple.
Then I realize, it would probably feel something like this.
Well, minus the impending sense of doom.
The park is crowded today, which is no surprise.
Forsyth Park is probably one of the biggest tourist attractions in Savannah.
A large two-tiered fountain, modeled after the famous Fontaine des Mers in Paris, sits as the park's focal point.
Adding to the feeling of refined southern charm are paths lined with large oak trees, their branches heavy with Spanish moss.
We pass vendors selling everything from hot dogs to beignets.
The smell of fried sweet dough piled high with powdered sugar is generally thought to be more at home in places like New Orleans, but any true Savannahian will tell you that many things about the city mirror that of the Big Easy that have been not only adopted but changed to reflect the individual personality only found in Georgia.
They might be famous for their peaches, but Savannah took old-world southern charm to a new level.
We reach the park's large white centerpiece, and Deacon allows me to pull him over to one of the unoccupied benches facing the waterfall.
As we sit, our hands disconnect and I curl mine into my lap to distract from the way it tingles at the loss of his touch.
At the thought, I involuntarily make a sour face because isn't that the dumbest thing that's ever crossed my mind.
I don't realize that Deacon is watching me until he lets out a low chuckle.
"I'm not even sure I wanna know what you're thinking,"
he says, but I can tell by his voice that he's suppressing another laugh.
"No, you don't,"
I say, adding, "Silly girl thoughts. "
He feigns a look around the park, overly exaggerating the movements of his head as it turns this way and that before saying, "I don't see any silly girls.
In fact, I only see one girl."
I gaze out over the surrounding area myself, noting a good number of women, several of which are very attractive.
"You must be blind because there are girls everywh–"
My words trail off when I look back to find him staring down at me, a crooked grin tipping up the corner of his mouth.
For a second, I'm caught by the way the sunlight hits his face, making the blue of his eyes sparkle.
The suspended moment is broken when a laugh suddenly bursts from me.
I start several times to say, "Is this how you pick up women?"
but I can't get the whole sentence out without laughing so hard that I double over, clutching my stomach.
When the giggles fully subside, I look up to find him watching me with a curious expression. "What?"
I ask after I've finally caught my breath.
"It's gonna be my sole mission in life now, to make you laugh like that all the time,"
He says.
His voice is playful, but his eyes are serious.
We sit like that for a while, just people-watching and enjoying the warm sun.
After a few minutes, he says quietly, "I used to come here as a kid when I should've been in school or while my mother was working.
She was a maid brought in to clean up after parties thrown by many of Charleston's more prominent families.
After I was born, that all changed.
She couldn't get work anywhere, and we ended up moving to Savannah, where she cleaned rooms at a hotel not far from here.
When she was working, I'd come here and sit, watching people drop coins in the fountain and make wishes, and all I could think was, why did they waste their money? Didn't they know how many people out there could use that change?"
I sit quietly, practically holding my breath, afraid that if I remind him I'm here, it'll break whatever trance he's slipped into, and he'll stop talking.
"The more I sat here, the more I realized that they made wishes instead of helping others because people are selfish.
Why give away a quarter when a little magic could grant you a million more? But fountains and wishing wells are just like birthday candles or shooting stars.
Wishes don't come true, and most of us are left without any quarters or magic."
His words are cynical, and knowing what little I did about his early life, it's no wonder he feels that way.
But his comment about shooting stars pulls at a memory buried in my consciousness.
The shooting star figurine in his living room.
In his mother's letter, she talked about stars.
Was the figurine hers? The handful of change on his mantle makes sense now, too.
Before I have a chance to respond to his words, he stands, leaving me to look on after him as he walks over to a man sitting on a bench opposite us.
There's a shopping cart beside the bench, piled high with bags and odd items.
The man is dirty and looks tired.
As Deacon approaches, the man's face turns wary, as if expecting some kind of attack.
Reaching into his pocket, Deacon removes what looks like a hundred-dollar bill, handing it to the man.
I can't hear exactly what the man says to him, but I don't need to.
I can see his face.
Deacon walks back toward me, taking my hand again and pulling me to my feet.
He steers me closer to the fountain as he digs into his pants pocket again with the other hand.
As we reach the railing, he pulls out a shiny quarter.
Surprised, I look up at him.
With sad eyes, he lifts the hand still clutching mine, turns it over, and places the quarter into my open palm.
"You deserve to be a little selfish,"
he says.
He curls my fist closed, gesturing towards the fountain.
"Make a wish.
Just in case. "
I look from him to the fountain, then down at my closed fist.
I open my hand slowly and stare down at the quarter.
He waits patiently for me to toss it in, but I stare at it for a long moment before shaking my head.
Without a word, I turn and walk over to the man on the bench, handing him the quarter.
He doesn't say anything but, again, I don't need to hear it.
The look on his face is the same.
I walk back over to Deacon, who's staring at me with an intensity that would alarm most people.
Again, I'm not most people.
This time, it's me that latches onto his hand before asking, "Where to next?"
His hand tightens around mine almost imperceptibly before he leads us around the fountain and down another path exiting onto Bull Street.
As we leave the park behind, the number of tourists drops drastically, leaving more room for other sounds to come through now.
A few blocks away, jazz music can be heard pouring out into the street from one of the many restaurants or lounges in the area, but, by contrast, it's quiet enough now to also hear the calling of birds or the sound of a housekeeper beating the dust off of an area rug that's slung over the porch railing of one of the many large townhouses nearby.
It's such a beautiful day, and I find I'm lucky that Deacon has a good grip on my hand because more than once, I nearly trip over a crack in the sidewalk or face plant into a parking meter, too busy looking up at the large oak branches and the way the sun filters through the dripping moss.
I can only blame the distraction when, in my lack of awareness, I take two full steps past Deacon when he abruptly stops on the sidewalk.
My momentum, combined with the grip on his hand, lightly jerks me back.
Of course, he takes full advantage of my loss of equilibrium, using the force to spin me towards him and into his chest.
I brace for impact with my hands on his chest, and he steadies me with strong hands gripping my hips.
He bends slightly and for a moment, I think he's about to kiss me.
Our mouths are only an inch apart now and I can feel the warmth of his breath across my lips.
My eyes slide closed, and I wait, lips parted, my heart kicking against my ribs, not from fear, but from adrenaline.
A rush that I'm coming to recognize is unique only to moments with him.
After a second or two, when I realize nothing is happening, my eyes snap open to find him just where he was before, only now there's a sparkle in his eyes that says he knows exactly what he's doing.
I clear my throat before I speak, but my voice still comes out as a husky rasp.
"Why'd you stop? I wouldn't complain if you wanted to feel me up, but maybe we should wait until we get back home,"
I say, and almost as soon as the last word leaves my mouth, I wanna take it back.
It's his home, not ours .
Why did I say that?
If he catches my blunder, he doesn't say anything.
Instead, he lifts a hand, using his index finger on the side of my chin to turn my face to the right.
It takes me a second to realize what I'm looking at.
When I do, I let out a squeal unbecoming of a proper Southern lady, jumping up and down excitedly.
I turn back to face Deacon, finding him smiling down at me, pearly whites on full display.
With his hair down and the ends catching in the breeze, he looks more relaxed than I've ever seen him.
Returning the smile, I say, "You brought us here on purpose? How did you know?"
The "here"
in question is Mercer Williams House, featured in one of my favorite movies, Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil.
Even knowing that the movie was filmed in Savannah, the now infamous house owned by Kevin Spacey's character is a place I've always wanted to visit but never got around to.
Did he know that? For all his computer skills, I don't think something like that would've come up in a background check.
He shrugs nonchalantly.
"Know what?"
he asks, but that smile still lingers.
I glare at him, but there's no heat behind it.
"Do you wanna go inside?" he asks.
Glancing between him and the house, I hesitate.
"Ummm … I don't think we can.
Unless you're planning on breaking in? Though, isn't that Merrick's forte?"
I arch an eyebrow at him.
"You'd be surprised what crimes you don't have to commit when you can just pay the right people,"
he replies, adding, "Besides, it's a museum now, so it's open to the public."
I'm pulling him towards the entrance before he's even finished speaking.
He laughs but allows me to drag him inside.
Throughout the tour, he appears to be interested in everything I excitedly point out.
By the time we leave, dusk is setting in, and the gaslit lamps lining the streets are already on.
Ever vigilant, he says, "We should be getting back.
There's less visibility at night."
Meaning it's not so easy to see the people around us and any potential danger lurking behind every corner.
I nod and we make our way back to where his car is, thankfully, still parked and in one piece.
I sink into the passenger's seat and close my door just in time to see him lean down and inspect the hood as he rounds the car to get in behind the wheel.
He doesn't appear murderous, so I'm guessing there wasn't an ass print in sight.
Just before he starts the car, I turn to him and say, "Thank you for today."
Then, because I don't want to make the moment awkward for either of us, I turn my head to look out the window as he starts the engine, and we speed off for home.
There's that word again. Home .