Page 71 of The Play

A wet towel plopped down behind him. Deacon glanced back and saw Kieran behind him, scowling.

“That’s for this asshole,” Kieran said to Micah. “Make sure he gets cleaned up. One of those guys’ friends called the cops. You might want to clear out.”

“No,” Deacon said before Micah could suggest they do just that.

“Jesus,” Micah repeated again, shaking his head. “More than crazy.”

“I did it, didn’t I? Might as well take responsibility,” Deacon said ruefully.

He’d just finished wiping his face and wrapping the towel around the ice Kieran had dropped off, knowing he’d need to ice his jaw, when he saw the crowds part in front of them.

The cops, Deacon thought, but then the figure that stopped in front of him was very different and not in a familiar uniform.

Instead, he was in jeans and a Condors sweatshirt, wearing a frown that would make anyone worried.

But Deacon only felt a shot of pure, unadulterated love.

He’d come for him. Grant had come for him.

Of course he did. He saved you before, didn’t he? Why wouldn’t he come save your sorry ass again? He loves you, apparently, even if you don’t really understand why.

Even if he’s always fucking coming to your rescue.

“Grant,” Deacon said, and the word came out of his mouth like Grant was an altar and he was worshipping in front of him.

Yep, Micah was right. He was crazy.

Crazy in love.

Grant didn’t look away. His gaze was critical, but soft around the edges. Like he couldn’t really be mad, even if he tried.

Deacon understood. He wanted so goddamn bad to be furious, still, but he couldn’t find any of it. Not anymore.

How’s he gonna keep pushing you away? The whole world already thinks you’re fucking.

“Micah, can you take Deacon to my car? It’s outside. The big black one. I’m going to talk to the police who just showed up. Luckily, they don’t seem to want to charge anyone. Too much paperwork, I guess.” He kept looking right at Deacon, but he hadn’t spoken to him yet.

Maybe he didn’t trust himself to.

There was a weight in his gaze, so many unspoken declarations.

“Don’t they need my statement or something?” Deacon asked, stumbling over his words.

“You mean, the statement about how you sucker punched some guy standing next to you at the bar? And then his friend punched you?” Grant shook his head, answering his own question. “No, I believe we’ll get along pretty well without you.”

“But—” Deacon began to argue, but Grant just shook his head, in that decisive and certain way of his, like Deacon was just one of the many idiotic peons who tried to argue with him, unsuccessfully.

Grant’s expression pinned him.

Deacon wasn’t stupid; he shut up.

“Micah,” Grant repeated with the exaggerated patience of the very frustrated, “take him to the car.”

“Guess we’d better go,” Micah said, rushing over and tugging at Deacon’s arm.

Deacon would’ve made some comment about how good he was at following orders, but he was following them, too, wasn’t he?

“You’re in for it,” Micah muttered as the crowd parted in front of them and they made it to the door. “I don’t know for what, yet, but you’re in for it.”

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