With a bewildered look on his face, he crossed the room to me. I sat up, propping myself against the pillows, as he eased down on the bed. “You hungry?”
“Not really. I just didn’t want to hurt Mama Beth’s feelings.”
“Well, you need to eat. Keep your strength up and all.”
I watched in surprise as he balanced the tray on his lap. Taking the spoon, he swirled it through some of the grits before scooping out a bite. When he brought it up to my mouth, I widened my eyes.
“What?” Deacon asked, the spoon hovering close to my lips.
“You just surprised me—that’s all.”
When I still didn’t take a bite, Deacon cocked his brows at me. “Don’t tell me you’re going to make me do that bullshit thing like the spoon is an airplane.”
I laughed and then winced from my sore ribs. “Would you really do that?”
“Fuck no.”
Leaning forward, I took the spoon into my mouth, sliding the grits onto my tongue. “Mmm. Those are so good.”
“Leave it to Mama Beth to make homemade grits. She acts like it’s some kinda sacrilege to eat packaged ones.”
“She just wants the best for her boys,” I replied with a smile.
Deacon spooned me a bite of biscuit and gravy. As I chewed thoughtfully, he cocked his head at me. “What are you thinking about?”
“That no one would ever believe that Mr. Hard-Ass biker boy was feeding me.”
With a snort, Deacon said, “Boy? I’m a man, babe.”
“That you are.”
Obediently, I took in another bite of grits. Once I swallowed, Deacon brought the orange juice to my lips. “Shit!” I cried, as the acidity entered my mouth and swished against the raw parts caused by the gag as well as me biting on my tongue and cheek.
Deacon grimaced. “I should’ve realized orange juice wouldn’t be a good choice.”
“You have a lot of experience with busted mouths?” I questioned before I could stop myself.
“Yeah, I did. Back when I used to fight.”
“Don’t you fight anymore?”
“Yeah, but it was different back when I was kid. It was a way of survival then.” Searching my eyes for any judgment, he added, “But even now, I won’t stop fighting.”
“A necessary evil,” I murmured. When he gave a brief jerk of his head in acknowledgment, I couldn’t help asking, “What happens now?” I asked.
“You stay here until you get better.”
“Then what?”
Deacon shrugged. “Then you stay here until I get tired of you.”
I laughed. “I think you need to work on your hospitality skills.”
He grinned. “What’s with all the questions? I thought we took care of all this touchy-feely shit last night in the shower.”
“We did. But I’m a little OCD when it comes to having a plan for the future.”
“All your pretty little head needs to worry about is healing.” With a pointed look, he added, “Because that bastard will never hurt you again. I swear it.”
As Deacon brought the spoon to my lips, I pushed his hand away. At his raised brows, I asked in a whisper, “You killed him. Didn’t you?”
Deacon let out a ragged sigh. “Don’t ask me about my business.”
I shook my head. “And don’t pull a Michael Corleone Godfather moment on me, Deacon. I know I said I would stay, but I do have my conditions. Honesty is one of them.”
“The only reason I would keep things from you would be to protect you. The less you know about the Raiders’ dealings the better. Then you can never be made to testify in a RICO case.”
While that made sense, I couldn’t leave well enough alone. “Did you kill him?” I repeated.
The spoon clattered noisily into the bowl. The cold and calculating expression on Deacon’s face caused me to shrink back against the pillows. “Yeah, I fucking killed him. When someone hurts the people I care about, I don’t wait for a judge and jury—I take matters into my own hands.”
While I’d had my suspicions about Deacon’s dark sins, as well as having his confession about killing his father, nothing could compare to actually hearing the words come out of his mouth. He was beyond just a dark-dealing outlaw. He was a killer—he’d even killed for me.
When it all came down to it, I was in love with a murderer. Suddenly, it became hard to breathe as I struggled to comprehend how Deacon fit into my ethically and morally sound world.
“Say something,” he commanded.
Staring down at the faded quilt, I replied, “I don’t know what to say.”
“That you can see past the blood on my hands to the real me.”
“Is that side of you so easily compartmentalized?”
“Probably as well as yours with the baby,” he countered.
I pinched my eyes shut at the mention of my own sins. I suppose to the world I looked like I would have a clean conscience. To some people what I had done so many years ago wouldn’t be an issue. After all, there was no finite moral compass that we adhered to. Every individual, every faith, every culture often picked and chose what was right and wrong in their eyes. Depending on where you looked from, light was dark and dark was light, leaving many hues of gray. Maybe everyone fought his or her own struggle to keep the dark side from overpowering them. Maybe we were all fighting a secret war within, while Deacon just chose to fight his in the open battlefield without shelter.
With the feel of Deacon’s intense stare on me, I opened my eyes. His expression told me he was sorry for bringing my past into the discussion. I knew apologizing wouldn’t be easy for him. It wasn’t his style. “Maybe I need a little time to process all of this. Just like you needed time to open up to Willow and to me, I need the same when it comes to your world.”