Making Promises (9 page)

“I like women too,” he said quietly. “They’re soft, they have breasts, they smell good—what’s not to like? But that doesn’t make me any less in bed with a man when I’m there. It doesn’t mean that bodies together aren’t bodies together—and hearts together aren’t hearts. I’m not going to apologize for what I am any more than you should.”

“Hearts and hearts,” Mikhail sniffed, as though the idea were too fantastic to contemplate. “Here, try these on. And you still haven’t answered my question.”

“The thing with a lot of cops,” Shane said, putting his jerkin on and wondering when he was going to lose this guy by over-explaining things like he tended to do, “is that they like to see things in black and white—or blue and pink. There is no purple. A whore is a whore—she’s never a teenager, trying to support a baby. A gang-banger is a gang-banger—he’s never a guy trying to keep a family together. A junkie is a junkie—he’s never a lost kid who just needs a little help to get his shit together, you know? So… I’m a pink brick. I’m not a purple brick that can sort of fade into the wall, I’m an abomination, and I need to be lured into a back alley so the real bad guys can shoot at me.” Shane sighed. The other side of the curtain was horribly silent. He’d lost the guy—his trademark weirdness had done him in. “You know—because a cop’s a cop, he’s never a redneck homophobic bully with an axe to grind.” Shane opened the curtain, ready to concede that the clothes he’d put on weren’t going to rip off his body if he bent over, and was surprised to see Mikhail staring at him with wide, shiny eyes.

“You believe that?”

“Which part? The real part or the sarcastic part?”

“The real part—where people on the street are people and not…

garbage. You believe that?” Mikhail’s clipped, accented voice had become thicker, and the arrogant edge was completely dulled and soft. His sulky lip almost trembled.

Shane was surprised. “Well, yeah. Some of the kindest people I’ve ever seen have been on the street. Some of the most”—Shane moved his hands; God, he sucked at words—“tender things I’ve ever seen have been between people who had nothing to lose, so they hung on to each other.” Mikhail looked away, and it wasn’t Shane’s imagination—his chin was trembling. “You believed that, and you were a pink brick, so they tried to smash you. Bastards.”

Shane reached out a clumsy hand—to cup Mikhail’s cheek, to clasp his shoulder—he wasn’t sure which, but it didn’t matter. The dancer stepped back, pursed his lips, and was suddenly the perverse little flirt who had claimed that the day was only going to be a day at the Faire in the company of a pretty man.

“The size is good, but the color is for shit. Take it off. I have a whole other look for you.”

“Mikhail….”

“Did I say I was going to spill out my life’s story for you? I am not that man. Now move!”

Shane did as he was ordered—and refrained from pointing out that spilling his life’s story was exactly what Mikhail had demanded Shane do for him. An hour later they were pelting their way through the crowd, trying not to be late, and Shane’s estimation of how much mad money he could spend had risen considerably.

He was wearing fitted black trousers that hooked from a flap over his crotch on either side of his hips, with his prized white shirt over it and a leather jerkin over that. Mikhail had discouraged the idea of black, and the laced over-vest with the little sleeve caps was a naturally shaded gold with green patches at the shoulders. The whole works were bound by a studded brown belt with a little leather pouch to hold his wallet jouncing from the side of it. He had on a green leather hat
exactly
like the kind he always imagined Robin Hood wearing and a pair of soft leather boots that came up to his calves.

The pile of stuff he had just locked in the trunk of his car would humble the tickle trunk of an affluent pre-school.

It had actually been the dragon that had nearly made them late.

They were just getting ready to go pick up the bags they had left at various vendors—many of them with dresses, yarn, soap, perfume, CDs, and paintings for Benny and Parry Angel, as well as a rather spectacular piece of stained glass packaged for Shane himself—when they passed the large corner booth with the stuffed puppets, and Shane fell in love.

“The three-headed red dragon,” he said before he could stop himself.

And since he was spending money… “And the blue one too. And the set of finger puppets with the little animals… and the angels!” They were perfect. They had curly brown hair and blue eyes, just like Parry Angel and Lila, Jon and Amy’s baby.

Shane had forked over his credit card and turned to find Mikhail’s amused eyes on him, his arms crossed in front of his chest and his hip cocked to the side.

“You are striving for some sort of award?” he’d asked, and Shane flushed.

“Sometimes the only thing that gets you through being a kid is a different world where you can be a kid,” he muttered, taking the giant paper bags filled with expensive toys from the delighted shopkeeper.

He turned back to Mikhail and was unprepared for the soft look again and that sudden vulnerability that he’d seen inside the clothier’s.

“For me, it was dance,” he said softly, and Shane smiled.

“You’re a beautiful dancer,” he told Mikhail, his sincerity resonating through his toes. If anything, Mikhail’s high-cheekboned face became both more remote and far more fragile.

“That is kind to say,” he said, half-embarrassed. “Come, we are late.”

So here they were, running and late, and Shane had to wonder. What was that sharp little triangle of a face hiding when Mikhail looked like a thin pane of glass ready to shatter?

Mikhail and Kimmy’s second performance was no less amazing than the first. In fact, as Shane stood in the sunshine and watched Mikhail extend his amazing body and use the suspended props hanging from the archway to swim in the air as a fish might swim in water, he was even more beautiful.

It dawned on Shane that he had held this man’s hand for the better part of an hour, and his palms started to sweat, and his breath hammered in his chest, and spots started dancing in front of his eyes.

Best. Day. Ever.

And Shane even knew where he worked—and it wasn’t far from Levee Oaks.

“Citrus Heights?” Shane had asked over a tiny spoonful of limeade-flavored ice. “Where in Citrus Heights?”

“The corner of Greenback and Sylvan,” Mikhail had told him. Shane had bought him his own ice. Mikhail’s was lemon, but he kept using his spoon to steal bites of Shane’s. Shane let him.

“I know the place—The Car Czar, right?”

Mikhail smiled. “Da—it’s mostly Russian-owned. There is a dance studio along the back of the strip. I teach there four nights a week.”

“And you work the faires for…?”

Mikhail had shrugged, shades of darkness in his eyes. “I am saving for something. Besides—this is real performance. People are glad to be here, and I make them happy. What’s not to like?” So he might be at the faires on some weekends, but most nights a week he was right where Shane knew to find him.

Shane watched him now with sweating palms and breath panting shallowly in his chest. That was assuming he wanted Shane to find him.

The thought was fantastic—amazing, breathtaking, and absurd.

But that didn’t stop Shane from feeling the imprint of that fine-boned, lean hand in his own for most of the rest of the day.

The performance ended, and Shane whistled enthusiastically.

Kimmy waved at him from her place in the front, and Mikhail raised an ironic blond eyebrow and tilted his head as though allowing Shane to idolize him. Shane rolled his eyes and did just that.

Eventually the tippers cleared out, and Shane walked forward to Kimmy’s enthusiastic viewing of his new look.

“Very nice, brother—and I have to say, Robin Hood fits you better than Sheriff of Nottingham, right? You may want to think about that….” She trailed off meaningfully, and Shane shook his head.

“You think of anything else I can be, and I’ll think about it,” he told her, and Brett, who had once again reprised his roll of Puck, said, “Some sort of hairy-pelted animal?”

Shane blushed—his chest hair was peeking out of his V-necked shirt, and it was dark and curly and….

And Mikhail kicked the guy in the shin.

“Better a bear than a ferret,” he snapped, and Shane and Kimmy looked at them both in surprise.

“Lover’s quarrel,” Kimmy said apologetically, and Mikhail shook his head and stalked forward.

“Nyet. I would have to love him, and I never have. Come—let’s go see the horses before you have to perform with your asshole boyfriend,” he called over his shoulder.

“Mikhail!” Kimmy sounded legitimately shocked—and hurt—and she looked at Shane as though he could come up with an answer.

Shane shrugged and stayed shoulder to shoulder with her as they followed the guy through the dust and the throngs, trotting to keep up.

Mikhail slowed down as they passed a booth that Shane hadn’t seen yet, one with tiny glass vials of scented oils. He must have had a fondness for scent, because it was almost like someone threw a rope around his neck and pulled him toward the shelf. He wrinkled his nose—it was a tiny booth off in its own corner—and the oils were high enough to make him stand on tiptoe.

Kimmy glared at him, and Shane looked at her and sighed. It was his job, he guessed, as designated “pretty man” of the day.

“Do they have ‘cranky Russian bastard’?” Shane asked, wrinkling his nose at the variety. There were little glass vials set up in a board to support them, and each vial had a glass wand inside to sample the scent.

Shane picked up a glass wand experimentally and brought it to his nose.

“Ewwww.”

Mikhail looked up as Shane replaced the wand and smiled faintly.

“Brown sugar. Too sweet for you. You need something bolder.”

“Vampyre?” Shane asked, bemused. That’s what the glass tube said, sweartagod.

Mikhail waved him off. “No—it is dry and dusty. And dead. You are very much alive.”

“I’m also very confused.”

“Here—cedar wood. This smells like you.” Mikhail held up the wand and Shane took a delicate sniff.

“If you say so.”

“I’m embarrassed,” Mikhail said suddenly and grabbed Shane’s wrist, swabbing a little bit of oil on it and then replacing the glass wand in its vial. He pulled one from a vial marked “chamomile” and swabbed it along the same patch of skin, then held Shane’s wrist to his nose and inhaled, closing his eyes slightly.

“That’s it.” He looked up at the shop proprietor, an older woman with her hair up in a costume hair net and a rather serene expression.

“Two vials—the clear kind. Three parts cedar, one part chamomile. No, no,” this to Shane who was pulling out his wallet, “this is my purchase.” Making Promises

Shane raised his eyebrows but kept to the subject. “Didja lose your pants in public?”

The reluctance with which Mikhail faintly lifted his sulky mouth made his smile that much prettier. “I am embarrassed because he is an ass, and because I have slept with him, and because he doesn’t deserve to breathe your air. Are you satisfied now? Should we put on make-up now and hug?”

Shane’s eyebrows hit his hairline, and he blinked. “Apparently we’re sticking to perfume,” he said after a moment, when the proprietor had handed Mikhail the two plain vials of scented oil on leather cords. Mikhail handed one to Shane.

“It smells like you. It smells better on you. Now put it over your head and wear it, dammit, and let’s go see the horses.” Shane complied and looked at Kimmy as Mikhail grabbed his hand.

She raised her eyebrows and shrugged and caught up with them as he was dragged through the dusty, thronging crowd.

The jousting area was set up in its own cul de sac away from the food and the vendors. There were temporary stalls set up with the horses at rest and the name of the stables emblazoned on a carved wooden sign attached to the front of every pipe-constructed stall. Shane approached the horses and laughed a little.

“They’re smaller than I thought they’d be,” he said to Kimmy, who agreed. She’d been the one to get riding lessons when they were younger.

“They’re stockier,” she said thoughtfully. “More like ponies but a little taller.”

“The ones in the ring are bigger,” Mikhail said, nodding toward the jousting ring. There were stands on one side complete with tarps overhead to keep out the sun and what looked to be a royal family seated in the center getting ready to watch the spectacle. “They have to be bred sturdy to hold the big men wearing the metal, but they have to be bred sweet-tempered….”

“Because that’s a whole lot of freak-out for a skittish horse,” Shane agreed, looking at the crowd and the men with weapons and all of the things that Deacon and Crick would have said were dangerous to have around a horse in the first place. “Deacon’s horse, Shooting Star, would have killed someone by now.”

Mikhail shuddered. “I don’t see how they do it,” he confessed. He was standing a good five feet behind Shane and Kimmy as they stood near the stall, checking out the animals. “They are already too big.”

“I’ll have to introduce you to Angel Marie,” Shane said with a laugh.

The horse near him looked like she was going to eat his fingers as they hung on the metal bar above her head so he reclaimed them and moved away. Together, the three of them started wandering toward the stands on the far side. They were early—maybe they could claim a seat out of the sun, which was pretty damned relentless at three in the afternoon.