9. Henri
Chapter 9
Henri
Deacon is super unwell. He’s jumpy and has asked me a dozen times the name of the person in front of him. Of the dozen times, someone was only there twice.
My phone pings while Deacon’s talking with a young fan. The kid was drawn to him from the science museum event we hosted in November.
Finn:
I’ve got a delivery for Deacon outside. Send him out?
Me:
Can I come get it instead? I don’t want him to miss this interview.
If you must. But it’d be best if he eats a little in the car with me instead of where everyone can see before going back into that interview.
Eat? Wait. What kind of delivery would Finn have for Deacon? I assumed drugs. Is this an extended code of some sort?
While I was looking at my phone, the young fan moved on and the chairman of the program for the wolves-versus-bears sporting event started to speak with Deacon.
I cut in between them. “Excuse me, Chairman, I’ll just borrow Deacon for a few moments.”
“Of course.” The chairman offers his hand out to Deacon. “Pleasure talking to you. Can’t wait to have you in the box for a game.”
“It’ll be an honor.” Deacon shakes his hand before turning to me.
Gripping his jacket sleeve, I pull him away.
I keep my voice down to barely a whisper. “What sort of delivery is Finn here with for you?”
“Soup,” he answers softly. “And apparently french fries.”
Yep. Delivery is code.
I nod toward the exit doors. “Please, hurry.”
“I will.” Deacon gives me a smile. “I want this to go just as smoothly as you do, Hen.”
Less than five minutes later, Deacon returns, carrying a white takeout container, the lid flopping open as he lazily walks back toward me. The difference is night and day. He’s back to being the calm, cool James the world loves, not the uptight mess he was before.
“French fry?” he offers.
I eye them suspiciously. “You had Finn bring you what, fish and chips?”
Deacon nods, chewing and swallowing before responding. “Yeah. Told him to tell the Hare’s Hearth they could do way more business if this was a standard option.”
“Oh-kay.” I don’t question it, opting instead to maneuver Deacon by the sleeve into the corner.
I’m no expert on drugs, handling Deacon is a crash course, but with how snacky and food motivated he gets, I can see the merit in that business proposal. Maybe Hare’s Hearth will take it into consideration.
Deacon nails the discussion. Despite having no interest or working knowledge of sports, he brings excellent answers to questions and carefully, but playfully, ribs the bear representative on the panel.
Now, at the end, they all shake hands. The bear smiles wide, and it looks overall very diplomatic.
Deacon strolls over to me, hands in his pockets, and shrugs. “How’d I do?”
“Amazing,” I answer truthfully.
“Cool, are we ready to get out of here?” He yawns, covering his mouth with his hand. “Had my snack, and now my brain is done for.”
“Yeah, we can go.”
This event could have gone so poorly. He should have told me he was struggling earlier than he did, but between the little yawn and shrugged shoulders, I can’t be mad at him.
He’s so tired, my wolf observes. Comfort. Not scold, she encourages.
Working with Cade and Thalia is always easy. They’re both excellent at what they do. It’s challenging because the people getting close to them are always trying to work an angle, but I don’t have to coach them. It’s a hands-off buffer.
Deacon is what I wanted when I started this line of work. I wanted to be someone’s safe place. But maybe I should wonder about what that says about me.
We just want him in general. My wolf swoons.
I can’t even argue with her. Especially not as I follow Deacon out into the crowd of paparazzi. The Corinth Security agents lead the way, and I follow up the rear, watching his back with the event security.
When we get into the Corinth Security SUV, Deacon pretty much deflates. He scrubs his hand down his face before wiggling out of his suit jacket and then unbuttoning his shirt. Tie hanging unknotted around his neck, he looks defeated.
“Sorry I couldn’t handle today,” he murmurs. “I’m trying to manage, but there’s been a supply limitation, and yours truly was very bad at monitoring his stockpile.”
“I’m worried about you.” I’m battling my brain as the screaming urge to hold his hand or pat his shoulder or give him a hug overwhelms me.
My wolf pushes for it too. Get close to him, love him.
But that’s the problem; no matter how much I want to love Deacon, he isn’t mine to love. I’m just here to make sure he gets everything situated.
Thirty minutes down the road, Deacon still hasn’t said anything. I look over, and he’s watching the scenery pass by out the window, but his gaze is unfocused.
“What are you thinking about?” I ask, trying to keep my voice low.
“About how I don’t think about suicide when you’re in the same room,” Deacon admits, his voice matching my quiet tone.
My mouth drops open. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it was not that.
No, those are bad thoughts. My wolf and I are both anxious with his revelation.
I shuffle in my seat so I can look more closely at him. “I kind of assumed you had stopped. After...”
“All day, every day.” Deacon blows a raspberry with his lips. “The thoughts are loud when I talk to an ancestor I’ve seen before. Louder when I find out I’ve been unknowingly talking to someone who is dead. Loudest when I remember how little I’ve done and when I see the disappointment I am in someone else’s eyes. But if you’re in the room, even if just for a little while, the noise of ideation stops.”
My heart breaks for Deacon, and I don’t know what to say. “Oh.”
“It’s just, even today, when I was a complete wreck and couldn’t tell the living from the dead, it wasn’t that I wanted to die so much as I just wished I could be better.” He’s quick to add, “You’re not responsible for what happens to me.”
“I... I know.” I try to grab something in any sort of capacity that’ll help him.
“No, you’re a people pleaser.” Deacon laughs, his chest rising and falling with a huff. He looks over at me, rolling his head lackadaisically rather than turning it. “You’re already trying to figure out how to spend all day every day with me, hoping it’s enough to stop me from doing it. It’s your turn.”
I never would have guessed I was so obvious with how I thought about things. But Deacon seems to have broken me down on every level. “My turn?”
“Yup, I confessed that sin to you. Pay up.” Deacon makes a game out of a simple conversation.
Then again, with Deacon, there are no such things as simple conversations. It’s only deep thoughts laced with inspiration or dumb comedy.
It takes me far too long to come up with something, anything, that would make sense or feel anywhere near as weighty as Deacon’s statements.
My voice trembles when I start. “Confession: I’ve always wanted to be loved. I wanted to be coveted. I guess not knowing my biological parents and finding out I’m not normal have made me so broken when it comes to love.”
“You are loved and coveted. You’re sought after, and I’m willing to kill for you. You will never be ordinary because you are the only one who possesses the power to destroy me. You are talented and capable and everything I am not worthy to be in the presence of. Broken is not a word that applies to you, you don’t see yourself how I see you.”
His words bring tears to my eyes.
What do you even say to that? I try and scramble to form words.
Deacon, however, changes the conversation without missing a beat, like he didn't just take a sledgehammer to every belief I’ve lived with as truth—the ones no one’s ever been able to convince me of otherwise. “Michael, any chance we can get tacos at that one place?”
“Didn’t you just have fries?” Michael Tate, today’s assigned security agent, is already changing lanes toward an exit ramp.
“Mm-hmm, but you know those tacos will haunt you all day if you don’t get them now.” Deacon laughs at his own joke.