“Not at all.” Deacon’s lovers had been casual acquaintances and nothing more. He didn’t trust the people in his profession enough to let down his guard for sex. And the women he’d been intimate with never knew more than whatever name he’d been using at the time.
“Well? Still waiting.”
Stubborn woman. He blew out a breath. “I was living on the streets by the time I was ten, got picked up by the cops for stealing. They found my loot, and it was impressive.” He grinned, doing his best to ignore the memories of his childhood, focusing on his escape into a new life. “Social services took over and dropped me off at a boarding school for gifted youngsters. There was this bald guy in wheelchair, and—”
“I’ve read a comic or two, Deacon. So, unless you’re actually a mutant—which doesn’t seem that farfetched since coming to know you…”
He grinned. One more reason he had a thing for the brainy beauty. She knew her comics. “Fine. Social services did pick me up. But it wasn’t long before some suits came and took me to a government-funded ‘camp.’ They’d tracked down my mother, and she signed her rights away for some serious cash.” He said it without feeling, no longer hurt that he’d actually been sold like used goods at a garage sale.
Solene gaped. “No way. You can’t sell people.”
“Can and did, Blondie.” He basked in her compassion, but not wanting her pity, he hurried the story. “And it was the best thing that could have happened to me. I got three square meals a day, a roof over my head, and learned a real skillset. I was already sharp from living on the streets, but they taught me more than just academics.” Despite being turned into a killer, Deacon appreciated all the Business had done to turn his life around. “I learned how to see and hear with attention to detail. To be still, to remember with accurate recall. I can use a gun, a knife, you name the weapon, I can figure out how to make it sing. I’m partial to knives, though. Not close-up work so much as throwing them. It’s fun.”
She stared.
“I mean, not the killing part.” He didn’t want her to think him a psycho. “I’m talking about hitting the target. Like darts or marksmanship competitions. For sport.”
“But your sport is a lot more…serious.”
He shrugged. “I pick and choose from the assignments they give us. And yeah, I kill for money. I also put away people who do things you’d only see in your nightmares. I mean, the worst of the worst.” She didn’t seem to be cringing away from him. He’d thought perhaps being honest would dismay her. She’d keep her distance, and he could stop thinking he had a shot with her.
With most women, he worked the charm. With Solene, apparently honesty was the key. Damn.
“Okay,” she said.
“Okay?”
She nodded. “But you never said what put you on the streets. Bad parenting, I take it?”
“Probably no worse than yours.” Now that was a total lie.
“Really?” She raised a brow, not believing him. “If you read Noel’s files, you’d know all about my parents.” She still seemed a little peeved that he knew her background.
“It was Noel, not me who initially looked into—”
“Everyone. I get it. Still weirds me out a little though.” She rubbed her hand, a nervous tell. “My parents weren’t awful, just bad. My mother tried living vicariously through me, pushing me into modeling, then turned into that parent-turned-agent-from-hell. My parents argued a lot about what to do with my money. Eventually they divorced. My father basically deserted me, and though I haven’t seen him since my fifteenth birthday, once I emancipated myself, I never had to scrounge in alleys and steal things.” Nice way to turn the conversation back to him. He had to admit, she was good. “Okay, Deacon. You wanted the truth? You got it. Your turn.”
So she’d know the ugly facts. Big deal. Except Deacon didn’t share them with anyone. It was a part of his past he didn’t like facing. Yet some part of him wanted Solene to know.
“Fine. Truth—my mother was a druggie more concerned with shooting up than with me. She killed my older brother by accident, when she forgot he was in the car during a hot summer day. The kid died, and she never told the cops she was getting high while it happened. Back then she looked decent, and you couldn’t tell she was doping up. A year later, she had me to replace him.” He thought he’d put it behind him, but he still hated Beatrice Shaw with all his heart. “My childhood sucked.”
He gauged Solene for a reaction, but she wasn’t giving him any, and he found it easier to continue. “My mother was never there, so I learned to forage for myself. The only reason I survived was because the old lady who lived next door liked me. She’d feed me, and I’d steal shit for her. Not because she asked, but because it was an honest trade, and I liked her.”
She gave him a small smile. “That sounds like you. A ladies’ man even as a little boy. But somehow I get the feeling you stole more to help your caretaker than for yourself.”
To his surprise, she didn’t condemn him. He felt himself blushing and hoped she didn’t notice. “I don’t remember.”
“Uh-huh.”
He glared. “I’m not that nice. Anyway, the old lady died. I was on my own, and I got bolder. Stole enough to keep me flush and ended up fencing my own crap, pretending I was doing it for a mobster who owned a piece of the city. Told everyone he was my uncle, so they bought it. He was a real bad guy, so I didn’t feel bad fleecing him. Then I got busted on a stupid job, and the rest is history.”
Busted because he’d done the right thing and turned the mobster in—which she didn’t need to know. He’d had enough talking about himself. “What about you? Why do you hate men?”
“I don’t know I’d say Ihatethem.”
“Yeah, right. You have a real hard-on for anyone with a Y chromosome. And not a good hard-on, either.”
She scowled. “Nice mouth.”
