Notes: My sincere thanks go to Emma R2, who challenged me to write this scene from Deacon's POV. Thanks to all of you who've read and enjoyed my stories: I work hard on them and your feedback means the world to me. I apologize to those who've asked me to take my stories "off script" and into what I wish would happen on the show. I leave that to others, who do it so well, while I prefer to write to canon - filling in the blanks in and around the actual storylines. (Yes, I did color inside the lines in Kindergarten, so maybe that explains it!) Enjoy.
Soon, way too soon, the elevator bell sounded: Eighth floor.
Deacon could feel Rayna's heart hammering against his own as he tightened his arms around her. She was so utterly caught up in their embrace that she didn't flinch when the elevator doors slid open. She was moaning in his arms, pulling him closer, her mouth soft and open, her fingers stroking the back of his neck. He had gotten hard almost instantly and she was bucking her hips up against his pelvis, her arms straying down his back.
Don't think … don't think …
Deacon pulled away and then – unable to resist – stopped to kiss her one more time. She was clinging to him, willing him on, but he stepped back, turned away and walked off the elevator.
Always leave 'em wanting more …
Deacon heard the elevator doors close behind him. He glanced back on the off chance that she had followed him: Nothing. He walked down the hallway and found his room, managing to get inside before drawing a deep breath and leaning his body, still trembling, up against the door.
Jesus Christ, what the hell did you just do?
Well, if nothing else, he'd proven Glenn Goodman wrong. And in the process, he'd blown up the wall - carefully constructed between them, brick-by-solid-brick - for more than a decade.
Just blown it all to hell. Stupid, fucking Glenn.
He called himself a talent manager, but he was really nothing more than a two-bit promoter sporting the world's most ridiculous toupee. His only claim to fame was his dogged ability to slog from small-town beauty contest to bayou talent show, enduring the godawful summer heat to pluck diamonds from the Mississippi Delta mud. Clearly, he'd plucked off more than he could chew with Juliette; she was bound to can his sorry ass before long.
The worst part was, he was right.
Stupid, fucking Glenn Goodman was right on the money, for once in his life. Deacon had realized it as soon as the words came out of his mouth.
You don't get to lecture her about the distinction between doing and thinking. All I've ever seen you do is think. Whatever crap you've got goin' on with Rayna, Juliette's not part of your solution.
Deacon sighed and walked further into his room, taking a seat on the bed, hands on his knees. The truth is, what had saved his life a dozen years earlier had changed him deeply. Most of the changes were for the good. But learning to tame his impulses – around alcohol and around Rayna – had transformed him in negative ways, too. Inside of 10 years, he'd gone from wild and impetuous to cautious and set in his ways. Learning how dangerous his instincts were had kept him from following them down every back alley in Nashville. It had also taught him not to trust himself and made him risk-averse.
A dry drunk.
He winced at Juliette's description.
Well, not tonight. Tonight, it seemed, he was all about risk.
Is that what you're doin'? Tryin' to turn Juliette into a replacement for Rayna? 'Cause it sure looked like a Rayna-Deacon special out there tonight.
Glenn's words had still been running through his head when he'd looked up from his bowl of cocktail pretzels and spotted Rayna crossing the lobby. He'd stood up, dug a $20 out of his wallet and slapped it down on the bar. Then he'd taken off running.
"Hey mister - you didn't order anything!" the pretty, dark-haired bartender called after him, holding up the bill.
He looked back at her: "Keep it!" he yelled, reaching the elevator just after the doors started to close.
No, not another missed opportunity. Not tonight.
He thrust his hand forward just in time to reverse the doors' momentum and hurried inside. Rayna was there, in a jacket and scarf, with an expression on her face that was half-surprised and half-amused. She rolled her eyes: This elevator tag was really getting silly.
"Deacon, can I just ask you somethin'? What the hell are you doin' on this tour?"
She was itching to lecture him. Listening to Glenn was bad enough, but now Rayna was going to tell him off, too. Well, he wasn't a child and he didn't need a talking-to from either of them.
"Deacon!"
And then: He just did it. What he'd desperately wanted to do for years. Years filled with the exquisite frustration of being close but not together, years filled with meaningful glances, knowing laughter, naughty banter.
Darlin', you're not some overnight sensation. Though you are sensational overnight, to the best of my recollection.
You and I used to write songs together too, remember?
Oh - I remember.
The two of them had become expert at a painful but oh-so-addicting game: How-far-we-can-push-the-line-without-actually-crossing-it? It was sick, but the alternative – letting the spark between them die - was simply unthinkable.
So they took what they could: The hand-holding, the tears, the little touches and nudges, even the fighting. Everything they did was shot through with an undercurrent of passion that both of them thought was buried deep, but was all too plain to those closest to them: Teddy, for one. Lamar. Tandy. All of the women Deacon got close to over the years, and eventually pushed away.
They all noticed how he and Rayna turned every casual hug into an opportunity to linger, just a moment too long, in each other's arms: Eyes closed tight, bodies pressed close together.
The truth was, they were two good people stuck in an impossible situation, and their deep friendship and creative collaboration had gotten them through rough patches before. But this time something was different with Rayna. Deacon wasn't sure exactly what it was. All he knew was that she was deeply unhappy with Teddy - and he was sick to death of being alone.
It was wrong, very wrong. They both knew that. But the game was played out: It was time for things to change.
And so he'd taken Glenn's advice, shut down his brain, jumped on that elevator and done exactly what felt right.
He turned and took two steps toward her, leaning down and kissing her gently but firmly on the mouth. Her back was up against the wall, she gasped slightly; he could tell she was shocked. But she didn't stiffen or push him away, as he half-feared. Her body was soft, her lips slightly open under his. She smelled so good, she felt so sexy. Encouraged, he brought his left hand up to her neck, stroking her hair.
A small moan escaped her and he broke contact to let her catch her breath, wrapping his right arm around her waist to pull her in tighter.
But she was talking again, stammering out words that didn't make any sense. Why couldn't she stop?
"Rayna!"
She gazed up at him then, quiet finally, waiting. Waiting for him to have his way with her.
"I'm done talkin'"
He pulled her to him and kissed her again, finding her mouth open, the tip of her tongue meeting his this time. So familiar, so sweet, so yielding. God, he had missed this so much, thought about it so often, dreamed of being with her. He was quickly getting hard and he bent his knees, stroking his pelvis full-length across hers so she could feel him. "Ohhhhh," she moaned in response, her arms wrapping around his back as he deepened the kiss, both of them rapidly losing control, hearts racing in tandem.
Deacon was lying back on the hotel room bed by now, reliving the moment, eyes closed, head thrown back, stroking himself through the tight denim of his jeans. His breath was coming quickly and he was sorely tempted to unbuckle his belt, unzip his jeans and finish right then and there.
No... not yet … wait…
With a deep sigh he pushed himself upright, took another breath, adjusted the painful tightness in his groin and walked into the bathroom, splashing water on his face. He knew Rayna: Not only did she want him as much as he wanted her, but she would never leave this unresolved between them. He could expect a phone call, or a knock on his door, before long.
Maybe he'd even get an invitation to visit the penthouse.
Deacon closed his eyes again and propped himself against the bathroom sink, a small groan escaping his lips and a pang hitting him in the gut as he contemplated that scenario.
Concentrate on something else …
He walked back out to his room and pulled a folder full of sheet music from his bag, tossing it on the bed and stacking the pillows against the headboard so he could plan tomorrow's rehearsal. First order of business: They needed to polish "Consider Me" if Juliette intended to put that in the lineup permanently.
He sat back against the pillows and shook his head, smiling slightly as he recalled the surprise Juliette had sprung on stage earlier in the evening. Thank god he had taken the band through their new song several times that afternoon.
When they'd first met, Juliette had reminded him so much of Rayna at the same age. But the more he got to know her, the more Deacon realized how different the two women really were.
Juliette had proven to be a good friend, and he was glad to be in her band, even though it made Rayna uncomfortable. But Rayna, the consummate professional, would never pull a stunt like Juliette did tonight. In 20 years, he could count on one hand the number of shows she'd cancelled, and then only for serious illness. She'd never skipped out on an appearance, no matter how exhausted she was. Hell, he'd never seen her miss a single cue.
Funny, he thought, Juliette asking him what Rayna would do if her label painted her into a corner - like that was a novel situation in the music business. He'd always suspected that, for all her outward contempt, Juliette actually admired Rayna: Her question today confirmed his hunch.
She'd probably do what she always does: Stay true to herself.
And she always had you there, to help her.
Spoken like a true romantic. But no, Juliette didn't have a clue what it had been like for Rayna. She didn't know he'd been gone – or at least checked out – more often than he'd been there, back in the day. That he'd left Rayna to fend for herself – for both of them – time and again, until finally she'd given up and moved on.
There's no room for regret in recovery.
Deacon knew that he couldn't change the past. He'd made his amends and moved on himself. He didn't know why all the old feelings had come back up lately, especially over Rayna's betrayal with Teddy. He'd been so angry about it, thinking about what might have been, that he'd been acting childish and cruel towards her. And he hated himself for it.
Well, he'd put his cards on the table tonight and he'd gotten the answer he wanted. The next question was – what would she do about it? There was nothing to do now but wait and see.
A noise startled him: His phone was vibrating. His heart jumped as he read the text.
Rayna … Talk? PH1.
Yes. Oh yes.
It was finally going to happen. After all this time, she was calling game over. He looked around, picked up his key card and walked quickly out the door, not even bothering to make sure it shut behind him. He punched the button for the elevator. Going up.
Talk? Right. If that's what she really wanted, she would have asked him to meet her in the lobby or down at the bar, where there would be plenty of eyes on them to keep them in line. This private visit to the penthouse was not going to involve much talking. He felt himself getting hard all over again as he got on the elevator and pushed the top button.
She would be open, and wet, and ready for him when he reached her door. She would let him in, looking luminous, her glowing eyes meeting his, cheeks flushed, already breathing hard. He wouldn't need to say a word. He would just step inside, close the door behind him and take her into his arms, picking up right where they'd left off. She would be eager, kissing him hungrily, caressing him, reaching down to tug his belt loose, fingers fumbling impatiently with the button on his fly. He would smile at her between kisses.
"What's your hurry, Ray?"
She would whisper her reply: "I want you, Deacon. I want you inside of me, right now; I want you to … make me come."
"God, Rayna. I want you, too."
"We've got lot of time to make up for."
"Yes, we do, darlin'...yes we do."
And then he would reach down and catch her under the knees and lift her up into his arms. She would cover him with kisses, on his mouth and his face, arms draped around his neck, while he carried her into the bedroom and laid her down on the thick white bedspread. He would kneel over her, reveling in the sight of her, underneath him, pulling him down to her, her hair fanned out around her face, looking for all the world like some kind of golden goddess...
The elevator bell sounded again and Deacon exited quickly, walking down the hallway, anticipating the deliciousness of the next few hours, hours he would remember for the rest of his life. And then he turned the corner.
Teddy.
Teddy?!
What the fuck?!
Deacon immediately reversed course, ducking back down the hallway and then peering around the wall.
Teddy Fucking Conrad, in the flesh, standing outside of Rayna's door, talking.
Deacon hung back, watching, filled suddenly with dismay. A moment later, he watched as Teddy disappeared into Rayna's room.
For the second time inside of an hour, Deacon slumped against a wall, trembling. He felt like he'd been punched in the gut in a bar fight. What the hell was Teddy Conrad doing in Chicago? Surely he hadn't been expected, hadn't been here earlier, at the concert. Surely Rayna would never have asked him to her room if she'd known Teddy was going to show up.
He must have flown in to surprise her, was all Deacon could imagine. God, what her face must have looked like when she'd answered the door and seen Teddy standing there instead of him. Was she talking to Teddy now, on pins and needles, one ear listening for Deacon's knock, making up excuses to explain why he would be at her door late at night?
Shit, it had only been a matter of minutes. What if he'd gotten there two minutes earlier and run into Teddy in the hallway? What if Teddy had arrived half an hour later and he and Rayna had already been inside, naked in bed together, when Teddy knocked?
Adultery. Deacon had tried to avoid thinking about the consequences, but they hit him now with full force. He took a deep breath, remembering again how dangerous his impulses could be, not for him – he couldn't care less about Teddy Conrad or about his own reputation – but for Rayna. He'd put her in a terrible position tonight. He needed to apologize, the next time they were alone together.
Maybe he was better off, thinking and not doing. He wouldn't let his impulses get out of control around Rayna again. He walked back down the hallway to the elevator, headed back to the eighth floor. Back where he belonged.
THE END