A/N: Gratuitous sex scene at the end of this chapter; readers uninterested in such things, please be advised.

The man I knew
I don't think that he can hear me now
So dizzy with the altitude
It's just too far
Who am I to tell you to come down?

Lucky that my palate still prefers a legal poison
Who am I to tell you to come down?
Sit back and raise a glass, a glass to easy choices
Who am I, yeah, who am I, yeah who am I
To tell you to come down?

Rayna found him at the sixth bar she went to, he was tucked away in a booth, some chesty blonde in a lowcut dress that was at least one size too tight had sidled up next to him. He wasn't paying attention to her, his eyes were focused on the shot glass in front of him, but her arm was draped behind him, and her fingers were making lazy circles on the front of his shoulder.

Rayna walked up to the table and stood in front of it, her hands on her hips. "Hey." She said to Deacon, who refused to look at her. She turned her attention to the blonde, "Leave."

The blonde popped her gum, her hand stilled on Deacon's shoulder. "And who the hell are you?"

Rayna stared at the blonde. She wasn't in the mood for a fight with anyone but Deacon tonight, "Did you not hear me?" She put her hands on the edge of the table, "Leave." She said again, her voice betraying her anger.

The blonde looked at Deacon, obviously expecting him to intervene on her behalf. When he didn't even look at her, she roughly removed her arm from around him, and pushed up from the table with a sigh of disgust. "Whatever. You can have him." She said as she walked away, nearly tripping on her high heels.

Rayna slid in to the booth on the opposite side of Deacon. "I said hey." Her voice was strained by barely controlled anger. When Deacon didn't answer, she folded her hands in front of her. "You sure had a lot to say earlier." She gave a small, bitter laugh. "You wanted to fight earlier, right? Well, why not now?"

Deacon finally looked at her then, and then he picked the shot glass up, brought it to his lips, and tipped the contents into the back of his throat and swallowed. He never took his eyes away from Rayna's, even as he poured another.

She made a little sound, pushing all the air out through her nostrils. She nodded her head a little, and smiled—but there was no joy behind it. Quickly, she reached for the shot glass and brought it to her lips, watching Deacon as she tipped it back, then set the glass back down on the table. It burned the back of her throat, and she pressed her eyes shut for a moment. When she opened them, Deacon was still staring at her, pouring more liquor into the glass.

When it was full, he slid it across the table to her. It stopped in front of her, and the alcohol sloshed a bit over the side. She picked it up with her fingertips, and swallowed again, more prepared for the burn this time. When she set it down, she brought her fingers up to her lips and licked the alcohol off.

She didn't really drink anymore, hadn't in a while, and the warmth of the alcohol in her stomach spread through her quickly.

Deacon smirked at her, and poured the remaining contents of the bottle into the glass. He drank half, and then handed the rest to her.

She took it from him and downed it, relishing the fact that it went down much easier than the first two.

"Been awhile." He said, his voice rough. She could tell he wasn't drunk for the first evening in two weeks. Not yet.

She nodded, she hadn't had a drink with Deacon in over four years.

The waiter, noticing their empty bottle, stopped by the table. "Can I get you another bottle?"

Deacon smiled, his eyes still fixed on Rayna. "Yes."

Rayna spoked on top of his word, "No." Her voice was firm, "We've had enough." The edge in her voice left no doubt as to whom the waiter would believe as he left.

Deacon tipped the empty shot glass over, it clashed against the table and rolled a bit before stopping in a groove, "Rayna Jaymes, ladies and gentlemen, the boss."

Rayna rolled her eyes, "What does that mean?" Her tongue felt loose, the alcohol working its way through her blood.

"It means," He drew the 's' out, "That you're the boss, Rayna. It's your world, babe, and everyone else is just living in it."

She narrowed her eyes, "Is that so?" At his nod, she continued, "Well, then if it's such a problem for you, Deacon, don't live in it."

His laugh was short. He reached out and spun the shot glass, "You and I know it's much too late for that." He stilled the glass, "Besides, we're…friends, right? Isn't that what you said we were?" He spat the word friends out like it had a bad taste. Truth was, it did.

"I did." She nodded once, "But maybe I spoke too soon, if this is how you treat your friends."

Deacon raised his eyebrows, "Is this how you treat your friends, Rayna? You search for them for…" He checked his watch, "What? Two hours? How many bars did you have to go to?"

She sighed, "Six."

"Six." He shrugged, "You do all that for all your friends, Rayna?"

"All the ones who are alcoholics." She lied.

He chuckled, "Liar." He reached out and took her hand, stroking it gently.

She felt the tears spring to her eyes at his touch, and chastised herself, blaming the alcohol for her reaction, when she knew it was no one's fault but Deacon's. Any time he touched her, she was within an inch of tears, for one reason or another.

She pulled her hand away, "Don't do this, Deacon."

He grabbed her hand again, and brought the inside of her wrist to his lips, placed a gentle kiss there. "You cry when your friends touch your hand, Ray?" He asked, his lips still against her flesh.

"Stop." She said, her voice quiet.

He kissed her wrist again.

"Stop." She said, louder this time, and she pulled her hand away, remembering why she came her. Remembering the things he'd said earlier, when he'd been so ready to fight. "We can't do this; you can't do this. It's too much drama, Deacon, things between us are too volatile." Her voice was more frantic than she meant it to be, "This is how you react to any situation between us—you take the easy way out. You make the easy choice." She gestured to the table, the shot glass still on its side, "You drink."

Deacon's gaze was fixed on her, and a strange look came over his face, "You want to talk about easy, Rayna? About easy choices? Let's talk." His eyes were full of challenge, rage nestled under his words. "Let's talk about Teddy Conrad."

Rayna felt herself flush, "That's none of your business anymore, Deacon."

He shrugged, "Oh, but I'm your friend. So, I guess maybe it is." He raised his voice, "So, what's he like? What's he like in your bed?"

Rayna felt anger overtake her then, "That's none of your fucking business." She said again, her eyes on fire.

Deacon had found the button he was looking for, "I bet he's boring as hell. Missionary every night, am I right?"

Rayna's gaze darkened, and she stood up from the booth, "You know what, Deacon? Fuck you. I'm not doing this tonight."

She made her way through the bar, acutely aware of Deacon's presence behind her. When she made it outside, she turned left down an empty alley, and then she spun on him. Surprising him, he found his back against the wall, "What do you want to hear, Deacon? Do you want the details of my sex life?"

He flinched, but recovered quickly, "I want you to stop pretending you have a sex life with that guy." He leaned in closer to her, his voice dark, "I want you to stop pretending it's not my hands you want on your body, that it's not me you think about."

Rayna opened her mouth to speak, ready to deny it, but she found no words on her tongue.

"That's what I thought." He leaned his head further down, until his lips were just inches from hers, and waited.

Suddenly, she closed the distance, and her lips crashed down on his, her tongue opening his mouth. They kissed, hard, before he spun her around so it was now her back that was against the wall. She whimpered at the contact, her stomach constricting as he kissed her roughly, his hands tangling in her hair as he pulled her close to him. They broke apart, breathing heavily into each other.

His hand skated under the hem of her dress, his fingers applying light pressure to her inner thigh, as they caressed the soft skin there.

He bit her ear and then whispered into it, "Is this what you want?" His breath was hot in her ear, and she nearly whimpered at the sensation that shot through her body at his words. He brought his mouth back to hers, but didn't kiss her.

"Yes." She said, but it came out strangled. "Touch me." She kissed him, and the moment the words left her lips, he let his hand crawl farther up her dress—his fingers found her center, and he touched her there, the damp fabric the only barrier between his fingers and her. He stroked her, and she let out a gasp against his mouth.

"You're so wet." He growled, but his voice was still somehow tender, "This is what I want, Rayna. I want you to stop pretending this isn't what you want, any way you can get it." He reached underneath the fabric, and his fingers brushed against her, her wetness evident—he moaned as he slid his fingers against her.

"Yes." She hissed.

"What do you want, baby?" He bit her lip.

Every nerve in her body was on fire, and she fixed him with her heady gaze. Somewhere in the back of her mind, her rational mind was speaking to her, but his fingers against her, his body pressed into her, drowned every rational thought out of her mind. "You." She said, and she pressed herself into his hand. "Right now."

"More specific." He commanded, the tip of his finger playing with her opening.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, and lifted herself slightly, so he could get a better angle. She knew what he wanted her to say. He wanted her to give voice to her desire. She knew shouldn't say it. She knew she should be embarrassed to say it, but it seemed inevitable. And, anyway, she'd never been embarrassed with him.

"I want you," She said, her eyelids fluttering closed, "To fuck me." The words came out as a whisper, they came out as the sexiest thing he'd ever heard.

He eased a finger inside her, and her eyes flew open. He moved inside her, and her head lolled back. He kissed her neck, and then brought a second finger. "Yeah?" He asked, his lips still on her neck, his teeth scraping the skin there.

"Yeah." She breathed.

"Right here, right now?" He asked, his fingers moving quicker.

"God, yes." She said, grabbing his hair and pulling him up to meet her mouth.

They kissed, and then he pulled away, "Say it."

She shuddered, but a slow smile spread across her face, "I want you to fuck me. Right here, right now." Her eyes were hooded, "Hard."

He withdrew his fingers, and brought them to his mouth, never taking his eyes off her, and then he smirked, "You're the boss."

He turned her around so her face was up against the wall. The brick was cold against her cheek, and she turned to look at him—her brain was cloudy, and she realized she hadn't been this turned on in a long time. She struggled to remember a time she'd ever been this turned on. The thought was pushed to the side as Deacon hitched her dress up, his rough hands skating up and then down her sides.

His mouth was on her neck, and she pressed herself back into him, moaning when she felt how hard he was. With one swift movement, he brought her underwear down, and she stepped out of them.

In the back of her mind, she heard a zipper coming undone, and in the next moment he was pressing against her, his skin hot against her own.

Rayna cried out as he slid into her, and he brought his lips to her ear, "Shhhh." She vaguely remembered they were in public, but she couldn't bring herself to care, the feeling of him inside of her was too overwhelming, too everything she'd wanted.

He gave her a moment to adjust, and then he began moving inside of her, his strokes hard and fast. His hands came around to cup her breasts through her dress, and she arched her back into him.

"Yes," She heard herself saying, followed by things like 'harder,' and 'faster,' and unintelligible words that came on her breath. Then, "Fuck me." Deacon's movements grew frantic, and Rayna knew he was close. She was, too.

Deacon took his mouth from her neck and whispered in her ear, "Come for me, baby. Come for me right now," He accentuated his words with thrusts, and his breath in her ear sent her over the edge. She found herself shuddering, her head thrown back as he cupped her breast. "That's it, baby, that's it." He whispered in her ear, and then he followed her over the edge, moaning into her as his orgasm shot through his body.

Their breathing was labored as they came down, he slipped out of her and then turned her around to face him. He adjusted her dress, pulling it down until it covered her. He took her face in his hands and pressed a kiss lightly to her lips. He took her by the hand, led her out of the alley, and ushered her into a cab, sliding in behind her, closing the door.

The ride to her apartment is silent, there isn't anything to say; and anyway, she's not sure she can speak. She's not sure she would, even if she could. She hazily realizes that she left her underwear in the alley, and for a moment she imagines someone finding them; the imagined story, she knew, wouldn't even be close to the truth.

Deacon will hold her tonight, she knows, he will sleep next to her, and pull her body into his. They will kiss tenderly, they will soothe the scars as much as they can, and then the morning will come. The dawn will break, and with it so will her heart, again, more, though she'd have told you yesterday that wasn't possible. She'll hand him the phone, his thick fingers will press the buttons, and she'll avert her gaze, trying in vain not to think of where those same fingers were only hours earlier.

He'll talk to intake in clipped words, they'll tell him he can come by admin in an hour, and then he'll hang up, get dressed, and make coffee. She'll stay in bed, getting up only to say goodbye.

"I'll call." He'll whisper, and she'll think that maybe he will (he won't). And she'll think that maybe she will answer (she wouldn't have).

When he leaves, he'll kiss her on the cheek. As he drives away, she'll reach her hand up to her face, unsure if the tingling she feels is a remnant of his lips on her cheek just now, or a remnant of the brick wall flush against it last night. She'll have time to figure it out, but she never will.