Making Promises Read Free Page B

flushed. “Chamomile-lavender, with a little bit of vanilla,” he said quietly, and Jeff raised his eyebrows on the inhale. “Those are bad for you,” he said, trying to just go past that other thing.
    “Which is why I only get one a day,” Jeff said primly, blowing smoke. “The military might have paid for Andrew’s new, spiffy race-specific prosthetic eventually.”
    Shane tried for innocence. “Why would you think they didn’t?” Don’t blush don’t blush don’t blush don’t blush.
    “For one thing, Benny only spent a day on the phone trying to clear up the insurance—we all know that’s a children’s fairy tale in itself, don’t we?”
    “What makes you think it was anything else?” Shane kept his face as neutral as possible.

    Jeff looked sadly at the end of his cigarette and stubbed it out on the bottom of his shoe. “Mmmm… I don’t know. Maybe the office buzz about the ‘big hulking cop’ who came in and paid for Andrew’s new, spiffy black-skinned leg and asked billing to keep it hush-hush? That’s always a big hint something else happened, you think? I work in the VA hospital, Shane—did you think it was going to be a secret?” Shane grew extremely uncomfortable, and, yes, the dreaded blush swamped his fair skin. “Please don’t tell them,” he begged at last. “People have their pride, you know?”
    “I’m not going to ask you why you’re doing it,” Jeff said after a moment, “because we both know it would take months the other way, and I’d probably do it too—but I don’t have the money.” Shane looked down, and the silence stretched long enough for Jeff to trot down the stairs and throw the butt-end away in one of the trash cans at the end of the house. He came back, squirting alcohol on his hand from a bottle he kept in his pocket.
    “You ready to tell me yet?” he asked, rubbing his hands crisply together, and Shane shrugged. “Look, big guy, I’ll keep your secret, but only if I know you’re not out on the streets turning tricks for the green, okay?”
    Shane actually managed a chuckle on that. “Funny.” Jeff shrugged. “Yeah, I’ve got a mouth.”
    “Not your mouth—the idea that anybody would want me. They’d probably be afraid of weirdness, like some sort of STD.” Jeff pulled in a breath and peered at him in the dark. “This family loves you, Shane. In fact, I think they worry about you. If you’re weird it’s because you’re too much in your own head, and you only have to look at Deacon to see how that can hurt a guy. Now are you going to tell me where you’re getting the cash, or am I going to have to blab about your Secret Santa routine?”
    Ouch. Shane glared at Jeff. “You don’t even like me.” It was true—
    Jeff had been the master of the catty epithet since he’d arrived. “Big guy” was an improvement over “Yeti,” “Sasquatch,” and (after he’d outed himself at the dinner table) “Shane the hairy Hoover.”
    “That’s not true,” Jeff protested without even flinching. “I like you fine. I was jealous of you, but I think you’re an okay sort.” Making Promises

    “Jealous.” Blink. “Of me?”
    Jeff shrugged. “You walk in to answer a call, and they invite you to dinner? Hell—I had to work Crick’s arm like Christ himself with the healing touch to get that invite!”
    “Jon invited me,” Shane mumbled. “He was kind of a dick to me when he got here. He felt bad.”
    “Really?” Jeff perked right up. “So it was a pity thing? Excellent. No hard feelings, right big guy?”
    Why would there be? Jeff was the one who had offered the olive branch. Shane shrugged. “Nope.”
    “Good, then tell me where you got the money, I can tell Deacon to stop worrying, and it can be our little secret.” Shane scowled, feeling like shit. “Deacon put you up to this?” Jeff waved his hand. “No—he was going to do it himself. The thought of the two of you out here not talking was enough to give even the baby a case