"Not everyone thinks so."
"Does anyone who's not in this bed matter?"
Deacon didn't answer.
His silence didn't bother her. Because she knew his initial knee-jerk reaction was from defending the art on his body. And it pained her to admit, but at one time she'd been judgmental about men and women who sported tats. She hadn't understood the beauty in personal expression until she'd gone to college. Her roommate had decided to mark the pivotal points in her life with ink as a daily reminder of life's joys and sorrows.
Molly hadn't gotten quite brave enough to do that. "Can you tell me what any of them mean?"
"The angel's wings . . . That artist I told you about who did the art in my living room drew them for me. I had the outline of the tat started on the one-year anniversary of Dante's death. Every year I added more until it was finished. Since then I've had sections of it re-inked every year, so I . . ."
"So you don't forget the pain and suffering you went through on that day and what you lost."
"Jesus. How did you know?"
"I didn't. Not for sure."
"You scare me," he said softly.
"I know. But you're not alone in your fear, Deacon. I feel it too." She scooted down and pressed the cradle of her hips to the base of his buttocks. Molly rested her cheek between his shoulder blades and stretched her arms out on top of his.
Deacon exhaled heavily. "I like that, babe. Don't move."
That simple body-to-body contact gave them both something they needed. Comfort. Trust. A different way their bodies could feel connected as one.
Molly dozed off when she heard Deacon's soft snores.
Fingers threading through hers roused her.
"Sorry. I didn't mean to fall asleep on you."
"Now I understand why you like having my weight on you."
"I'll bet your legs and ass are tingling."
"Nope." He reached back and smacked her ass. "Get cracking on that back rub, woman."
She straddled his butt and started pressing the heels of her hands to the base of Deacon's neck. Within a minute or so of her digging her thumbs into his flesh, he released the tension and melted into the mattress.
After a bit she said, "Not to be crass, and I'm not asking for specifics, but I was surprised to learn that your family is rich. Does your family have a long history in Texas too?"
"No. The Westermans are new oil, which is completely different from old Texas oil."
"Um, isn't all oil . . . old?"
He laughed. "Our family story is along the lines of the Clampetts of The Beverly Hillbillies and not the Ewings of Southfork. When I returned to Texas after bein' gone for almost five years, my dad told me I had a trust fund. But he wasn't sure if changing my name affected my claim on it. I had to meet with Granddad. Jesus, he was a scary man."
"Was he upset you changed your name?"
"Not after I told him why I'd done it. It helped, I think, that I took Uncle Jesse's surname. Uncle Jesse was my grandmother's brother, and Granddad respected the hell out of him."
Molly dug her thumbs alongside his spine, above his buttocks. "What happened?"
"He freed up the money, but the stipulation was that I got put on the JFW board. Then he informed me that Dante's trust had become mine as well. After living hand-to-mouth for years? I almost passed out when they told me the ridiculously high amount in the account. And I don't talk about it because what I'm worth ain't nobody's business."
"Your financial worth isn't your true worth to me, Deacon."
"I know that, babe." He slowly raised his head and looked at her. "And I fucking love you for saying that."
"I wouldn't have said it if I didn't mean it." She shifted to the side so she could look into his face. "But I need some idea if you're talking about a trust that allows you to buy first-class airplane tickets without checking the price? Or if you just buy the damn airplane."
"JFW has several planes. We're not talking an Okada level of money-either for the business or the family. But my eight-figure trust fund ensures I don't ever have to work as a dishwasher again. I'm lucky enough to be able to follow my dream to become a MMA champion and train full-time."
Her jaw dropped at the nonchalant way he tossed off eight-figure trust fund.
"Tag is my investment guy. Granddad also set up stipulations of how much money I have to take out every year."
"You don't mean a limit of how much money you can take out?"
He shook his head. "I have to take out a certain amount. Not that I'm complaining. With the exception of a couple of cars, I never developed expensive tastes."