Free Making Promises by Amy Lane Page A

clothes.
    He had to sit up straight after a moment of doing that, because his lower body woke up with a happy heart and an eager look to a new adventure that Shane was pretty sure wasn’t going to happen that day, and he looked fondly at his “date for the Faire.”
    To his surprise, Mikhail spoke first.
    “You will go out to eat with your sister after this, da?”
    “Yeah.”
    “You will take her and her asshole boyfriend, and then drop them back off?”
    “Yeah.”
    “I will be here—I’ll be staying in the tents behind the Faire. Some of us sleep here, if we don’t have a hotel room. You will come say hello?”
    “Yeah.” Shane blushed and looked at his hands. “I’d like that. But I’m not sleeping with you tonight.”
    He heard the disgusted sniff and slanted his eyes sideways to catch the pout on that sulky little mouth. “No one asked you to,” Mikhail said loftily. “But I will be here if you want to say hello.”
    “I’ll look for you to say hello,” Shane told him. Carefully, as natural as the rising sun, he moved his hand to Mikhail’s knee and turned it palm up.
    Mikhail put his hand in it, palm down, and then the music started and they both turned their attention to the stage.

    Now they call you Prince Charming…
    “That Smell”—Lynyrd Skynyrd

    SHANE was grateful Kimmy only made him see her second show the one time. He could never really get into clogging. About halfway through the show, he heard Mikhail’s soft laughter next to him, and he turned stern eyes to his companion for the day.
    “I’m sorry,” Mikhail whispered, “but if you could only see your face! I would never doubt where I was with you, Shane-the-stupid-cop, because if you ever wore that expression, I would know I had crossed the line.”
    “Like now?” Shane muttered dryly, and Mikhail burst into another paroxysm of laughter—this one muffled against Shane’s bicep.
    Shane ignored him and dutifully watched as his sister finished up her number—but not before she cast Mikhail a glare that could have seared meat, right from the stage. Of course that set him off again.
    Finally, finally, the program ended, and Mikhail stood, his fingers still linked with Shane’s, and with surprising strength he hauled Shane to his feet.
    “Remind me not to piss you off,” Shane told him, impressed, and together they waited patiently until the tipping queue had cleared out (Ren Faire Mom gave the smallest child a dollar to put in the basket) and then joined Kimmy and the extremely pretty man next to her.

    “Shaney!” Kim cried, and Shane wondered how long it would take for that name to start grating on his ears like it had when they were kids.
    “Here…. Come here. I want you to meet Kurt. He’s the leader of our troupe, right? But he strained his shoulder, which is why Mikhail got to come sub—anyway, we’re living together in a little apartment in Monterey. That’s where your Christmas cards have been going, right? So, uhm….” She paused in the awkward silence. “Shane, this is Kurt. Kurt, this is Shane.”
    “The one with all the money, right, Kimmy?” He was dressed in a troubadour’s outfit, complete with cape. He had a narrow face with high cheekbones, dark blond hair in a stringy ponytail, and a light blond growth of stubble on his cheeks and chin, and Shane disliked him on sight.
    To her credit, Kimmy blushed. “I don’t know how much,” she mumbled, “and I don’t care.”
    “Oh, c’mon, Kim—I was only kidding!”
    Kimmy’s look, sideways and quick, could only be described as
    “hunted.” Shane met Mikhail’s eyes, and the dancer arched his eyebrows.
    No. I was not exaggerating.
    Mikhail chuffed out a breath, and Kurt held out the hand that wasn’t wrapped tight around Kimmy’s shoulders. “Hey, little man, I hear you did a top-notch job filling in my shoes. Well done!” Mikhail gave the hand a perfunctory shake and said, “I counted the tips Kimmy had you put in the safe. I will