The Vow (Manhattan Nights Book 1)

by Natalie Wrye

  Marilyn scoffs. “Yeah, how to lose it mostly.”

  Heath turns on her. “Hey, that’s the game of gambling, Mare. You win some; you lose some. And I never lose what I can’t afford. At least I still have my dignity. Where’s yours?”

  Here we go. I cut the tension between the tiresome two before it can cut me, stepping in between. It wasn’t enough that the two friends I had in the city were two titans in their own industries; they were also family. The first son and fourth daughter of the large and in-charge Sparrow family were like oil and more oil… to a gasoline fire that had started the moment that Marilyn, at seventeen, had dropped the Sparrow last name in favor of Daniels, choosing to make her own path on the New York acting scene.

  Those fires were stoked when Heath, having enough of Harvard, left the family business of law in favor of stocks, investments (like tattoo shops), and a bit of side gambling that was becoming more than “just a bit” every single day—a habit I’d gotten to watch like a hawk.

  The brother and sister were so alike it was scary, and in some ways, it made me miss my own sister, the only sibling I’d ever known. But unlike Kayla, I would never become used to being under my father’s thumb again, no matter much money that thumb had touched.

  I take a final sip of the bourbon left in my own glass, and from the corner of my eye, I find Jean Claude van-“Dye Job” cozying up to Elsie, his bulky body trying to keep up with her sensuous swaying, her sexy swinging hips that call to me like a damned dog whistle, making every one of my senses more heightened.

  On the dance floor in a slinky black halter top and shimmery shorts, she shakes every single curve on her slender, fit body to the rhythm of a rocking pop beat, a smile on her pretty face. I hate that I’m not the one putting it there, and I set my bourbon glass on the nearby bar, ignoring Heath and Marilyn both completely as I hustle through the crowd before landing right in front of the clumsily stumbling blockhead and Elsie.

  I stare without blinking, unable to look away. I come in closer.

  “Mind if I cut in?”

  Chapter 18

  ELSIE

  “No, you cannot.” They’re the first words that find my lips before anything else.

  Brett emerges from the crowd, slicing through it like a hot knife through butter and before he even makes it to my side, I swear I can feel him coming, my body responding to his like an iron filling to a magnet. It’s the push, the pull of his presence. It tethers me to him, like a dog to a leash, tying me to the most ruthless, most gorgeous, most frustrating man in New York City.

  And I refuse to let him know it, turning my anger on him as soon as he approaches, his muscled body filling out his plain black T-shirt and leather jacket better than anyone should be allowed. With his haunting eyes on me—one bright ocean blue, the other green—I can’t tell him how much it hurts to see him just standing there, knowing he can never be mine.

  My voice is a huff when I finally speak. “Don’t you have somewhere else you ought to be?”

  He looks at me as if it pains him to do anything else. “No, I don’t.” He repeats the question again. “Can I cut in?”

  Hulk turns towards him. “The lady already said ‘no,’ bro.”

  He gazes at the man who’s almost his height and somehow wider. “Excuse me, ‘bro.’ But you don’t exactly know the lady now, do you?” He focuses back on me, his blue-green eyes burning. “I need to talk to you.”

  “Talk? Or dance?” I ask, the tequila still streaming through my system. I twist to the music, floating on an alcohol-infused cloud. Even my hate feels hazy in my drunken state, and I gaze at Brett, wanting to hate him, to touch him, to rage, to remember all of those excruciatingly great moments between us. He looks at me under the dim amber-red lights of the pub, his stare licking at my skin. He removes his leather jacket, tossing it on a nearby chair.

  “Dance.” He steps towards me. “Isn’t that all we’ve ever done?”

  I look at Derek, who stands gaping, waiting for my response and I nod. His dark blond brows lowering, he hesitantly steps away, his eyes darting to Brett and back to me before he finally sinks back into the dancing background.

  Brett steps into his place and with a synthesized pop rhythm entering the air, I undulate to the music, hoping it will drown out the impending darkness that threatens to swallow me. Until Brett grabs me.

  His fingers grip at my waist, pulling me close and we wind together to the silky sensual beat, his forehead nearly pressing into mine as we face each other, our stares on the floor, watching each other move. He follows my every step, twisting in turn as my body moves to the tantalizing tempo. And abruptly I know that the tequila is not enough. Enough to numb me or my body from responding to Brett and his casual insistence. I can see on his furrowed face that he wants to say something, but I won’t let him. Turning away every time he tries. Spinning out of his arms just as he opens his mouth… when suddenly he twirls me back into his hold, his arms wrapping around my middle as he presses his chest into my back, gripping tight. His voice, even amidst the noise, is a whisper in my ear.

  “Aren’t you tired of dancing around us, Elsie?” His insistent hips move slowly to the music, and through the scent of his smoky, cedar wood cologne, I lick my lips, trying desperately to stop the tingling along the surface of my skin, the roar that occurs inside my body every time Brett’s low rumbling voice makes an appearance. I squeeze my eyes shut.

  “Brett,” I bite down on my lip, feeling it tremble. “There is no us,” I finish. “Unless your girlfriend knows something I don’t.”

  His voice is a rasp when it returns. “She is not my girlfriend, Elsie. Come on… I couldn’t. I—” He inhales, seemingly sucking in air. “I wouldn’t do that to you. I’m not that type of…”

  “Bastard?” I complete his comment. “Looks like you’ve hit all the criteria for ‘cruel’ without even trying. Congratulations, Brett. You’ve proven yourself the dick you always said you were.”

  I listen to him sigh. “I’m not denying that,” the tall beautiful man behind me breathes into my neck. “Not even if I wanted to. What I’m denying… is that I want anybody but you, Elsie.” His tone turns tortured, his voice strangling with each word. His hold on me tightens, and I sink into it, every fiber of my rebellious body wanting Brett even closer, for him to sink himself so far into me that we become one, to connect myself to the only person who has ever made me feel alive. His teeth nearly nip my neck, and I press my ass farther into the front of his jeans, feeling his hardening length as we rock back and forth to the smoldering background rhythm. I’m almost undone when he presses back. He growls. “Because I don’t, Elsie. I’ve never wanted someone as much as you. I’ve never needed someone this fucking much, and I’m sorry if it’s fucking cruel to say, considering everything. But I can’t stop craving you… and I’m tired of even giving it a goddamned try.”

  His lips connect. They land on the curve between my shoulder and neck, and just as I turn to face him, my eyes discover a chair flying over the crowd, ready to make impact with the back of Brett’s head. I scream out loud, the scorch from the alcohol still scratching my throat.

  “Brett, watch out!”

  The dark-haired Adonis ducks, taking me with him. The chair rolls into the throngs of dancers just feet away, and I look up to find blond Hulk heading full steam in our direction, his shoulders squared and charging our way. I prepare for impact, squeezing Brett tight. But he blows past us. The crowd grows restless and angry and as a couple more chairs take flight over our heads, Heath comes barreling into us from the mass of people, with recognizable TV star Marilyn Daniels at his side, both their eyes wide and filled with fright, Heath’s undoubtedly marked with much more fury. He grabs at Brett.

  “These fuckers are losing it,” he yells. “I don’t know what happened, but it’s not good. We’ve got to get the girls out of here.”

  “Say no more,” Brett replies, reaching out to hold my hand in his. “We’re out of here.”

 
“Wait!” I blurt suddenly, my voice stammering amidst the maddening noise. “I’ve gotta grab Violet. She’s here somewhere. I can’t just leave her.”

  “The redhead?” Heath asks, ducking as a beer bottle soars overhead. “I saw her near the bar. I also saw Sophie,” he says, mentioning my charming new roommate. “She’s higher than a kite. She was already high when she walked in, but now she’s positively flying. We should probably keep her from falling off the fucking cliff.” He looks at Brett, his almond-colored eyes insistent. He pushes up the sleeves of his flannel shirt, and my stomach sinks.

  The boys might have to fight. Fight through an increasingly dangerous crowd. All to get to Sophie. My fingers loosen to let Brett go, but he tightens his hold. His eyes narrow at me. “What are you doing?”

  “You should go to her,” I say, my heart hammering loudly in my ears, even amidst the angry push and pull of the growing mob. “She needs you.”

  “You need me more,” Brett declares, his body tense as he stares down at me, his hard eyes shimmering gems. “We’ll find Sophie. Make sure she’s alright. We’re getting you and Marilyn out of here. I’ll make sure that Violet is alrig…” But the words get cut off, interrupted by the blinding light.

  A camera crew rushes towards us, microphones pointed out. I almost think they’re here for Marilyn when a cameraman rushes forward, a bulky black shutter pointing over his lanky shoulder. He pushes it into Brett’s confused face.

  “Sorry it took us so long, Mr. Jackson. We rushed over as soon as we heard you were here. We’re your ‘Tattoo Gods’ crew and we’ll be capturing every moment of your life from now for the next few months.” He laughs, trying to lighten the serious mood as people push and bump into the crew. “Welcome to your new shadow.”

  My mouth drops. My hand does too and I wrench it from Brett’s almost-bruising grasp, breathing hard as Sophie slinks around the corner and crew, squeezing her fingers where mine just were. She holds onto Brett like a literal life-raft, pushing him farther into the bright lights. She smiles wide and prettily.

  “Yes,” she declares to the cameras and crew. “Everywhere we go is just a madhouse. But when you look like my boyfriend, Brett, what place isn’t going crazy trying to get close to the hottest tattoo artist in the country?”

  I have no choice but to turn and leave, my head suddenly pounding, but not as hard as my feet, which carry me all the way outside. I never look back.

  Chapter 19

  BRETT

  I’m a prisoner of a fucking show.

  My dignity is dead, sacrificed at the altar of fame. And as I spend the second day with my tattoo shop doors shut, I sit in silence, spinning slowly on a raggedy red stool as I sketch into a new notepad the only thing I can think of.

  Elsie’s face is all over my mind… and my pages.

  My pencil won’t stop scribbling the curve of her brown eyes, the shape of her cupid-bow puckered lips. The tip of my charcoal stick twists around each blonde curl of her hair, and as it starts to take the shape of her curvaceous body, Heath bursts through the back door, a suit and tie sitting on his stick-rod straight shoulders. Some old blue blood habits die hard.

  I hardly look at him as he stops close, hovering over me, his breath emitting in a huff. His face inclines closer.

  “Is this what you’re going to do all day?” he asks. “Fucking doodle?” He points to the curtain-closed window. “There’s a line forming around the goddamned block, and the star of my shop is sulking in a corner, Jack Dawson’ing his fucking Rose to death. This ain’t the fucking Titanic, bro. Or maybe it is… We’re going to sink.”

  “Two days won’t close the shop, Heath. You should know that: You’re good with money,” I comment, mimicking his usual mantra. I don’t glance up at him. “And hey, if you’re so hard-up, go make some more of it. Go call some more camera crews. Like you did at the Irish pub.”

  “What?” Heath exhales hard, backing up. “I never called any fucking camera crews to go anywhere.”

  I slam down my pencil on the pad. “Oh, bullshit, Heath. You knew about ‘Tattoo Gods.’ Even though you tried to pretend you didn’t at the bar, giving Marilyn a hard fucking time. Sophie admitted that she told you earlier at the bar before Marilyn even showed up. Nice acting, by the way.”

  I stand, stalking towards the front of the shop. I enter the code for the cash register. Heath follows.

  “Hey,” he nearly shouts at my back, rounding the bend. “That had more to do with my sister than you. She went behind my back, setting this show up with you and this snake oil producer without even talking to me about it.”

  I exhale, looking up at Heath. “Jesus Christ, Marilyn was just trying to do me a favor. That’s what people who care try to do. She’s my fucking friend, Heath.”

  “Yeah, but she’s my fucking sister, Brett!” He blows out a harsh breath sitting on the tattered leather sofa in the lobby, his head sinking into his hands. He stares silently at the floor, letting the quiet stretch, and I can think of nothing to say.

  “Do you know what it’s like to be the disappointment? That of all fucking five kids in the Sparrow family that I’m seen as the biggest fuck-up?” He glances upwards. “Even Marilyn. So she dropped the family name and ventured out on her own at seventeen? So why? She made her own millions. Not just inherited them. Every person in my family thinks I’m the biggest joke because I couldn’t finish what I fucking started. Because I couldn’t graduate from Harvard Law and take the bar. To make myself into the man I was supposed to be. To them, I’m the fucking failure. Nothing more.”

  I slam the cash register shut, stepping from behind the polished counter. I gaze down at Heath, who looks wilted. My eyes narrow at his hanging head. I want to slap the bastard.

  “Yes, I know what it’s like to feel like the failure. My father made me feel like it everyday. Just because I didn’t want to continue with football, I’m a fuck-up. Just because I wanted to pursue more art classes, I’m a ‘fag.’ Just because I gave a shit about pursuing something I loved, I’m no longer his son. Everyone in the neighborhood thought our family was so perfect. Even Elsie. Never thought to tell them that it wasn’t my decision to leave town at eighteen… I was kicked out.” The middle of my chest starts to tighten. “My sister and mother think I’ve abandoned them when really I couldn’t bear to tear down their dream about my famous banking father—a narrow-minded bastard with control issues and a quiet penchant for beating his son.”

  Heath’s mouth falls open, his eyes rounding into saucers. He stares at my heavily heaving face, and as the back of my eyes start to burn, I turn away, twisting back to my pencil and pad, placing the charcoal back on the sheets. But nothing comes out. I drop my head towards the floor, saying no more, listening to my quivering breathing slow. I close my eyes as I sit on a lone stool.

  “Shit,” I hear from the other side of the room. “I—I’m sorry, man. I had no idea your dad was beating you. I had no idea… about any of it. I’m sorry that I didn’t think any of this through. I’m really fucking selfish.”

  I blow out a breath, emptying my lungs. I open my eyes. “So am I. My only redeeming quality is that I kept my mother and sister out of it. Everyone always thought I was getting into fights when really I was getting the shit knocked out of me.” I scoff on a quiet laugh. “Never occurred to me to hit back.”

  Heath snorts lightly. “Good thing you didn’t. I remember you at eighteen. You would have knocked your old man’s head off his shoulders.”

  “A tempting thought.” I grin sadly. “It was enough for me to take his rage instead of letting it spill to my little sister.” I lift my head, glancing at Heath. “I’d do anything for her.”

  “Sounds like you have,” Heath comments, one dark brow arching up. “Maybe even too much…”

  My eyes slant towards him. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that Elsie’s your little sister’s best friend, isn’t she?”

  “Yeah. And?”

  “And you’ve b
een staying away—no, pushing away—any sort of relationship with her because of Kayla, yeah?”

  “I haven’t been pushing away…”

  “Okay,” Heath interrupts, standing to his Givenchy-covered feet. He spreads his hands in the air, shrugging his suited shoulders. “Because I’m your friend… I will allow one lie. So, you’d better make it a good one?” He exhales, his hands going to his hips, as he stares. “Wanna tell me why you chose to do this ‘Tattoo Gods’ show?”

  I blink, my shoulders tensing as I sit. “I told you already. Two fucking million could…”

  “Got it. Your lying allowance is up. Want to tell me why you agreed to pretend to date Sophie Santellini for the additional press?” An imaginary fist twists in my heart, and Heath raises both eyebrows. “Sophie already told me… She’s a cokehead, not stupid. And clearly she doesn’t care. She just wants you… and the spotlight. She’s willing to take whatever you give her.” He walks closer, his hands swaying as he drops them to his side. “But you’re not. You’ve never been a person to roll over to anyone else’s demands.” He gazes down at me. “So why give in to Reed Hutton’s?”

  I search for the answers on the wall, my eyes blinking fast trying to clear. My thoughts go entirely blank… until Heath pipes up.

  “I’ll tell you why,” the persistent bastard cuts in again. “Because it gave you something else to focus on. A reason why you didn’t have to join yourself to the only woman I’ve ever seen put that look on your serious, stone-cut, pretty boy face.”

  I pull back. “What fucking look?”

  “That ‘starry-eyed-the-sun-sets-and-rises-on-Elsie-and-her-entire-ass’ look.” He nods, pursing his lips. “That look you gave her in the apartment. At the bar. That look…” He sighs. “That says ‘This is the woman I want to fucking marry.’” He shrugs. “Shit. I know that look. I’ve given it once. To my third-grade teacher, Mrs. Anderson.” He lifts one shoulder, letting it drop. “She didn’t return it though.”