Promise Me

by Robin Bielman, Samanthe Beck

  “I’m going to have to go with more wasted than you thought. You should probably lie down. Lucky for you, I just happen to have a vacancy on the living room couch.”

  “Thanks. Sorry for…” He makes an all-encompassing gesture with his hand.

  I give him an It happens shrug and walk out of the kitchen. He follows me to the family room even though I’m pretty sure he could’ve led the way. He’s got a familiarity with the house I’m guessing stems from my aunt having him over for breakfast or dinner or something. She and my uncle don’t have any kids, and she’s always taking in strays.

  Not that Vaughn is lost. But there’s something about him I can’t quite put my finger on. I grab a blanket out of the antique wooden chest behind the love seat while Vaughn sits on the couch and puts his feet up on the coffee table. For the second time, I notice he’s barefoot. It shouldn’t bother me, but it does. Drunk and shoeless seems so…so desperate to escape his own party. His own life, maybe?

  All of a sudden, my own tangled mess of regret and guilt pulses louder than the beat of my heart. I hate when my past takes over my present, so I bite down hard on my bottom lip to remind myself where I am and that I want this summer to be about new beginnings. It’s time I move on from my mistakes.

  Vaughn’s green eyes are intense and right on mine when my head clears. I quickly walk over to the love seat and grab the throw tossed over it.

  “Sit with me a minute?” he asks, moving his feet to the floor and sitting taller as I approach.

  I hand him the plush chenille throw while deciding how to answer. He takes it, grazing my arm with his fingertips in the process. The slight, probably inadvertent contact makes me crave more. Nope. There’s no way I can sit with him. If I do, I don’t know what will happen, and I’ve lived the past four years knowing exactly what will happen. Since the accident, staying in control has been my lifeline.

  “I’m beyond tired.” Total truth right there. “I’ll see you in the morning, okay? And if someone is still spoiling for a fight then, you’ve still got me on your side.” I turn away, ready to collapse into bed.

  “Promise?” he says softly.

  I twist around to hit the light switch and say, “Promise.”

  “G’night,” he mumbles.

  “Goodnight.” I can just make out the outline of his body in the darkened room before I rush upstairs and dive under my covers. The sheets are cool, comfortable. Safe.

  For now.

  Chapter Two

  Vaughn

  My mouth tastes like Satan puked in it, and my skull feels a couple sizes too small for my brain, but I can account for both those situations. Cuervo Gold and bad judgment share the blame. What I can’t account for is that I have no freaking clue where I am.

  I’m pretty sure I’m on a sofa, but it’s definitely not mine. Mine’s leather and smells like spilled drinks and haphazard sex. I’ve woken up with my cheek sweat-glued to the Italian hide often enough to recognize its sticky embrace without opening my eyes. This cushion I’m crashed across feels as if it’s stuffed with the feathers from cherubs’ wings, and it smells like a field of flowers, after a rain shower…in heaven. Waking ensconced in all this disorienting plushness has an unanticipated effect on me. Suddenly I’m hard as a rock. Ridiculously, almost painfully hard, and I see pictures—or maybe flashbacks—in my mind. Pale blond hair. Big blue eyes. A white tank top doing the legal minimum to conceal full, soft cleavage and a bitable ass stretching the limits of a pair of little red shorts.

  Angel? Trixie?

  Neither sounds quite right, but I could do some seriously perverted things on this sofa while fantasizing about her.

  Instead of molesting the furniture, I pry one eyelid open and gut out the pain that lances my brain as the light assaults my sluggish pupil. After a few blinks of protest and a halfhearted groan, I submit my other eye to the same violation. All I can see is some nubby beige low-weave rug with a geometric bamboo print, but it’s distinctive enough to tell me I’m in my neighbors’ living room.

  Shit. Sally and Jack are cool neighbors, but they’re not exactly part of my crowd. They’re like my parents’ age. I strongly doubt they invited me over at midnight to slam tequila shots until I passed out, plus they’re out of town, which leaves me at a loss as to what the hell I’m doing here. I push myself upright and rack my mind for details from last night. Nothing swims into focus except the blonde and…a conversation about Speed Racer? But I can’t argue with facts. I’m definitely in my neighbors’ sun-drenched living room after spending a drunken night on their highly fuckable couch.

  While I sit here trying to get my bearings and convince my cock to stop doing its best porn star impression, someone slams through the front door. The next thing I know, a girl wearing a black tank top and microscopic cut-offs sweeps into the living room, lugging a guitar case and an oversized rolling duffel bag that looks like it’s been around the world about sixty million times. She stops short when she sees me and fumbles the handle of the bag.

  The duffel hits the rug with a thump, but the guitar receives more care as she places the case on the floor next to the bag. Snowflake bounds into the room in Full Metal Jacket mode, skids to a halt in front of the new arrival, and defends her turf with a rapid-fire series of yips. It’s nothing I haven’t heard before—she’s seven pounds of explosive canine ferocity and she’s not afraid to pull the pin on it—but this morning her display of dominance threatens to make my ears bleed. Then she lets loose with a low, rumbly sound I don’t recognize, almost like she’s trying out another language. It takes me a moment to realize she’s growling.

  “Hey, girl.” I lean over, put my hand at Pom level, and give her a c’mere whistle. She hops between us, unsure she can abandon her captive, and barks at me as if to say, “Intruder, stupid human! I have cornered an intruder!”

  “Who’s a good girl, Snowflake?” I wiggle my fingers at her, which is our code for someone’s about to get a heap of personal attention from her big, furless slave next door. She gives the blonde one last growl and bounds over to me. I lift her up and nuzzle her furry face. “There’s my girl. Yes, you are. Such a good guard dog.”

  She squirms in my arms and licks my face, unselfconscious of her dog breath, and for half a second I’m not sure if I’m going to pass out, throw up, or die on the spot. I settle her on the sofa so I’m out of range of what has to be the most lethal weapon on earth and inhale blissfully odor-free air through my nose. She promptly claims the pillow and sits as if it’s her throne. Satisfied I’ve taken the Pomeranian off high alert, I turn to the guitar player.

  She cracks a wad of pink bubble gum before a slow smile curves her lips. “Aunt Sally didn’t mention they’d gotten a second pet. But that’s okay.” She pauses and blows another bubble as her eyes drop to take in the show going on behind the fly of my jeans. “If you’re friendlier than that walking hairball, I might even let you sleep in my bed.”

  I drag the nearby blanket over my lap and meet her brazen curiosity with some of my own. She’s not the angel from last night. This girl is tall—legs for days on full display in the little shorts—long, straight, sun-streaked hair, but strangely familiar blue eyes. And she’s flirting as naturally as other people breathe. Even loaded, I don’t think my memory would be that far off. Besides, going by the luggage and her surprise at finding me here, it’s safe to assume she’s just arrived.

  Her presence tugs a thread of a conversation I had with Sally last week. Her nieces are coming to house-sit for the summer while she and Jack cruise to Australia? Antarctica? Who knows, maybe both.

  “Hey. I’m Vaughn. I live next door.” More little flashbacks flicker through my mind as I piece together an explanation for why I’m here. I remember walking out of the house last night with some half-assed idea of clearing my head, because I’d lost the mood to party, but then…things get jumbled. I recall the glow of taillights coming at me, and then someone tackled me and I landed on the concrete beneath a sexy blonde with soft
curves and quick reflexes. I’m pretty sure she offered up the sofa. “I…uh… My place got kind of hectic last night, so the other girl let me crash here.”

  Light-colored eyebrows lift at my halting explanation. Instead of introducing herself, Legs folds her arms in a gesture reminiscent of the blonde last night and frowns. “Other girl? What other girl?”

  Uh-oh. I’m afraid to say anything else, because more details from Sally are pouring into my consciousness. Her nieces are half sisters, raised separately, and they aren’t what you’d call close. And clearly she failed to mention the family reunion to at least one of them when she pitched the house-sitting gig. This girl’s looking at me expectantly, like there’s no way I’m getting out of here with a smile and a shrug. I stand and prepare to make a fast exit. “Oh, hey, I should take off—”

  “What other girl?” Mouth tight, she steps up, right into my space. I have to vault over the sofa if I want to make a hasty getaway. Snowflake musters up a halfhearted snarl from the comfort of her cushion, but the girl in front of me snarls right back. “You want a piece of me, you overgrown rat? Take a number.”

  In response, the dog who routinely intimidates UPS guys twenty times her size jumps down from the couch and flees the room as fast as her stubby legs can carry her. So much for man’s best friend.

  “Um.” I manage a sidestep and glance around, hoping something I spy will jar a name out of the haze of my hangover. “Blonde. Blue eyes about your shade, and…”

  “Fuuuuck,” we say at the same time.

  I swear because my gaze lands on the mantel clock across the room, which reads quarter till eight. My very punctual, very sadistic trainer will be knocking on my door in fifteen minutes, hell-bent on kicking my ass for the next two hours. If I’m even a minute late he’ll make me regret those sixty seconds for the rest of my natural life.

  The girl drops onto the sofa and presses the heel of her hand to the center of her forehead as if staving off a headache. “Oh God. Not perfect princess Kendall.”

  “Kendall! Yes”—I snap my fingers—“that’s her name.” And that’s as deep into this family reunion as I’m getting. If I were any kind of a human being I’d stick around and try to defuse the powder keg of a situation taking shape before my eyes. Kendall did me a solid last night and I should return the favor, but I don’t know that she’d appreciate my interference, and honestly, I’ll have my own powder keg of a situation to handle if I don’t get moving.

  “So, yeah, tell her bye for me, okay? I gotta bolt.” I fold the blanket into a semi-polite drape across the back of the sofa and then pat the front pocket of my jeans out of habit. No keys. I’ll have to look for them after I’m done working out. “See you later…”

  “Dixie,” she supplies.

  I flash her a quick smile before I head for the door and let myself out as quietly as possible. Feeling a little like a deserter, I jog toward my place and get another rude awakening. My Range Rover sits askance at the end of the driveway, like an abandoned getaway car. Heat having nothing to do with the jog crawls up my neck and into my face. Becca and one of her friends wanted to go to a club to meet up with a guy and complete a transaction, because I wouldn’t let her invite the guy here, but I was done—and pissed—so I said have fun and walked out the door before she could drag me into another argument. Apparently she took my departure as permission to borrow my ride. I really don’t know what was going through Bec’s mind, but I remember now, Kendall risked her neck to shove me out of the way of my own damn car and then confiscated my keys when I tried to get behind the wheel. I owe her epic thanks for what she did and an apology for putting her in a confiscate-my-keys situation in the first place.

  I run up the driveway, which is damn steep, and anger builds with each stride. I know better than this. I’m not stupid. Why I’m sabotaging myself when I’ve got a shot at attaining something I’ve been working toward for years, I really can’t say.

  Okay, that’s bullshit. I know one reason why. All I have to do is look at a calendar for the diagnosis. I wanted to focus on something other than the sorrow my whole family gets sucked into around the anniversary of my sister’s death. I’m not sure we’ll ever completely adjust to the loss, but I need to stop dealing with it in ways nobody would approve of—including her—because a chance to take over the hosting duties for a hit show like America Rocks doesn’t come around very often. Reckless behavior will get me aced out of that opportunity so fast I won’t need tequila to make my head spin. So yeah, I’m pissed at myself.

  Pissed enough to slam through the front door without considering who I might wake. People might be crashed on my couches. I glance around the living room, relieved to see I have no lingering guests. Chances are I wouldn’t recognize them anyway. Most of last night’s festivities are still one big blur. Becca likes to party. We have people over, and next thing I know the place looks like a hotel suite with an open bar. My best friends and roommates, Dylan and Matt, think Becca’s using me—which she is—but they don’t object to hosting her and a group of her hot friends every now and again, which I think means Becca hasn’t cornered the market on using people. Even if they did object, neither of them was home last night, so whatever went down was totally on me.

  Bec wanted to celebrate. She leaves today for a stint in NYC—some modeling jobs plus a meeting with a director interested in casting her for a film role—and she loves a proper send-off. I was happy enough to give her one. Happy for the distraction from my saddest memories. Happy to celebrate her success but also, to be brutally honest, happy to celebrate her leaving, which I know is a shitty thing to admit. She and I have been friends for a while, but it’s not the healthiest of relationships.

  In case I needed more proof, I have this morning as a perfect example of yet another fun-filled evening that ended with me feeling the need to hit the eject button.

  Not my best move, given I almost became a statistic in my own driveway. Were it not for fast action on my new neighbor’s part, I might be waking up in the hospital this morning. Or the morgue. I blink back to the moment she threw herself in harm’s way for me, a complete stranger, and a clearer vision of her takes shape in my mind. Wide set eyes, a stubborn little chin, and last but not least, Cupid’s bow lips curved into the patient smile of someone stuck dealing with a drunk-ass fool. She showed up out of nowhere last night, just like a guardian angel. I grab a bottle of Advil from the cabinet, shake two into my palm, add a third, and wash them down with eighteen ounces of Fiji from the fridge. Then I head back to the main room and start up the floating staircase along the travertine wall that separates the living area from the office and media room.

  I stride into my bedroom and hit the lights, because I can’t see shit with the blackout curtain pulled over the floor-to-ceiling windows that frame a kick-ass view of Sunset Boulevard, Beverly Hills, and, on a clear day, the ocean. I have no idea how far the view extends today, because, once the lights come on, all I can see is Becca’s ass giving me a sideways smirk. She looks like she spent a month sunbathing nude in the Caribbean. There’s no discernible difference in skin tone anywhere on her body. Truth is it’s a spray tan. She would never subject the moneymaker to ultraviolet rays and premature aging. I waste a split second realizing I miss the strangely vulnerable look of tan lines—light skin never touched by the sun or a chemical facsimile thereof. I bet Kendall has tan lines. When some lucky bastard sees her pretty little ass, he’s seeing something she keeps private.

  Not Becca. She lives her life at the other end of the privacy spectrum, and she couldn’t have staged a sexy, bed-wrecked scene better, except…her feet are filthy. Black stains her heels and balls of her toes, as if she ran a marathon through hell’s gutters last night. I’m equal parts concerned and disgusted by those dirty feet.

  I’m also angry with her for pulling that stunt last night. She almost ran two people down and walked away like it was a big joke. Now she’s naked in my bed as if the use of her body somehow makes everything all right. I
pull the door shut behind me, not especially loud, but her head jerks up. She rubs her eyes, yawns, and settles her cheek on her crossed arms, adjusting the angle until tiger eyes find me from behind a screen of hair. “Hey. Where’d you storm off to last night?”

  “Nowhere special.” Aside from arguing over drugs last night, I’d confided I’d done an audition for the new host of America Rocks, and instead of offering encouragement or asking me how it had gone, she’d said it was good experience to audition, even if the job is out of reach. Of all my friends, I thought she’d be the most excited, but the truth, I’m realizing, is that Becca’s main focus is Becca. There’s not much left over for anyone else.

  My response earns me a pouty frown. “I waited for you, but you never came back, so I figured you were off sulking somewhere. You definitely wanted nothing to do with me. You didn’t even return my texts.”

  I shrug, hit with the sudden realization that our friendship has run its course. We’ll always be colleagues, but I don’t want to pretend everything is okay when it’s not.

  “I’ll let you make it up to me.” She does a leisurely little grind against the crumpled sheets.

  “Will you?” I’m closing the distance to the bed before I realize I’ve decided to move, but it’s not desire compelling me forward, it’s disappointment at her assumption we’re both this easy.

  The smile she sends me says she’ll let me do all kinds of things. “I’ve got a confession. Sometimes I pick a fight with you just for the makeup sex.” She stretches with the grace of a jungle cat and lifts her hips a few inches—enough for me to wonder what positions she assumes during what must be the most thorough spray tan sessions on Earth.

  “Can’t.” I smack her ass to come off like a good sport, and over her gasp, explain, “Gunnar will be here in ten minutes.”

  “Oh, baby.” She runs a finger over the pink mark left by my palm and then lets it drift lower. “Ten minutes is all we need. C’mon.” Her busy finger finds the target, and her eyelids lower seductively as she pleases herself. “I leave for New York this afternoon. Don’t you want something nice to remember while I’m gone?”