Dark Promises

by Winter Renshaw

  I imagine he doesn’t give his number to just anyone, but I don’t let that sway me.

  I meant what I said … I don’t want a relationship.

  A knock at my door pulls me back to the present, and I close my laptop and place it on an end table. Checking the peephole before I answer, I see my sister on the other side sporting sweats and dark sunglasses.

  “You partied again, didn’t you?” I ask when I answer, one hand resting on my hip.

  She pushes past me, exhaling before kicking her sneakers off and spreading out on my sofa. “I feel like crap, Row.”

  “I bet.”

  “They say if you’re hungover, it goes away if you drink again. I was hungover yesterday, so I drank last night, but now I just feel ten times worse.” Hannah yanks her glasses from her nose and rests her forearm over her eyes. “Am I dying? Is this what death feels like?”

  “Do not throw up on my couch.” I head to the kitchen to grab a bowl. “And you’re too inexperienced to be drinking like this. Something really bad could’ve happened to you. And can you imagine if someone recognizes you as an Aldridge and snaps a picture and it goes viral? Mom and Dad would be destroyed. Their entire brand would be destroyed.”

  “It’s such a crock, isn’t it?” she asks.

  “What?”

  “Being an Aldridge,” she says with a sigh. “And all those parenting books.”

  “No, they put a lot of effort and research into those books,” I say.

  “Yeah, but, like, we were raised by nannies, Rowan,” she says. “There are hundreds of thousands of parents out there using our parents’ parenting strategies, and our parents didn’t even use them.”

  “They were always traveling. They didn’t want to take us out of school. They wanted us to have some kind of normal life … a schedule … a routine …” I hate making excuses for them, but sometimes it’s easier to rewrite history to make it a little more palatable.

  Hannah sits up, laughing. “Normal? Life? A normal life would’ve been playing catch with Dad in the backyard. Family cookouts. Vacations. Not being carted around from cello to piano to ballet to soccer by a team of nannies.”

  I can’t argue with her. Growing up, my parents traveled the world promoting their “Happy Child, Happy Family” book, the one that launched their careers. Everything exploded so fast. The success and subsequent overnight fame that followed. The money. The notoriety.

  The five of us kids became afterthoughts, burdens.

  You couldn’t make that kind of irony up if you tried.

  “I don’t know how you do it, Row,” she says, shaking her head.

  “Do what?”

  “Be so perfect all the time.”

  I laugh. “Sweets, I’m far from perfect. No one is.”

  “Yeah, but you do everything they say, you go everywhere they tell you to go, you dress and act the way they want. Sometimes I’m in awe of you, other times I feel sorry for you.”

  Tucking my chin, I draw in a deep breath and debate whether or not I should tell her. She’s old enough to know, but then again, I feel a sense of duty to her—to all of my siblings. She needs someone to look up to. And I love the way she looks at me. I’d hate to lose that.

  “Oh, and by the way, I only realized this morning on the way here that the guy in the car the other night was Keir Montgomery. Holy shit, Rowan. Why were you hanging out with the president’s son?”

  “We weren’t hanging out … it wasn’t like that … I mean, we were, but it wasn’t anything—”

  “Don’t lie to me.” Hannah sits up, pointing a finger. “How did you meet him? And you know Mom and Dad would be on cloud nine if they knew there was a chance the two of you would—”

  “—there’s no chance,” I cut her off.

  “They love the Montgomerys,” she continues. “Love, love, lovvvve.”

  “I know.” I know because they missed sending me off to the airport when I was spending the summer in Belgium because they were volunteering on the Montgomery campaign.

  “He’s extremely hot,” she says, as if I didn’t already know. “Does he want to date you?”

  “Yes, but I don’t want to date anyone right now. Kind of just want to be alone for a while.”

  Hannah groans. “It’s Hunter. You’re still hung up on him.”

  I shake my head, but she sees the truth in my eyes, I’m sure of it.

  I wish I could snap my fingers and never think of Hunter again, but everything reminds me of him. The honeysuckle body wash in my shower that he picked out because he loved the way it smelled on me. His extra bottle of cologne sitting next to his spare toothbrush in my bathroom. The top drawer in my dresser that I’d cleared out for him still holds his t-shirts and pajama bottoms.

  He’s everywhere, and I can’t quite bring myself to toss those out yet. Lovesickness is real.

  “Oh, look, the sun finally decided to come out,” Hannah says, rising and heading to my kitchen, where she proceeds to raid my fridge. Apparently her hangover is making her hungry. “It’s time to move on, Row. I mean, Hunter has.”

  My stomach drops.

  “What are you talking about?” I ask.

  “I saw him last weekend … I didn’t tell you?” She grabs a package of hummus and inspects it before checking the date. “He was with some brunette, walking into a restaurant on a Friday night. Cucoccelli’s, I think?”

  The weight in my chest that’s been residing there for the last couple of weeks is heavier now, threatening to sink me deeper.

  “It doesn’t make sense,” I say, hating the way my voice breaks. My eyes begin to burn, but I’m too angry to allow myself to cry. “He said he wanted to break up so he could focus on his campaign. He said he wouldn’t have time to focus on a relationship and that it wasn’t fair to me.”

  Hannah grabs a bag of carrots and pops the lid off the hummus. “And you believed him? Rowan, he’s a politician. And politicians lie. It’s just what they do.”

  As soon as I’m able to find my footing, I grab my phone and the slip of paper with Keir’s number on it and I text him, “About that date? Yes.”

  It may be petty, but I’m a woman scorned, and I’d love nothing more than for Hunter to believe I’ve moved on just as quickly as he has … and with the son of the president, no less.

  He’ll hate that. He always hated Keir, mocking him every time he read an article or saw him on TV. I never questioned how he could hate someone with such a passion, so I boiled it down to jealousy and decades-old resentment. Their fathers both campaigned for governor years and years ago, with the Montgomerys winning by a landslide.

  Anyway, word travels fast in this town.

  It’ll get back to him like one giant “Fuck you,” and then maybe I can finally bring myself to move on.

  6

  Keir

  She’s been here all of thirty seconds and already I’ve had to remind myself a half a dozen times that I won’t be sliding my hand between her thighs under this crisp white table cloth anytime soon.

  “What made you change your mind?” I ask Saturday night when Rowan takes the chair across from me at a table for two in one of the most exclusive DC restaurants. A candle flickers between us, nestled next to a small vase with fresh pink roses.

  So fucking cheesy.

  “Does it matter?” she asks, placing her napkin across her lap and glancing over the centerpiece.

  “Not really.” Honestly.

  A smirk claims her pretty red lips.

  In my experience, when a woman wears red lipstick, she has no intentions of kissing you.

  Too messy.

  Fuck.

  It’s okay. We can take this slow. I don’t want to make any sudden moves and scare her off just when I’m beginning to get her where I want her.

  Our server brings a bottle of red and pours our drinks, and I manage not to say, “About fucking time” out loud. When she’s finally finished pouring a year later, she takes our orders.

  “Where’d you
go to college?” I ask, pretending I don’t already know.

  I know everything about this woman, or at least everything the private investigator Connor hired could dig up on her. Her kindergarten teacher’s name was Mrs. Abbott. She went on a trip to Seattle with her middle school class and ended up getting sick with the flu halfway through. When she was fifteen, she got her braces off. Her family has a house in the Hamptons, Sarasota, Florida, and Potomac. She has four brothers and sisters.

  Etc, etc, etc.

  Boring, boring, boring.

  “Wellesley,” she says. “You?”

  “Dartmouth.”

  “God, we sound pretentious,” she says, exhaling. “I hate it.”

  “I’m sure you could’ve gone anywhere,” he says. “Obviously you chose Wellesley. Own it.”

  “No, no, no,” she says, waving her finger. “I had no choice in the matter. It was my mother’s alma mater. They practically begged her to send me. Gave me a full ride and everything. They thought the publicity would be good. Turns out nobody there cared or even knew who I was, and enrollment for those first four years was stagnant, but hey, my parents got out of paying tuition, so it worked out.”

  “Nothing ever really turns out the way we plan,” I say.

  The blues of her irises flicker in the candlelight. “Isn’t that the truth.”

  Our food arrives a few minutes later. Ordinarily, I request rushed orders. I don’t like to linger in restaurants too long. I don’t like the way the smell seeps into my suits and skin and hair. And I don’t like to wait.

  I didn’t request a rush this time, though. I needed to spend time with her. Talk to her. Get to know her as Connor said.

  But they rushed our order anyway, the presumptive assholes.

  Rowan holds the fork in her left hand and the knife in her right as she cuts a clean piece of chicken from her plate. Her fingers are dainty and delicate, and there’s a thin gold bracelet on her left wrist that catches the light. Everything about her is radiant, polished.

  “You seem really at home here,” I say. “With the fine dining, I mean.”

  “That’s a weird thing to say.” She brings her wine to her lips.

  Jesus, I sound like a fucking moron. Where the hell is my game?

  “What I mean is, it’s hard to find a woman who knows her way around a well-set table,” I say. “Most of the time they mix up the bread plates and can’t tell the difference between a salad fork and a dinner fork. I appreciate a woman who can comfortably dine in a fine restaurant.”

  She lifts a brow. “The better to please you, Keir.”

  Rowan’s got a smart mouth. I like that.

  “How’s the steak?” she asks. Her question makes me feel like we’re somewhere between friend zone and old married couple status.

  “Perfection,” I answer, sawing off another piece of this melt-in-your-mouth filet. “What do you want to do after this?”

  Her eyes widen. She clearly expects our date to end the moment the check is paid, but I’m not going to let her go that easily.

  Before she gets a chance to respond, a bright flash lights up the space around us, temporarily blinding me. As soon as I regain my sight, I spot a teenage girl eating dinner with her family and sitting at the table across from us. She pretends like she didn’t just take our picture, and I pretend like I’m not about to request her parents to remove her cell phone for the remainder of this dinner.

  One of my agents glances at me and I shake my head. The normal protocol would be for him to snatch her phone from her hand, delete any and all photos of me, and swiftly hand it back with a stern warning.

  But I told them before we arrived that I didn’t want to make any scenes tonight, not in front of Rowan.

  I’m used to living my life in the spotlight. She probably isn’t, at least not to this extent, and that could be a deal breaker.

  Rowan shakes her head. “How does it feel? When people take your picture all the time? Seems invasive.”

  “I don’t even notice it anymore,” I lie, deciding not to elaborate on the fact that I kind of like the attention. I’ve been blessed with a photogenic face and a professionally styled wardrobe. I’ve yet to take a bad picture. No bad pictures mean I have nothing to worry about. Let them snap away. “Besides, I’m sure several people around here have already taken our photo, they were just intelligent enough to turn the flash off.”

  “Really?” She glances down as if she’s pondering what this might mean to her.

  “It’ll be uploaded to Reddit or Twitter or something by tonight,” I add. “Might even go viral. Everyone’s going to want to know who you are.”

  I swear I see a hint of a smile on her lips for zero point seven seconds, but then it’s gone.

  Is she … is she happy about being in the spotlight?

  Maybe I misjudged her?

  Or maybe I imagined the smirk.

  “Anyway.” She waves her hand. “How’s your brother? Are you two close?”

  “He moved west,” I say. “He’s doing well.”

  I leave it at that. My family needs to seem normal and functional because that’s what she grew up with, that’s what she’s used to. She doesn’t bring up the tell-all book and I don’t either.

  “He’s married now,” I say. “To an actress.”

  … who used to be an escort …

  Chuckling to myself at how my idiot, pussy-whipped brother dethroned himself, I shake my head.

  “What?” she asks. “What’s so funny?”

  “Nothing. Was just thinking about something he said to me the last time we talked, that’s all,” I lie once more. “What about you? Any siblings besides Hannah?”

  Her head cocks. “You said you knew my parents and they told you about me. I’m sure then that you know they have five kids.”

  This woman doesn’t miss a thing.

  “That’s right. I remember now. It was just that they spoke so highly of you. Seemed like you were their pride and joy. It was all they could talk about. You were overseas at the time, right?”

  She nods.

  I think she buys it.

  We finish our meals, taking small bites between small talk, and when we’re finished, Secret Service escorts us to my waiting Cadillac, rushing through a throng of sidewalk gawkers with their phones held out.

  “You never said where you wanted to go after this,” I tell her once we pull into the street a minute later.

  Her mouth presses into a straight line and she turns toward me, half squinting. “Home.”

  I don’t want to push, but for fuck’s sake, I’m not going to get anywhere if she pulls this homebody shit.

  “You didn’t enjoy yourself tonight?” I ask. I’ll admit the conversation was dull and boring and typical, but I had no choice. I want to seem like a safe choice, a changed man. I need her to take a chance on me.

  “I did. Thank you,” she says. “But this is where it ends.”

  “It’s a Saturday night. At least have a drink with me somewhere. Let me show you off.”

  Rowan gives me an apologetic half smile. “It’s been a day. Kind of just want to unwind. Get out of this dress. These heels that are killing my feet. Maybe put on a good movie. Pass out on the couch.”

  Sounds really fucking lame.

  “I should have told you …” she says. “I recently got out of a long-term relationship. It’s been hard. Harder than I expected. It was sudden, and I’m still working through it.”

  “So you’re going to let him turn you into a sad, sorry shut-in while he’s out there living the dream? Rowan. Please. Have a little respect for yourself.”

  “I’m allowed to be sad. To mourn. We were together almost two years and he ended it just like that. Without so much as a warning.” There’s a bit of defensiveness in her tone, and I remind myself to tread lightly here. “Anyway, this is healthy and normal. I should know. My parents wrote a book on it.”

  I turn away so I can roll my eyes.

  The SUV slows to a sto
p outside her building and the guys climb out of the car behind us and get her door.

  “Goodnight, Keir. Thanks again for a nice time.” Rowan smiles, but there’s melancholy in her pale gaze. She’s going through the motions, she doesn’t mean any of it.

  I begin to climb out as well until she stops me.

  “You don’t need to walk me in,” she says before shutting the door.

  There’s no, “See you next time” or “Text me when you want to go out again.”

  She’s just … gone.

  And I’m back to square fucking one.

  7

  Rowan

  Peeling out of my skintight Chanel dress, I exhale, appreciating the full expansion of my lungs. My feet ache, so I slip a pair of fuzzy socks over them before pulling on a matching silk pajama top and bottom, pink with white piping, and then I head to the bathroom to wash the makeup off my face.

  A few minutes later, I’m browsing Netflix on my living room TV when there’s a knock at the door.

  It’s nine o’clock on a Saturday.

  No one should be knocking.

  Tiptoeing across the hardwood, I rise on my toes and peek through the peephole.

  A man stands on the other side, and from what I can tell, he’s in sweats.

  I stare a bit longer, trying to figure out who the hell this is until it hits me.

  Oh my god.

  Keir.

  Unlatching the lock, I pull the door open. “What are you doing?”

  His face lights when he sees me, and I silently drink him in. His dark hair is disheveled and product-free. His Dartmouth green sweats hang low on his hips with the school name in faded white lettering across one side.

  It only takes a second for me to realize I’m not breathing. I’m ogling.

  A tub of movie theater popcorn rests in the bend of his left elbow and a grocery sack hangs from his left hand, the plastic pressing against two pints of Ben and Jerry’s.

  “I’m depressed,” he says in a mocking tone. “This girl I like won’t give me a chance because she’s too hung up on the sorry loser who let her go.”