My thoughts stall as I spot the only other patron in the store with me. From my angle behind a rack of potato chips, trail mix, and other snack foods, I can make out only his profile, but his profile is enough. I know him.
You know how you can’t remember things from your past until you do? Until something familiar calls it up? It may be a little thing. An insignificant thing. Then in a perfect moment of symmetry where time stands still, a memory coats your brain like Magic Shell on your favorite vanilla bean ice cream.
I’m in a bubble of time where everything is frozen as my brain catalogs this new information. Admittedly, the cataloging is happening at a sluggish pace given my beverage choices this evening. The guy ahead of me in line is tall, really tall, with shaggy dark brown hair. His jaw is clean-shaven, his lips are full, and his expression is as tortured as it’s ever been.
I tighten my grip on the chilled, cheap bottle of wine and call up a name I haven’t thought about in years.
Tucker Noscalo.
He must feel me staring because he turns, gazing through unkempt locks of hair falling almost seductively over his forehead.
Our eyes lock. Stunning blue, sometimes gray, his narrowed gaze eats into my very soul the longer we stare.
He clenches his jaw—the muscles in his cheek twitch—then he turns away, his hair once again falling over his face. The snack foods and soda fountain and filthy tile vaporize as I recall the first time I ever laid eyes on him. We were in the eighth grade, which would have made me fourteen at the time. Seven years ago.
A lifetime.
He’d clenched his jaw, then, too, viewing me through the veil of thick eyelashes like he did a second ago. It had been the first time I noticed his scars. Several V-shaped marks tracking vertically up his forearm. He was a cutter, I guessed. And the moment he’d stood two lockers down from mine and noticed where my eyes went, he yanked down the sleeve of his hoodie and speared me with an angry glare.
The Noscalo boys were bad seeds. Everyone knew to steer clear of Tucker and his younger brother, Jeremy. But in that moment I felt like I truly saw him—like we saw each other. Then the moment was over, and I was going to class and trying to figure out the cause of the weird hum inside my belly.
Tucker was closed off, quiet, and very bad news. I had assumed Tucker’s habit of bucking authority was because he was a cop’s kid, his behavior akin to a preacher’s daughter sinning because she was expected to be good.
Two years after that, Tucker and a local lowlife robbed a liquor store. Tucker went from “bad news” to certified juvenile delinquent. Dangerous. But he intrigued me as much as he scared me. There was something about him I related to back then, even before he stepped in between me and trouble with a capital T. But I hadn’t known what was coming. Trusting him was a gut call I couldn’t explain.
I blink and the world rushes back, pulling him into sharp focus. His back is to me and he gave no indication of whether he recognized me or not. It’s not like we were friends back then. More, he was a guy I watched from the corner of my eye until he wasn’t there to watch any longer.
The clerk, a short dark-skinned man with great hair, wearing a crisp white button-down shirt, finishes bagging two grocery sacks for Tucker. Seriously, didn’t he know better than to buy his weekly groceries at a place like this? Every item in here is overpriced.
Tucker wraps a hand around the grocery sacks, crinkling the brown paper, and I decide not to let him leave without saying hello. Where he is concerned, my curiosity has always edged out the fear.
“I know you,” I say to his back.
He lets go of the bag and turns to face me fully. My breath catches as I get a good look at the dried blood decorating his white T-shirt, at least on the part I can see beneath his zipped leather jacket. He shoves the receipt and his change into a front pocket and I notice dried blood on his knuckles, too. My face goes cold like I’ve gone into shock from the sum of the evening’s events. Yet I’m more curious than afraid.
“Are you okay?” I ask, my voice quiet.
His blue-gray eyes find mine and my shock is replaced with warmth. Like honey is oozing down my spine. Pooling in my belly.
He’s well over six feet, but not as rangy as I remember. The leather coat does little to hide broad shoulders and his well-defined chest. Interesting. My memory of Tucker doesn’t include ample pecs. Or traps, I think as my gaze trickles down his throat and along the side of his neck.
God, he’s gorgeous. Straight nose, high cheekbones, a sharp, angled jaw. His hair is longer, shaggy, with a bit of curl. His lips are full and enviable. And frozen into a firm line. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Tucker Noscalo smile.
His style hasn’t changed much, either. Worn jeans, Chuck Taylors, white T-shirt. I inspect the blood spatters on the cotton, but other than his knuckles, I spot no signs of injury. I remember suddenly, shockingly, that he’d been to prison and further wonder if he got out or if he busted out. Did people still escape from prison?
I take a step forward rather than back. His eyes snap down to my feet then back, a look of confusion bordering fascination coloring his face.
“Morgan,” I introduce.
He’s a criminal. But he paid for the sundries in the overstuffed bags on the counter. He can’t be all bad.
“Morgan Young,” I sort of repeat. “We shared a chem class a million years ago.”
He’s staring. Not speaking. And he does not look happy. I’m not sure if he’s unhappy because he remembers me, or because he doesn’t. Or if he’s trying to remember who I am, or decide if he should rob the place and take me as a hostage.
To say that I’m a little nervous would be like saying the Arizona desert is a bit warm.
Oddly, I’m not sure what I’m nervous about…because I’d once harbored a crush on the guy and am attempting to talk to him, or because I’m in imminent peril and my flight-or-fight response has kicked in.
Damn tequila. I should never drink it. It makes me fuzzy; take risks I shouldn’t. Case in point, I continue my one-sided conversation.
“It’s my birthday. Twenty-one today.” When he doesn’t respond, I run my fingers along the edge of a bag of Cheetos. “Yep. The big two-one.” I leave the Cheetos behind. No sense in buying food to soak up my upcoming alcohol buzz. Because when I get home, I am getting duh-runk.
Closing the gap between us in a few short steps, he moves toward me easily, his lithe gait suggesting he isn’t injured. The blood must belong to someone else. I stand my ground, trying to reflect the confidence of his approach, but it’s for show. I have no confidence tonight.
He sizes me up, his eyes skating over me, and I wonder if he can sense I’m not having the happiest of birthdays. Warm fingers brush mine as he lifts the wine bottle from my hand, I assume to inspect the label. He won’t be very impressed. Even I have my doubts about the label’s claim declaring the gas station wine tastes like “strawberry fields.” Rather than hand it back, he walks the bottle to the counter and drops money onto the counter. The clerk rings him up, casting me an unsure glance.
“I’m twenty-one,” I say, feeling the need to defend myself.
The cash register spits out a receipt and the clerk offers it to Tucker, but Tucker holds up a hand to turn it down. His back to me, he gathers his groceries and walks out a pair of doors opposite the ones I entered.
I’m left standing a few feet from the clerk and my now-paid-for bottle of wine. Do I show him my ID or just take my gift and run? Option B sounds the best, though I won’t be running very far. I still need a cab.
Raising my chin, I walk to the counter, grip the wine by the neck, and head to the front doors. Then I pause to stare through my reflection to the poorly lit parking lot. Tucker exited the other side of the building without speaking a single word. And I didn’t thank him.
You really should thank him.
If I follow him, at least I’ll have company while I call for a cab. What’s the harm?
Twelve answers present thems
elves instantly. I ignore them all. His silence, his presence, his hotness, have reeled me in like a helpless fish on a lure.
I spin on my heel and march to the other side of the store, the driving force another memory altogether. A time when he stood up for me; protected me. It was a moment where Tucker Noscalo recognized the danger that I, cocooned in my perfect world, had completely overlooked until just then.
That’s why I slip out the door now and go to him. Under the guise of saying thank you, and because I have to know if he remembers me. He’s piling his groceries into the backseat of a black car that has seen better days. It suits him. He spots me and stands slowly, looking taller and broader than he did inside. As our eyes meet over the top of the car, I decide gas station wine shared with a handsome, mysterious criminal is a huge step up from my evening thus far.
I’ve never been so wrong.
Chapter 2
Choices
Tucker
I should go.
But I don’t. I shut the car door as the cute, golden-brown-haired girl steps outside the convenience store cradling her bottle of cheap wine like it holds the answers to life’s mysteries. She’s wrong. Life’s answers can be found in the bottom of a bottle of whiskey.
Morgan Young didn’t need to reintroduce herself in there. She has been on my radar since she moved here when she was fourteen years old. She’s wholesome, pure. Everything I wished I could have had back then. Funny how we lived in the same neighborhood, but our home lives couldn’t have been more different.
In my world, there’s no room for anyone as angelic as Morgan. And tonight, she looks the part, dressed from head to toe in white. White lace shirt over a white tank top, short white shorts, and white sandals. Even the purse looped around her wrist is white. She is the picture of “pure.” Except for the wine. That shit’s rotten.
“I came to say thanks.” She takes a cautious step in my direction, then another.
I need to go.
But my feet stay rooted as my mouth opens to say, “Happy birthday.”
She comes closer, and rather than leave her to her birthday celebration, I come around the back of the car. God, she’s pretty. Always was in high school and is now. Especially now. Long hair slides over her shoulders as she cocks her head and blinks big, dark eyes at me.
She stops a few feet away like she’s nervous being this close to me. She should be. I just served eighteen months for beating the hell out of my father and threatening him with a firearm. Before prison, I spent a lot of time in juvi. I’m not exactly the type of guy she should be comfortable hanging out with. A criminal, and not a reformed one, considering I’d committed another crime tonight. Now it looks like I had revenge on my mind. To be fair, I did. But I didn’t plan on laying a hand on my father. Not until he provoked me.
I need to leave.
This time, my body is in agreement.
“Enjoy it,” I say, fishing the keys from Mark’s jacket pocket.
“Wait.”
Her fragile request freezes me in place.
“I’ve had a shitty birthday.” She takes another couple of steps toward me. “I don’t want to go home yet.” She lowers her eyes and picks at the label on the wine bottle. “You remember me, don’t you?”
Every freckle. I wonder if she has any clue how infatuated I once was with her. I hope not.
I reach through the open window and pull out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter lying on the front seat—also Mark’s. I lean against the passenger door, light one, and pull in an acrid breath.
“You still smoke.”
There’s not a lot to do in prison.
“Smoking is bad for you.” A delicate eyebrow crawls up her forehead.
Holding the cigarette between my lips, I take the bottle from her hands, briefly brushing her fingers with mine. Awareness lights a fire within and I desperately try to ignore it.
With a twist, I crack open the plastic lid, and hand the wine back to her.
She takes a brief look over her shoulder, but there’s nothing to see. The gas station is dead, Morgan and I the only patrons. The clerk at the counter should be grateful. I just paid him over a hundred dollars and half the food I bought is expired.
“I don’t think we’re allowed to drink this in the parking lot,” she whispers.
See what I mean? Pure as driven fucking snow. I take another hit from my cigarette and watch as she wrinkles her nose. It’s amusing how appalling my bad habit is to her. If she only knew the extent of things, she wouldn’t flinch at something as pedestrian as smoking.
If she only knew…
A spark of an idea flares to life, but I mentally shield it. It’s crazy…too crazy. Her standing here with me is one thing. Getting her to come with me…no way.
She takes a swig from the bottle, her full lips puckering as she chokes it down. Her face scrunches and I allow my eyes to graze the smattering of freckles over the bridge of her nose. Even drinking gas station wine, she’s adorable.
“This isn’t as good as the sangria at Pinky’s.” She licks her lips, still making an unsavory face and possibly regretting her booze selection. “You know Pinky’s? The bar?”
I smoke my cigarette. I don’t know it.
“It’s about a mile from here,” she says dismissively. “It was dollar-taco night,” another big drink, a slight wince, then, “I wondered why he took me to such a dive. Why he showed up with Shayna.”
She says that last bit to herself, then blinks as if she’s just noticed me there. She offers me the bottle. I shake my head, blow out a stream of smoke. Aside from a couple of hazy nights with Mark, I never was much of a drinker.
She cradles the bottle to her chest. “This is a nicer gift than Drew gave me.”
Boyfriend, I assume. A sharp, inexplicable flare of jealousy lights my chest the same way it did when we were in school and I saw the pack of jocks vying for her attention. The idea of her being touched by one of those assholes always made me want to hit one of them.
Then one day, I did.
Still the jealousy makes no sense. Morgan isn’t for me. Never was. I’ve always known that much. I guess knowing and wanting are two different beasts.
“Know what he gave me?” she asks, her voice small.
I crush the cigarette under my shoe. I’m not sure I want to know, but she seems bent on telling me.
“The gift of betrayal.”
I flinch. I know betrayal. In its rawest, ugliest form. My insides seize, thinking the worst. And in my case, the worst is truly the absolute worst.
“He cheated on me with my best friend, Shayna, and decided to tell me tonight.” Her eyes soften and go to the side as she cradles that bottle closer.
My eyebrows jump slightly. A cheating boyfriend sucks, but face it, there are bigger issues in life than a guy dumping her for her friend. But then, most of my recent days were spent behind bars trying not to get shanked or raped. I succeeded in both endeavors. I’d learned how to watch my ass a long time ago.
“Their tacos are terrible,” she says, again illustrating what different worlds we come from. Not only because of her plethora of first-world problems, but because our heritage couldn’t have been more opposite. Her father is a lawyer of the upstanding variety, and my father is a police chief of the criminal variety.
The good guy and the bad guy, in this situation, are definitely reversed. Which brings me to the self-serving reason I bought the wine for her. I didn’t really believe the gamble would pay off, but here she is—out here striking up conversation, with nowhere else to be. I’m taking it as a sign of more good luck. I wonder how long until it fizzles out.
“Your dad still a lawyer?” I ask, that sparking idea from earlier making itself known.
She studies me for a second, then nods. “Yeah.”
I need a lawyer. A good one. Her father is Aaron Young, a veritable celebrity in the town of Baybrook. He is the best defense lawyer money could buy, and after my actions tonight, only the best would do. Unfo
rtunately, unless I’d robbed a bank between my father’s house and this 7-Eleven—and I hadn’t—I’m not going to be able to afford to hire Aaron Young.
I open my mouth to inquire about pro bono work. It’s a stretch, but after what happened tonight, even a stretch is a chance I am compelled to take. I can’t go back to prison. Fate put the daughter of Aaron Young behind me in the convenience store, and I need to accept Fate’s gift.
Maybe that’s why I did what I did next. Morgan is my only chance at a good defense attorney. I can’t lose her over a small matter of police sirens.
“Know what else…” she starts, then trails off as the ominous wails split the air, answering my earlier musing about when my luck might fizzle out. Right about now. “Oh, crap.”
Panic laces down my spine and tightens my lungs. The clerk must’ve called them. Maybe the blood on my hands made him nervous. Maybe my photo was on the news. Maybe Morgan told him I’m dangerous and came out here to stall me.
Whether she ratted me out or not, it won’t change anything. Earlier, I wondered if I could persuade her to come with me, but there’s no time for that. She has to come with me. It’s the only way. I already know she isn’t going to slide into the passenger seat without complaint.
So do what you need to do.
I snatch the hooch from her and toss it into the bushes. The bottle clangs off the chain-link fence behind it as the peals of sirens grow ever nearer.
It’s the only way. I swallow, will myself not to lose my nerve.
“Oh, good idea.” Her eyes flit nervously across the back lot of the store and again, her problems bordering on laughable. If the police catch us their sole focus will be on cuffing me, and will ignore Morgan even if she’s simultaneously chugging wine while shooting a pistol into the air.
I’m the one they want, not the quintessential good girl who’s having a bad birthday.
There’s no time to do anything but run, but this time, I’m not running alone. I’m taking an insurance policy with me. A pure, angelic girl with golden-brown hair and a celebrity lawyer for a father will do just fine.
Forgotten Promises (Lost Boys #1) Page 2