Forgotten Promises (Lost Boys #1)

by Jessica Lemmon

  My heart slowly steadies, but I’m still filled with dread. The air is thick in the cabin, and each time I suck in a breath it’s like inhaling molasses. I need fresh air. I peek around the partition to the front door. I’ll have to walk past Tucker to get to it, but it’s a risk I’m willing to take. The suffocating heat inside this cabin, paired with my nightmare, has made me claustrophobic.

  You can escape, I remind myself, because I fear I’ve forgotten that long-term goal. To escape, I need an idea of where I am so if presented with a chance, I can run for it, or at the very least, get ahold of Tucker’s phone and tell my father where I am.

  Where I think I am. It’s not like there are any signs or landmarks out front. Only trees.

  I slide my bare feet to the floor and stand, taking slow, silent steps from the bed to the front door, all the while keeping an eye on my sleeping guard. A floorboard creaks. I hesitate. His eyes move beneath his lids in REM. I take another even breath, then step forward and take hold of the doorknob.

  Almost there.

  I disengage the dead bolt with my other hand. It squeaks, the sound of rusted metal on rusted metal. Getting the door open quietly will be a challenge. I twist the knob gradually earning more squeaks and groans from the abused metal. Fresh air. Freedom.

  So close.

  Easing it open isn’t getting me anywhere, so I go with the old Band-Aid trick and give the door one quick pull. Hinges whine, and my heart lodges in my throat. The sound may as well have been a nuclear explosion to my ears, but one final glance at Tucker and I see he hasn’t moved. There’s just enough of a gap that if I turn to the side, I can slip through without opening it farther.

  I watch him as I hover undecided in the open doorway. Thick lashes shadow high cheekbones. Full lips rest between the press of stubble on his angled jaw. My eyes go to his scars, and I feel a pinch in the vicinity of my heart. I don’t know the whole story yet, and I’m pretty sure I don’t want to. I imagine the agony of each snip. The pain. The rush of blood. I’m so engrossed that when his voice slices into the quiet, I let out a startled yip.

  “What are you doing?”

  My hand flies to my tortured heart, the other convulsing around the doorknob. “I—nothing.” The lie makes me sound guiltier than I am. I meet his smoky gray eyes. His eyebrows close in over his nose. I half expect him to come for me with the roll of tape, but he just…sits there, arms crossed, leaning back in the chair in his wary defense position. I sense that he could pounce at any moment.

  “Fresh air,” I croak, trying for the truth this time. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “You’re going outside.” His tone is accusatory.

  “Yes, but…” I look through the half-open door, dark fading as welcome daylight approaches. “I had a nightmare.”

  He stands and I fight the sudden and very real urge to throw the door wide and tear off into the woods. I am barefoot, have no water, almost no energy, and don’t know what direction to run. I’m more likely to rip my foot open (again) on a felled branch and bleed out than I am to find my way home from here.

  “About what?” A flicker of concern lights his eyes.

  Your father. Your brother. Every bit of what you told me before I fell asleep.

  Instead I say, “You.”

  The look he gives me is unreadable. Maybe I imagined the concern. Now he seems almost…disturbed. He palms the door and opens it the rest of the way, then he juts his chin toward the table. “Bring a chair with you.” I take one small step, then another, before dragging the plastic chair outside and resting it on the warped slats of the deck. The sun peeks out its nose and I face it, even though I can’t see much from behind the trees.

  Tucker stands in the doorway until I sit, then vanishes. Over my shoulder, I see he’s left the door open. I fantasize of running, but it would help to have supplies—water, at least—before I take off in directions unknown.

  I move to the side of the cabin to see what I can see.

  Trees and more trees, as it turns out.

  I cross the porch and peer around that side. The Dodge Charger sits in a sea of sticks and pine needles. Definitely, shoes would be good. I wonder where the keys are. What if they’re in the ignition? My fingers close around the railing as excitement flits through my veins. Could I be that lucky?

  “They’re in my pocket.”

  I screech and spin around to find Tucker directly in front of me.

  “Wuh-what?” I manage a shaky smile. I’m the worst liar ever. My father always says he can see on my face when I’m fudging the truth.

  “The keys,” Tucker reiterates. “For the car. They’re in my pocket. Plus, there is one way out of here that won’t take you deeper into the woods. The other is a dead end that leads to a creek.”

  Well. That’s not very encouraging.

  Changing the subject, I ask, “You don’t have coffee in there, do you?”

  “I don’t drink it.” He squints into the distance as the sun lifts higher into the sky. He is partially lit with golden light, and against the dark hair on his jaw and those blue eyes, he looks a lot like the hero I thought he was when we were in school. Funny how the night plays tricks. Or is the daylight tricking me?

  Which one are you, Tucker?

  “You don’t drink coffee.” I fold my arms around my waist and lean on the railing, facing him. “I can’t even compute that sentence.”

  I am surprised when he smiles. It’s slight, and tired, but he looks better than he did yesterday. Less…haunted. “You can see if there’s some in the cabinet.”

  “Which cabinet?”

  “Don’t know. Not my place.” He turns to look at the house as if seeing it for the first time. The brown, chipped paint. Climbing ivy.

  “This…isn’t your place?” I assumed we were on Noscalo property. “This isn’t your family’s cabin?”

  He’s squinting at the sun again. “Not my cabin. Not my car.”

  I don’t even know what to say to that.

  “Don’t worry, Angel. My tracks aren’t buried as deeply as I wish they were. I don’t have a lot of friends.”

  “Aren’t you afraid you’ll be caught?” In part of my dream, Tucker was thrown to the ground by three faceless men. Two with guns, one with his knee in Tucker’s back while he cuffed his wrists. Hope wars with worry inside of me. I’ve never had a prophetic vision, but there’s no saying I can’t start now.

  “My only goal is to stop my father. Whatever happens to me on the way”—he shrugs—“happens.” He faces me, the haunted look back full force. I don’t like it.

  It takes a lot of restraint to keep from reaching for him again. And the instinct alarms me. It’s obvious what drew me to him years ago, but I’m not sure what draws me to him now. Whatever it is, it’s darker, sharper. More pronounced.

  More dangerous.

  He speaks to a part of me I don’t fully recognize. A part of me I’m a little afraid to fully uncover.

  Chapter 7

  Touching

  Morgan

  I ate a peanut butter sandwich for breakfast and decide to have one for lunch since Tucker’s sandwich consists of bacon and mayonnaise. He takes a bite and chews, and I think of the former owner of that bacon. Of flesh being torn. Of blood. Of the fear. Then I look down at Tucker’s scarred arm, visible thanks to his short sleeves, and a buzz of anxiety rattles my arms.

  After being undernourished, not sleeping well, and suppressing my feelings of panic for the sake of not losing my shit, anxiety rides shotgun to the adrenaline jetting through my body. My fight-or-flight kicks in and I immediately look for a place to go. Anywhere, as long as it’s not here.

  Tucker dragged a chair outside for himself. He sits, blocking the stairs leading from the deck. I’m trapped between the wall and railing and him. Trees cocoon us, clouds hide the sun, leaving us in gray, shadowed mist.

  “I—I’m going to see if I can find that coffee.” My hands are shaking. Maybe if I give them something to do they’ll stop
. I reach the front door. Tucker watches me closely, chewing, the remainder of his sandwich in hand.

  I think of the passing semi truck transporting pigs I spotted a few years ago from the backseat of the family SUV. I locked eyes with one of those pink animals as my dad said something about bacon. I quit eating meat that day because I felt sorry for the pigs. This is the first time I feel a real empathy with them. How alone and trapped they must have felt, rumbling along the road at sixty miles an hour toward imminent slaughter.

  My breath catches. I’m pretty sure I’m about to lose it. I jerk open the door, the whine of the hinges loud in the quiet. Tucker follows me in, but I ignore him and go to the cabinets, flinging them open and searching frantically through the meager offerings inside.

  The room is closing in.

  Trapped.

  I don’t find coffee. Just a box of tea bags that have expired.

  Trapped.

  I take one step, then another away from the cabinet, my eyes unseeing, the buzzing in my ears growing louder, the feeling of helplessness spilling through me like lava from an active volcano. The room spins. My mind spins. My heart rate ratchets up until I’m sure I’ll have a heart attack and die right here on this disgusting floor.

  You’re losing it.

  I am. My nose tingles like I’m going to cry, and I can no longer tell if I am in real danger or if this is all in my head and my sanity is slipping away.

  “Xanax,” I say, remembering the meds in my purse, and the pressure in my chest lessens a considerable degree. Prescribed or not, they work. And I need one. I go for my purse, but Tucker steps in front of me and blocks the way. He’s good at that. His height, the commanding way he stands. I raise my hands to push him before remembering I’m not supposed to touch him. I fold my hands together in front of me instead. “Get out of my way.”

  “No.”

  “You have to. Or…or I’m going to lose it.” I sound like I already have. The days have stacked up in my mind like boxes in a storeroom. I can’t see over them or around them. I’m smothering.

  “I need you to remember everything I tell you,” he says. “I can’t risk you being drugged out.”

  “I’ll be present and accounted for,” I snap, the shake working from my arms to my legs. My knees are vibrating. My jaw, too. It’s been a while since I had a real honest-to-goodness breakdown, but this one is ramping up to be a doozy.

  “I used to be on anti-anxiety drugs,” he says. “I know exactly how present you’ll be.”

  I meet his eyes, chin up. “Then you also know how badly I need one.”

  “Go sit down.” A furrow mars his brow.

  I take a step toward the door instead. If he won’t give me a mental vacation, then I may as well run for it. My anxiety needs an outlet, and running will get me farther from Tucker and this abominable cabin.

  He takes a step to the side, blocking my path once again. “Take some deep breaths.” His voice sounds a mile away and as if it’s coming through a static-filled radio station.

  “Get out of my way.” I put my hand to my forehead. Sweat coats my fingers. I’m hot. Disoriented.

  He bends so we are looking into each other’s eyes. His voice goes soft. “Morgan, go sit on your bed and take some deep breaths.”

  His eyebrows go up. That wasn’t a question, but I sense he’s asking rather than telling me. A small, sane part of me crawls out from behind those stacked boxes and recognizes that Tucker is trying to help.

  Obediently, I sit on my bed and attempt to take a deep breath. I swallow, but my mouth is dry. I need to brush my teeth. I push my hair away from my face. It’s filled with grime and grit, the strands oily. I pull my fingers away to find several hairs in the palm of my hand and tangled around my fingers. My hair is falling out. My Porcelain Doll Pink nail polish is chipped. Dirt is wedged under my fingernails.

  “Tucker.” My breath is shallow like I’ve just run a mile. “My medication. I need it.” I tell myself not to cry, but I start anyway. The tears flow and my mind cracks like the ground during an earthquake. “Please,” I sob quietly.

  “Morgan. Hey.” Concern laces his voice. He moves toward me, his expression a mixture of strain and confusion.

  I view him through a blur of salty tears. “I’m a vegetarian.”

  “I know.”

  “You eat bacon.”

  “Morgan, you need to breathe.”

  “I bought this outfit for muh–my birthday,” I stutter through my sobs. “And my shoes. I didn’t expect to be running through the woods with them on. I thought I would be taking them off at Drew’s.” I’m not even looking at Tucker, caught up in my monologue—reciting the thoughts packed into the boxes in my brain. “I wanted the night to be perfect because I thought he and I might…” I wave my hand in the direction of my purse. “You know.”

  My ruined Kate Spade on the windowsill contains a condom, my makeup mirror, my ID, my ChapStick, and my Xanax. Blessed Xanax.

  “It was going to be our first time but now we don’t get a first time because he’s doing it with Shayna. And I’m going to starve to death in a shack in the woods.” My words are lost under more tears.

  “Angel, listen to me….” Tucker moves into my line of vision again.

  “Why do you call me that?” But I don’t wait for an answer. Instead I look down at what I’m wearing. “I’m going to die in my birthday outfit,” I cry. “With dirty hair and sore wrists, and—and dirty fingernails.” I’m not making any sense to him; I can see it in his eyes. But it all makes sense to me. “I can’t handle this kind of fear!” I shout. “I can’t! I want a salad and some coffee. I want to go home!”

  I slide off the bed and kneel in front of him, clawing his T-shirt with both hands. “Tucker, please let me go home. Please, please take me home.”

  What might be sympathy pulls his eyebrows. The prize is so near I can taste it. I wonder if I can actually convince him. He bends and takes my elbows in both hands, pulling me to my feet. I clamp onto his forearms.

  “Take me home,” I try again. “I’ll tell my father whatever you want.”

  He looks pained. I continue pleading and making promises, but the pain in his eyes only intensifies. Then I look down and see that I’m absently stroking his forearms with my thumbs. His pain isn’t caused by guilt or because of my words.

  It’s because I’m touching him.

  Tucker

  Don’t touch me.

  Every part of me wants to crawl out of my skin. I want to hide. Run. I’ve never been close to a girl…not one who touched me. At the same time, my heart aches for her. Her fear, real or imagined, is palpable, and every part of me wants to comfort her in some way, except…I’m not sure I know how.

  Hearing how I’ve caused her immeasurable grief awakens a part of me I forgot existed. I used to grieve. I used to grieve and pray and beg every god in the heavens to save my brother and me. When none answered, I shut that part of me off.

  Then came Morgan. My angel.

  She’s not yours.

  She’s not. And the evidence is in everything she has just pointed out. I’m the one who dragged her here. I’m the one who made her clothes dirty, made all of her dirty. I caused the small cut on her lip, the bump on her head. It’s as if everything—everyone—I come into contact with is worse for it.

  I think of my mom and bite down on my lip. I worked hard my entire life to shield and protect her from the knowledge she married a monster. I chose not to confide the truth about my father to my lawyer and go to jail instead. But now that my mother is safe with her side of the family in Italy, I can reveal him for what he is.

  As my focus sharpens on Morgan, I wonder if she thinks I’m a monster like my father. Probably. In her shoes, I’d hate me.

  You don’t have to continue to be a monster.

  I don’t. I won’t.

  “You can take a shower,” I promise.

  “Really?” The hope in her eyes hammers home just how dire her situation is. That the simpl
e offer of her being able to get clean fills her with joy.

  “Just let me get out this part of my story first.” If I wait too much longer, we’ll either run out of time or I’ll lose my nerve. Hard telling what will come first. I already want to avoid sharing the rest. “Sit.”

  Finally, she lets go of my arms. As she wipes her tears and sits, I take a breath, much-needed oxygen filling my lungs. Since my father overstepped one line after another, touch is as unbearable as a lit match held too close to my skin. I hate it.

  Or…I thought I hated it. Now that Morgan’s thumbs are no longer brushing my arms, the unique burn has subsided. There is only a trail of warmth left on my skin. It’s…not bad.

  Interesting.

  “Tucker?” I turn my attention to Morgan. She’s wringing her hands, wiggling in her seat. She’s fidgety and anxious. “Will you sit with me?”

  “What?” I couldn’t have heard her correctly. I’m the enemy. She ducks her head and looks at her lap. My heart does that achy thing again.

  “Whenever I have a panic attack”—she presses her palms together and licks her lips—“having someone close helps.”

  I don’t get it. Being close to someone has never helped me.

  The doubt must show on my face because when she glances up at me, she says, “You don’t have to touch me.”

  Being close to her won’t help me, but if it comforts her in some way, I owe her at least that. The imprint left on my arms from her touch has receded, but I admit, I didn’t hate it. It didn’t have the aftereffect of my feeling guilty or dirty or disturbed, which is kind of disturbing in and of itself.

  Unhooking the hunting knife from my belt, I set it on the nearest counter so I can grab it if I need to. I’m not sure I trust her implicitly, but I want to. It’s a strange lightbulb moment.

  I sit on the flat mattress a foot away from Morgan. We face the partition, and I’m nervous. I can relate to her having a panic attack. I might be on the cusp of one of my own.

  “Thank you,” she whispers, turning toward me.

  As she curls one leg beneath her, her knee brushes my thigh. I bristle but don’t tell her to move. The subtle feel of her leg on mine—even over denim—is nice. And unnerving.