Forgotten Promises (Lost Boys #1)

by Jessica Lemmon

  “Tucker, thank you!” I lunge to hug him, but his hands on my wrists stop me. I sink to my heels, still slightly unsteady. His jaw is clean-shaven, his hair lying in damp waves on his head. Why is he so perfect?

  “Perfect?” A slight twist of his lips, almost a smile, makes me realize I spoke aloud. “That’s a new one, Angel.”

  I scrub my eyebrow, wondering at my assessment. He’s not perfect. He’s an ex-con kidnapper who had the most traumatic upbringing I’ve ever heard of—second only to his brother. Poor Jeremy. Poor both of them. It was bad all around, really. There was no winner. Only losers.

  Tucker snaps his fingers and I blink up at him. He’s frowning. A deep line bisects thick eyebrows. Petulantly, I shoo his hand away.

  “You took one,” he says, his voice low and definitely not happy. I know what he means, of course, so I don’t pretend not to.

  “Two, actually.” I make a peace sign to correct him. “There aren’t any more. Sorry,” I say, even though I’m sure he’s not asking for one.

  He swears softly and glances at the shower. “You’re not getting in there alone hopped up on that shit.”

  “I’m not hopped up!” But I stumble over the words. Maybe my empty stomach, lack of water, and general anxiety aren’t responding as usual to the pills I take rarely and recreationally. Or maybe, I think darkly, I’m not in my princess castle buried in bedding and sleeping off the effects until two or three in the afternoon. Could be that.

  Wait. Who cares? I deserve to rest! I’ve been kidnapped, for goodness’ sake. If ever there was a time for high anxiety, this was it.

  He moves for the shower’s knobs. “Forget it. You can do this later.”

  “Noooo!” I protest, eyes alert and head shaking. I don’t want to wait another second. The clean, warmish water beckons. “I’ll be fast.”

  He looks concerned with his lips pursed and a scowl on his face. Finally, he mutters, “Careful.”

  Yes!

  I palm his shoulder, using him as an anchor as I slip out of my filthy shorts and shirt. They’re like a second skin I’m desperate to shed. I catch a whiff of my pits as I move my arm and realize I’m in more need of a shower than my next meal. I hook my thumbs in my panties and Tucker promptly turns his back. He’s picked up my discarded clothes with one hand—the other is stretched behind him.

  I slap his palm like a high-five and giggle.

  “The rest of your clothes.” He turns his head to the side, but he’s not looking at me, not really. Kind of makes me want him to. Isn’t he curious?

  Wow. My thoughts are insane this morning. I disrobe and hand over my bra and panties, wishing I would’ve taken the bra off a day ago. My ribs ache from the pressure.

  Under the spray, I let out a long moan of pleasure as water washes over me. Tucker says something before he leaves, but I’m not paying attention, luxuriating in water and soap—and an all-in-one shampoo/conditioner for men I wouldn’t have been caught dead using on my hair before this very moment.

  The spray turns lukewarm fast and I hurry to rinse the soap off before stepping out and wrapping in a towel. Tucker isn’t in here and the bathroom door is ajar. Fresh clothes have been left for me. A pair of navy pajama bottoms, boxers, and a T-shirt.

  His clothes.

  I put them on, and the feel of soft cotton against my damp skin is more intimate than I anticipate—like the hand-holding yesterday. With him my senses are heightened, or maybe it’s me who is heightened. I don’t know. Maybe I’ve come down with a case of Stockholm syndrome. I want to laugh when the thought comes, but it’s not as funny as I want it to be.

  I brush my teeth, scrunch my hair with a towel, then eye my reflection. My eyes are dark underneath, my freckles out in droves thanks to the season, and my hair is so clean, the blond highlights practically glow. I rake my fingers through my hair, careful of the bump on my head, which is still sore but no longer bleeding.

  I think of Tucker tending to me that first day and watch my reflection for a moment, undecided. Is he a good guy or a bad guy? Is he both?

  Only time will reveal the answer to that question.

  In the kitchen, I find him hunkered over the sink scrubbing…something. Then he holds my shorts up for me to see. Bubbly and wet and…clean. Sort of. My lace shirt lay in a wad next to it.

  “I have cabin fever,” I announce. He squeezes the water out of my panties and bra and the muscles in his forearms bunch with the movement. “Literally.”

  My joke hits its mark. His lips curve in a tempting way that makes me wonder what they taste like. I blink to reset my brain.

  “Can I go for a walk?” I ask.

  He eyes me through a veil of thick, dark lashes Maybelline promises but never actually delivers. Without answering, he takes my dripping clothes outside and hangs them over the railing. In his too-big clothes, I follow and try to decide if I might go insane or if I’ve arrived already. The legs of the pajama bottoms are long, so I fold the waistband over and over again.

  A deep voice cuts in: “Let’s go.” Tucker raises his eyebrows. “Can you walk in these shoes?” He’s got my wedge sandals looped on two fingers. They’re clean, too. He’s been busy.

  “I don’t care how uncomfortable they are.” I take the shoes and slip them on. The scratch on my foot is irritating but not a deal breaker. “I just want to get the heck out of here for a few minutes.”

  “Those are big on you,” he murmurs, almost to himself. At first, I think he means the shoes, then I see that he’s studying the sagging pants I’m wearing.

  “Yeah.” I hike them a little higher on my hips. They sag again.

  “Sorry.”

  I meet his eyes, and our gazes hold for a beat, then two. I think the apology means more than the fact I’m wearing his oversize pants. He breaks eye contact first, pulls a granola bar in a foil wrapper from his pocket, and hands it to me. Then he’s off the porch and I follow, wearing the least fashionable ensemble on the planet: men’s pajama bottoms, a baggy Baybrook High T-shirt (I’m shocked he has one), and a pair of designer white leather strappy wedges.

  Fashionista, that’s me.

  I eat my breakfast as we crunch through thick grass, felled sticks, and leaves left over from last fall. The sun is bright and warms my skin, my wet hair. I track along the dry earth, grateful to have solid ground to walk on. I’m grateful to eat a granola bar with chocolate chips in it—my favorite. I’m grateful to be alive and clean and not hungry.

  I finish eating, crumple the wrapper, and stuff it into my pocket.

  “Thank you.” I cross my arms over my waist as I tromp beside and slightly behind him. “For the shower.” Probably no need to clarify, but I feel like I owe him a little gratitude. Is that weird?

  His steps falter slightly, but he stays silent, keeping his head down and picking up the pace. The hunting knife hangs on his belt. I wonder why he has it. Who or what does he need protecting from?

  We walk in silence a few more steps before I ask, “Why did you throw me in the trunk?”

  “Because if I put you in the front seat, you would have jumped out of the car.” He turns his head and peeks out from behind his hair. He’s not smiling, but I sense one lingers just behind his lips.

  “I might have come with you voluntarily. You could have asked.”

  He takes a deep breath. “So I should have told you my story in the ten seconds while sirens were screeching down Becker Avenue? Would you have climbed into the car with me then?”

  Fair point. The story he told wasn’t one to be rushed, and at that moment if he’d confessed about his father’s abusive habits, I would have run to the cops not away from them.

  “Huh?” His elbow bumps mine.

  Touch. Again.

  “No.” I send him a smirk. He returns it with one of his own—from a seemingly endless supply. “I believe you, by the way.”

  I stumble over a tangle of branches and nearly lose my shoe. Tucker is on me in a heartbeat, his hand under my elbow, his ex
pression fierce. No. Not fierce. Worried. Those blue-gray eyes are lighter in the daylight. It’s like I can see right down to his soul.

  He holds me for a few seconds, our gazes locked, and the air between us sizzles like hot oil in a pan. He looks away first, then lets me go. I’m steady, but he stays closer than before. Next to me rather than ahead, slowing his pace to accommodate my shorter legs and less functional footwear.

  “When do we go back?” There is a strange hesitation in my voice and I’m not sure if I mean go back to the cabin or go back to Baybrook. Not all of me wants to go back home. I haven’t had a chance to think of much more than basic survival since we arrived at this place, but now that I’m clean, fed, and sheltered from weather and predators, my thoughts turn to life at home. Drew. Shayna.

  Drew and Shayna as a unit.

  The betrayal felt like it’d happened a lifetime ago. To a different person. Arguably, it did. I’m not the same person who was nabbed at the 7-Eleven. What a sobering thought.

  I’m alone in the woods with the man who’s holding me captive. I should fear Tucker, but I don’t. There’s something about him—there has always been something about him—that draws me to him. Especially now that I know his past. His present.

  I don’t wait for him to answer, deciding for myself that, no, I’m not going back home just yet. I’m oddly content. Even in my crazy outfit and wet, tangled hair. The sun is warm and the birds are chirping and he makes for good company.

  “You can trust me to tell my father the truth,” I say. “And you can trust my father to fight for you. You’ve been…wronged.” Wronged is the wrong word, but I don’t know what else to call it.

  “I only need to trust you.” His voice is low, his marks exposed. They serve as macabre reminders of things I’d rather forget. “Your father will make up his own mind.”

  “And when your father finds out you told someone the truth?”

  He turns his head and watches me for a prolonged moment before focusing on the forest floor. “My father will have me killed.”

  Alarm like an electric shock shoots through my veins. The idea of a world without Tucker is terrifying.

  “I won’t let him.” I put my hand on Tucker’s arm. On his scars. He stops walking and I come to a stop next to him, but I don’t move my hand. I’m trying to comfort him, or maybe myself. Right now he’s here and breathing and important to me. And this is a way for me to acknowledge it…without saying it. He frowns, something intense in his stormy eyes. I caress the raised edge of one of his V-shaped marks with my thumb.

  “How many from your father?” I shouldn’t ask. I don’t want to know. But I do.

  A muscle in his jaw flickers.

  “You said he did some and you did the rest. Why?” Why would Tucker continue carving his arm—finishing the job his father started?

  His throat bobs as he swallows. His tongue wets his lips. He has a nice mouth. Firm but full. Clean-shaven, he looks even more beautiful, his angled, carved male beauty unhidden and on display for my eager eyes.

  “The rest are for Jeremy.”

  My thumb tracks over one scar, then another. Then another. I scale his arm, counting as I go. When I get to the seventh one, he puts his fingers on my hand to stop me. Tears pool in my eyes. Seven times his father took advantage of him. And the rest…

  I stop counting at ten, but there are at least half a dozen more.

  “He died because of me.” Tucker’s voice is low and tortured. He really believes that, but it’s not true.

  “No. He died because of your father.”

  His jaw clenches, the muscles working in his cheek. I sense he wants to believe me. Wants to let go of the guilt and blame, but something inside of him resists. I slide my hand down his arm, through the dark hairs, and to his wrist. When I reach his fingers, it’s an invitation.

  That he accepts.

  Slowly—ever so slowly—he folds my hand into his larger one, keeping his gaze on mine. In it, I see how much he wants to come out from where he’s hiding and feel the warmth of this day with me. I bite down on my lip, soaking in the sun and his attention, and savor the feel of his skin against mine. Then, head up and heart in my throat, I take a step toward the cabin. He walks beside me the entire way, his hand in mine.

  Chapter 9

  Lightning Flashes

  Tucker

  It’s late. The sun dips behind the hills, taking with it the summer day’s heat. After debating most of the day, I hand Morgan my phone and she calls her father. Risky? Maybe. But we’re reaching the end of the line, running out of time. Either she tells him where she thinks we are in the brief seconds before I can get ahold of my cellphone again, or she sticks with the plan and buys us a bit more time.

  I listen, curious to see which direction she chooses.

  “I know it’s out of character, but I promise you, I’m fine,” she says into the phone. “Adrienne let me borrow her phone. Because I lost mine. Yes…I know. I know.”

  She rolls her eyes at me and I feel a spark of jealousy at how much he cares about her. A father who cares. Hard to imagine.

  “I’m twenty-one, Dad. Not a child…” She pauses and takes a deep breath. “It’s just this thing with Drew and Shayna. It threw me, Dad.”

  Proving how close she is with her father, she tells him everything about the boyfriend and best friend who betrayed her. I hadn’t thought much about that since she told me in the parking lot.

  “I needed some time away and I hadn’t seen Adrienne in forever….I promise. I’m sorry. Tell Julia I hope she’s having fun. I’ll be home soon. I just need a little break.”

  She sits in a chair, her now-dry short shorts riding high on her thighs. Her long legs are kicked up on the railing. She still wears my T-shirt, and seeing her in it unleashes a strong surge of protectiveness. I start to imagine doing things with her other than holding her hand. Like sifting her hair through my fingers, moving my lips over the pulse on her neck….

  Sex and sexual thoughts have always elicited a dark response from me. It just wasn’t safe to think about. It wasn’t something that comforted me. It’s shocking how nice it is to have her here, more shocking how nice it was to hold her hand in mine. Morgan’s gentle touch comforts, and touch has never been something I craved. More like avoided. I’ve never told anyone the truth about those scars. Not even Joel.

  She wraps up the call, promising again to be home soon. She’s right about that. The only other thing I need to tell her is about the camp where my father supposedly “volunteers his services” so she can relay that information to her father as well. After that, my story is basically over. And so is our time here.

  “Adrienne is my best friend from sixth grade,” she tells me, dropping her feet to the ground and standing. “I haven’t talked to her in years, so I figured she’d be as good a cover as any.”

  She hands me my phone, and I accept it, sort of surprised she gave it back. A lot surprised she has chosen a side and that side happens to be mine.

  “He’s not happy I didn’t call until now, but he said he understands about Drew and Shayna and that if Drew ever shows his face at our house again, he’ll strangle him.” Grim amusement curls her mouth. I remember better her genuine smiles from school when she was laughing with her friends. She could light an entire city with that smile. I’ve never smiled that wide in my entire life. I’d like to make her smile like that again.

  You’re the bad guy.

  I don’t like that truth.

  I have no business imagining myself any closer to her than I am right now. Which is about three feet away. I’m leaning back in a chair on the small deck while she stands, back to the railing. The subtle outline of her nipples presses against the cotton of the thin shirt, and I try to look away, honest to God, but it takes me a few seconds longer than I mean for it to.

  “My dad made me promise four times that I’m safe.” She tilts her head and from this perspective, she’s looking down at me, her golden hair sliding over one cheek.
“Am I?”

  I wouldn’t hurt her. And I won’t let anyone else hurt her. I’ve already thought about what I’ll do if the cops find us before we leave. Not only will I make sure she isn’t in harm’s way, but I’ll protect her. In that scenario, I’m still the bad guy, but in her eyes, a good one. That’s enough for me. I don’t have to be everyone’s hero.

  Just hers. I don’t like that thought either and I feel my lips pull into a flat line.

  “You’re safe,” I tell her.

  She nods and moves to the chair next to mine. She looks out into the dark forest beyond the deck. It’s peaceful here but lonely. Again, I’m glad to share this time with Morgan. I’ve been alone a lot in my life. I should be used to it by now, but I’m not. I don’t like it. I never did.

  “My phone used to be my entire life before you destroyed it, you know,” she informs me.

  “Not like I had a choice.” I couldn’t risk her GPS being on and having us found before we were ready. Still, I feel bad about it.

  “You broke me of the habit of checking it every three and a half seconds. I probably have fifty missed calls and a mountain of texts. And I don’t even care.”

  I nod, but I can’t relate. I bought the burner the minute I was out of jail, but it wasn’t like anyone had my number. Not like I had anyone to call.

  “Tell me about your mom.” Her request catches me off guard. “There has to be a story, right?”

  It’s true. Everyone has a counterpart to the father. In my case, it’s Bloom Noscalo. I tell Morgan as much.

  “Her name is Bloom?”

  “Yes.” Unique, I know. As unique as our fucked-up family, but my mom lives up to her name: In a bed of thorns, she’s the rose.

  “Is she…okay?”

  “Yes.” In the physical sense. I watched a very large part of her die the day she found Jeremy. He was her favorite child, and I’m not bitter about that. I was virtually unreachable as a kid. My father had a hold on me and, in order to protect my mother and my brother, I kept to myself. She loves me. I know she does. “She lives in Italy.”