The roar of a motorcycle reverberates as it turns down our street, and I smile. “You hear that? That’s my brother Julian on his way for Sunday brunch.” I let out a long whistle. “Twenty-six years old, muscles, prison tattoos, and a pretty little Glock. He’s in a motorcycle club. Lots of mean friends. You know what he’s going to do to you when he finds out about you?”
“Don’t believe her, Liam!” Romy shrieks. “He’s a cop! His motorcycle club is just a bunch of old farts!”
“Heh. Old farts with guns. That any better?” I smart back.
He gasps. “No.”
I edge closer to Liam as my fingers imitate a gun and I aim for his heart. “Last boy who came out of that window disappeared in the Mississippi River—”
“He moved! Serena, quit scaring him!” comes from my sister. “That was months ago! I haven’t done it since then! I swear!”
“Or I haven’t caught you!”
The Harley roars into the driveway and parks behind Nana’s faded brown Avalon. Julian’s six-three frame eases off the bike, all muscled thighs and carefully leashed power as he whips off his helmet and stretches. He’s wearing faded jeans, a black wife beater, and dirty motorcycle boots. Roses and gold daggers decorate his upper left shoulder. A gold python starts at his right bicep and wraps all the way down to his wrist. I laugh under my breath.
Liam sputters and darts his gaze back at me. “Look, uh, we were just studying and it got late—”
My arms cross. “On a Saturday night? How conscientious of you…”
Red flushes up his face.
I poke him in the chest. “Now, here’s how it’s going to go. You’re on my blacklist, which means the next time you want to see Romy, you have to trudge over to my place above the garage…” I tilt my head back toward my apartment. “You knock on my door and ask real polite if you can knock on Nana’s and see Romy. Then, if I say it’s okay, if you have a shirt on, you come over here and be polite to my grandmother, maybe take out her trash, help her cook dinner, and for sure you help her wash dishes, and then you can sit in the den and watch TV or study with Romy. You leave through the front door at her curfew, which is midnight. Under no circumstances do you go to her room. It’s disrespectful to Nana and to Romy. I’d prefer you abstain from sex, but if you are having sex, well, I can’t stop you, but don’t do it in the house. Also, please use a condom. Venereal disease, simply put, will rot your penis, and teen pregnancy—”
“Serena, for the love of… Don’t make me cuss!” Romy calls.
“—is no joke,” I continue. “Seven hundred and fifty thousand teen girls get pregnant every year. Do you want to be a dad right now?”
“No,” he whispers.
“Don’t let the sex muddle your brain, and don’t think her being on the pill is enough. Even condoms are not completely safe.” Been there, done that.
He pales. “You can get pregnant with condoms?”
“Yes, Liam, I see you’re catching on. Nothing is impossible, and sex is a big responsibility. Think you’re ready for it?”
He sways on his feet.
“Should we discuss venereal disease?”
“No,” he whispers. “Please.”
“I’m going to jump out of this window if you give him the sex talk!” Romy yells.
“No, you won’t!” I call back to her, eyes still on Liam. I clear my throat. “First, and most people don’t realize this, there are more than twenty-five different venereal diseases, and some of those you can get even with a condom. Look it up—it’s true. Some, such as chlamydia and gonorrhea, have no symptoms but can be deadly if left untreated. I won’t go into what happens to the female, but for the male, well, it begins as a disgusting penile discharge and mild pain when urinating that becomes more severe. Then it progresses to epididymitis, an inflammation of the tube-like structure that stores and transports sperm…” I pause. “You look a bit green, Liam. Should I tell you about the rectal issues?”
“No.”
“Problem, sis?” Julian murmurs as he steps up next to me.
“Is there a problem?” I ask Liam.
He sucks in a breath and looks up at Romy, back at me, and then lands on Julian as he licks his lips. He comes back to me, a pleading look in his eyes. “I understand completely, ma’am. I’m so sorry.”
Ma’am. I laugh. “Good. Now, I’d love for you to meet my big brother. He bench-presses two hundred and fifty pounds. How much do you weigh, Liam?”
“One forty.”
“Julian’s a decorated state trooper and a former Navy SEAL. Wanna know what he did in the Navy? Sniper. My brother can kill a man from a thousand yards. He’s very protective of his baby sister. How do you think it makes him feel when a guy climbs out of her window?”
“Pissed off,” Julian mutters.
Liam flinches. “Won’t happen again, I swear. I’ll come see you first, before I see Romy.”
His body is pointed to the street, and I sigh. “You may go,” I say, and he pauses for half a second then takes off in a run down the street toward a bright yellow Chevelle. He cranks it and drives past us very, very slowly.
“Call me!” Romy yells at him.
“Navy SEAL? Damn, I sound good.” Julian chuckles.
“I improvised. I’m pissed at Romy, but catching him coming down the tree—now that was just fortuitous fun.”
“You’re crazy! I hate both of you!” Romy yells before slamming her window shut.
Oh, the bliss of mentoring a teenager. Technically, Nana has guardianship of her, but I’m the one she gravitates to. There’s only seven years between us, so it makes sense. Did I do crazy stuff when I was a teenager? Um, yeah, hello, tattoo and vodka. I used to sneak out of my bedroom on the weekends. I gave my virginity to a bad boy in high school who dropped me afterward. I just want Romy to make better decisions than I did.
Julian throws an arm around me as we walk to the front door. “You mentioned the gun?”
“Told him you took the last guy out.”
He shakes his head. “What are we gonna do with her?”
A long sigh comes from me. “Heaven help me, I’ve tried. You should talk to her…”
He winces. “Serena, nah, don’t make me. I wouldn’t know what to say.”
“Maybe if you sat down with her and told her a guy’s point of view on sex, how they may not feel the same emotional attachments—”
He sucks his teeth. “Look, you’re a girl, she’s a girl…you got it.”
Then why is she always in some kind of trouble? Frustration builds in my stomach. In March of her junior year, while I was in the middle of dealing with the fallout from Vane, she hooked up with a bad crowd at the public school. The administrators caught her and two other girls smoking pot under the football bleachers. Drugs on school grounds are an automatic 180-day expulsion and admittance to an alternative school. I scrambled to find the money and managed to get her accepted at the local private school. Lucky for us, one of the board members is a policeman and worked with my dad, otherwise they wouldn’t have taken her.
An hour later, I’m slicing strawberries while Romy takes the chicken breasts out of the oven. A plate of warm waffles sits on the counter next to a bowl of eggs ready to be scrambled, just waiting for Julian to come in from mowing the yard.
My gaze drifts over the soft blue curtains in the breakfast area, the faded filigree wallpaper, the ancient oak table with a centerpiece of grapes and apples. The house is old and ramshackle, but tidy. Selling our family home was never an option after my parents died.
“How’s school? It’s your senior year, so that has to be exciting,” I ask Romy, offering an olive branch after I talked to her in her room. While she glowered, I sat on her bed and went through my checklist with her about teen sex, how she’s experiencing raging hormones, that sex doesn’t mean love…
Now in the kitchen, she shrugs, a wary expression on her face. Deep purple lipstick colors her mouth and her eyes are heavy with eyeliner. Magenta streaks pop
in her hair. That’s new.
“Two weeks in and calculus sucks. I flunked the first test.” Her shoulders dip, and a panicked look flashes over her face before she turns back to the stove. “The uniforms drive me batty, and the girls are snotty. Headmaster Roberts glares at me like he expects me to fire up a joint at any moment. Same as last year.”
“Would you prefer I homeschool you?” I could, I guess, in between catering jobs and writing.
Her face reddens and her eyes grow shiny. “I miss my old school is all.”
“How’s the hip hop?”
“Tryouts are soon.” She turns away, giving me her rigid back.
“I can help you, if you want.” I took dance classes for years, ranging from ballet to modern. Once I thought I might do it professionally, maybe own a studio and teach, but the uncertainty of that career choice made me wary—especially after my parents died. I had to grow up quick.
“You’re busy.” She shrugs.
I sigh. “I’m sorry I’m not always here. Nana is.”
“At least I see you more now that Vane is gone. Asshole.”
“Language,” I murmur.
“Like you don’t say worse.”
I am trying.
“I’m sorry about letting Liam stay. We honestly just fell asleep.” Her lips twist. “Do you believe me?” Her eyes find mine and hold them.
I nod. “Just…don’t rush into anything, okay?”
“Like you did with Vane?”
A long exhalation comes from my chest. “Yeah.” The first night I met him, I slept with him. She knows about the pregnancy, the rushed marriage, the quickie divorce when he cheated.
My almost-seventy-year-old nana flounces in, her two Yorkies, Buster and Betty, behind her, their nails clicking on the hardwood. An unlit cigarette dangles from her pink lips, sponge rollers still in her graying brown hair.
“Nana, those are bad for you,” I warn. She claims she quit smoking ten years ago after her COPD diagnosis, but she sneaks them when she takes the dogs for a walk.
“Just one of those days when I like to have one in my mouth.” She stops at the butcher block island in the middle of the kitchen. “Girls, would you be willing to eat a bowl of live crickets for twenty thousand dollars?”
“Gross! No!” Romy takes a chicken breast and sets it on a stack of paper towels.
“How many crickets are in the bowl?” I ask.
Nana scoops up Betty, the sweeter of the dogs, and scratches behind her jeweled pink collar. “Twenty.”
“Maybe.” Money is always tight. My parents had insurance, but a lot of that was used to pay off the house, Julian’s college loans, mine, Nana’s medical bills, and now Romy’s private school. I’m also socking money away for Romy’s freshman year at college. Julian contributes to her college fund, but he doesn’t live here with us, and sometimes it feels like an uphill battle just to stay afloat with the day-to-day.
She pats me on the cheek. “I asked Turo, and he said he’d eat anything. His eyes got all sexy like and he waggled his eyebrows. That’s a come-on if I ever heard it.” She sucks on the end of her unlit cig. “I’m gonna bang him. Have I mentioned he’s Italian?”
“Yes!” Romy and I say at the same time.
Romy smirks. “Your senior citizen center is a hotbed. Geriatrics are the most likely to contract venereal diseases. Just ask Serena.” Her tone is sharp as she darts her eyes at me and then away.
“Serena!” Julian sticks his head in the front door. “Someone’s pulling up with your car.”
“My car?” My voice rises.
What in the world?
How are they driving it? It’s at the Pig…
I wipe my hands on a dishtowel and head to the front door, then stop. Oh, oh, right! I was distracted when the quarterback showed up in the parking lot. I’ve been meaning to get a ride to grab my keys, but it’s slipped my mind.
My eyes flare wide as I stop on the porch and watch as Sawyer gets out of my car. I have the team profiles and photos memorized. Dillon’s Escalade pulls up behind my car at the curb. Owen Sinclair is in his passenger seat.
My eyes are on Dillon as he exits his vehicle.
He sweeps his gaze over the house, briefly glancing to my apartment over the garage. He’s wearing workout clothes, gym shorts, and a Tigers vented tank. The ends of his hair curl around a ball cap.
His eyes flash over to me, lingering.
I gaze down at my gauzy teal harem pants and orange-striped bandeau top that cups my breasts and loops around my neck. I’m showing a liberal amount of midriff. It’s a far cry from my Piggly Wiggly outfit or my stadium clothes.
This is the real me, football player. A little wild. A little scared of you.
“Serena,” he murmurs as he stalks toward me.
“This is…”—shocking—“a surprise.” My gaze flits to my Toyota. “What’s going on?”
“Your car—don’t you need it?”
“Yeah, but how…” My words stop as Owen comes around the Escalade.
His gaze darts between us. “Hey, Serena. Dillon said I owe you an apology.”
“He did?” I ask, bemused.
“Apparently I was a dick at the stadium.”
“And…” Dillon prompts.
Owen grunts. “And I shouldn’t have said, ‘Pass her along when you’re done.’”
“Ah, okay. You fixed my car?” I glance at my sad excuse for a Highlander, wincing at the rust around the edges of the wheels, the dent Romy put in the bumper.
“Not me. Dillon,” Owen says. “I’ve got no clue what you see in him. He’s the biggest asshole—”
Dillon pops him on the arm, shutting him up. “What Owen meant is, we ran past the Pig this morning and saw your car. We checked it out, spied the keys in the console, so I popped the hood. Turns out, you needed a battery. You should have told me you didn’t have a car. I would have driven you home from the stadium that day.”
“So you decided to drive to AutoZone and get a new battery?” My tone is incredulous. He fixed my car!
Sawyer raises his hand and says, “He called me and I brought them one.” He flashes me a wide grin. He’s handsome, his wavy black hair chin-length, his skin a dark bronze. Small silver hoops hang in his earlobes. “Dillon wanted to repair it and deliver it to you. So, we did. Now that I see you, well, all is clear. Crystal. Nice to meet you.”
I murmur the same back to him.
“How much do I owe you?” I ask Dillon.
Before he can answer, Julian juts in and gives me a prod in my ribs. “Why didn’t you tell me your car was stuck at the Pig? How long?”
I sigh. “A week. You were working late shifts and I was going to get around to it today at some point. I didn’t have any catering gigs this week, just class and the Gazette. I was fine.” I explain how I called the manager and she told me it was cool to leave the Highlander.
He gives me a disgruntled look.
My chin tilts. “I like to walk.” Magnolia doesn’t have a bussing system, and Nana needs her car for her visits to the senior center and to drive Romy to and from school. If we had more money, I’d buy my sister a car, but we don’t.
Julian exhales. “It wouldn’t have taken much for me to run over there.”
The truth is, he’s got a new, demanding girlfriend and spends most of his extra time with her. I’ve heard him on the phone with her trying to explain why he’s over here repairing this or that. Two weeks ago, it was the garbage disposal. The week before that it was a gutter that came down in a storm.
“Well, well, who do we have here?” Nana’s voice comes from the porch. She approaches us wearing leopard-print leggings and a black Guns ‘N Roses shirt. Her unlit cig still dangles from her lips, but thankfully she’s taken out the rollers and teased her hair up in the back, the ends flipped up à la 1950s. Betty is in her arms.
Buster paces the porch and yips, sending indignant looks at the crowd until he gets the nerve to jump down the steps and trot after her.
“Oh my God! Dillon McQueen!” is shrieked from the front door as Romy throws it open.
Dillon laughs as he looks at my face. I laugh with him and he stops, pausing, something on my face making him blink. Butterflies take off in my stomach. Stop, I yell at them.
“Why didn’t you tell me you invited friends over!” Romy grouses as she makes her way over to us. She fluffs her hair, an excited look on her face. “Eek! I need an autograph!”
“Sure,” Owen and Dillon say at the same time then glare at each other.
Romy runs off to get a piece of notebook paper and a pen, comes back, and all three guys sign it as if it’s something they do all the time.
Dillon rakes his eyes over Julian. “You with Serena?”
I start. When Julian and I go out, people do sometimes think we’re together. We grew up as an affectionate family and often hug and tease each other, and we don’t look alike. He’s got the bulk of Dad, the dark hair and blue eyes, while I’m petite with light brown eyes. “Brother. A protective one,” Julian says, eyes glowering at Dillon.
Yeah, that was subtle. He’s (understandably) wary since Vane.
“Hmm.” Dillon’s gaze comes back to me.
“It’s not every day I get to meet Serena’s friends. Why, I didn’t even know she knew any football players,” Nana says, thrusting Betty into an unprepared Sawyer’s arms. He blinks and cradles the dog as she licks his face.
Nana smiles at them, lasering in on Dillon. “So, what I want to know is… Would you eat a bowl of live crickets for twenty thousand dollars?”
Romy chokes, and I groan inwardly.
Dillon looks at me. “I see where you get it.”
I shrug. “We’re Southern—you should see the relative we have locked up in the attic.”
“Uncle Charles is dead and you know it,” Nana quips.
“He wasn’t locked in the attic. He passed away in Miami,” I retort.
Dillon laughs. “How many crickets are in the bowl?”
“Twenty. A thousand dollars for each cricket,” she declares.
Dillon tucks his hands into his shorts and speaks in his lazy tone. “Well, ma’am, the NCAA doesn’t allow us to accept gifts from anyone, but if we’re speaking hypothetically, I suppose I would. I like a good challenge.” His eyes drift over me.
I Promise You Page 10