Vow of Honor (Vow Series Book 3)

by Emma Renshaw

  The trouble from my past that I spend hours of my week checking into, checking from every angle? That shit is the wrong kind of quiet and has been that way for weeks. Incessant chatter doesn't stop unless it knows it’s being watched. This is the silence that eats at your soul, the silence that happens right before a storm. The eerie quiet that falls when the serial killer has its target in sight and the prey doesn't know it’s about to die.

  I have a few minutes before I need to head inside so I boot up my laptop, connect to the hotspot on the prepaid phone I keep specifically for this and connect the virtual private network. My private browser, Tor, finally opens up and I check through the usual sites but nothing. Nothing I can use, nothing that gives me any hint of what’s going on in the world I left behind.

  There's not a damn thing I can do to release my frustration. Instead, I'm here about to walk into a place that has done nothing but annoy me and meet a girl who is going to make it even worse.

  I blow past the reception desk, not bothering to check in. The receptionist knows who I am and can check me in. It's pointless; she'll tell me to wait in the physical therapy room, so that's where I go instead of wasting time on needless small talk. I walk into the room, expecting a wait, but Tatum is there. Her back is to me as she sets up an area with equipment. She's the only person in here, which doesn't surprise me; she asked if I could take the earliest appointment. It's just the two of us, and with that knowledge alone, the tension threatens to suffocate me.

  She hasn't even turned around. The door clicks closed behind me, and she doesn't acknowledge my presence.

  "Tatum," I say.

  She still doesn't turn around. Instead, she starts to sing and shimmy her hips, weaving her head from side to side. When I catch a view of her profile, I see the earbuds. This pisses me off. She's in a room alone, completely unaware of her surroundings. Shit can happen anywhere. I stalk toward her, already feeling my short fuse spark before I rip the bud away from her ear.

  Tatum flinches and lets out a small yelp, dropping the eight-pound medicine ball as I grind my teeth. One hand comes to her chest and the other rests on my forearm. The moment her skin touched mine it felt like an electric minefield coming to life. I stare down at her hand battling with the want to rip it off my arm and the need to feel every inch of her skin pressed against mine.

  "Oh, my god, James, you scared me," she says, breathing hard with a small smile and her other hand pressed to her chest.

  My glare leaves her hand and shoots to her eyes. "Pay attention to your surroundings," I bark out as an order.

  The tiny smile shuts down as a scowl takes over. Her hand leaves my arm, pointing a finger in my face. "Don't give me that shit, bucko. I'm perfectly fine and safe. You startled me."

  "Bucko?" I ask, my annoyance racking up another notch.

  "Yeah, bucko, I can take care of myself."

  "What would you have done if I wanted to attack you?" My question comes out harsh and demanding. No victim is ever to blame, but it's smart to take notice of your surroundings and exits at all times.

  "Attack me?" she asks, a hint of fear seeping in her voice as she takes a tiny step away from me.

  My fists settle on my hips as I release a frustrated sigh. "I'm not going to attack you. I'm asking what you would have done since you can take such great care of yourself."

  She watches me for a moment, a deep crease forming between her eyebrows. "I'd throw a medicine ball at you."

  I don't answer, only stare at her. She gets my message.

  "What? They're heavy. If I nailed you in the head, you'd definitely go down."

  "It'd take a lot more than that to take me down."

  "Not everyone is ginormous like you are," she sneers, propping a hand on her hip, mimicking my position.

  "If you threw a medicine ball at me, I'd deflect it. I'm standing between you and the exit. Your back was turned with headphones in. Just be more fuckin' aware."

  Her breaths are coming out in heavy pants while she stares at me with anger. It's taking everything in me not to look down at her chest. She annoys me, but there’s no denying that this girl is gorgeous.

  "Whatever," she finally mutters.

  "Yeah, whatever." I survey the equipment she's been setting up. "What's the plan?"

  "Shoulder rolls," she says sweetly.

  My gaze pins her to the spot, impatience coursing through me.

  "Ten forward, ten back, each shoulder."

  She picks her clipboard up off the floor, watching me, waiting for me to start the shoulder rolls. My jaw is clenching so tightly, I swear I hear my molars cracking. Tatum snorts then slaps a hand over her mouth, trying hold in the laughter, causing my body to tense up even more. Her shoulders are shaking and her eyes become glassy before the laughter finally bursts out of her.

  "You turn so red. It's hilarious," she says through her laughter. "If the Hulk turned red instead of green, I'd swear y'all are twins. You and the green Hulk could go as the Dynamic Christmas Duo."

  "Hilarious," I mumble.

  "You're not doing shoulder rolls, but we are taking it easier than you’d probably like. I know the original therapy with Simon suggested six weeks, but your progress isn’t there. We’ll need more than the remaining three weeks. I’m adding three additional weeks. We will go easy in the beginning and advance more later."

  I open my mouth to object, but she holds up a hand, staring at me hard. "Please, let me finish."

  After a beat, I reluctantly nod.

  "Less is sometimes more," Tatum says with a smile. "I can tell by looking at you that you enjoy working out. I'll get you back in that gym with your old routine in no time, but you have to trust me. I'm going to ask you to do movements so tiny, you're going to doubt me, but don't. Eventually, you'll feel it. When truly focusing on a muscle, the slightest movement can be the difference between comfortable and pain so fierce you fall on the floor. How often do you normally go to the gym?"

  "Every day," I answer.

  "Every day? No rest days?"

  "I own the place. No such thing as a rest day."

  She nods. "Fair enough. Think you can trust me?"

  I watch her watching me, waiting for me to determine my response. There's hopefulness pouring out her eyes. That alone makes her different than Simon.

  "Fine," I answer.

  Tatum guides me through stretching to warm up my body for our session. It's still just the two of us, her soft voice is the only noise in the room. She does the stretches next to me while keeping a close eye on my form, which irritates me.

  "Good," she says. "We're going to start with something called framing the door."

  My eyes move to her. "Seriously?"

  "Yes." Her lips twitch. "That's what it's called."

  Tatum steps in front of me, placing her small hands on my shoulders while looking up at me. "I'm not sure how useful the mental part of this exercise will be for you. You have to imagine you're in a doorway. Do you even fit in a doorway?"

  A growl erupts from my chest as I roll my shoulders, shaking off her hands.

  "I swear you move through shades of red so quickly." She cracks up at her own joke while wrapping an arm around her stomach. When she finally settles down, Tatum rests her hands on my shoulders again.

  "Get on with it, Tatum," I snarl.

  "Tate," she says. "Call me Tate."

  "Tatum," I respond.

  "You're kind of a jackass." Her smile is gone, her irritation starting to match my own. "It's Tate."

  "Tatum," I growl. "I'll call you by your damn name. I don't do nicknames unless I like you."

  She rolls her eyes and shakes her head softly before placing a fake smile on her lips. "Imagine you're in a doorway."

  She waits for me, knowing I ain't picturing standing in a doorway.

  "James," she says, mocking, the smile returning. "Before you turn red, just do what I say."

  My chest rumbles before I stand straighter, imagining myself in a doorway.

&nbs
p; "Okay, raise your arms," she says, taking her hands from my shoulders. "Turn your palms out and pretend you're pressing against the doorframe."

  I do as she instructs, but my eyes catch on the man entering the room. Fucking Simon. He stops when he spots Tatum, his gaze losing focus. What the hell.

  "Good." She brings her hands to my arms, slowly guiding her palms over my skin and slightly pushing my arms higher. Tatum walks around me under my arm and runs her hand down my spine between my shoulder blades. "You want to feel this right here. Slowly bring your hands down as if you're feeling the frame of the door, I'll tell you when to hold."

  Is she dating him? I don’t think I could work with anyone that stupid. My gaze moves over my shoulder to Tatum; she’s watching my arms and back closely, completely unaware Simon is here and ogling at her.

  “James?” she prompts when I don’t answer or move my hands.

  I nod, my eyes still cast over my shoulder looking at Tatum’s face, and I bring my hands down. With her hand still resting between my shoulder blades, she says, "Stop and hold. Do you feel this right here?" She’s not with him, right?

  "Yeah," I say, focusing on the muscles surrounding her hand. No, definitely not with him. He’s still standing in the same spot. I don’t think he’s blinked at all. My muscles tense thinking about her alone in this room, dancing around with earbuds in her ears, completely oblivious to the world. She hasn’t even acknowledged that she knows he’s there.

  “What happened? Did something twinge your shoulder?” Tatum asks, kneading my back muscles. “Your muscles tensed up.”

  “Does he always watch you like that?”

  “Who?” she asks, looking around and stopping when her gaze finds Simon. A weary look crosses her face. “He likes looking at all the girls.”

  I grunt. He’s still staring at her with possessiveness in his eyes.

  “Relax,” Tatum whispers.

  I tear my eyes away from Simon just as he finally breaks his concentration on Tatum and focuses it on another female in the room. Christ. My muscles slowly ease back into a more relaxed state.

  "Good, slowly release. We'll do this for three sets of ten."

  After Tatum maneuvers me through several exercises, she faces me with a triumphant grin. "Trust me yet?"

  "Nope." I ignore the slight shift in my chest when her face falls for a second before attitude replaces it.

  "You'll be singing my praises one day, James."

  I huff and shake my head in denial, aggravated that her new plan adds a few weeks to the original six. "Doubt that. You're a slight step up from Simon."

  "I can send you back to him, if you like," she tosses back.

  "Nope, but if there's someone better who understands strength, you can send me to them."

  "Jackass," she mutters.

  "Probably shouldn't call your client a jackass," I say seriously, relishing that it's her turning red and not me.

  "Call it like I see it, James."

  "Next Monday. 6:00 a.m. Tatum," I say, nodding once.

  "Tate," she bites out between her teeth.

  I turn away and walk to the door, calling over my shoulder in a grunt, "Later, Tatum."

  Chapter 6

  Tatum

  My mom is just as excited about fall as I am, if the pumpkins decorating the ground near the mailbox are any indication. Any holiday, event, or season, my mom pulls out all the stops, but fall—fall is her favorite time of year. We don't get the same beautiful foliage as the northeast, but my mom sure likes to pretend we do.

  Our white, tin mailbox is now painted with colorful falling leaves with our last name, Rothschild, through the center. My mom grew up dreaming of a gorgeous house filled with family behind a white picket fence and a fun mailbox with her last name. When my parents built this house and planted a standard-looking mailbox at the edge of street, the white tin among the stone and brick mailboxes looked like a game of what doesn’t belong? The neighborhood homeowners’ association came knocking not even two days later, demanding they replace it.

  My mom fought tooth and nail to keep her mailbox and constantly paints it. Sometimes a solid color—her favorite is navy. Sometimes a theme, such as a reindeer for Christmas, a field of clovers for St. Patty’s Day, and fireworks for the Fourth of July. And my Pop Pop's favorite, dirty jokes. She only does this when the HOA really makes her angry, and it never lasts long.

  Her most recent—what’s the difference between the HOA and a dead lady of the night?

  The HOA still blows.

  My mom and Pop Pop took pictures standing in front of the mailbox when my mom finished painting it, both smiling wide and proud.

  While my family is well-known in Austin society, we're not the typical blue-blood bunch. Hence, my mom and grandpa's willingness to paint dirty jokes on the mailbox for all to see. My dad isn't as free-spirited as they are, but he never stops their fun. He says that when he brought my mom home to meet Pop Pop and Grams, my mom and Pop Pop immediately bonded, becoming thick as thieves and partners in crime.

  I pull into the circular drive, parking behind my brother's car. Running up the steps and letting myself inside, I call out into the massive entryway. "Hello? I'm here!"

  "No one cares," I hear my brother, Hammond, shout back. It sounds like he's in the den, probably playing pool with Pop Pop.

  "Come on in, sweetheart," Pop Pop calls from the same area. I smile, heading toward the den. The soft slap of the balls lets me know I'm right, they're playing pool.

  Pop Pop is standing just inside the archway, leaning against the wall and rubbing the blue chalk on the end of his cue while my brother is bent over the table in front of me. I slowly sneak up behind him, waiting as he lines up his shot, and glace over my shoulder at a grinning Pop Pop. Right before Hammond pulls back to hit the ball, I whisper in his ear. "Boo."

  His arm flinches as he moves the cue to forward, making him miss the ball completely. Hammond's head turns slowly toward me, glaring.

  "Hey, big brother," I say, giving him my sweetest smile.

  He moves quickly, wrapping me in a headlock and giving me a noogie. Pop Pop laughs as I wrestle to get out of Hammond's grip. When he finally lets me go, he playfully pushes me. "Thanks a lot, sis. I missed you so much," he says sarcastically.

  I walk over to Pop Pop, wrapping my arms around his waist and lifting on my toes to kiss his cheek. "Sorry, I want Pop Pop to win."

  "No loyalty," my brother says, trying to conceal his smile with a hand over his wounded heart.

  "I only have loyalty for my favorite family members," I say as Pop Pop hugs me tighter and squeezes my shoulder.

  "That's my girl." Pop Pop kisses the top of my head in a loud smacking kiss. "Good to see you, kid. I have to take my shot now."

  "It's going to be the winning shot," Hammond says. "Thanks to you." His arm slings over my shoulder as we watch Pop Pop sink all the balls, including the eight, ending the game.

  "That's how it's done, kids." Pop Pop grins, swaggering toward us. He may be getting up there in age, but he's still the absolute coolest person I know. "Let's go find your parents."

  We find them in the kitchen, my dad at the stove listening to my mom chatter with a tiny, happy smile, and my mom sitting on a barstool sipping a mimosa and nibbling on a piece of fruit and her arms waving wildly in the air as she speaks.

  "My babies," my mom sighs happily. "When did y'all get here?"

  Hammond and I walk over to my mom, giving her a hug. She takes each of our faces in her hands, giving us a loud, smacking kiss on the cheek, just like Pop Pop.

  "Most handsome boy in the world," she says to my brother. He grins, eating up the attention, reverting to his twelve-year-old-self and not acting like his real age—thirty. I snort in disagreement, smiling when my brother glowers at me.

  "Most beautiful girl in the world," she whispers to me. I roll my eyes.

  "Pop Pop wrangled me into a game of pool before we came in here," Hammond says, taking the barstool next to her
and pouring a mimosa before handing it to me.

  I accept it graciously. "I caught the end of the game."

  "Do you wait for them by the door to be sure that you'll be the first they see, old man?" my mom asks my grandpa.

  “People usually save the best for last, but I figure I should let the kids spend time with their favorite before looking for you two," Pop Pop says, leaning around my mom to grab a grape before popping it in his mouth.

  I make my way around the island to give my dad a hug. "Hey, Dad," I say quietly, watching him cook our brunch.

  "Hey, kiddo." He kisses the top of my head as I keep my arms wrapped around his middle. I lean my head against his shoulder and he keeps one around me as he continues cooking with one hand.

  A bar stool scoots across the polished tile a few seconds before Hammond appears on the other side of my dad. He tugs the ends of my hair. “Move out of the way so he can say hello to his favorite.”

  “You’re so not the favorite.”

  “Keep telling yourself that, little sis.”

  I give my dad one more tight squeeze before letting go.

  "Hey, Dad," Hammond says picking up a spoon and stirring the boiling pot behind the skillet my dad is focusing on.

  "Hey, bud,” my dad greets happily.

  My family gets together for a meal as often as we can. Since Patrick and I broke up, I've spent a lot of nights at their dinner table. Hammond doesn't join as often, but he makes sure to come whenever possible. He's a lawyer at Dad’s firm, working his way to becoming a partner, but right now his workload is insane.

  Hammond and I make our way back to the barstools at the island after we talk with our dad. We wait for him to finish cooking. As he plates everything, Hammond and I set the table, still in the habit from when we were kids. Pop Pop and Mom happily chatter away about the latest neighborhood gossip—Mrs. Perkins dumped her husband’s belongings on the front lawn and had the locks changed.

  Sitting amongst my family as my dad prepares the meal and my mom and Pop Pop talk or argue, I feel content and settled. Coming home always brings me peace.