The Vow (Manhattan Nights Book 1) Page 2

  I’d never gone to my parents for support. Not since I was in ninth grade. And even then, the support was fleeing, and I’d leaned on my best friend and her perfect family. The wealthiest one on our block. I’d taken comfort in the arms of Kayla, Carol and Christopher Jackson… and Brett. Her older brother. And the only person I know in this already God-forsaken city. I dismiss the idea that comes to my head as soon as I think his name.

  To hell with Brett Jackson. And the motorcycle he rode in on. I refuse to reach out.

  Violet Keats catches my attention. “Hello?” I gaze back at her face. “Thought I’d lost you for a second. I was asking if you had a plan B, Kansas. Unless you’re made out of money, booking something decent is going to take your every cent.”

  My stomach drops. “Is it?”

  “Oh yeah,” she comments, spinning her second glass in her hand. She still hasn’t drank it. “Unless you want to sleep in piss, I suggest you start thinking about reaching out to that ‘Not none’ option you have. That’s probably as good as you’re going to get for such short notice.”

  I shake my head, already saying no, and Violet frowns at me. The stalwart stranger doesn’t get it. And I don’t know how anybody could. Not even Kayla… who I still won’t tell.

  Brett Jackson is not an option for me.

  Our pasts are too tightly woven, too fucked up to forget. A history of heartbreak and broken promises has littered the path I’ve taken with my best friend’s brother, and I’d be a fool to try to dismiss it. To try to pretend like the muscled spokesmodel for assholes is someone I can even see again.

  I reminisce about the one and only son of my best friend’s family, the local bad boy that roamed the hallways of Riverside High, a customary toothpick between his teeth and a jersey on his back.

  Nothing was normal about the local star athlete, known as much for his talent with a pen as much as his fondness for fighting. Brett Jackson was a walking contradiction to anyone who had ever crossed his path, and especially to me.

  How long had it been? Seven years? That certainly wasn’t something to sneeze at… And after all we’d been through, after the barely-escaped disasters and fights… and fucks, I didn’t know if I had it in me.

  I don’t even know if I hate him at this point. The bad part? I wish I did.

  And what does that say about me and Brett? When I’d almost rather risk the streets than spend a second in his presence? The man has always gotten under my skin. Especially considering the fact that he was the first man to get under my skin. Literally.

  Even his name racks me with memories. And as I think of him, of his tousled brown hair and blue-green eyes, something inside of me snaps, reminding me that I’m not the same Elsie he knew. The same Elsie I knew. I can survive him.

  I did it before. I’ll do it again.

  I snap back into reality as Violet moves closer. She taps my hand.

  “I think I get what this ‘not none’ thing might be about.” She finishes the rest of her second dark drink. “Does it involve a swinging penis?”

  I glance at her without breathing. “Yes.”

  “Good swinging penis?”

  Another breath. “Yes.”

  “Well then…” She pushes her empty glasses to the side, smacking her lips. “I’ve only got two words of advice… No emotion. To make it in Manhattan, you’re going to have to hang your feelings on the wall and forget them. It’s the only way I’ve survived. It’s the only way anyone survives.”

  I smile. “Can you put that in writing?”

  Violet rises to her feet, swinging her designer briefcase over her shoulder. She looks down at me. “‘I’m an attorney. I know by now to never put anything in writing.” She places a business card in my hand. “Call me if you get into trouble. And even if you don’t…” She smiles. “Still call me… I’ll see you around, Kansas.”

  I stare at her retreating back, my voice whispering. “Thanks.” I pick up her card. “I think I will.”

  My cell phone pings suddenly as Violet swings out of the front door, and I see that it’s Kayla. What I’m about to do terrifies me, but it’s too late to back out. I text her back. And the only thought I can have appears on the screen as I type, my sweaty palms slipping over my phone as I message my best friend the last words on earth I thought I’d ever say.

  Hey, I write, my chest growing tight with each word. Do you think you can give me your brother’s number?

  Chapter 2

  BRETT

  I haven’t seen Elsie Carpenter in seven goddamned years.

  A long fucking time to not to talk to someone. Too long. Th second her text message hits my cell, I already know who it will be, the warning message from my sister, Kayla, burning a hole in my brain that my favorite band-aid—work—won’t even fix. Tonight, I keep the shop open later than usual.

  The job never sleeps. And neither do I.

  Elsie Carpenter now has my number. And I’d never thought she’d use it. Seven years of silence was enough to know when someone fucking hated you, and when you knew that person—intimately, every passing year made the quiet between you two more acute. More aware. And not for nothing… but I happen to know little Elsie Carpenter like the back of my goddamned hand. Or, at least, I once did.

  A long time ago. And the text lets me know that not much has changed.

  She writes: Can I stay with you?

  The strange part? Sitting here in near solitude, all it takes is that five word text from Elsie to send my self-absorbed ass back into the past, my mind thrown into a thousand different directions instead of on the work right here in front of me. Or rather… the woman right here in front of me. Sitting here. Half-naked. Alone. With her breasts bared for only me to see in this tiny room.

  Marilyn Daniels has skin that was made for tattoos, her body a perfect canvas. And everyone knows it.

  It’s the planes of her; they’re smooth and even. With silky porcelain skin, the soap opera actress with an affinity for ink and tangling with the paparazzi has been one of my most faithful clients over the past year. And, without a doubt, one of the most beautiful.

  My hand steady, my gaze straight, I place the finishing touches on a heart tattoo beneath one of her highly-famed tits, and she looks down at me, her pink nipples held in her hands, her voice a breathy whisper as she stares softly into the mirror behind us. Her words are a sigh.

  “I love it, Brett. You’ve outdone yourself.”

  I slide back on my rolling stool, dropping the ink-tipped needle to the table, looking at an hour’s work. I smile at her in the mirror. “It’s only a heart, Marilyn. Nothing to get excited about.”

  “But it’s not.” The sultry brunette shakes her head. “The detail. The shading that you add to the shape. The dimension you give it.” She stands to her feet. “You have a gift, Mr. Jackson. You really do. And I can’t wait to see your gift all over the small screen. Reed Hutton told me that he loves your work. He really does.”

  I nod slowly. “Yes. Because it’s important to get the approval of a man who produces TV trash like ‘Hollywood Babymamas.’” I snort, glancing at my client. “I certainly feel validated now.”

  Marilyn shoots me a pointed look. “You should be. Reed Hutton has the ability to change lives.” She juts a finger in my direction. “He could change your life. You could have your own show, and the world would see you for the amazing artist that you are. Just meet with him and hear what he has to say. You can open up the second shop. And I can stop braving the long trek here to Brooklyn just to see your ass.”

  “I thought my ‘ass’ was the reason you were coming here in the first place.”

  She scoffs, lowering her shirt, after I place a white bandage over the brand new ink. She winks down at me as my fingertips touch her skin. “You wish, pretty boy. I’ll see you next month.” She grabs for her coat, sauntering to the closed curtain that separates us from the front room. I yell as she heads towards the exit.

  “And I’ll see you on Thursday night at nin
e pm. I never miss an episode of… What’s your show again? Beverly Botoxed Faces?”

  I listen to her retreating footsteps. “You’re a dick, Brett,” she shouts in a sing-song voice, one that makes me chuckle, my head shaking as I shoot back a sentence I know she hates.

  “Never claimed to be anything else!” I close the curtain, getting back to my tools, my ears perking as the bell dings over the front exit, signaling Marilyn’s sudden departure. I pick up my needles. With gloved hands, I wipe at the now-colorful tips cleaning each one.

  A tattoo artist is only as good as his tools, and a “dick,” as Marilyn likes to call me, is only as good as the one in his pants. Which reminds me…

  I fully intend on using mine tonight.

  A busy day in the shop ran me fucking ragged, and to top off an even more hectic day, I’ll soon have to see my sister’s longtime best friend. A disappearing siren. A shy, curly-haired blonde I’d watched grow into a strong sensual young woman. A surprisingly sexy, smart girl…with an even smarter mouth.

  And the object of my then-fantasies.

  My needles aren’t the only ‘tools’ in the shop. I suspect I’ve always been. Had to be.

  Brothers who crossed boundaries with their little sisters’ best friends were bound for Hell. And I’m not sure I ever doubled back. But tonight, I needed to get my teenage dream out of my head. To get her out of my head.

  I start to clean up the shop, my thoughts drifting to a night with Sophie when the bell above the front door of the shop dings, the sound reaching my ears at the back of the shop.

  “We’re closed,” I call out. But the footsteps don’t stop. I reach for a set of brass knuckles near my tabletop when the shuffle of shoe soles just keeps coming. I stand to my feet, wrapping the metal rings around my fingers. I open the closed curtain to my room, stepping into the small hallway, my fist raised and ready to swing at whatever’s coming my way.

  Until I hear her voice.

  She peers up at me, her brown eyes doe-like and wide. And just as I remembered. Only these slightly older eyes are more hostile. More hardened. More cold.

  She looks at me, at the brass knuckles in my hand—staring. She glances back up at my face.

  “Is that how you welcome customers?”

  I exhale, lowering my closed fist. “When we’re closed, it is.” I point towards the bell above the entrance door. “I tried to warn you that we weren’t open.”

  Elsie nods. “A locked door would’ve said that better.” She looks around briefly, her eyes bouncing around my shop. Her wary gaze stops on the walls, her glare combing the sketches posted there. My sketches. Absentmindedly, her hand reaches out to touch one but before her fingers make contact, she withdraws them as if her hand were on fire, her hand flinching before dropping to her side.

  “Your shop is amazing,” she utters softly. “Kayla said it would be.”

  I gaze at her face. “Thanks. It’s a fucking mess to me. But that’ll change with the renovations.” I finger the brass rings in my hand. “How are you?”

  Elsie glances up at me, her brown eyes liquid. “Me? I…” She hesitates, her gaze going to the floor and back. “I’m fine. Just a long day, is all.”

  I can’t stop staring at her, my eyes soaking in every single detail. I almost can’t believe my eyes. The words slip off my tongue in almost a whisper. I look at her face. “You look so grown-up.”

  Elsie blinks, her eyes slanting. “That’s because I have grown up.” She snorts softly. “And clearly you haven’t.”

  I shake the shock off, my stare shifting. “Shit. Sorry.” I place my brass knuckles in my jeans pocket. “I didn’t meant that the way it sounds. I just mean you look different than the last time I saw you…” I motion in her direction. “Like an adult.”

  “And what’s that look like?”

  I sigh, my shoulders slumping. “Probably the usual. Bored and utterly fucking unhappy.”

  “Okay.” Elsie grabs a rolling suitcase I hadn’t noticed until now. “Sorry for wasting your time.” She turns and walks towards the door, heading fast. I follow in step behind her. I reach out and grab her wrist but she wrings it from my grasp, whirling.

  In a silver slinky tank top and cut-off denim shorts, her hair wild and curly, she looks angry, semi-crazed. And completely irresistible. And in that second, I forget all about Sophie. I shove my hands into my jeans to keep from touching her further. My fingers tingle.

  “Elsie, stop. Don’t take off. I’m being a dick,” I exhale. “It’s what I’m known for.”

  “So I remember.”

  “Look, I might be an asshole, but I’m not a cruel one. You caught me off-guard. Kayla didn’t tell me you were coming tonight. I would have prepared.” I run a hand through my hair, calming the frayed strands. “Listen, you can…” I hesitate over the words. “Come home with me tonight. Crash in one of my bedrooms. Might not be the ideal company you’re looking for, but it’s something. Something’s better than nothing.”

  Elsie rolls her chocolate-colored eyes. “I’d rather stay in the local bar.”

  “I’ve got better liquor.”

  “Can’t assume your apartment will look much different than a pub.”

  “I learned how to clean.” I cross my arms. “Or, rather, how to pay someone else to do it for me. Is that what Kayla told you about my place? That it’s as shitty as a local bar?”

  “She didn’t have to,” she counters. “I’ve been in your bedroom before. Remember?”

  I smile. “Only too fondly…” My grin grows wicked. “But that was seven years ago. Things have changed since then. I’ve changed since then. There’s only one way you’re going to find out. And that way just so happens to involve you not sleeping on a piss-stained bar stool.”

  She scoffs. “You’re so eloquent with words.”

  “Not as good as you, Ms. Carpenter. But I’ve got an extra bed and piss-free cushions. And if you think you can stomach my dickheadedness for one more second, I might even throw some hot food into the offer and one free ’Slap the shit out of Brett’ card. Hopefully, you won’t have to use that tonight.” I grab for her luggage, swinging it over my shoulder. “But I can’t make any promises.”

  Chapter 3

  ELSIE

  Brett’s place is beautiful. Surprisingly so.

  I’m not knowledgeable about apartments, but from what I’ve heard, a place this size, this swanky, has to cost a fortune. And I had no idea he was doing so well.

  My text to Kayla led to a brief call and though we ended it in our usual “Love you more/Love you best” fashion, I never asked how Brett was faring, how he was making ends meet in a place considered among the most expensive in the world. Turns out his ends were just meeting; they were tonguing each other down. Theirs was a serious relationship.

  Eighteen foot-high floor-to-ceiling windows. Marble countertops. Chrome fixtures.

  The hometown boy has obviously made good. And what’s more… he doesn’t seem to know it. He walks around casually, strolling over the cherry-colored hardwood. In a white t-shirt that hangs in all the right places, he seems the master of his domain, the king of his castle.

  The view of New York City outside his open windows feels magical, and from the fortieth floor of Brett Jackson’s luxury apartment, even the air feels different—majestic somehow. It feels like a dream to be here—a water-colored myth. It’s a fairy tale just to see him again—my own version of a dream and nightmare. And I’m not sure which one I’m in right now.

  I watch as Brett sets my luggage by a bedroom door.

  “The guest bedroom’s all yours. Everything you need’s in the linen closet. Bathroom’s around the corner.” He peers down at me. “Soap and shampoo are set inside.”

  I poke my head inside the bathroom. “I halfway expected there to be a woman stashed in here.”

  Brett blinks at me. “What?”

  “Nothing. I just… Nice apartment.”

  “Thanks.” He looks around at his surroundings, his s
tare grazing the walls. He shrugs. “It’s alright.”

  “Alright”? I almost snort. Only Brett could call this alright.

  ‘Alright’ is a word reserved for lukewarm coffee, for sex with socks on. ‘Alright’ is for mid-shelf vodka, margaritas without salt, a night without Netflix.

  ‘Alright’ is what I tell myself I am every second. Every day. Every night.

  And because of this, I know… that nothing about Brett Jackson will ever be just ‘alright.’ The term simply doesn’t apply. Not to his apartment. Certainly not to him. And definitely not to me in this moment, as he stands there in front of me, nonchalant, his dark hair ruffled under the dim recess lighting.

  I swallow as his gaze returns to me. On instinct, I grab my bag.

  “Okay, well, thank you,” I declare, my voice on the edge of shaking. “If it’s alright with you, I’d love to take a bath.”

  His aqua eyes gaze without blinking. “Sure. Whatever you need. I’ll just… take care of the food.”

  My body stills. “You cook now?”

  “Sure,” he shrugs, his smile crooked. “If by ‘cooking’ you mean dialing the local pizza joint.”

  I laugh. “Yeah…I guess that’s what I mean, then.” I nod, turning towards the bedroom doorway. I glance back, feeling somehow naked. It feels weird being here. So far from home. And at the mercy of my best friend’s brother. A boy—now man—I’ve grown to hate. And the only reason I’m not sleeping on a sidewalk right now. I try hard to swallow my pride, raising my chin to face him. The tip of it quivers. “Would it be totally weird if I suggested..?”

  “Onions?” Brett interrupts, his blue-green irises glowing. “Extra sauce on top. Thin crust. Half-mushroom?”

  “My fave.” I shift on my feet. “You never forget anything, do you?”

  “Not even the things I want to.” He narrows his eyes suddenly, his stare going astray. “But don’t let me stop you. Other than the random women you seem to think I keep stashed there, the bathroom has clean towels and cloths. Tub is on the left. Holler if you need anything.” He hesitates before walking away. “And I do mean anything, Elsie.”