Promise Me

On the other hand, she’s yet to forgive me. And that bothers me. A lot. Unfortunately, there’s not much more I can do. I apologized. I thanked her with words and with a gesture I hoped she’d appreciate. Did she? That remains to be seen, but the next move, if there is one, is hers.

I pull to the top of the driveway, easing off the accelerator just before the slope flattens out into the small parking area in front of the garage. The stripped-down classic black Bronco Matt bought back in high school occupies the far left slot. Dylan’s sporty new silver R8 Spyder sits in the spot closest to the door.

The cars fit their owners like personality profiles. Dylan’s smooth and fast. Matt’s strong and rock solid. I’m somewhere in the middle, I think, as I slide my Range Rover into the space between their vehicles. We’re brothers in every way except birth, and I value that even more now than I did as a kid. Being in this business brings a constant stream of new people into my life, and most of them act like they’re my friends—at least to my face—but they don’t really know me, and they don’t really want to know me. They want to project onto me whatever image suits them best. The face of their product, the candy on their arm, a commodity to be exploited for their purpose, and I wouldn’t have a career if I couldn’t satisfy those demands to some extent. But Dylan and Matt want nothing from me except what any guy wants from a bro. Be cool, show some love, and restock the beer fridge every once in a while.

You have no safe zone.

But I do. These guys are my safe zone. They give me shit when I deserve shit—and expect the same from me—but they’re in my corner. They’ll be stoked for me when I tell them about my meeting, and they won’t lecture me about how I should handle myself. They believe in me. And I know I can trust them.

The knowledge restores my king-of-the-world mood. I walk into the house with my arms spread wide and call out, “Stop jacking off for a second and listen—”

Dylan’s pacing the living room, his phone to his ear. He holds up a hand to simultaneously acknowledge me and signal me to shut up. “Hell no. We’re not paying Sandoval a dime if they brought us cases of broken bottles, and… Screw that. I don’t give a shit what he says. Reject delivery. What do you mean it’s too late? Who the fuck signed for the order without inspecting it?”

I settle myself on one of the sofas and watch the excitement of life in club-land unfold before me. It’s weird and oddly encouraging seeing Dylan invest actual effort into something besides having a good time or getting laid.

He stops pacing and pinches the bridge of his nose. “He’s fired. I don’t care. I’m firing his ass. Oh, and tell Sandoval I’m not paying for the cases of recycling his guy dropped off. If he doesn’t have my order delivered within the hour—intact this time—I’ll find another supplier.”

With that threat hanging in the air, he disconnects and throws his phone onto the coffee table. “Goddammit.”

“Tough day at the office, honey?”

“Holy shit.” He comes around the empty sofa and drops down heavily. “If someone doesn’t suck my dick in the next five seconds, I swear to God my head is going to explode.”

Matt walks in from the kitchen at that moment, bottle of beer to his lips, and I snap my fingers at him. “Got an emergency situation here, Officer Wright. This man’s dick needs sucking.”

Matt doesn’t miss a step as he crosses to the mantel to commandeer the remote. “I’m not sucking that dick. I know where it’s been.”

“I don’t want either of you cocksuckers anywhere near my dick. Hand me my phone, Vaughn. This is a job for your mom.”

Predictable burn, but smoothly delivered. My comeback will involve his grandmother and her obnoxious Chihuahua, but as I reach for his phone I notice a familiar blue bag sitting on the table.

What the…?

I snag it, vaguely aware of Matt turning on the flat-screen and Dylan telling him to find the Dodgers game. I look inside to see the opened card and the little blue box. “What is this doing here?” The question comes out louder than I intended, silencing the conversation.

“I don’t know, man,” Matt answers. “I found it by the door earlier today.”

I’m halfway to the hall before I hear Dylan’s footfalls behind me. “Hey, what did you want to tell us?”

“Tell you later,” I say over my shoulder, not breaking stride. I cut through the kitchen, grab a beer from the fridge, and twist off the top before heading out the big sliding glass doors leading to the patio. My ego’s not fragile. In my business you have to learn to let disappointment roll off without leaving a mark. But having my gift tossed back in my face leaves a bruise. I gave this to her, dammit. Because I’m sorry, and grateful, and I wanted her to know how much I appreciated what she did.

And now I’m standing on my patio with a stupid Tiffany’s bag in my hand and no fucking clue what I’m doing. The calm, glassy surface of the pool mocks my agitation. Planning to bang on her door and give her crap for returning the gift? That’ll show her what a cool guy you are.

Shit. I lean against the railing separating the patio from the pool and down half my beer. I don’t have time to deal with this right now. I should be upstairs throwing the last-minute stuff into my suitcase and making sure I’m checked in for my flight to Miami.

I push away from the railing to do that and catch movement from the corner of my eye. Over the hedges of bougainvillea I watch Kendall step out onto the patio next door. Our house sits higher on the hill, which gives me a bird’s-eye view of their backyard. Late afternoon sun sends long shadows across the lot, but there’s enough light for me to see she’s traded the Winnie the Pooh pajamas for a snug raglan shirt and a little pair of drawstring sweat shorts that ride the flare of her hips. Her hair is swept up into a careless bundle, and I can’t help but notice the graceful arch of her neck. She stands there, still and beautiful as a statue.

Then the statue stretches her arms high over her head. Her face tilts toward the sky, and my throat goes dry at the pull of her shirt across her full, upswept breasts.

Matt or Dylan cranks up the volume on the game—something they tend to do when they’re in and out of the living room and they don’t want to miss anything. Sound surges. Kendall’s arms drop quickly, and her head swivels my way, clearly annoyed. Good. That makes two of us. My car’s due any moment, but the knowledge doesn’t stop me from stalking down the deck stairs, around the hedge, and into my neighbors’ meticulously maintained English countryside of a yard. Part of me hopes she retreats into the house.

But she doesn’t retreat. Not an inch. She crosses her arms, plants her feet, and faces me as I approach, her chin tilted up at a take-your-best-shot angle. She’s braced for a fight, and all of a sudden I have none in me.

“This is yours.” The words come out slightly winded, a

nd I hold the blue bag out to her.

She crosses her arms a little tighter and backs up a step. “I can’t accept it, Vaughn. I don’t know what you think giving me a fancy gift accomplishes, but—”