Vow of Sacrifice

by Emma Renshaw

  “He doesn’t?” I ask. I don’t say that it’s something I would never do either. The reason I won’t do it comes out of Brae’s mouth, word for word, making me just a tiny bit more interested in the man next door.

  Brae stands to her full height, puffing out her chest and arms as if she’s a strong, burly man, and makes her voice low as she mimics her brother. “Leaving a key under the welcome mat is just welcoming intruders inside.”

  I laugh and step back from the door, waving Brae inside. She steps over the threshold, dropping her black canvas backpack, which is covered with artwork.

  I study a cherry blossom that covers the entire thing. The roots are painted along the bottom of the bag, winding their way to the center in a thick tree trunk. Just above a middle zipper, the tree breaks off into a frenzy of branches and blossoming flowers. At the base, a silhouetted couple sits in the shade holding each other, and in the blank spaces between the branches are words that I would have to crouch down to see clearly.

  “Did you paint this?” I rip my eyes away from the stunning image, and my focus lands on Brae. She’s wringing her hands together and biting her lower lip as she watches me.

  The muscles in her jaw clench before she answers. “Yes.”

  “It’s stunning.”

  Her captivating blue eyes, which are so much like her brother’s, become even brighter as her face lights up under the praise. Brae stands straighter and happiness radiates off of her. “Thank you,” she says.

  “My grandfather was a painter.”

  Brae scans me from head to toe and smirks. “From the looks of the paint on your skirt and streaked across your skin in random spots, I would guess that you are too.”

  My hand spasms, as it always does when I’m reminded that I’ll never be able to accomplish what I once could. I shrug. “I dabble. My grandfather was an artist though.”

  I motion for her to step out of my entryway and into the living room, where all his paintings are hung. Brae strides toward a painting of a lake dotted with birds in the bright sky and people smattered across the sandy bank.

  “This reminds me of Chicago,” Brae says. “Even though Lake Michigan isn’t surrounded by mountains like this picture, seeing a lake will always remind me of Chicago, I think.”

  “When did y’all move to Texas?” I ask.

  Brae falls onto the couch and puts her feet up on the coffee table. I chuckle. She’s made herself at home from the moment she walked through my door, and since she stepped over the threshold, everything has been just a little bit cheerier and the overwhelming loneliness that suffocates me has dissipated. For now.

  “Our life wasn’t great there. I never met my dad and my mom is an addict—drugs and alcohol. Callan and I bounced from her place to the foster care system, over and over again, until he aged out of the system when I was really young.”

  Pain stabs through my heart imagining the two of them going through those struggles. I walk to the kitchen and open the fridge, taking out two cans of life’s elixir, which can make everything seem better: Diet Coke. I sit on the couch next to Brae and hand her a can. She smiles in thanks as she pops it open and takes a long sip.

  “Everything is better if Diet Coke is available.” I turn to see Brae better, and I tuck one of my legs under me, propping my head up with one hand. “What happened when Callan aged out of the system?”

  Brae fiddles with the tab on the can and stares at it intently. I open my mouth to apologize for stepping over the line and asking something that truly isn’t any of my business, but I can’t help the curiosity fluttering through me when it comes to Callan. Before I can utter a word, Brae begins to speak softly, completely lost to her memories.

  “He tried his hardest to make sure that my mom and her place were presentable if there was a welfare check. He wanted me to stay with my mom because it was easier for him to watch me that way, instead of being in a stranger’s house. If I was in my mom’s custody, Callan was taking care of me. I would stay at his apartment with him and James.”

  “James?” I ask.

  “Callan’s best friend. Although his name wasn’t James back then. It was Connor. That’s a long story though.”

  I raise my eyebrows and shove all my questions down my throat when I hear the underlying don’t ask about it in her tone. I keep my mouth shut as Brae continues to peel the layers of Callan’s life.

  Chapter 11

  Callan

  Hudson lowers his eyebrows and shakes his head at the catcher behind me, who just gave him a signal. I smirk when I catch his eyes flicking to me. Runners are on first and second base, and if I’m able to knock them both into home plate, we’ll win this game and Hudson has to buy the whole crew lunch every day for a year.

  If I miss, the crew has to clean Hudson’s monstrosity of a house every week for the next year, and I have to participate in the dance Hudson wants to perform for Ava at their upcoming wedding. I’m at bat, and I can’t fuck this up. Hudson nods and stands in position, readying himself to launch the pitch my way.

  The ball soars toward me and curves low. I hold steady, not even letting my bat waver in the wind. Ball one. Hudson launches into another windup and I swing, missing it by millimeters. I step out of the batter’s box and survey the brand new baseball field in the neighborhood we’re building. This is the first game played on this dirt. Judging from the pounding in my chest, I’d think this was game seven in the World Series, not a pickup game with the crew and some bullshit consequences. Although I really don’t want to dance at Hudson’s wedding.

  Fuck that.

  Another windup. Another pitch. Another swing. My bones reverberate and tingle as I follow through on my swing and make contact with the baseball. I keep my eyes on the ball while digging in and running the ninety feet that separates home plate from first base as fast as I can. Rodrigo, the center fielder, sprints to the back fence, but the ball sails over it.

  Home run.

  I throw my hands in the air as I hear the guys whoop and holler, and I run toward home plate, where they are waiting for me to celebrate. I turn my head toward Hudson. He has his hands on his hips and is shaking his head, but I don’t miss the little grin there. He doesn’t have a problem buying food for everyone. Knowing him, he probably would’ve done it anyway.

  “I’ll find a way to get you to dance!” he calls out as I round third.

  “Not on your fuckin’ life. James won’t do it either.”

  “I have a secret weapon when it comes to James,” Hudson hollers.

  I choose to ignore that comment. He may get that giant of a man to do his bidding, but he won’t get me to shake my ass in a monkey suit in front of that many people. My foot hits the final base and my team cheers. I get caught up in the jumping and hollering for a moment before Hudson hollers to us. “Alright, enough of that. Let’s get some beer.”

  Everyone hustles over to the benches, where a few coolers are lined up, filled with different types of beer. I twist off a top and take a deep slug, relishing the exhilaration flooding through me. My phone rings in my pocket, and I pull it out expecting it to be Brae—but it isn’t, and all the exhilaration I was feeling is gone in a puff of smoke.

  In its wake is frustration, anger, and panic. A Chicago number is flashing across my screen. It’s a different one from last time, but same damn area code. An area code for a city I want to forget even exists. I hit reject and shove the phone back in my pocket. I take another swig of beer, but the cool, fresh flavor now tastes warm and bitter. I dump the rest of it in the dirt and toss it into the recycling bin that was installed last week.

  Hudson claps me on the shoulder. “I lost this one, but I’ll get you to do what I want.”

  I try for a fake grin, but Hudson’s head tips to the side as he steadies me, letting me know that I failed. “I gotta get home.”

  I walk away before he has a chance to question me about what’s happening. By the time I make it home, the anger has completely taken over the frustration and pani
c. Liquid fire is slithering through my veins, consuming my organs, and clawing up my throat. As I jog up the stairs, the metal railing vibrates from the force of my feet landing on the concrete.

  I burst through my apartment door and freeze. It’s too still. Brae’s backpack isn’t blocking the entryway like it normally is. The plate and glass that she constantly leaves sitting on the bar after her after-school snack isn’t there. I step further into the apartment, calling her name. She doesn’t answer.

  The television is off in the living room, so I knock on the door of her room before I swing it open, finding it empty. I take my phone out of my pocket, anger hitting me all over again when I see the waiting voicemail from a Chicago number. I delete the number and the voicemail without listening to it. I don’t need to know what anyone from Chicago has to say.

  I hit Brae’s name, the only name in my favorites list, and the phone rings three times before she answers. “Hey, big brother.”

  “Where are you?” My voice claws out of my throat, escaping in a growl that only grows when Brae chuckles.

  “I’m next door. I left my keys at home this morning.”

  “I thought Carmen was out of town this week.” Carmen stopped me in the hall a couple days ago, before work, to let me know she’d be gone and task me with watching after Iris. Little did she realize I’ve been struggling to take my mind off of Iris. I’d be watching her whether she asked me to or not and whether she was here or not.

  “Carmen’s in San Antonio. I’m at Iris’s.”

  I jab my thumb on the screen of my phone, ending the call, and march over to Iris’s door. The irritation of random Chicago numbers and Brae continually making me search for her hasn’t left my system, and my body is itching for a fight. This is evident when the side of my fist bangs against the door.

  The distinctive clicks of the locks echo through the door before Iris fills the frame. A tiny smile is wiped from her face the moment we make eye contact. The fire burning in my veins dies a little bit. Iris turns her back on me, leaving the door open, and calls over her shoulder. “She’s in here.”

  I stomp through the entryway and into the living room and pinch the bridge of my nose when Brae is finally in my sights. She’s sitting on the couch with her feet curled up underneath her, and she’s typing on her phone.

  “You have to call me, Brae.”

  “I’m at Iris’s apartment. Next door to ours. Chill.” She rolls her eyes before they lock on Iris, hovering in the corner. “He’s so overprotective.”

  There are times when I’m thankful I sheltered her from the dangers of our old life, but others when I wish she knew so she would be more careful with who she trusts. My protective nature doesn’t come from nowhere. Brae’s health and safety were continually threatened and held over my head when I was part of the mafia organization. Every damn day that I came home and she was still breathing was a weight lifted off my shoulders until the next morning, when I had to go back onto the streets to do their bidding.

  “Dammit, Brae,” I hiss. I see Iris flinch out of the corner of my eye. I turn my gaze to hers and watch her wither in front of me and, just like that, the piping-hot anger coursing through my veins is doused with one look from her.

  I take a deep breath and relax my stance. “I’m protective because I love you.” I say the words to Brae, but I plead with my eyes for Iris to understand where the anger stemmed from. “Come on, I’ll take you girls out for pizza.”

  The light that sparks in Iris’s large eyes ignites a different type of heat in my body.

  Chapter 12

  Iris

  I don’t have a ton of clothes. I left Pierce’s prison with hardly anything, just enough clothes to survive for a little while. And I only took the clothes that reminded me of the girl I was before I met him. I left behind the diamonds. I left behind the designer ball gowns. I left behind every outfit hand selected by Pierce.

  As I started to build my wardrobe, I mostly bought loungewear since I work from home and I like to be comfortable. I bought a few outfits for meetings while I was in New York. None of them feel right.

  It’s the Wednesday of my meeting with my new client. I don’t know what to wear, and I need to get going soon. This is my first client meeting since returning to Texas. I’ve imagined myself strolling into that meeting, with my head held high, in a killer outfit and kickass shoes. I don’t have the outfit or the shoes I was wearing in my daydream.

  On the conference calls, Savannah sounds in control. I bet she owns a killer outfit and kickass shoes. I need to go shopping. I hoarded every penny I made while sneaking design work when I was married to Pierce. And I’ve kept hoarding every penny, just in case it all comes crashing down.

  I settle on a dress with navy blue, coral, and white blocks with cap sleeves and pair of nude heels. My palms run down the front of the thick fabric as I stare at myself in the mirror.

  It’s not quite the fierceness from my daydream, but it will do.

  I gather my laptop bag, stuffed with my laptop, pens, a notebook, and a sketchpad. I swing my presentation material bag on my other shoulder and hustle out the door.

  As I pop my trunk, I freeze. My bumper looks good as new. I search the parking lot for Callan’s truck, but it’s not there. When did he do this? I bend over, rubbing the back of my hand over where the dent was. I don’t see any lingering damage.

  The damage to our cars was my fault, and he took care of mine without a second thought. My throat clogs with unexpected emotion.

  I shake it off and put my stuff into the trunk of my car to head to my meeting while making a mental note to find a way to thank him later. My nerves are rattled by the time I arrive, and the parking lot in front of Phoenix Marketing is almost full. One look at the clock tells me I’m not late, but I’m also not as early as I wanted to be.

  I haul my things into the building. Behind the glossy white desk at reception, a huge colorful Phoenix has its wings stretched and its head thrown back. “I will rise” is written in flame at the bottom, just under its tail.

  A shiver works up my spine taking in the powerful image.

  “Iris?”

  I turn, finding a stunning brunette with emerald-colored eyes. Her hair is in long waves, framing her smiling face. I don’t know how I could tell, but from just her voice over the phone, I knew she would be gorgeous and wearing a great outfit.

  “Yes,” I say, extending my hand. “Savannah?”

  “Got it in one,” she says with a bright smile that immediately puts me at ease. “Not everyone is here yet, but come on in. We can get settled. The catering company already dropped off lunch. I ordered from Olive Garden because I’ve been craving their breadsticks.”

  I chuckle and agree. There’s just something about the buttery, garlicky breadsticks from that place. Savannah takes me down a long hallway into a room surrounded by glass walls. One wall of windows overlooks an Austin city street. A long, sleek, shiny black table takes up most of the center of the room. A credenza, overflowing with food, is set up on one side. I hone in on the breadsticks forcing myself to stay on this side of the room and not go grab one, but the smell is definitely taunting me. Large bowls of pasta, salad, and soup containers are also out, waiting for us to dig in.

  “Since they chose you for their account, I’ve been looking at some of your work. It’s impressive. How long have you been designing? I really love the work you did for June Myers. She’s one of my favorite romance authors and her site is stunning.”

  “A few years.” My smile is tight, but take a deep breath.

  This is a standard question. It should be an easy question. It’s not though. I didn’t originally go to school for this. I went from the trailer park to Pierce’s castle. I wasn’t in school when we met. He didn’t ask me to go to school. He wanted me to be a stay-at-home wife, available to be on his arm whenever it suited him.

  I knew I couldn’t leave that hell with nothing. I found cheap online classes for coding websites. When I’d learned
enough, I started to build a portfolio and sought out anyone looking for that kind of work. I squirreled away everything. The second I had enough to survive, I escaped my hell.

  Savannah’s eyes connect with mine. They’re probing and questioning. I don’t know what she heard in just my few words, but she’s seeing more than I want her to see.

  “How did you connect with June?”

  “She’s one of my favorite romance authors, too. To be honest, I don’t know how she found me, but I freaked out when I saw her email. I had to re-type my email fifteen times so it didn’t sound so fangirl.”

  Savannah laughs. “Good for you. I don’t think I would’ve been able to control it then she would’ve gotten a restraining order against me or something. How were you able to find images that captured her book covers? They’re so unique.”

  “Since most of her covers look like art, I created some art. Painting is a hobby. I’m not an artist, but I dabble and was able to paint something that suited her covers and transferred well to her site.”

  “I’d love to work with you again. I have a lot of clients looking for reliable web designers. Is that something you’d be interested in?”

  “Definitely,” I say, trying not to jump up and down with excitement.

  “We should grab a drink.”

  The offer takes me by surprise and at first I don’t know if she means we should grab one of the water or tea bottles set up next to the food or if we should hang out. Just as I won’t turn Carmen down, I won’t turn down an offer of a new friendship. Hoping it’s the latter, I accept. “That sounds great.”

  The potential for more jobs and a potential new friend? I want to raise my fist in the air and pump it in victory. On the outside I keep calm and collected, offering her a smile, but on the inside I’m dancing around.

  Savannah and I exchange numbers as the rest of the team piles in and starts digging into the feast at the back of the room.