Three Broken Promises

by Monica Murphy

  He knows how I like my coffee, heavy on the creamer. “Thank you,” I say gratefully, taking the cup between both hands and bringing it to my lips, breathing in the rich, delicious scent before I take a sip.

  “So did you sleep all right? How are your knees this morning?” he asks, his voice deep and full of concern.

  After he’d cleaned them up, he walked me to my room last night, tucking me into my bed like I’m some sort of child. I’d been half tempted to ask him to crawl into bed with me and spend the night, but I held back. I didn’t want to look too needy.

  It’s bad enough, how needy I already am. Breaking bad habits, right? I need to remember that.

  “I slept okay.” I’d lain in bed, wide awake for at least an hour, running over again and again in my head what happened to me out in the parking lot. Wondering how I could have prevented it. I’d kept my head down most of the walk, too focused on getting to Colin’s car, thinking of Colin. Of going straight home so I could get him naked. So preoccupied with my wicked thoughts, I never once checked out my surroundings. I’d been easy pickings for that guy; no wonder he came for me.

  And I could blame no one but myself for that.

  “Are you in any sort of pain?” The soft concern lacing his deep voice almost makes me want to cry, which is so stupid. I’m thinking like such a girl right now I want to smack myself.

  “My body aches, yeah. I hit the ground pretty hard when I fell. But my knees are better. They don’t hurt as bad.” It was sort of true. They still sting, but not as much as last night.

  The murderous glow in his eyes says it all. If the guy who did this to me were in the same room with us right now, Colin would be tearing him apart, limb by limb.

  “I should call the police and see if they caught the little motherfucker,” he mutters, reaching for his cell phone.

  “Don’t bother. I’m sure they’ll never find him.” I take another sip, my brain slowly coming awake, along with all of my bitter sarcasm. “I’m low priority in their eyes. I just want to forget last night ever happened.”

  “A serial armed robber is not low priority, especially in a college town. Trust me, they’re looking for the asshole. And if they’re not, I’ll call and make sure they are.” He lets his cell phone drop onto the table with a loud clang, making me jump in my seat. He notices, remorse filling his gaze, and I hate seeing it. I don’t want his sympathy. “Are you all right?”

  “Of course I’m all right.” I feel defensive, as though his eyes can see right through me. See all my faults and resentment and irritation over this entire mess. I didn’t ask for this to happen. Getting robbed and playing the helpless female is so not a role I’m comfortable with. I’d had a nightmare about it. How he knocked me to the ground, yanking my purse out of my grip, calling me a bitch.

  This guy didn’t just steal my purse and everything in it. I’m afraid he’s stolen my strength and courage, too.

  “I know you’re trying to deal with this in your own way and it’s hard. But you’ve been acting almost like you’re . . . mad at me.” His mouth sets into a hard line, though his eyes are full of worry. “Are you? Mad at me?”

  No way can I be honest. He’ll think I’m crazy if I tell him I’m totally mad, though I wouldn’t describe it so much as that. Of course, I feel like I’m crazy, because I have no valid reason to be angry with him. What did he do that was so wrong? Help me out? Clean my wounds? Put me to bed and reassure me everything’s going to be all right?

  Yeah. I’m being ridiculous. I can’t help it.

  “What happened to me last night just proves once and for all I need to get out of here. I hate this place.” I drain my coffee cup, feeling his intense gaze on me. Uh-oh.

  “Gimme a break. Like it couldn’t happen to you somewhere else? Sacramento has a higher crime rate than here,” he points out.

  “Yeah, and it’s a much bigger city, too. We live in Podunk-ville.” I shrug, getting up and going to the coffeemaker so I can pour myself another cup. I keep my back to him, not wanting to have this conversation any longer. Afraid of what I might say if he pushes too much more.

  “Does this have anything to do with me? Are you upset with me for some reason? Because you’re acting like it.” He pushes his chair out and I hear him approach, feel his body heat when he draws near. “Are you blaming me for what happened?”

  I whirl around, startled when I find him standing much closer than I’d originally thought. Being faced with acres of naked masculine flesh leaves my mouth dry and I eat him up greedily with my gaze, marveling at all of that gorgeous muscly goodness. Jerking my eyes away from his chest, I look at him, finding him watching me with a look on his face that indicates he can read my every thought.

  How freaking embarrassing! I’m supposed to be angry and indifferent, right?

  I am so not indifferent. And he knows it.

  “Of course I don’t blame you,” I say. “I’m the idiot who wasn’t watching where she was going.”

  “I should’ve picked you up at the door,” he throws back at me.

  “I should’ve texted asking you to pick me up at the door,” I throw right back.

  Briefly closing his eyes, he breathes deep, as if he needs to search for the right words to say. “I’m the one who should’ve watched out for you. I’m your employer. Your friend. Your . . .” His voice trails off.

  Stepping toward him, I place my fingers over his mouth, silencing him. Not that he was necessarily going to say anything else. He looks like he’s at as much of a loss for words as I am. “Stop talking. We’re nothing beyond the word friend, right?”

  He nods, his eyes shooting daggers at me. But he doesn’t say a word.

  “Friends are there for each other. And you were there for me last night.” I trace his lips with my index finger, the plump lower lip, the finely curved upper one. He has such a beautiful mouth. One I thoroughly enjoy watching when he talks, when he smiles, when he kisses me. I’m tempted to kiss him right now. Just so I can forget for at least a little while that I’m leaving and that I was robbed and that he feels this stupid obligation to me.

  I’m not his burden. And that’s what it’s like—I’m an obligation to take care of in place of my brother watching over me. At least, that’s how it started out. He became my hero. Rescuing me when I thought I didn’t want to be rescued. Saving me from a life of crime, though he didn’t realize that part.

  Our relationship has certainly gone beyond the brotherly-sisterly type . . .

  “Jen.” His voice is deep and rumbling. I feel it reverberate through me all the way down to my bones. He touches me, places his hand on my hip, and pulls me closer to him, our chests brushing. Just like that, my skin is on fire, my braless nipples hardening against my tank top. I want him. Inside me, kissing me, pushing me toward that oblivious, blank space where I can forget everything at least for a little while.

  I rest my other hand on his chest, right at the center, and I can feel his heartbeat. It’s a rapid, rhythmic pace. Reassuring and strong. Unable to resist, I lean in and brush my lips upon his flesh, right above my fingertips, and he closes his eyes, his expression agonized.

  “I want you,” he whispers. “But you’re hurting from that asshole pushing you. And I can’t push myself on you. Not right now.”

  “You won’t hurt me. I’ll be fine.” I kiss him again, my lips lingering on his warm, hard skin. I settle my hands on his hips, slip my fingers just beneath the waistband of his pajama pants, and touch him, my hands meeting nothing but bare, hot skin. I feel the thrust of his erection through the fabric of his pj’s, pushing against my belly, and I know he wants me.

  Probably even more than I want him.

  “I don’t want you to go to work today,” he says, abruptly changing the subject.

  I can’t believe he’s talking about work at a time like this. “I already told you, I’m fine. Really.” Standing on tiptoe, I kiss his neck, licking him, tasting him, savoring the sound of his moan. I want to distract him,
distract both of us. Talking tends to lead us into trouble, especially lately.

  Having sex leads us straight into pleasure. And that’s what I want right now. Mindless, delicious pleasure with Colin.

  “No.” He pulls away from me, his expression and body language downright tortured. “I’m not going to do this. Not when you’re still recovering from what happened to you last night.”

  Frustration rips through me, making me angry. “I’m not some delicate doll who needs to be handled with care, Colin. I fell and scraped my knees last night. Big deal.”

  “You were fucking attacked, Jen. You suffered a tremendous shock. I think you might still be in shock. There’s no other explanation for why you’re acting so odd.”

  Jackass! I am so done with him diagnosing me all the time. “So you’re not going to have sex with me because of what happened last night.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re being ridiculous.”

  “So are you,” he throws back.

  We stare at each other, all sorts of tension swirling between us. I both want to jump him and smack him.

  Jump him . . .

  Or smack him?

  Colin

  I want to both jump her and smack her, which is the craziest thing ever because I have never had violent thoughts toward a woman before in my life. And hell, she was just mugged, for the love of God. The very thing I should be thinking is how much I want to shake some sense into her.

  Those few weak moments when she was touching my mouth, touching my chest, kissing my neck, I was more than ready to cave. Just give in to that uncontrollable urge I feel whenever she’s with me. Where I’m desperate to tear her clothes off and make her mine. Brand her, mark her, demand that she say my name when I make her come. Then she’ll know who she belongs to.

  Me. And no one else.

  “You’re not working tonight and that’s final,” I finally growl out because holy shit, I have no idea what else to say to break this almost unbearable tension brewing between us.

  “Who are you, my dad?” The sarcasm in her voice is unmistakable.

  “No, I’m your fucking boss.” I pull away from her and exit the kitchen, needing the escape, but she trails after me, muttering under her breath.

  “What the hell did you just say?” I whirl on her, anger running through my veins, making my blood boil. She’s getting under my skin, and not in a good way.

  “I said that’s exactly it. You are my fucking boss. As in, you’re my boss and we’re fucking.” She smirks—actually fucking smirks—and crosses her arms in front of her chest, as if daring me to deny it.

  I have no answer for her. She’s driving me out of my ever-lovin’ mind and I have no idea why we’re acting this way toward each other. As if we’re both full of hostile resentment that we’re ready to unleash on each other at any given moment.

  It reminds me of a pot primed to boil over—and I think we did just that.

  “Is that all I am to you?” I ask, my tone just daring her to say yes.

  She shrugs one shoulder, all irritated nonchalance. “So we’ve known each other for a long time. So what? It’s not like we owe each other anything.”

  My head is spinning. Doesn’t she realize I owe her everything? I care about her, more than I want to admit. The closer we get to her leaving, the more I don’t want her to go. I need to tell her. I need to let her know what she means to me, but . . .

  It’s fucking hard. I’m not one to blurt out my feelings. My parents aren’t touchy-feeling and rarely talk about their emotions. I hide behind a mask most of the time. Whatever people want to see, I give it to them. With the exception of Jen.

  She’s the only one who sees the real me.

  “Besides, I’m nothing but a burden, right? Don’t you get tired of taking care of me all the time? Making sure I’m safe and protected and nothing bad ever happens to me?”

  “I let something bad happen to you last night,” I say, my voice low, my anger barely contained. The renewed guilt I feel over what happened to her is almost too much for me to handle.

  “That wasn’t your fault. You can’t feel responsible for everything that happens to me. Don’t you ever get sick of it?”

  “No, I don’t. I want to take care of you. Danny would’ve wanted me to take care of you, too.” It’s the least I can do. I’ve already failed her numerous times. I can think of at least three.

  “Do you really believe Danny would have wanted us together? Fucking around on the side?” she asks.

  I flinch. “Don’t call it that.”

  “Don’t call what we’re doing what it is? Come on, we don’t need to tiptoe around the truth. We’re just fucking each other until I leave. It doesn’t mean anything. We already agreed. You can’t back out of it now.”

  “Why are you trying to pick a fight with me?”

  “Doesn’t feel so good when someone challenges you, huh? I know that doesn’t happen very often,” she tosses at me like a giant bomb.

  I open my mouth to retort something extra sarcastic right back at her but the doorbell rings, interrupting me. We stare at each other, her eyes narrowing, mine narrowing in return, and we’re like two gunslingers ready for a shootout at the O.K. Corral.

  Fuck, I think I’ve been watching too many reality shows on the History channel. I’m starting to sound like them.

  “Are you going to get that?” she asks. “I’m sure whoever’s on the other side of that door is far more important than I am.”

  What. The. Hell. I don’t get her. She’s defiant, angry, and smug. It’s like she’s completely changed in the last twenty-four hours.

  “This conversation is not over,” I tell her as I head toward the door. Thinking it might be the police, I don’t bother checking. I unlock the door and throw it open.

  “Hello, son.”

  Well, holy fuck. It’s my father. Talk about an unexpected visit.

  I haven’t seen him in almost three years.

  Chapter 17

  Colin

  “Are you going to let me in?” The man standing on my doorstep could be my future self. I look so much like my father it’s frightening. Same height, same build, same features, same hair, though his is liberally streaked with gray now.

  He smiles at me, looking like a shark baring all of his teeth, and I barely hold back my grimace. No wonder my mom didn’t like me much. I remind her of the man who knocked her up, married her, and then abandoned her, all in a matter of about eighteen months. They pull each other in a constant tug-of-war over still to this day and I’m a grown-ass man. They have nothing to fight over. Their behavior makes absolutely no sense to me.

  “Yeah, come in.” I open the door wider and Conrad Wilder strides inside, stopping short when he sees Jen standing in the middle of my living room, looking unsure and kind of adorable with it.

  My earlier anger melts away, just like that. Dark circles are under her wide brown eyes and she looks from me to my dad, then back at me. She’s met my dad before, but it’s been a while. It’s pretty obvious who he is, though.

  “Who’s this?” My dad turns to look at me, both eyebrows raised. He’s a player, always has been. Women flock to him and he loves it. As he gets older, he likes his women young. The younger, the better. I bet he’s giving me a mental high-five at this very moment.

  “Dad, this is Jennifer Cade.” I pause as he approaches her with a too-friendly smile and an outstretched hand. “She’s Danny’s sister.”

  “Ahhh.” He draws the word out, giving me a quick look over his shoulder before he turns on the charm for Jen. “I’m positive we’ve met before, though it was a long time ago. Conrad Wilder, but you can call me Con.”

  So fitting that he wants people to call him Con. He’s definitely one of the biggest con artists I know. He can talk just about anyone into anything, and that’s why the man is richer than God.

  “Nice to meet you,” Jen says, briefly shaking his hand. She shoots me a look, one that says she needs to get out of her
e, and I can’t blame her. “I’m going to take a shower.”

  I watch her exit the room, my gaze zeroing in on her swishing hips, her cute ass barely covered by a pair of tiny cotton shorts. Her legs drive me fucking insane.

  “She’s a cute thing, but skinny. Not your usual type,” my dad says the moment he hears Jen shut her bedroom door.

  “I don’t have a type.”

  Dad laughs. “You do too. Blond, petite, with a tiny waist and huge tits—that’s your type. Always has been. So what gives with this one? She something serious?”

  “We’re old friends. That’s it,” I admit grudgingly.

  “Ah, well that’s worse. You don’t fuck a friend, son. Didn’t I teach you anything?” He slaps my back with a laugh, acting like we’re nothing but two old buddies hanging out and bagging on women.

  That’s the biggest problem I’ve had with him almost my entire life. He treats me like a friend, not like his son. Other than when it’s necessary for him to give me advice and be all fake-fatherly, for the most part he wants to talk tits and ass, get drunk, and brag about his net worth.

  When I was younger, I thought it was great. Get the old man drunk, talk about the rack on some hot girl, and the next thing I knew, he was handing me a check for thousands of dollars. Now, though, it sucks. I’m getting too old for this shit. And my father is beyond too old. He’s so transparent with his frat-boy ways—and he was never a frat boy—it’s downright embarrassing.

  “I’m not fucking her,” I lie through clenched teeth. I hate how he cheapens my relationship with Jen. More than that, I hate how now Jen cheapens our relationship, too. When did I suddenly become the only believer in this equation?

  When have I ever been the believer?

  “Then what are you doing, son? Having a little piece like that prancing around your house in shorts that should be illegal, where any man can check out those amazing legs? Not smart.”

  “God, would you stop talking about her like that? It’s not like that between us.” What sucks is that I don’t know what it’s really like between us since I’m a confused, screwed-up mess.