The Pact (Chicago Nights Book 2)

by Natalie Wrye

  Our resident vagrant smiles a toothy smile at me—a few of them missing. “Didn’t mean to scare you, Miss Silva. Just wanted to see if you had an egg to spare?”

  “An egg?” I frown. “Dang it, Carlosito, do you ever pick anything normal—just once—to ask for?”

  The homeless man shrugs, looking tiny beneath the shoulders of a coat several times too large. He sniffs. “What’s more normal than an egg? Can’t have breakfast without eggs, can you?”

  I reach for the book bag on my back. “I guess not.”

  “And what about cakes? Or pies? Or fresh baked bread? Or even one of your ma’s famous pastelitos?” He arches an eyebrow, his brown skin crinkling across his forehead.

  I unzip my bag, fighting a smile. “Okay, okay, I get it. I get it, Carlos. And you’re in luck.” I reach around the bottom of my bag, finding the items from today’s bodega stash. I pop the carton, pulling out one egg. I pass it over.

  “You’re lucky I like you.”

  “Oh, don’t lie.” He grins, flashing foregone teeth. “You love me.”

  I laugh. But on instinct, I pull back my hand before his skin can touch mine, instead dropping the egg in his hand.

  Because good girls do things carefully, don’t they? They don’t take too many risks. Isn’t that what mamma always says?

  But luckily, Carlos doesn’t notice. “Thank you, Miss Silva. You’re my favorite.”

  “I bet you say that to all the people who give you things for free.”

  He waves on his way out. “But I only mean it with you!” He winks over his shoulder, and I watch him.

  But the giggle I get from Carlosito isn’t enough to make me forget to that it’s now seven-oh-two. One minute closer to mamma getting home.

  Shit. I’ll never be able to tell Esmerelda in time, if I don’t move fast.

  I text her, my fingers shaking with each word:

  ME:

  Where. Are. You? I have news.

  Big news. The biggest of news.

  Life-changing news.

  Come over when you get home!

  I smile when I finish, one step closer to my mission. One step closer to revealing how close I’d actually gotten to locking lips with my high school’s biggest hunk.

  Flynn Malone.

  A boy who could make a girl’s wet dreams seem little more than puddles. A local baseball god who gave new meaning to the word “crush.”

  He’d been mine—unabashedly—for my entire two years of high school, and if Mary the Mother was willing, he would be more than just a crush by the time I left.

  I had it all figured out. A plan.

  More like a strategy.

  A strategy to make Flynn Malone and all his gloriousness mine. If only for one night.

  To make him my first.

  And I was well on my way, if today was any indicator, our mouths seconds from sweeping against one another’s in today’s after-school tutoring session. At least, until Mrs. DeCosta stepped into the abandoned classroom, interrupting.

  I shake my head. No matter.

  It was only a matter of time.

  I suppress a squeal, digging into the side pocket of my backpack for a compact mirror, double-checking that no trace of the red lipstick I wore earlier is still on my mouth.

  Because good girls don’t wear lipsticks that make them look like whores…or do they?

  I push my mother’s words out of my head, reaching for the front door keys again on the step. Slipping out the correct one, I unlock the clamped bolts, letting the cool breeze of the window-set A/C units wash over me.

  God, I hate the Miami heat. But it’s home.

  The only home I’ve ever known.

  But something’s different.

  I step past the kitchen counters, first seeing the carton of eggs perched on top. Strange. My mom had already asked me to pick some up from the store for the bakery.

  I try to shake off the gnawing feeling, calling out for my mom instead. Eggs on the counter surely meant she was home. I wet my dry lips before calling out.

  “Mama! Esta aquí? You home?”

  A beat passes. And then…

  “In here!” The sound of her raspy voice beckons me, and I set my bag aside, straightening my skirt yet again, a nervous hand swiping across my mouth for the fortieth time.

  I try to smile the second I enter the den. But it breaks when I see the man in the dark cloak and collar sitting there on our couch.

  Next to my Aunt Sandra instead.

  I stop. “Uh, hi.” I say to her, my heart picking up pace again, beating double-quick against its own will. “Who’s this?”

  “This,” my Aunt Sandra motions, fresh sadness shimmering in her earthy eyes, “is Father Perez. He’s the priest of St. Francis Catholic Church.”

  I blink, nodding—not knowing what else to do. “Oh, cool.”

  “He’s here to talk to us about possible arrangements.”

  “Possible arrangements for what?”

  “For the funeral,” she adds, unable to meet my eye. “Your parents… My sister… Well, Mama and Papa had an…accident earlier today, mija. And I didn’t want to pull you out of school.”

  “An accident…” I still can’t seem to wrap my mind around what’s she saying. “Pull me out of school? What does that mean?”

  “I didn’t want to break the news to you while you were in class.”

  I forget my manners, every good rule in the book, my voice rising. “Why? What do you mean?”

  My aunt Sandra turns from where she’s sitting, reaching for something beside her on the sofa. Placing it on the oak coffee table in front of us, she almost teases me with it, prodding the leather-bound book in my direction.

  Its little lock is broken. I almost don’t recognize it.

  But when I do, my blood runs tundra-cold, my chest heaving as I slowly stare back up at her face. My tongue turns to ash. “How…”

  It’s my mother’s book of recipes. The one she always has with her.

  But some of the book is torn, beaten to within an each of its life.

  “I know she would want you to have it,” Aunt Sandra says as her only answer. Avoiding my eyes, she tilts her head, turning back to the mysterious Father Perez.

  But my attentions are still on the coffee table. On the leather square sitting in the middle of it.

  My momma’s entire world. Her life in words.

  Her cookbook.

  It’s every single piece of evidence of the life she’d lived.

  And if she was giving it to me…

  Then that meant things were fucking wrong.

  My tongue may be broken, but thoughts are all coming out Esmerelda-style, every curse word I can imagine flying through my brain in a flurry.

  Because good girls?

  Good girls don’t kiss and tell. But on a day like this, when they find out the worst news ever, they damned sure should cry.

  Even in my memories, I know they should. But I couldn’t.

  That’s not the way I was raised.

  But all that goes out the door as I sit on that floor.

  Still wrapped up in my sheets, whore-like lipstick still smeared on my mouth, I do me and my mama and papa a favor….

  I actually cry.

  I cry for everything I couldn’t say then. Everything I can’t say now.

  I cry for the incomplete woman I’d grown up to be—half-woman, half-machine.

  I cry for the young woman I was and the one I want to be. The caretaker. The aspiring baker.

  But mostly, I cry because, with Sawyer, I was so damned close to being her. And that’s just not possible now.

  Not after everything.

  If Sawyer could hurt his best friend that way, there’s no mistaking that he could hurt me the same; my heart and brain agree on that much.

  At least I finally know which version of Naomi I have to be.

  There’s no more bouncing between the two. No more wondering which one I will be next.

  Discardin
g the rest of the ruined dessert puffs, I pick up my phone not a minute after. Aunt Sandra’s still hungover when I finally reach her, but she wakes up the second I tell her I’ll be back in Miami in the next few days.

  And this time, we both know what’s not being said.

  We both know that I’ll be back for good.

  And this time, I make sure I don’t cry on the call.

  Chapter 27

  SAWYER

  Thursday

  I’m not sure she even shed a single tear when I left.

  It’s been seven, seemingly unending days. And still no sign of Naomi.

  My life, for all its goals and wants, is over, and even if I weren’t on the path to getting traded by Cougars within the next week, all I’ve wanted would probably still be done.

  My best friend won’t talk to me. The woman I wanted walked out.

  Even the firm I’ve hired to handle it can’t help, and as I sit here at their offices, mind racing, my beard longer than ever before, I can barely look them in the eye.

  I know I should have told Naomi what happened. Should have confessed all of it.

  But that night when Ben stopped by the penthouse and revealed to me the truth of why the firm found me, how they’d caught wind of a possible publication of my ‘conquests’ being shopped around for the nearest tabloids, I should have spilled my guts about Annabelle Johnson, about the incident with Kimmy over ten years ago.

  About all of it.

  My love life had been hanging by a thin thread, but after the release of the ‘Conquest’ article, my personal life and professional life were shredded too.

  And I was currently watching all three crash.

  At last, I gaze up at Ben in the corner, not sure if I hear him right.

  “What?” I say, rubbing my beard. “I think I missed all of that. Can you repeat it again?”

  Ben freezes, stiffening. “Maybe if you could get Naomi to talk, to go on record for the two of you being a relationship, maybe we could smooth some of this ‘lethario’ talk over, get the press to ease off a bit.”

  I stiffen, heart falling into my stomach, the two parts of my body bottoming out. “You’ve gotta be kidding, right?”

  “Well, no, it would only make sense. Since the two of you—"

  “The two of us are nothing now,” I interrupt, standing to my feet, unable to sit still. “The two of us won’t be anything from now on. Or did we not all read the same article? We were so concerned about the press finding out about Annabelle Johnson when we should have worried about them finding out about Kimmy. Annabelle’s name wasn’t even mentioned in the article.”

  Ben steps aside, as Stephan Knight steps closer, his gray eyes burning holes in mine. “Well, we talked to Annabelle, the owner’s wife. She acted like she had no clue what we were talking about when it came to you. And hell, it only made me respect the woman more.” He shakes his head, blinking. “Look, why don’t you sit down, take a deep breath, before we discuss any more?”

  “Discuss any more?” I arch a brow. “What’s there to discuss? Looks like you guys want to hire Naomi Silva to help my situation.” I lean against the doorframe of the firm’s conference room, hearing it groan. “And if that’s case, I might as well hang up my cleats now. I don’t think Naomi Silva has any interest in being my savior.”

  Stephan Knight’s eyes narrow over at me, heating up the space. I feel his stoniness from ten feet away. “That’s our job, Mr. Kennedy. We make the hard decisions. Do the things that are uncomfortable to do. It’s why you hired us. It’s why we work.”

  “Lovely.” I look at Ben and then to Stephan. “Well, that’s not how I work, so maybe we shouldn’t work together at all. Now if you excuse me… I have other places to be.” I start for the door.

  Stephan is after me in seconds, a hand on my shoulder. I’m tempted to shrug it off, but I turn instead, facing the firm CEO head on.

  He stops. “Are those ‘other places to be’ worth losing your baseball career over? Because if not, I think it’d be better if you gave this a chance. We all agreed we’d hear each other out.”

  I smile, an expression dripping with disdain. “Yeah, but see the crux is: When you said ‘we,’ I didn’t know that included me dragging innocent bystanders into this shit.” I hiss, trying to whisper. “Sevin trusted you guys, so I trusted you. And now, I don’t know…” I shrug, hands going to my hips. “Maybe I was a fool to think that anyone could help me.”

  “You’re a fool, if you think anyone but us can.” Stephan smirks, raising a brow. I raise one back. “Not to be immodest, Mr. Kennedy, but we didn’t become the best crisis firm on either coast by not helping our clients.”

  “You’ve got a point there, but…” I open my mouth to argue more. But it’s pointless.

  Truth is: I’m too goddamned angry to think rationally. Too goddamned put out. Too goddamned disappointed.

  And way too goddamned hurt to pretend I’m anything else.

  “…does that make sense, Mr. Kennedy?” Stephan finishes, slapping a hand on my shoulder.

  I have no clue what he just said, but I nod anyway. Crossing my arms, I bite my bottom lip, my teeth threatening to break through the skin. I exhale out loud. “Are you so sure that it’s me who needs convincing on this case?”

  His brow furrows. “Well, I think that Miss Silva might be willing to work with us, if you give her a chance.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure about Miss Silva. If she never hated me before, she does now… And I don’t blame her. But thanks for trying.”

  Skin heating, head swimming, I tell myself a million reasons why coming here was a bad idea in the first place.

  I should have known hiring a firm to handle a man like me was thinking too easy. I should have known that reforming a man like me was no walk in the park, and I should have known asking someone else to clean up an image that I’ve crafted for years was a shot in the goddamned dark.

  But at least I tried.

  A drink is the only thing that will cure tonight. Make it five of them…and a blow job, for good measure.

  I can’t get to either fast enough, as I elbow to push my way out, past the dingy Martin’s Dry Cleaning sign and into the street.

  With a few quick taps to the ride-share app, I call a car.

  Shoving my hand through my hair, I stare up the street as if the Lyft car I ordered will magically appear.

  Head down, eyes on my screen, I turn the corner, heading in the general direction of the driver, the taste of the gin I know I’ll drink tonight already on my tongue.

  Not a minute later, the black Escalade I ordered comes into sight on the lighted sidewalk—all of its sleek corners calling to me, and I raise my hand, ready for my chariot. But before my hand can wrap around the back door’s handle, someone else’s hand makes it there first.

  I jump back, muscles tightening as I swing around.

  Ben, overzealous agent that he is, holds up both hands up, backing away.

  “Whoa there, Mr. Kennedy. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

  I relax, trying not to snort. “Not much scares me these days after what I’m going though.”

  “Duly noted.” Ben nods, stuffing his hands in his slacks. “Tonight didn’t go exactly as we’d all hoped, did it?”

  “Understatement of the century.”

  “I had no idea that you and Miss Silva had such…history.”

  History. That was a good word for it. A better word would be “hatred.”

  Because that’s mostly what Naomi and I had between us.

  Pure and dreadful disdain. Made even more brittle and bitter the second she found out that I’d slept with Sawyer’s girlfriend—the mother of his child, when I’d been seventeen and stupid. A kid too damaged, too hurting, to stop myself from damaging others.

  Least of all, my best friend.

  I nod, shifting on my feet. I glance at the Lyft car a few feet away. “Naomi has a history, all right. A history of wishing me dead.” I shrug. “Thanks for the help,
anyway. It was a long shot.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa.” The twig of a man waves as I reach for the car again. “Where are you heading? I thought you might want to still talk about how the firm can help…”

  I wrap my hand around the Escalade’s handle. I stop to stare at Ben. “What’s there to talk about, exactly? You guys can’t help me. No one can now. I’m already on suspension. If I don’t turn my image around, I’ll be traded from the Cougars. And no baseball team within a thousand-mile radius will take a chance on my tarnished ass, so since that about sums it up…” I plaster on a smile. “I think I’d like to get rip-roaring drunk now, so if you’ll excuse me…”

  I take another step towards the car. But Ben pulls on me again, drawing me back.

  The heat that roared under my skin earlier is back with a vengeance. I’m ready to go full-on Hercules on his ass until I see the hopeful look in his eyes.

  He backs up. “Sure you don’t want some company? A drinking buddy, perhaps? Maybe, after enough shots, I can convince you that we can still salvage your career.”

  After spending time with Ben and his boss, it’s clear that he has a crush on the guy, so hooking him up with women’s out of the question.

  But a drinking buddy’s a drinking buddy; he might not be the best wingman, but right now, anyone will do. I pull on the handle, shoving the car door aside as I step away, lifting one eyebrow at the human stick-figure.

  “Hope you can handle your liquor. I’m not carrying anyone’s ass home.”

  Except my own.

  Correction: My own ass, and whatever ass belongs to the flavor who will fill the Naomi-shaped hole in my new bed.

  I keep that part to myself as Ben rounds the large black truck, hopping in the passenger side. I take the back, needing the space.

  Needing the time to think.

  Getting rip-roaring drunk has its upsides. Bars are the best place to meet women.

  And I was going to need one tonight, out of all nights.

  Trouble is: I now can’t get one in particular out of my head.

  The only woman I’ve ever cared about. The only woman who’s ever turned me down…

  For anything.