No Promises

by N. Raines

  "Uh-huh." Sam made the turn. Willowvale, like a number of other cities in upstate New York, had seen better days. She and Rick drove silently by a number of big old houses, once single-family homes owned by well-off families, now chopped up into multiunit dwellings. Lawns were dry and scrubby, the sidewalks cracked and uneven. Every block sported at least one boarded-up building, dingy liquor store, or bar with a flickering neon sign. God knew the house she and Pop shared would never grace the pages of House Beautiful, but this neighborhood was totally depressing.

  "Pull up here." He indicated a run-down laundry to the right. "I've got a room upstairs," he explained in response to her confused look.

  He opened the truck's door, then stopped. "Shit."

  "What's wrong?"

  "I don't know. But I know I locked that door when I left." He nodded at the wooden door hanging open at the side of the building.

  The hairs on her arms prickled in alarm. She grabbed her cell phone. "Should I call the cops?"

  Rick descended from the cab and slammed the door shut.

  "Wait, what are you—" She hopped from the truck and scrambled after him as he moved toward the building. "Stay here. You don't know if someone's still up there."

  He turned to her. "Get back in the truck."

  "Oh my God," she muttered. Diving back into the cab, she grabbed a heavy-duty flashlight from the glove compartment. She could clunk a burglar on the head with it if she had to. She typed the numbers 9-1-1 on her keypad and held her finger over the Send key as she hurried to the door Rick had entered.

  The narrow hallway leading upstairs was dark. Sam clicked on her flashlight. "Rick?"

  "Yeah." His tone was flat, lifeless.

  She crept up the stairs and found him in a dingy little room with ugly yellow walls. It wasn't much more than a bedroom with a couple of old chairs, a dresser, and a few small tables.

  The place had been trashed. The door hung drunkenly on one hinge. Clothing was strewn around, dresser drawers left open, chair cushions upended. Rick sat on a rumpled bed. "Didn't I tell you to stay in the truck?"

  Sam's arms fell to her sides as she surveyed the damage. "God."

  He shook his head. "I don't know why they bothered tearing off the door. It's got such a shitty lock; they could have just jimmied it."

  She hardly knew what to say. "Did they take anything?"

  He scrubbed his hand through his hair. "A cheap-ass TV that only got two channels. Maybe some clothes. There's not a hell of a lot here worth stealing."

  If this was all he owned, his possessions were pretty meager. Why was he living here? Was he really this far down on his luck?

  He seemed to guess her thoughts. "My roommate suddenly decided to move his girlfriend into our apartment. Without asking me. No way was I about to live with him and his crazy-ass chick. I had to move out quick, and this place, shitty as it is, was all I could find on such short notice." He eyed the room in disgust. "Luckily, most of my shit is still at my old place. Since I've paid through the end of the month, my ex-roomie had to let me store it there till I can find something better."

  She didn't feel quite so bad then. But still… "Should we call the cops? Report this?"

  He rose from the bed, his face a blank wall. "What for? They probably can't do much about it tonight anyway." He lifted a shirt from the floor. "Might as well start cleaning up."

  She picked up a pair of socks. "You don't have to stay," he told her.

  "It's all right." Sam didn't want to leave him here in this mess. As they straightened up the place in silence, her worry grew. Her throat ached, and for some crazy reason she wanted to cry. Though Rick was doing his best to play the tough guy who let it all roll off his back, the slump of his shoulders and the tightness of his mouth revealed his real feelings.

  He'd been an ass earlier, but now he looked so defeated that she couldn't help but sympathize. He'd had one hell of a night—first finding out his old girlfriend was a lesbian, and then coming home to find his place trashed.

  She folded and refolded a pair of jeans. "You're not planning on staying here tonight?"

  "I'll be fine. Whoever it was won't be back."

  You don't know that, she wanted to say. "But the door…"

  "I'll prop it up, call the landlord in the morning." He quirked an eyebrow. "You worried I can't take care of myself?"

  Sure, he was big. And strong, no doubt. But those muscles wouldn't count for much against some meth freak with a gun.

  She was shaking. The break-in had rattled her more than it had him. Or maybe he was more practiced at hiding his emotions.

  She hugged the folded jeans to her chest. "Please come home with me tonight."

  Surprise and another emotion softened his features, and for the first time that evening he looked like the Rick she remembered. "Hey." His voice was gentle. "I'll be fine. Really."

  "It's not safe." She winced at how her voice trembled.

  "Hey." He strode over to her, laid his hand on her cheek. Their gazes met, and Sam couldn't look away. The impulse to rub her cheek against his hand overwhelmed her, but she pushed it back.

  What was going on with her? Through sheer force of will, she stepped away. "Don't get the wrong idea. I'm only offering you a place to sleep. I live with my father, so—"

  "I get it." Though they no longer touched, the air between them was tense with electricity. All the molecules of her body seemed to shiver. "All right. Thanks." Rick stuffed his things—clothing and a few toiletries—into a backpack.

  Sam gave him a questioning look. "Is that all you want to bring?"

  "It's all I've got." He shrugged. "It's a furnished room."

  Sam was relieved to put the place and its bad juju behind them. On the way to her house, Rick called the landlord and left a voice mail. "He's a slippery one to get hold of. We'll see if it takes as long for him to fix a broken door as it does a broken toilet."

  Sam had nothing to offer. The events of the evening and the lateness of the hour hit her like a double whammy. She was exhausted.

  "So you live with your father, huh?"

  "Yeah." Sure, at twenty-one she'd like to be on her own, but Pop needed her. Her hand tightened on the steering wheel as she imagined having her own place, coming and going as she pleased, having friends over. Having a boyfriend spend the night—if she had a boyfriend. Other girls her age were doing it.

  But she was still sleeping in the same bedroom she'd had since she was a little girl.

  Guilt splashed over her, washing away her rebellious thoughts. Stop it, Sam! Who's going to take care of Pop if you don't? God knows he won't take care of himself.

  But she didn't owe Rick Russo her life story. He wouldn't care anyway.

  As she steered the truck into the driveway, she saw Pop had left the kitchen light on, as usual. She led the way, unlocked the door, and ushered Rick in.

  "My father's asleep, so we need to keep it down."

  "Sure." He cleared his throat. "Could I have some water?"

  Right. Alcohol dehydrated. And the way he'd been at it tonight, he'd need a reservoir's worth of water to keep him on an even keel. She found a glass in the dish drainer and filled it at the sink.

  He downed it in a few gulps.

  "Another?" she asked as he handed her the glass.

  "No. Thanks." She set the glass on the table and led him into the darkened living room. He jerked to a stop as something black streaked by. "What was that?"

  "Just the cat. She's a little skittish." Sam gestured to the big old upholstered sofa. It had seen better days, but she and her dad loved it. The cushions sagged just the perfect way from years of being sat on. "I'm gonna put you here."

  "Great." He sank onto the sofa and jounced a little, as though testing it out.

  "I'll just get you some blankets. And a pillow."

  "I'll use this." He held up a throw pillow.

  "That won't be comfortable. I'll be right back." She tiptoed upstairs, not wanting to disturb her father on her
way to the linen closet. She grabbed a couple of blankets and retrieved a pillow from her own bed. When she emerged from her bedroom, she came face-to-face with her dad in his ratty flannel robe.

  "What's going on?" he demanded.

  She clutched the blankets to her chest. "What are you doing up?"

  Pop scowled. "Never mind that. I want to know who that is downstairs."

  She sighed. "It's a long story, but the short version is he's Britt's friend and he just needs a place to stay tonight."

  "It's not enough you bring home stray cats, and now you're—"

  "Pop, please. It's late. I promise I'll explain it all in the morning. Go on back to bed."

  Her father scratched his bristly face and gave her a thoughtful look. "Well, maybe I should be happy you've brought home a stray man this time. Is he a likely prospect?"

  She flung back her head and groaned. "Don't even go there. It's nothing like that."

  Pop retreated to his room, grumbling under his breath. Sam hurried downstairs and stopped short again. Rick stood at the foot of the steps.

  "I'm gonna go."

  "Where to?" Embarrassment made her short. Had he overheard her father's remark? God, talk about humiliating. She descended the stairs, handed him the pillow, and placed the linens on top. "Take these and go lie down. I'm too tired to argue."

  He did as she asked, kicked off his shoes, and settled down on the sofa.

  "Do you need anything else?"

  "No." A pause. "Thank you, Sam."

  Silly how those few words, and the tone in which he'd spoken them, sent a shiver through her. She crept back upstairs, shaking her head at her own foolishness.

  She fluffed up her pillow—it looked lonely without its buddy—and flopped down on her bed. Tired as she was, her thoughts wouldn't stop spinning.

  He was only a floor below her, the guy she'd secretly lusted after all through high school. Just as hot as he'd always been. No. Hotter.

  That doesn't make him any less of a jerk. Don't forget how he talked to Britt. Sam punched her pillow and turned over.

  Yeah, but don't forget he had a big shock tonight, finding out about Britt. Maybe he didn't handle it the best way, but it had to be a lot to absorb.

  She flopped to her other side. You're just making excuses 'cause you want him.

  Argghh, shut up!

  He'd had an awful lot to drink tonight. Would he be all right? What if he needed to get up in the middle of the night? Sam remembered she hadn't told him where the bathroom was. She hated to think of him stumbling around in the dark. He might fall and get hurt.

  Worse yet, what if he got sick? He didn't seem that far gone, but still…

  She slid off the bed, grabbed her pillow and blanket, and tiptoed down the stairs.

  Pop was already in the armchair, waiting. Their little cat, Blackberry, was curled up in his lap.

  Sam blinked in surprise. "What are you—"

  "I know you. Figured you'd be worried about this fella here, so you'd come on down to keep an eye on him." Pop lifted an eyebrow and gave her a smirk that said, Think you're smart enough to pull something over on the old man, huh?

  Sam glanced at the man sacked out on the sofa. "Never mind him," her father said. "He's already sawing wood." As if in answer, Rick grumbled and snorted in his sleep. "You go back to bed, Sammy." He stroked the cat. "Me and my sidekick here'll look out for your friend."

  Look out for him and make sure he caused no trouble. Sam knew her father acted more from suspicion than concern for Rick. She also knew better than to argue—there was no one more stubborn than her dad.

  She tucked her blanket around him. "Don't forget, you need your rest, too."

  "I can always catch a few winks during the day if need be." He waved her away. "Get going."

  She knew when to retreat. "'Night, Pop."

  Her feet dragged as she climbed the stairs. Was she relieved that Pop was there to "guard her honor"? Or disappointed?

  She couldn't decide.

  Chapter Three

  Rick awakened slowly, blinking eyes as gritty as sandpaper. He shifted and groaned, moving his hand to his queasy belly. His fingers landed on something soft.

  A cat. A small black cat lay curled in a lump on top of him. Huh? Where'd it come from?

  Oh, right. This wasn't his place. He'd gone home with that girl, what was her name…

  He sat up, dislodging the cat. "Sorry." When it hopped to the floor, Rick saw it had only a stub of a tail. It stopped and blinked green-gold eyes at him.

  Grimacing, he smacked his lips. The inside of his mouth tasted like he'd licked a men's room floor. Inside his head, someone clanged a gong.

  Two legs appeared in front of him, and a large, gnarly hand thrust a couple of white tablets at him. "Take these; they'll help."

  Only if they're cyanide. Rick didn't argue. He took the pills and the glass of water also offered.

  "Drink it all." A stubble-cheeked, gray-haired man grinned down at him. "You need it."

  As soon as Rick drained the glass, he was handed a mug of coffee. "The chaser. That'll put hair on your chest." The man turned toward the doorway. "Sammy, your guest's awake."

  Sam. Right, that was her name. She appeared in the doorway, a frilly apron tied around her slim hips, a direct contrast to her outfit of worn jeans and baggy sweatshirt. She looked nervous, unsure how to greet him. A sudden stab of guilt hit him. Even though he'd been an ass last night, she'd still looked out for him.

  "Oh. Morning. How are you?" she asked, wiping her palms on the apron.

  The old dude—he had to be Sam's father—smacked him on the shoulder. "He's doing just fine. I gave him my world-famous hangover cure."

  Her lips quirked as she eyed him skeptically. "World famous, huh?"

  Sam's old man puffed his chest. "Hey, I wasn't always the upright citizen you see before you. I had some pretty wild times before I settled down with your mom. Had my share of hangovers."

  "Do tell. I'd like to hear more about these wild times of yours."

  "Nah. Gotta preserve my good name." He turned back to Rick. "Drink up, there, son. Coffee's part of the cure."

  One mouthful proved black, bitter, and hot enough to peel the skin off the roof of his mouth. Rick drank it just the same, not wanting to look like a wuss.

  Sam spoke up. "In case you haven't guessed, the hangover expert is my dad."

  "Jay Pennywell." Sam's father rocked back on his heels. "Since it's not every night my daughter brings home a man, you can call me Jay."

  "Pop!" If looks could kill, Jay Pennywell would have been laid out on the floor, stone-cold. In a more measured tone, she said, "Breakfast's almost ready. I'll drop you back at Britt and Morgan's later so you can pick up your car."

  "Thanks." He had to call his landlord, see if the weaselly little prick had gotten his message.

  She disappeared back into the kitchen. Jay smirked down at him. Rick cleared his throat. "Uh, think I'll skip breakfast, but would a quick shower be all right?"

  "Sure. Bathroom's right through there. Towels in the cupboard. Don't forget your coffee."

  Rick stood, the cup in his hand. "Hangover cure. Right."

  "You bet. Give your head a good dunk too, under the water. Fix you right up."

  "Yeah." The old guy was having fun with him, but he had it coming.

  Sticking his head under the steamy spray did help, though. So did the black coffee. Rick felt a bit more human when he emerged from the shower. Too bad he had only yesterday's smelly clothes to put on.

  He was dressed and combing back his damp hair when the door popped open and the little black cat hopped up to the sink counter. It sat and stared as if trying to decide whether he passed inspection.

  "Hey you. You never heard of privacy?"

  There was a tap at the door. "You decent?" Sam asked.

  He pulled the door open so they spoke face-to-face. "Yep."

  Sam's face turned rosy as she eyed him, then glanced away. What had her so e
mbarrassed? He took a quick look down to make sure his fly was zipped. All good.

  "Breakfast's ready whenever you are."

  "Okay. Thanks." The cat bounded down to the floor and preceded him to the kitchen.

  ****

  "I have to a make a stop before I drop you off," Sam told him as they stepped out of the house.

  "Okay." He was hardly in a position to complain. He owed her, not just for the ride, but for a place to lay his head last night. Still, he didn't like the one-down position, being beholden to anyone.

  She headed off toward the garage. "Just one sec." A few moments later she tottered out the side door with a huge bag of cat food.

  "Wait a minute." He hurried over and grabbed it from her arms. It had to be thirty pounds, anyway. She was pretty strong for such a little bird. "Where does this go?"

  She sighed and smiled in gratitude. "Thanks. In the truck bed, please."

  When he deposited the cat food, he noticed some kind of cage in the bed as well. "So what's all this?" he asked as he slid into the passenger seat.

  She started the engine. "You'll find out."

  They rode in silence until Sam spoke again. "Don't take my father too much to heart. He likes to give people the business. It's his way of having fun."

  "Yeah, I got that." Besides his world-famous hangover cure, Jay had urged a big plate of scrambled eggs and bacon on him, knowing full well, Rick was sure, that he could barely stomach the sight, much less the smell of them. Though he'd managed to choke down a piece of toast. "It's all right. He's a pretty cool old guy."

  Sam smiled. "Yeah, he is."

  "So, is that the house you grew up in?" Might as well spend the time talking. Besides, he was curious.

  "Yeah. My mother died when I was little, so Pop pretty much raised me on his own." She stared straight ahead as she spoke. "He has heart problems. He took care of me, so now it's my turn to take care of him."

  "No brothers or sisters?"

  "Two brothers, but they're a lot older. Got their own lives and families."

  What did that mean? They got a pass, and it was Sam's job to take care of the old man? Because she was the youngest and a woman? That pretty much sucked. But maybe she put the responsibility on herself.