No Promises

by N. Raines

  Talk about your lose-lose situation.

  He was lying on his narrow bed, pondering all this, when he heard the door open downstairs. "Jay? Is that you?"

  "It's me." His stepfather's voice.

  Rick jerked up and jumped to his feet like a shot. He strode to the top of the steps and looked down.

  The old man stood at the bottom of the stairs. Rick hadn't seen him in months, but he looked the same as ever. Same slick-backed dark hair, graying at the temples. The same bushy eyebrows. The same disappointment in his eyes whenever he gazed at Rick.

  His stepfather smirked. "So can I come up, or are we gonna do this here?"

  "Yeah, sure." The sudden weariness that overcame Rick seeped into his voice. Might as well get it over with. "Come on up."

  Weird, almost creepy how the old man turned up today of all days. As though he knew he'd been the topic of the morning's conversation.

  When he entered the loft, Anthony Russo Sr. regarded it dismissively. "I don't suppose there's a place to sit."

  Rick indicated the bed. "Help yourself."

  The old man eyed the mattress as though it were infested with fleas. "Never mind. Your mother's been worried. Were you ever going to let us know your new address?"

  "Just wanted to get settled," Rick lied. Leave it to the old man to make him feel like a kid. The familiar resentment surfaced. Damn it, he was grown. He didn't have to explain himself. Especially to this man, who he'd never been able to please.

  Anthony lifted an eyebrow. "And you settled here?"

  Rick ground his teeth. "Yeah. How'd you know where I was, anyway?"

  "An old friend of your mother's called. Madelyn Hadaway."

  Britt's mom. Britt must have told her mother, who'd then called his folks.

  "I felt pretty frigging stupid hearing from somebody else that you'd up and moved without even a word to us. Oh, I know you don't give a damn about me. But you could have thought of your mother. She's been worried sick since she called your roommate, whatshisname, and he had no clue where you'd gone."

  Though Rick knew Anthony was manipulating him, something he excelled at, guilt splashed him just the same. "For God's sake, it hasn't been that long."

  "Enough time for something bad to have happened." His stepfather's eyes narrowed. "AJ's worried too."

  Rick snorted. "I'm sure AJ has better things to think about."

  "He looks up to you."

  He looks up to you more. But Rick and AJ were in the same boat when it came to the old man. Both disappointments. Anthony Junior, his father's namesake, born with cerebral palsy. He'd never be the running back, the hotshot gridiron hero, the big man on campus through whom his father could live vicariously. Nor would he ever take over as the boss of Russo Construction, Anthony Sr.'s real pride and joy.

  The old man shifted impatiently. "Well, come on. Get your stuff together and let's go."

  The hairs on the back of Rick's neck prickled. "What are you talking about?"

  "You're coming home with me." Anthony Sr. spotted the backpack resting on the floor in a corner of the tiny room. He grabbed and it turned to Rick. "This is all you've got? My God, when are you going to grow up?"

  Anger surged through Rick. He could go through the whole routine, explain how most of his stuff was still at his old place, but damn it, why should he? He was sick of listening to his stepfather's orders, tired of the man acting like Rick was so stupid he couldn't find his own ass with both hands and a GPS. "I'm not going anywhere. I like it here. When are you gonna get it in your head that I'm grown?"

  "When you start acting like it." His stepfather tossed the sack on the bed. "Start taking responsibility and quit flitting from one thing to another. You think you're gonna be young forever? You don't get your act together, you're going to end up an old man without a pot to piss in."

  Rick's face burned. His stepfather never let him forget that it had taken him a few years after high school to figure out his life. He'd traveled a little, kicked around, picked up odd jobs. When he made up his mind what he wanted to do, he'd settled just fine into his EMT and paramedic training. "You're forgetting I've been a medic for a couple years now." But you walked away, he reminded himself. He wasn't about to admit it to Anthony, who'd pounce on that factoid like a cat on a distracted mouse.

  "Well, you stuck with it longer than your other little experiments, I'll give you that," Anthony said. "But that's a washout now, too. Why else would they tell me that you were on leave when I called Willowvale Ambulance Service? And that they had no information on when you might return?"

  A red wave of rage surged through Rick. "You called my job?"

  The old man wasn't fazed. "We didn't know where you were. So all that rigmarole they gave me means you either quit or were canned."

  Another charge of fury zapped Rick. He clenched his fists, resisting the urge to punch a hole in the wall. "I wasn't canned!"

  Even the old man, stubborn as he was, knew when to back down. "All right. Whatever." His beefy shoulders sagged in a sigh. "How much they charging you for this matchbox?"

  "Nothing." He bit the word off as anger slowly drained away.

  "So you're taking charity?"

  Charity. A dirty word to the senior Russo. "I'm helping out in exchange for the room."

  "Like some bum off the street." The old man's tone was thick with disgust. "For God's sake, you've got a home. You could have come to us anytime."

  Sure. And be subjected to an unending stream of lectures on all his shortcomings and failures. No thanks.

  "Enough of this jabber. Let's get your crap and go. I can find you something to do at the job. At least you'll be working and not have to depend on the kindness of strangers." Anthony cocked an eyebrow at Rick ironically, as though saying, Yeah, you didn't expect me to know that quote, didja?

  That was the old man to a T. One minute bossing everyone around like a dictator, the next cracking wise. But Rick was too pissed off now to find anything funny.

  "Who said I need a job?"

  "You're living here, paying no rent. Your supposed place of employment has no information on you. You won't talk to your family. You need something, sonny."

  Don't call me sonny, he almost spat. But that would fan the flames. Rick knew from experience the only way to deal with the old man's pushing was to push back. "I'm staying here."

  Maybe. Or maybe he should go back to his old ways, take off. Be in the wind. Quit his job, put his shit in storage, and that's all, folks.

  Right, asshole. Follow in your sperm donor's footsteps. Then you'll be exactly the kind of loser the old man thinks you are. Bail on the guys at the station. On Cris. On Sam.

  Shit. What about Sam?

  His gut clenched. She'd be hurt. They'd gotten close.

  What the fuck. Close? Call a spade a spade, man. They'd had sex. Sam wasn't a girl who could just hook up with a dude and shrug it off, NBD.

  But it wasn't like he'd made any promises.

  Yeah, go on, shithead. Try to weasel out of it.

  While all this was running through his head, the old man fumbled around in a drawer of the old dresser Rick had found in the shed and lugged up the stairs. Sam had dusted it off and shined it up for him. "Get out of there!"

  Anthony turned and shook his head. "Stubborn. Stubborn, just like your mother."

  "Well, I would be like her, wouldn't I?" His smart-ass mouth ran ahead of his brain. "Considering I'm not yours."

  That stopped the old man dead in his tracks. Rick should have gloated at sticking it to him, but only felt like a prick. He lowered his gaze in shame.

  His stepfather's lips twitched. "And you always have to rub my nose in it, don't you?" The grooves at the corners of his mouth deepened. "Okay, kid." He tossed the backpack onto the mattress. "You want me gone, I'm gone. Do whatever you want. I can't stop you anyway. But call your mother, huh? Try thinking about somebody else for once." He shouldered past Rick and was gone.

  Think about somebody else for once. Th
e words clanged in Rick's brain like a gong.

  He went to close the drawer the old man had left open. Inside, on top of the socks, lay five twenty-dollar bills that hadn't been there before. "Damn it!"

  He grabbed the bills and ran down the steps, but by the time he got outside, the car was gone. The old man had already driven off.

  Rick clomped back upstairs, tossed the twenties onto the mattress, and sank down next to them.

  He was disgusted with himself for getting pulled into the same old circular argument with his stepfather, the same old bullshit. Same accusations, different day. Round and round they went.

  The thing was, Rick knew Anthony Sr. cared about him. Loved him, even. And he had to admit he respected the old man for stepping up and taking care of him and his mother when his sperm donor lit out. But they never saw eye to eye on anything.

  The old man was right about one thing, though. He couldn't stay here indefinitely, spinning his wheels. He'd been living the past couple weeks on his little bit of savings, but that wouldn't last much longer, even if he wasn't paying rent.

  "Like a bum off the street." Anthony Sr.'s voice rang in his ears.

  It's not like that, Rick told himself.

  Still, what was he going to do? He'd have to make up his mind soon. If he didn't go back to the job, what were his options? Flipping burgers at some fast-food joint and coming home every night smelling like grease? Or worse, getting stuck behind a desk all day? That would suck.

  "You don't get your act together, you're going to end up an old man without a pot to piss in." Anthony Sr.'s voice again. Ugh.

  "Shut up, why don't you?" Rick said, as though his stepfather were still there. He wadded up the twenties, walked over to the dresser, and stuffed the money back where he'd found it.

  After slamming the drawer shut, he took a look around the loft. Half an hour ago, it had been comfortable. A welcome place to lie down, to rest. Now it looked shabby and pathetic.

  The kind of place a loser would live.

  "Like a bum off the street."

  Was it really a place to live? Or just a place to hide, to avoid making decisions?

  For the first time in his life, he saw himself the way his stepfather saw him. And it made him sick.

  His phone rang. He picked it up and saw it was his ex-roomie Zach calling. Terrific. Now what?

  With an impatient sigh, Rick lifted the phone to his ear. "Yeah?"

  Chapter Eleven

  When Sam got off work, she still wasn't sure she was in any frame of mind to deal with Rick and his moods. She texted Britt. Can I come over?

  Sure.

  Twenty minutes later she was parked on Britt's couch, eyes closed, her face slathered with green mush while Britt painted her toenails a neon turquoise.

  What bliss, to lie back and be pampered out of her sucky mood. Just chilling with her girls. No guys around to make her crazy, to frown and sulk and grumble. Who answered questions in monosyllables and expected you to read their minds. Who were hot to get you into bed but wouldn't make eye contact with you in the morning.

  The hell with 'em.

  Morgan, also wearing a face mask, sat on the other end of the sofa. "So how long does this stuff have to stay on?"

  "Let me see." Britt dabbed her finger in the goop on Sam's face. "A little longer still." She popped her finger between her lips.

  Morgan's mouth twisted. "Eww."

  Britt laughed. "Chill, babe. It's just avocado with a little honey."

  "Well, in that case, let's break out the chips and salsa." Morgan closed her eyes and leaned back into the sofa cushions, the perfect model of repose. "So, Sam, Britt told me all about your shopping spree."

  "You should see the dress she got. It looks awesome on her," Britt said. "Shows off her cleavage to perfection."

  Sam glanced down at her chest. "Who knew I had any?"

  Britt winked. "Never underestimate the power of a push-up bra. We definitely made the right choice."

  "Thanks for being my fashion consultant," Sam said.

  Morgan's lips curved. "You can't go wrong with my girl helping you. She has excellent taste."

  "Hmm." Britt took Sam's right hand and began to file her fingernails. "Too bad your parents don't think so."

  Morgan's smile faded. "Just give them a chance; they'll come around."

  The filing stopped as Britt shot her girlfriend a look. "The question is, will they give me a chance?"

  The silence that followed vibrated with tension. Britt shook the contents of a bottle of red polish while Sam searched for a way to break the strained silence. "So weren't we going to watch a movie? What are you in the mood for? A chick flick?"

  "I call Love & Basketball," Morgan said.

  Britt frowned and scrolled through the Netflix selections on her phone. "You always call Love & Basketball. Or The Best Man. How 'bout Wolverine? I wouldn't mind a little half-nakey Hugh Jackman."

  "No fair making me drool," Sam said.

  Morgan asked, "Do they have The Best Man 2 yet?"

  "We could go for funny," Britt offered. "How about Bridesmaids?"

  "Or…" Sam glanced hopefully at the TV. "We could forget about streaming and see what's on the Movie Classics channel."

  Morgan groaned. "Oh, God."

  Britt shook her head adamantly. "No. I'm putting my foot down. Last time we did that, we ending up watching the Magic Cottage."

  "The Enchanted Cottage," Sam replied.

  "And it was a total sobfest," Morgan said.

  "Yeah," Britt said. "I'm trying to make you girls beautiful. I don't want all my good work spoiled by splotchy faces, swollen eyes, and red noses."

  "What is it with you and these old-time movies?" Morgan asked.

  Sam shrugged. "I just like them." She and her mom used to watch all the old movies. Even when her mother was sick, that was one thing they could still do together.

  "There's nothing wrong with Sam liking them," Britt snapped at her girlfriend. "Just because they don't they meet the country-club standard."

  The glop on Morgan's face didn't hide the angry look she aimed at Britt. "I never said it was wrong. I was only asking a question. Or was that too uppity of me?"

  Sam cringed inwardly. Since Morgan identified as black, the word "uppity" was loaded with negative connotations. "Come on, guys."

  But both of them ignored her. Sam shrank back into the sofa cushions. Aaannnd that's my cue to shut up.

  Britt glared at her girlfriend. "Don't even go there." She uncapped the bottle and turned to Sam. "Give me your hand."

  Sam obeyed mutely. For some reason, Britt and Morgan were spoiling for a fight. She did not want to get caught in the crossfire.

  Britt began to stroke the crimson-tipped brush on Sam's thumbnail. "I don't know what her problem is, Sam, but she's been super bitchy lately. I'm sorry you have to be subjected to it."

  Morgan rolled her eyes. "Oh, I've been bitchy. Right."

  "Yeah, you have. You've been a real pain in the ass."

  "Well, maybe I have good reason." Morgan snatched up the towel lying across her lap, swiped it over her face, and threw it onto the coffee table. "Considering my girlfriend's been texting her ex-boyfriend behind my back."

  Britt jerked in surprise, smearing red on Sam's finger. "Shit." She snatched a tissue from the box on the coffee table. "Let me clean that up."

  "Sam can do it." Morgan grabbed the box of tissues and tossed them onto Sam's lap. "There you go." She faced Britt, her eyes blazing with fury. "So how about an explanation."

  Sam dabbed at the smear of red, but only made a worse mess. She lifted her own towel and slowly cleaned her face while her thoughts bumbled in confusion. All right, so her cousin had texted Rick. Strange he'd never mentioned it. A sour taste filled Sam's mouth. Why did Britt look so scared, so guilty?

  A drop of the nail polish fell from the brush in Britt's hand to the floor. It looked like a spot of blood.

  Red splotched Britt's neck and face, ruining the effects
of her perfectly applied makeup. "I texted him a few times, yeah. Not that he ever bothered to respond. I was worried about him, okay? The way he acted at my birthday party—"

  "He acted like an ass, getting drunk on our back porch."

  "That wasn't like him." Britt's voice was low.

  Morgan threw up her hands. "How would you know? You haven't talked to the guy since high school. Suddenly you're so concerned about him? Why?"

  "Because I feel guilty, all right?"

  They all went silent, dumbstruck. Even Britt looked surprised at her confession.

  "I used him," Britt said at last. "I knew I liked girls back in high school. Hell, way before. But I didn't want to deal with all the bullshit that coming out would mean. The jocks' dirty jokes, the girls' nasty gossip, and worse. Being sidelined. I was popular, I had a lot of friends, and I didn't want to lose that." She shrugged wearily. "So I had to pretend. Pretend to be interested in guys. Get a boyfriend and pretend to be hot for him. That's why I hooked up with Rick. So I could fit in with the crowd and pass for normal. I was a shallow little bitch, okay?"

  Her downcast eyes and defeated stance signaled her shame. "But Rick was a nice guy, and I always felt like I was cheating him. Because his feelings were real and mine weren't. I mean, I liked him, sure. But that's as far as it went—for me, anyway. When I broke up with him, I really hurt him."

  Sam felt as though a swarm of bees were buzzing in her brain. "Wait a minute. You broke up with him?"

  "Yeah. And I've felt shitty about it ever since." She shook her head quickly. "Oh, not the breaking up part, but the way I did it. He didn't see it coming. I took advantage of him."

  "Why didn't you tell me that's how you felt?" Morgan asked.

  "Because it's embarrassing. And I was ashamed—of using Rick, and of living a lie. The kids brave enough to come out in high school dealt with bullying and harassment every day, but I skated by because I was so good at faking it. You think I'm proud of that?"

  Morgan's shoulders sagged as her anger drained away. "Oh, babe." She moved forward as though to hug Britt, but was held off by her girlfriend's upraised hand.

  "Uh-uh." Britt's eyes narrowed. "The only way you could have known I texted Rick was if you checked my phone. Is that what you did?"