by Natalie Wrye
The Vow
Natalie Wrye
Copyright © 2018 by Natalie Wrye
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover Design: Najla Qamber Designs, http://www.najlaqamberdesigns.com/
Editing & Beta-reading: Kara Hildebrand, Sandra Shipman
Created with Vellum
Table of Contents
About
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
38. Epilogue
39. SNEAK PEEK of The Bet
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About the Author
About
Seven years ago, I gave my vow to a man.
Except it wasn’t at a wedding...
Because Brett Jackson was the epitome of anti-marriage--a dirty-talking tattoo artist with a penchant for booze, bimbos and blue-eyed women.
I was none of those.
Guess that’s why he walks into my new apartment with my not-so-nice roommate on his arm...as her new boyfriend.
But this is not seven years ago. I’m over him; I really am.
So why does it bother me so much when he catches me naked in my new place? Why does his searing stare at my body stay with me?
Why am I wishing for a repeat and wanting to break the most important vow I’ve ever made?
A vow that will break both me and Brett...and turn the Manhattan life I’ve built for myself upside down.
For the greatest readers in the world, my Wrye on the Rocks gals, and you for picking this book up and giving me a chance.
Prologue
I never wanted anything more than I wanted Brett James Jackson.
And when you were sixteen and lonely, stuck in the middle of your parents’ lengthy (and very public) divorce, you wanted lots of things. Normalcy, being number one. A friend, maybe–if you were lucky. And I had two very good ones.
But it took more than two good friends to mend a broken heart. Obviously. But more than those, you wanted–no, hoped–that your tomorrow would be better, that your parents would magically wake up and discover that they loved each other (and maybe you, by extension). And maybe–just maybe–you hoped you would have the family you always dreamed about, the family your friends had, the life you knew could never be yours.
You certainly didn’t wish for this. A massive red stain on your favorite white shorts, split down the middle where the rest of the school could see.
The other thing you wanted most on a day like today?
To disappear. And pretend that this week, the day, this period (no pun intended) had never happened. I close my eyes and squeeze the rest of the tears out. My fists squeeze with them as my best friend Kayla shoves her phone into my face, the picture on the screen in front of me morphing as the salty water behind my eyes blurs my vision. I blink them back.
“Kool-Aid on white pants,” Kay shakes her head. “Oldest trick in the book.”
I shrug, falling back on her weighty mattress as I reflect back on the fourth period incident that ruined my day. I flash a watery smile as I lay. “Really? Because I thought the oldest trick in the book was Becca Hamilton. She’s the only beast I know capable of doing something like this.”
My best friend closes her closet door with a thwack. She sighs heavily from the other side of the room. “I told you not to leave your gym locker unlocked.”
“My bad. I thought this was Riverside High, not the ‘Wilds of the Serengeti.’”
Kay raises a chestnut-colored eyebrow. “With that teased ponytail of Becca’s, who would be able to tell the difference?”
I glance back at the picture on Kayla’s phone, the sting behind my eyes returning with a vengeance. I scoff out loud, whispering.“Only one person I can think of.”
And just as I think his name, he appears around the corner, as if created out of thin air. I suspect that he has been. No person born from a basic uterus could look that good.
Brett Jackson, to me, is a bad decision walking.
Even in high school, my best friend’s older brother is a man amongst boys. Beautiful and built, his shoulders broad, his head always held high. Now naked from the waist up, a small towel wrapped between his lengthy fingers, he walks along the cream-colored carpet on the second floor of Kayla’s family mansion with the grace of a lion and the tousled hair to match, grinning like a Greek god. In the midst of mortals, his body inked in large black strokes, he is the king of his jungle and a mystery to all who know him.
Including me.
Not that I ever really knew Brett. I’d never gotten close enough. Not until recently.
Countless sleepovers at Kay’s and several years as best friends have done nothing to ease my curiosity…or the severity of my crush, and as I glance at him, my eyes going wide as he passes in the gigantic hallway, I watch as he ruffles her wavy auburn hair with one large hand, his gaze bouncing quickly in my direction.
“What’s up, squirt?” he throws at her. He nods at me. “What’s up, Ellie?”
“Elsie,” Kayla corrects him.
I don’t care. I’m just happy enough that he notices me. With his blue eye open, he winks at me, flashing the green-colored one in a way that’s almost imperceptible, and just like that, he’s gone just as quickly as he came, taking his cinnamon-y scent and most of my breath with him. I inhale deeply the second he’s out of sight.
Kayla rolls her baby-blue eyes. “He always does that. Messes up my hair.”
I want to tell Kay that most women would pay for Brett to touch them like that. I glance at the mop of hair on my own head, the crazy blonde curls reflected in the mirror atop her dresser just to my right. Kayla freaks when she has a hair out of place; I’ve had a mess on top of my scalp for a decade. I shrug.
“Forget about him,” I say. Funny. Because that’s exactly what I wish I could do. Forget about Brett Jackson. And Becca Hamilton, bad pranks, and the stupid high school of mine that seems to love them so much.
And just when I resolve myself to temporary amnesia, an incoming message makes my cell phone buzz. I fish my cell phone from my front pocket, my fingers shaking as they scroll over the words on the screen:
Come to the bathroom. Now.
In that instant, it isn’t hard to forget. Forget about my family, about my parents’ divorce, about being Elsie Carpenter. And in those seven minutes after I leave Kayla’s side and head towards the bathroom just outside of her oversized bedroom, I wish I could forget about something else, too.
I wish I could forget that I was lying
to my best friend.
I wish I could forget that the boy standing in the open bathroom in front of me—the gorgeous, dark-haired, now gloriously naked boy dropping trou as I stare—isn't the worst mistake in the world. Forget that a week ago, in a fit of insanity, I happened to lose my heart, head and virginity to the best bad decision I'd ever made. And in this bathroom, on this most desperate day, I make a vow to Brett because earlier I’d broken the first vow I’d ever made to myself…
I let them see me cry.
Chapter 1
ELSIE
“Taxi! Wait! Taxi? Taxi!”
Shit, why won’t they stop?
I can barely see the yellow cab past the exhaust, and the asphalt beneath my feet is sweltering. What’s worse…the car fumes are even hotter. My blonde hair sticks to my face. I wave my hand over the sidewalk on the corner of “Lost as hell,” and my patience grows as thin as the air in my lungs, my throat scratchy from the humidity hanging in the summer air.
The noise on the street is deafening. Dammit, I don’t remember New York City being like this…
But then again I was sixteen the last time I was here. And shit, that feels like forever ago. Seven years to be exact. I’ve aged since I stepped off the airplane today. My body’s bruised and sore. My hand hurts from pulling my luggage. My feet ache, and as the thirtieth taxi of the afternoon passes me on the street, I swear out loud, my impatience rolling into rage as I sweep a wave of straw-colored hair off my sticky neck.
I can’t believe I’m going to be late.
One cramped two-hour flight and two confused Uber drivers later, I realize that the address my “new roommate” has given me isn’t one, and after deciphering her bad directions, I’ve come to the conclusion too many minutes too late.
Rush hour is here. And not one yellow cab is empty enough to take me in, the wait for a shared-ride driver longer than ever in the thicker-than-oatmeal traffic. And I know it. I know that I’m going to miss the meet-up with Sophie Santenelli, the only person in a fifty-mile radius renting out a room for less than a king’s ransom.
A rarity from what I’ve seen in my seventy minutes in this city.
And she’s leaving. For the next two days. And taking with her the only key to the apartment.
Which means I need to meet her. Now.
For a native of the area, my new roomie has even less trust in New York than I do, and her time window before her flight out of town is miniature, making each minute that I’m late to our key hand-off even more agonizing as hot salty sweat pours down my face, mingling with my citrus perfume.
And in the midst of the heat and hunger creeping in, I try hard to hold onto hope, my eyes straining onto the horizon of the dark gray streets. But my rumbling stomach gets the best of me. When the fiftieth taxi shoots hot exhumes in my face on its way by, I flip the bastard a “bird,” flicking up my middle finger.
That finger finds it way into a random face, when lugging my heavy baggage behind me, I swing towards the sidewalk and slam into a petite red-haired woman in a blue suit, sending everything in my hands scattering. A black briefcase in her hand hits the floor, the papers inside popping out as the latch breaks.
I drop my bag to the ground, scrambling for the floor. I crouch, chasing after the flying paper.
“Fuck. Shit. Hell. I am so, so sorry.”
She chases papers beside me, her glare locked on the cemented sidewalk. She says nothing, snatching sheets out of the sticky air.
I press further. “Seriously.” I grab another stack of pages. “If I could use more four-letter words to tell you how bad I feel, I would. I didn’t see you there.”
The woman kneeling beside me huffs, her hair blowing in the hot wind.
“It’s fine. My husband didn’t either…” she declares, her words muffled. “And it’s not like I needed these divorce papers anyway.” A vacuum of heat beats down on us, and with a shrug, I watch her stand in heels higher than my rent. She barely looks at me. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I think ‘Shitty day number thirty’ deserves a drink.”
She grabs her briefcase, turning on her heel. Heading towards what looks like an Irish pub, I stare after her, my hungry stomach and conscience eating at me. I follow her in.
The scent of cider ale greets me at the door, and before I can search too far, I see her red hair perched several seats away. I drag my belongings behind me, flouncing into the bar stool beside her. I open my mouth.
“Please,” the woman speaks, her head hung low. “No more apologies. It’s been an awful day. The last thing I need is some scared tourist trying to make something up to me.” She raises her hand to the barkeep. “I’d rather be by myself, if you don’t mind.” The bartender comes over, and she spills her order to him. “I’ll take a shot of Jimmy, Jack and Johnny. Water back. Completely neat.”
The bartender raises an eyebrow at me, and I shrug.
“I’ll take a pale ale,” I sigh. “Whatever you’ve got.”
I pull out a credit card that I’m sure is already maxed, sliding it over the bar’s dark wood. I chance a glance at the woman one stool over, noticing how gorgeous her profile is, how awesome her hair. Looking like something the cat dragged in next to this saddened glamazon, I find myself frowning as the bartender slips the first drink onto the bar and she downs it with barely a grimace. She swings two sky-blue eyes toward me, her clear irises cold, looking at me.
“Oh come on now.” She quirks a brow towards me. “Don’t tell me you’re going to feel sorry for me.”
“No,” I shake my head. “I’m just wondering how anyone your size can down Jack like that. The only person I’ve ever known to pound a double like that was a local in my town named Killer. And you don’t even want to know why they called him that.”
She nods. “Duly noted. All I can tell you…” she slides the second towards herself. “Is that it takes weeks of practice. Before this, I could barely sip champagne.” She fingers the second glass of alcohol, tapping the shiny edge. She gazes at my drink as the barkeep slides it into my hand. “A pale ale?” Her lips swing downward. “Don’t want to judge…but from where I’m sitting and from the soot stains on your clothes, I don’t think a pale ale is going to cut it.” She glances behind the bar at the shelves. “Grab something good. Like the Freak of Nature. Its got enough alcohol to no longer classify as a beer, I’m sure, but it’ll get you nice and buzzed. Send your worries out the window, I’ll tell you that.” She looks down at my massive duffel. “Seems you’re packing a lot of worries.” She shifts. “How long you in for?”
My eyebrows raise this time. “Excuse me?”
“How long you in for?” she repeats. “In Manhattan.” She exhales, swiping a curtain of strawberry hair over her shoulder, looking every bit like a runway model.
I stare. “Are you asking because you really want to know, or do you take pleasure into prying into tourists’ lives?”
She smirks. “Both. But for neighbor’s sake, let’s go with the first reason.” Her delicate shoulders fall. “Technically, I’ve been stuck in this city for eight years now. Since I graduated from NYU. Back then, the cells were small. Now the cells are small and more expensive. And don’t worry: You’ll get used to the smell of the streets.”
I snort softly. “I don’t remember it being so rancid.”
“No one does. Tourists always block that part out.” She shines a crooked smile, raising her hand for me to shake. “I’m Violet Keats.”
I take it. “Elsie Carpenter.”
“Elsie?” she asks. “Sounds Midwestern or something.”
I nod. “It is.”
She taps her bottom lip again, giving me a pointed look. “Lemme guess…Ohio?”
“Close,” I counter. “Kansas City.”
“Missouri or Kansas?”
“Kansas.”
She nods, smirking. “Explains why you left.” She glances again at my luggage. “Got a place to put your worries, Kansas?”
I sigh, finding myself slouching. “Hone
stly, I don’t know… I may have just screwed my place to say for the night.
I pick at the chipped wood along the bar’s semi-scratched edges, tearing my already chewed nails to pieces. Violet’s eyes slope downward.
Her brows shoot sky high. “You don’t have anyone to stay with? No one you know here?” I shake my head, and she presses. “None?”
I glance quickly at my cell phone, thinking of Kayla, my best friend. “Well, no. Not ‘none.’”
Violet cheers me with the remnants of her glass. “‘Not none’ is better than nothing. Trust me. I now know the concept of ‘none’.”
I think back to our sidewalk meeting, just minutes ago. It feels like a lifetime away, but in the short amount of time that I’ve talked with the stranger at the bar, I feel like I’ve made a connection, a neighbor. Hell… maybe even a friend. God knows I need one.
I only have one left. Kayla, for all her faults, is the best friend a girl could ask for. My favorite person in the world, she’d pushed me to come to New York City to pursue my dream of becoming a singer when no one else had, when my dad didn’t give a shit and my mom was too sad to say anything.
