The Vow (Manhattan Nights Book 1)

by Natalie Wrye

  She whirled, disappearing up the steps. Every urge in my gut told me to follow her. Fuck her parents and what they thought. But I ignored my gut, listening to my muddled head. I turned, heading back to the auditorium, sitting among the throngs of unworthy parents, teachers and students—a crowd underserving of the show they were about the receive, the angelic voice that was about to come into their lives. The voice I’d spent several nights with. Listening to. Loving. Lavishing all of my attention on.

  Elsie sang for me. And I soaked in every lyric, breathing her in, knowing no one would ever be as close to her as I could. Inside Elsie. In every single way.

  And then the lights inside the auditorium dim… and all I see is her. Standing center-stage. Capturing every wayward eye.

  My eyes are fixed to her beautiful face, the spotlight shining on her sequined dress, almost making her skin glow. Her gaze scans the quieting crowd, somehow finding me, and when our gazes lock, she lifts the microphone to her lips, her mouth skimming the edge of the silver tip as she starts to part her pretty teeth and sing.

  The words to “You Belong with Me” by Taylor Swift belt out from her lithe little body.

  “But she wears short skirts

  I wear T-shirts

  She's cheer captain

  And I'm on the bleachers

  Dreaming about the day when you wake up

  And find that what you're looking for has been here the whole time

  If you can see I'm the one who understands you

  Been here all along so why can't you see

  You belong with me

  You belong with me”

  I blink, finding myself back in the cafe, the barista Katie sliding my hot medium-sized Americano to my unmoving fingers. I startle back from the past with a start.

  “Sorry,” Katie hisses, correcting the wobble of the coffee cup. “I’ve just been calling you for a while, Mr. Jackson. Wanted to make sure you got your drink.”

  My eyes lower to the surface of the bar. “Yes, of course, Katie,” I utter stolidly, my lips forming the words funny. I nod. “Thank you.”

  And just as I take my first sip, a second conversation makes its way to my side, this one much cruder than the last, the yuppy in an expensive suit at a nearby table smiling upwards at the screen. At Elsie. He laughs with a business partner, rubbing elbows, leaning back in his oversized chair. He licks his lips.

  “No way I would kick that out of bed. That blonde one’s got one hell of a rack of lamb on her. I’d pay to take that out… if just for the great tits alone.” He guffaws out loud with his equally stuffed-shirted friend. And my heart beats hard with adrenaline. I get up and out of my seat. I stride towards him.

  “You should apologize.”

  He squints at me, his skinny legs crossing. “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me,” I say, unbuttoning my shirt sleeves. I push them up to my elbows, my forearms pulsing from my tightened fists. I glare down at the strange man in the suit. “The person you’re talking about on the screen is a real woman. My woman. And she deserves a helluva lot more than your dumb ass drooling all over her.”

  The gray suited man sits straight, fixing his tie. Glancing over at his friend, he attempts to save face, a smirk spreading a path across his slender lips. He smiles. Mistake number one. I stare.

  “Hey, man,” he declares, opening his arms up to the sky. “It’s just jokes, bro. You know how it goes.”

  Bro. I’m starting to hate that fucking word. First, the blonde Arnold Schwartz-a-Steroids at the Irish pub. Now this yuppy bastard. I’m losing my patience with these pricks mooning over Elsie. I grab the guy, hoisting him to his feet. He dangles from my fists, his eyes growing wide as I wrap his pressed shirt collar between my fingers, pulling. I bring him to my level. As much as anyone can with a dickhead of this magnitude. I growl into his furrowed face.

  “That isn’t enough. You didn’t apologize,” I utter again. “Because when you disrespect a woman like that, a woman deserving of every good fucking thing in this world, you don’t drop the chance to make it right. You tell her every goddamned day what she means to you, and if she doesn’t listen, you make her. Because she needs to know… that she brought out the best in you. That she was everything that was ever good in your fucked-up, selfish soul,” I finish the last words with a shake, rumbling into the slight man’s trembling body.

  I drop him. He backs up quickly and I realize after catching sight of Katie’s face that I’ve gone off the deep end, talking more to something else other than the pervy prick scrambling out of the door with his tail between his legs. I’m talking to me. My lectures have turned internal, my pain bleeding from the inside out now. The scars I worked so hard to suppress are surfacing from their hidden depths. I’m changing—slowly but surely, feeling different than ever before. I leave without my coffee, slapping a hefty tip on the table, feeling evicted from my own life… and missing Elsie more than ever.

  Chapter 22

  ELSIE

  “Cheers!” Violet toasts. “To making it to the on-stage rounds of American Superstar!”

  The small crowd around us raises their glasses. I hold my own high, touching it to the tip of hers, throwing the tequila back and reveling in its burn. The liquid hits my lips and detonates like a flavor-packed bomb. I grimace and swallow.

  Seven days. Seven magical days. It’s been one week since my live appearance on the television screen and in my new favorite bar, with Violet the lawyer, Stan the bartender and seven other fans of the American Superstar, I drink to my success. I drink to my health. I drink to numb the hurt, to push the little needle inside me that pricks every time I think about the one person who should be here right now… and isn’t.

  This was my one opportunity, my time in the sun. American Superstar was my chance to be the singer I always saw myself as, a dream that was already shaky to begin with. But like the Manhattan rain that refuses to give me a reprieve and the kind words of the smiling faces around me, my rays of hope now seem like a lie.

  Everyone was right; this city is tough.

  And to a bright-eyed tourist with dreams of making it big, it was beginning to be a bite that was more than I could chew. I thought I could stomach it, when in fact, it was me who was ultimately in danger of being eaten alive. Eaten alive by the piece of me that was missing, the only comfort that the city of New York couldn’t provide in all its endless supply of convenience.

  Family.

  I’d forgotten I had one. And in all the cheers and toasts, the back-pats and champagne, I realize that I may have sacrificed the parts of my life that matter most. I grin at the group around me, excusing myself. Gripping my cell phone with shaky hands, I step towards the side hallway, calling the closest friend I’ve ever known.

  She picks up after the third ring.

  “Well, hello to you, heifer. Do you know I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for a whole week?”

  I laugh. “I know… I’ve just been really. Like, really busy.” I sigh, hanging my head.

  “Too busy for your best friend? Too busy for me to tell you that I’m going away with Pierre to Italy at the end of the summer and that I’m going to be tanning in Tuscany with my boy-toy?” Kayla actually giggles. The sound is light, filled with love. My best friend has always been the guffawing type, never the giggler, and to hear her happy on a new journey to love, exploring life and the world with it, gives me a joy I never knew I could feel.

  She’s found it. The life, career and the love. And somehow in the midst of Manhattan, in arguably the greatest city in the world, I’m floundering with all three, trading one for the other, my bets never hedging high enough to truly win.

  I’m a mess. And Kayla can feel it. She grows quiet on the phone.

  “Elles…” she utters softly. “Elles, what’s going on? I can hear it in your voice. Are you alright?”

  I pause. My instinct is to tell her that I’m fine, that everything is fine, that life is fine. That I’m alright. But the words die on m
y lips and Violet careens around the dimly-lit corner, a smile on her face as she waves towards me, her blue eyes bright and eager, her red hair flying around her face. She tilts her head.

  “Please don’t leave me out there alone,” she pleads. “I’m trying to entertain them. Everyone at the bar is asking for you… and they’re tired of me stalling with tequila shots. Half this place will be shit-faced before the clock strikes midnight. Me included,” she insists. She rolls her eyes.

  Such a strange sentiment to be faced with, one I’d almost accused Brett of recently. My audience awaits. And in this moment, I’d rather face them than the firing squad, the one that’s waiting for me. The one I know will hit me the second I reveal to my best friend in the world that, without her brother beside me, I’ll never be just fine… a reality I’m slowing realizing I may always live with.

  I smile, despite the quivering in my lips. I lower my voice. “Kay, I’m alright.” I nod to myself. “I promise. I’ll call you back soon.” She almost starts to interrupt. “I promise. And you promise you won’t leave Paris without talking to me first. Don’t want this Pierre running off with my best friend without a few warnings.”

  She giggles again. “Will do. Swear you’ll call me.”

  “I will.”

  “Swear on Taylor Swift.”

  I grin. “I already have.”

  “‘Kay. Love you most.”

  “Love you best. Bye.”

  I hang up the phone, hating myself. And as I follow Violet around the corner, I find myself hating the coward that I’ve become even more, the hatred turning acute the second I notice the new faces that have joined our small bar crowd. Most notably? The smiling, impeccably suited Heath Sparrow. And his business partner—the “Tattoo God” himself. A brooding, blue-green eyed, devastatingly beautiful Brett fucking Jackson.

  My breathing quickens.

  He’s been following the success of the show?

  Of course, he was. This was now his line of work. Television.

  I just never thought he’d be watching so closely… or, on the flip side, watching me so closely.

  Most people interested in the show concerned themselves with knowing more about Reed Hutton, the famous prick producer… or they even made speculations about which contestant was sleeping with who.

  This was my first hit show, my “toe-dip” into the spotlight.

  I hadn’t established the reputation of the real vocal powerhouses, and with the exception of a few Hollywood insiders and nosy Nancy’s from my past, nobody even bothered to care who or what my name was.

  Brett was never short of surprises. He steps forward, his glass raising upwards into a toast. He nods at me.

  “Congratulations, Ms. Carpenter. I’d heard that some of the American Superstars were frequenting the local karaoke bar. I’m glad…” he smiles faintly, his voice lowering, “that you’re one of them. You sounded great on the show.”

  “Impressive,” I nod, playing it unbelievably cool. “Didn’t know you were a fan of the show…”

  The blue and green in each of Bret’s clear eyes grows dim.

  “I’m not a fan of the show,” he states plainly without pretense. “I’m a fan of you.”

  I thought I was prepared for this.

  Clearly, I wasn’t. My mouth turns to cotton.

  A laugh that was prepared to come out dives back into my throat, and words—those small sounds that come from your mouth and usually make some type of sense—turn to gibberish on my tongue. I finally find a way to say: “The only fans I have are the electric kind.”

  I’m starting to make a damn fool out of myself. Until Violet sweeps in to save me, whisking me off by the wrist with a quick “Excuse me” to the laughing crowd. And Brett. He says nothing as she pulls me away, her hold insistent as she pushes me towards the bar. She ducks, keeping her head low with a sigh.

  “I’m sorry,” she hisses quickly. “He just showed up and asked for you, and I didn’t know if it was…”

  I raise one hand, shaking my head with a small snort. “Don’t worry, Vi. It’s fine.”

  “But…”

  “I really mean it. It’s fine.” I try to smile until I feel a hunkering presence, the slight scent of some expensive cologne wafting over the small space. A large body leans against the bar, and I turn. It’s Heath.

  “Of course it’s fine,” he comments, cutting smoothly into our conversation. “It’s fine… because these two are butt-fucking crazy in love with each other. It’s fine because now they can stop pretending they aren’t. That’s why it’s fine.” He grins widely.

  I watch as Violet’s blue eyes narrow. She looks at our intruder as if he has the plague, pursing her ruby red lips. She crosses her arms, facing him like a bodyguard. Like a friend. Like family.

  And in that moment, I realize that my own has been growing around me, and in some ways, Kayla, Violet, Brett, even Heath have formed the points of a protective circle around me—become people that I’ve strangely found myself depending on in some twisted, dysfunctional way.

  But wasn’t that how family was? Imperfect. Screwed-up. Sacred.

  The kind you held onto. Like the fiery redhead in front of me, turning her ocean stare at an unsuspecting Heath who smiles like he’s hit the jackpot, showing perfect white teeth. He grins as she scowls.

  “And just who are you?” she asks.

  He sticks his hand out. “Heath Sparrow. Patron saint of ‘Saying stupid shit so my friends don’t have to.’” He bends at the waist. “And you?”

  Violet glares. “Violet Keats. Esquire.” She takes his hand, shaking it. “And Patron saint of ‘Protecting my friends from raging psychopaths.’ I sincerely hope you don’t fall into that category, Heath.”

  “Depends, lawyer.” His grin grows crooked. “What’s your definition of ‘raging’?”

  My laugh peeks out of hiding as a snort before trailing off. I shake my head, lowering it, as the talkative two go back and forth, making their own little scene. A new jazz song kicks in over the barroom’s speakers and before I can order another drink, a large hand comes forward squeezing gently at my waist. I rotate to discover two electric eyes—one blue, one green—staring back at me, stealing every bit of breath from my body. The voice is even better. It rumbles low.

  “Can we talk?”

  I inhale, feeling a sigh escape my lips. My eyes lower. “Talk… or dance?”

  “Dance.” He steps towards me. “Isn’t that all we’ve ever done?”

  And now I’m sweating like a paid prostitute in church.

  I fan myself—the sudden motion acting as a temporary distraction while I wait for my body to calm down because my pussy has a pulse. A literal pulse.

  I trail off, not knowing what to say next, and Brett cocks an unbelieving, brown brow, a low chuckle emanating from his lightly scruffed throat. I take the foot out of my mouth and laugh with him, my nervous giggle mingling with his anxious one.

  And in that instant, I realize something.

  The small talk. The unsure laughter.

  Brett is just as nervous as I am, and when I look into his crystal, multi-colored eyes, I don’t find the self-assuredness I once marveled at seven years ago.

  I find sheepishness… An unexpected innocence. Self-consciousness.

  Once an untouchable, high school god, the Brett standing in front of me is more beautifully mortal to me than ever.

  He is now just a man. Standing in front of a girl. Trying not to piss his pants.

  It makes him all the more attractive to me.

  Ten seconds of talking to Brett again, and I’m already putty in his skillful hands.

  And he takes it all in stride.

  What’s more… he seems to like it—a fact that’s further confirmed when he smiles once more at me and I notice that the hand he used to get my attention—the one he pinched me with—is still at my waist.

  Tickling. Soothing. Prodding. It is a chaste but telling touch.

  I am desperate to start ove
r, but don’t know where to begin. The laughter has trailed off, and all that’s left is tension.

  Intense, palpable, heart-palpitating tension.

  We are standing way too close to each other.

  Brett takes a look around.

  For the first time since he’s opened his mouth, I notice how loud it is in here… and how watched we really are. I had almost forgotten about all the prying eyes—eyes that are no longer just on me, but are on the two of us.

  Brett leans in closer to my ear.

  “It’s loud in here…” he tells me softly.

  I nod.

  “When you’re ready to bail, just leave the bar. You know where I’ll be…”

  And just like that, the moment is over…

  When Brett pulls back, he shoots me a look I can’t ignore, and there’s no missing the subtext of that million-dollar stare.

  He wants to meet at another spot—our spot, and I don’t know if I can say no.

  Chapter 23

  BRETT

  I never wanted anything more than I wanted Elsie Carpenter.

  And when you were twenty-five and reckless, full of fucked-up thoughts and dirty dreams, you wanted lots of things. A beautiful woman, being number one. And I “had” two.

  Two very gorgeous, very different women. One with hair as black as the night and eyes as light as the sky. The other—all golden, warm hues. Night and day. The moon and the sun. As opposite as two women could ever be. And at separate points in time, I had wanted them both.

  I sit at the black and white tiled bar of the infamous St. Regis, my heart beating out of my fucking chest, as I take another swig of the signature Red Snapper, the spicy Blood Mary sliding down my throat with a burn. The never-ending early summer rain beats at the wide windows, and in the semi-crowded space, I knock my knuckles against the edge of the bar, beckoning for another drink from the bartender. I raise two fingers for another Mary when the smell of a sensuously sweet perfume sidles up beside me. I turn to discover a bright Crest-clean smile reflecting back at me. A pretty blonde, with hair so platinum it’s almost white, blinks a pair of clear sapphire eyes in my direction, crossing long legs under a skirt short enough to be illegal.