The Vow (Manhattan Nights Book 1)

by Natalie Wrye

  My eyes drift to her pouty lips and I instantly regret the decision. Her pink pout starts to shake.

  “Alright,” I sigh, capturing her gaze. “But I just want you to remember one thing…” My stare trails to the floor, taking a detour before returning to her big brown eyes. I blink. Just once. “You asked for this, kitten.”

  Chapter 35

  Elsie

  I never expected this. This anger. This anguish.

  In a hallway bigger than my bedroom, caged between Brett’s large hands, I’m more vulnerable than I’ve ever been, frozen at the mercy of a gorgeous madman. I can only listen as he starts, can only lick my lips as he stares. In a matter of minutes, he tells me a story about an imperfect life. A life tinged with regret and tainted with pain.

  I soak it all in. I have no choice.

  It isn’t until he says his father’s name that I realize the story is his… and so is the pain. Every twisted, sick little part.

  And I take it… unable to move, unable to even speak as the gorgeous tattooed man in front of me reveals the other side of his otherwise glamorous life. The skin behind the ink. Flawed and all.

  His voice is a hoarse rasp that I’ll never forget.

  “I was fourteen,” he asserts softly, “when the beatings began. My father said they would toughen me, make me a man. Because men like me weren’t supposed to love sketching or art or watercolors, no…” He shakes his head. “No, men like me were built for bleeding and breaking and causing both when it served us. Men like me were built for pillaging and plundering,” he hisses. “Taking what we wanted without caring the costs. Building empires. Constructing business. Ruling with our iron fists.”

  He lowers his gaze. “I never thought he meant literally.” He laughs without humor, a dry chuckle. “Hell, a bad day at work or a lost client. A basket that I’d missed in a game or a throw I didn’t catch could be the cause of his wrath. And I took it all,” he levels at me. “I took every inch of his abuse.” He slaps a hand on the plaster above my head, startling me. He hangs his own, staring at the floor, his messy hair nearly touching my shoulders, his words a whisper.

  “Who would believe that Christopher Jackson, Forbes List extraordinaire that he was… was knocking his son senseless and blaming it on in-school fighting? Who would believe that he hated his boy…because his boy wasn’t him? Regretful? Self-obsessed?” He lifts his head, penetrating me with a glassy glare. “Never satisfied?”

  He grins, and it breaks my heart, tearing me into two, pulling at the last sense of peace in me. My eyes fill with tears, as I gaze in wonder at him. My beautiful mess, marred with scars and ink.

  It’s as if the screws in his soul are finally loose, and at last everything comes tumbling out, the perfect Jackson veneer fucking cracked right in front of our faces.

  I’d once told myself I’d kept my vow to stay away from Brett because of Kayla… but I was wrong. It was me. I’d somehow sold myself that story that I wasn’t good enough for Brett and practically everything else. I’d come here to New York with nothing to prove something to the Becca Hamiltons and maybe even Brett at some point.

  Brett had left home, looking for a new one, and somehow we’d found it in each other. Brett “Tattoo God” Jackson from the far-from-perfect family, and Elsie “American Superstar” with the family she’d had to come a thousand miles to find.

  I grab Brett’s face, fingering the dark stubble under his sharply-edged chin. I hold on tight.

  “You are not your fucking father. In fact…” I hesitate, smelling the scent of Brett’s light cologne, his woodsy aroma. “Fuck your father. I’m here for you. And so is Kayla. I know you may not have always known that, but it’s true. She loves you.”

  His eyes close briefly, and I tighten my grip to make him open them. I inhale on a shaky breath, sucking in air so hard it hurts. Hot tears lick at my lashes, and I hold them back, needing the perfectly imperfect man in front of me to hear me. I kiss his lips slowly.

  “I fucking love you. And you—we—don’t have to prove anything to anyone. For once in our lives, let’s be okay as we are.” I smile, the edges shaking as I laugh. I bite my lip. “Can we focus on being ‘alright’ first before we kill ourselves to be great?”

  He kisses me back, moving slowly, his breath a sigh. “I’ve never been able to deny you before. I won’t start now,” he mutters, dropping his arms to my sides. Sliding them over my hips, he takes my mouth again, and we fall into each other’s arms, like the first time. With that uncertain shyness that speaks of the unknown. We take our time. Exploring.

  Brett’s touch is tentative, a discovery in the making. Though he knows my every curve and line and plane, his fingers play as they’ve forgotten the path to my pleasure. With his hands on my skin and his mouth on mine, I feel whole—complete, careless in my happiness.

  This is “making it.” This is “home.” The one I’ve always wished I had, a sanctuary situated in Brett Jackson’s muscular arms. He slips the slender straps of my black camisole over my shoulders when suddenly a knock sounds at the door. He rubs his lips against mine, sucking on my tongue—a promise of things to come as he turns the few feet towards the door, opening it.

  Heath steps inside without warning, his auburn hair disheveled, his hands running through the unruly hair strands. He glances at both of us, unaware of what he’s walked in on. In a loose t-shirt, nothing like what he normally wears, and relaxed jeans, he looks anything but. He sighs heavily and I feel it in my chest.

  “Good,” he lets go of a shuddering breath. “You’re here.”

  Brett turns on him, rotating away from me, his large shoulders bunched, his back practically bristling. He stares at Heath. “Boy, you’ve got balls coming back.”

  Heath recoils, his thick brown brows scrunched. “Back to what?”

  “Back to the St. Regis,” he blinks, his eyes throwing fire. “I saw you this morning, heading to the damned hotel from the shop.” He scoffs. “Except it wasn’t to see me. I guess karma’s a bitch,” he smiles sadly. “I fall for my sister’s closest friend and she falls for mine. I should have known something was wrong when Kayla wanted to stay at the hotel.” He shakes his head, his laugh dry and low. “Karma’s a bitch, isn’t she? She knows that I’d be a fucking hypocrite for actually hating this. But now’s not the time, Heath. Why don’t you talk to me in, say, two years?”

  He faces the handsome jokester, his face furrowed with a deepening frown. But Heath doesn’t back down. Instead, he meets Brett—eye for eye, stretching to his full height and the two men start a stare-down, one that fills with air with a crackling electricity, the tension thickening with words unsaid.

  Heath begins talking first. “I haven’t touched your family, Brett. I would never. In fact…” he trails off, his teeth tightening with every word. “I’m trying to save it.”

  “Wait a minute… what?” my handsome tattoo god frowns. This time, there are no laughs between him and Heath. He looks at his best friend as if he stabbed him and I stand awkwardly by, wondering what is the truth and what is a lie.

  “It’s your father, Brett,” Heath huffs, the weight of the world seemingly on his broad shoulders. “It’s why Kayla flew here, why she was at the station. He was arrested abroad. His business was a fraud.” He blinks twice, barely able to get the rest out. “He’s in jail.”

  Chapter 36

  ELSIE

  Half a million dollars. Apparently, that’s what it takes to bail out one of the biggest businessmen in the world.

  Jackson Enterprises was a behemoth and Christopher Jackson the beast behind the wheel. An investment firm started the day that Christopher stepped out of Wharton Business School, the burgeoning company was given new breath when it opened its Kansas City doors, conquering the sunny Sunflower state and all of middle America with it.

  Christopher Jackson and his family were thought to be the best thing to happen to our little city, a beacon of wealth amidst the middling families. Families like my own.

 
; I remember once thinking Carole Jackson had it all. She made it look so easy. Being married to Christopher. Running a household while her multi-million dollar husband ran a business by her side. It all looked so glamorous.

  Unfortunately, the former glamour is running down the glass of my dreary windows, and in the light of a rainy new Manhattan morning, with the sun barely cracked on the horizon, we still can’t find Kayla, who seems to have vanished in the wind.

  Her cell phone’s off, her St. Regis room empty and on a day where I should be getting ready for my audition, Brett and I are scouring the city for my best friend. The glimmering skyline in my sights, I take heavy breaths, my chest heaving as our wheels roll over the gray cemented borough of Manhattan. Despite my worry for Kayla, the audition is still in the back of my mind and I can barely admit to myself… that American Superstar is over for me. At least, according to Reed Hutton.

  It’s a secret I keep to myself as Brett and I head towards my apartment, the summer rain streaming down his sleek shiny doors. I glance towards him as he parks.

  “I’ll only be a second,” I say, reaching for the car door.

  He stops me. “Only a second, Elsie. To check for Kayla. You take any longer and I’m coming up. We’ll send for your furniture later. You’ll never have to see Sophie again.”

  I kiss him softly, soaking in his rich scent. His aroma masculine and musky, tinted with a hint of pine, I can’t help but consider myself lucky as I take a big whiff of Brett, inhaling all of him in, finding my reflection in his spellbinding eyes. I smile as I pull back.

  “You promise?”

  He nods with a grin, and I open the passenger door, ducking under the tiny awning above my building, slipping and sliding under rainwater that pours overhead. Under the dimmed lighting of the gray afternoon, I climb the dingy stairs of my cramped apartment building, knowing it will be the last time. Whipping out my key, I slide it into the rusty lock, turning until I hear the tiny metal click. I step inside, calling out into the gray, empty space.

  “Hello?” My voice is strangled as I stroll inside. I walk closer to the living room’s floor-to-ceiling window. “Anybody home?”

  A giggle from behind a closed door answers. Glancing towards the closest bedroom situated just around the corner, I amble farther into the apartment, tightening my purse around my shoulders as I slink towards the sturdy black door of Sophie’s usually unused bedroom, pressing my ear against it.

  A moan meets the surface of the wood and I almost take a step back, curiosity instead making me cling to the doorway.

  Quiet as the grave, still as stone, the spacious apartment hums with the tiny taps of the rain and the soft sounds floating behind the walls in front of me. My skin prickles, realization slowly seeping in.

  The ruffle of sheets. The quiet squeaks. The moans and groans and whimpers. I hear everything, and a foreign feeling—one I’d long forgotten inside me—stirs as I hold my breath, counting to ten, inhaling the smell of the dark wood against my face.

  I hear the hiss of a soft hiss of a “Yes” and it’s confirmed.

  I’m snooping, eavesdropping, listening to the music of my new roommate’s lovemaking. And I don’t know what’s wrong with me. When did I become a dirty Harriet the Spy? And why can’t I seem to stop?

  I lift my ear from the surface of new-roomie-Sophie’s door, prepared to finally walk away, and just as I do, I hear a masculine voice on the other side—husky and heavy. Much more than a hint of domination weaves through its gruff tone and the disembodied voice almost barks at Sophie, its bite only all too familiar.

  My tongue goes numb.

  I know that voice. Crisp and condescending, arrogant and tightly clipped, only one asshole in the world could manage to sound so damned demeaning in bed. None other than the tightly wound, tightly botoxed television titan himself…

  Reed Hutton.

  My throat closes. Even through a plaster wall, its low timbre leaves parts of me shaken, and my fingers struggle to stay still as they steady my body against the brick-laid barrier separating us. I swallow.

  “Sophie…” he slithers. It dominates Sophie’s delicate pitch, swallowing it whole as he talks. “My dear dear Sophie.” He sighs, huffing heavily on the edge of a groan. “You were reckless. You’ve been reckless. Far too much these days. And I can’t afford to keep bailing you out. Literally.”

  “But Reed…” she whines, that typical haughty tone quieter than a mouse. “I was only doing what you asked.”

  I hear the sheets ruffle and she yelps. Reed’s voice sinks to scary levels. His words are even scarier. “Did I tell you to attack her? No… I didn’t. But you’re always too damned coked up to tell the difference when I say anything to you.”

  For the first time since I’ve been listening, Sophie doesn’t snivel. Her voice comes across loud and clear. “I’m not the only one,” she retorts. “Mister Perfect. It was your idea to get my dealer to steal her stuff. And she still came back. The snub-nosed bitch.”

  I’m tempted to burst through her door, show her how tough this “snub-nosed” bitch she’s talking about can be. But I wait. Knees knocking, my chest heaving hard, I will myself to suck in another breath, hoping that Sophie and Reed can’t hear the fury bringing a flushing to my heated face. Sophie continues.

  “I recognized that Little Miss Goody Two Shoes the second she stepped out of Brett’s bedroom that first night. He was too busy feeding me bullshit to realize that his little secret had slipped quietly out and back into his room.” She scoffs. “In a towel, no less.” She spits the word. “Prick.”

  And I have to keep myself from bristling. My back aches as I hunch against the wall, eager to pick up every little sound.

  “You make it sound like you actually care about him,” Reed responds, more than just a little irritated.

  “I don’t,” Sophie shoots back.

  “Good. Because you’re going to be a star. And Brett Jackson is going to be forgotten, if I have anything to say about it And I do. I don’t keep people around who don’t follow the rules. He was supposed to push you into the limelight with him. Don’t worry… We’ll find a suitable substitute soon enough.”

  “Just as long as it doesn’t go the way it went two nights ago. You almost had your hired photogs killed.”

  Reed snorts, sending a shiver down my spine. “I asked them to be aggressive. Not damn near crazy. Shit, they survived, didn’t they? And were compensated for their… troubles.”

  I hear the mattress squeak again, and Reed moans, a sickening sound that makes my stomach swirl with bile. I cover my mouth, my breath blustering from my quivering nostrils, a sheet of sweat starting to dot my forehead. I step away from bedroom wall, just as Sophie says the last statement that makes me want to run. My shoes barely leave the floor as she utters softly amidst the rustling sheets.

  “This Elsie bitch is trouble, Reed. It’d be a shame if we let Brett’s local popularity go to waste…” she trails off. She wheezes the words as the mattress starts to shake again, squealing and squeaking with the sound of their awful fucking. I hate them both. More than anyone I’ve ever known… other than Brett’s father right now.

  With Brett moving from the back of my mind to suddenly front and center, I start to swing on my heel, ready to turn towards the door. But a sudden presence behind me startles me back into the present and before I can pivot, the presence overwhelms me, gripping tight. A hand grabs my face, clamping over my lips and my eyes widen as the unknown person pulls me back, yanking me towards the hall as I try not to trip over my own feet. My heart hammers, my will to fight kicking in as the stranger lets me go just across the apartment’s threshold. I whip around, fists tightening… only to find Kayla staring back at me, her blue eyes innocent as my hard brown ones meet hers. She tilts a head full of wavy auburn hair, bringing one solitary finger to her pink lips. She looks back at the apartment.

  “Shhh,” she breathes. Her glare warns me not to say another word, and I stare, my body still shaking, recogn
ition finally settling in to hold onto relief. I move to hug her, and she takes it, wrapping her tiny polished hands around me, letting me inhale her sweetly scented hair. She shuts the apartment door the second I let her go, leaning against it.

  Shock steals my voice for several seconds.

  “Kay, where have you been?” I whisper, my words sharp. “Your brother and I…”

  She hangs her head, cutting me off. “I know.”

  “And then we heard your dad was…”

  “He is.”

  “So, Heath is helping you to…”

  “Pretty much.”

  She motions towards the door, and I rotate, locking the metal clasps behind me. My confused gaze follows her as she tiptoes quietly to the rickety staircase at the end of the hall. My steps soon follow as well. Kayla stands at the edge of the top stair, her eyes looking more sunken than I can ever remember seeing them. She blinks up at me.

  “Pierre broke up with me,” she smiles, the expression cracking. “I heard my parents were coming to Paris and I was going to meet them… And then I got the phone call from my mom. She said my dad was getting arrested, so we… I came back to the States. And I didn’t tell Brett because he and my dad have had this… this strained relationship that I can’t explain. Ever since Brett left.” Her eyes grow glassy. “I mean, it’s been seven years and still…” She trails off. “I didn’t know where to go. My dad’s assets are being seized. And then I thought of Heath, Brett’s business partner and I knew he had the money, so…”

  She hangs her head again, picking at her fingernails, a habit I must have pushed upon her, my telltale sign of nervousness. In this moment, Kay looks just as I had the day I stepped into this city. Alone. Afraid. Frankly, open to attack.