Forgotten Promises (Lost Boys #1)

by Jessica Lemmon

  Tucker’s face goes severe, all remnants of his good humor erased. The backlash is worth the zing of power at felling him with my words. At proving to him, and to myself, that I may be his prisoner, but I have more control than he thinks.

  I purposely rake my gaze over him from head to toe. From T-shirt to jeans to Chucks, then back to those devastating eyes. Once, he had the potential to be my friend. To be more. To get off this insane ride that led him to juvi, then to prison. What a loss.

  “What happened to you?” I ask. My curiosity is genuine.

  He stands so abruptly it takes me a second to reroute my gaze. He hovers over my chair, anger wafting off him.

  “You seem to have forgotten who is in charge, Morgan,” he growls. “Looks like you need a reminder.”

  I stand, but he shifts, trapping me in the corner of the cabin with his body. Heat transfers from him to me as he leans in and places his lips close to my ear. “What happened to me,” he says, his tone gravelly, “is eighteen months of lonely prison. With zero conjugal visits. Zero girlfriends coming to see me.”

  I turn my head away and close my eyes. He’s faking. He wouldn’t hurt me. He promised. But my pulse hammers and my arms shake…because how can I be sure? I face him but he’s too close for me to focus.

  He’s one big, angry blur when he says, “The only release I’ve had in a year and a half has been when I worked out in the yard. And trust me, it wasn’t for lack of offers from the other inmates.”

  I swallow hard and try to get out from under his intensity, try to block the image of big, burly men with tattoos and bald heads cornering Tucker much like he’s cornering me. I instantly regret pushing him.

  “I refused,” he continues, stepping close enough that his shirt brushes mine, that his voice makes the air hum between us. “But if this is you offering…”

  “No, thank you,” I whisper. Tears press against the back of my eyes. He wouldn’t.

  He wouldn’t, I assure myself, but my internal voice isn’t all that trustworthy as of late.

  He backs away and my held breath leaves in a whoosh.

  “I’ll tell you my truth in exchange for your cooperation with your father. But if it’s not pertinent to my case, Morgan, I’m not telling you things just to satisfy your curiosity.” He turns and pops open a drawer in the kitchen, the one I imagined was full of knives, and pulls out a roll of silver duct tape. “I’m out of rope.”

  “Tucker, wait—”

  “I hope you ate your fill. It’s the only meal you’ll get today.” He tapes my wrists and ankles, and in spite of my begging, slaps a strip over my lips. Then I’m being dragged back to the thin mattress and dropped onto my butt.

  I try not to cry, but hot tears fall in earnest.

  Tucker

  Guilt swarms over me, making my skin feel like it’s covered in fire ants.

  She’s been lying on that bed, not moving, not looking at me since I put her there this morning. I left the room periodically, to check the generator and listen for suspicious sounds outside, but as far as I can tell she hasn’t moved.

  What happened to you?

  The question held up a mirror reflecting my past. I didn’t like what I saw, and what I saw was me back then—seeing red when I snatched Luke by the neck of his football jersey, then beat the shit out of him. I was protecting Morgan. She had that part right, but it wasn’t solely selfless. It felt good to put someone in his place. To right a wrong. To take out frustrations I couldn’t take out on my father.

  Morgan was lucky I happened to be in the basement after school that day. If I hadn’t been…I shake my head now¸ feeling my upper lip curl. Luke was about to force Morgan Young to do something she didn’t want to do. A deep, dark, ugly part of myself related to that fear, and the rage I flew into wasn’t small. It was the same kind of rage I flew into both times I kicked the crap out of my dad.

  What happened to you?

  The way I cornered her this morning was unforgivable. I didn’t mean the veiled threat. I’d never touch Morgan in that way. Not ever. I knew who I was, knew who she was. Knew what was at stake here.

  Luke’s words from all those years ago kick up in my memory like dust.

  “Morgan Young. You’re looking hot. What do you say we slide into one of these classrooms and you blow me?”

  She tried to laugh it off, but Luke’s tirade continued. By the time I intercepted them in the hall, the asshole’s verbal assault had escalated to physical. And then I reacted. I knew what it was like to be touched when you didn’t want to be touched, and when the look of fear bled into her eyes…I snapped.

  You saved her.

  Maybe. But I was no hero. No matter what she thinks. She’ll see me clearer once I tell her the truth. I don’t want to, but I have to. And in a way, I owe her. For the past, for the present. I don’t like debt.

  She stirs and her stomach growls in the silence of the cabin.

  More guilt eats my insides.

  I stand and approach, and when her eyes hit me, I’m almost floored by the fear echoed there. She’s looking at me the way she looked at Luke the day he grabbed her. My stomach turns, revulsion flooding my entire system. Maybe it was inevitable that I’d turn into one of the bad guys.

  I lower to my knees in front of her in a show of surrender and reach for the tape over her mouth. She jerks her head back, holding her fingers splayed as if to tell me to stop.

  “I’ll go slow,” I promise and her nostrils flare. The tape is sticky, so I start with the corners and ease it from her skin. Even though I take my time peeling it away from her lips, a spot of blood appears when a bit of skin is torn away.

  Once the tape is off, her eyes find mine. Green surrounded by red—bloodshot, tired eyes. My fault. My stomach twists tighter.

  “I’m sorry,” she croaks.

  So am I. But I don’t know how to voice it. So I don’t.

  “Water,” I offer, knowing it’s not enough. She drinks, some of the liquid sliding from her mouth and pooling on the mattress. Gooseflesh lights her legs and arms. With the sun behind the many trees around the cabin, it’s almost chilly, even for June.

  “I didn’t mean it. You’re safe,” I grind out. Setting the water aside, I brandish the knife and slice the tape binding her wrists and ankles. “And to prove it, this will be the last time I restrain you.”

  Her eyes widen in what might be disbelief, then she scrambles to sit up. Turning her attention to her wrists and ankles, she peels the remainder of the tape from her skin. I hear her stomach growl again, and this time I don’t hesitate. I move to the kitchen and pull out a jar of peanut butter and a loaf of bread.

  “I’m no longer in prison,” I say, choosing a soft slice from the middle of the loaf. “I forgot how to interact with normal people.” Morgan won’t likely shank me in my sleep or come up behind me at lunch and slam my face onto my tray just for fun.

  I open a drawer—the wrong one. Duct tape stares up at me and I slam the drawer shut and open the other one. I pull out the butter knife and make quick work of fixing her dinner.

  “Here.” I hand over her sandwich wrapped in a paper towel. I can’t keep bullying her and expecting to earn her trust. The methods I used on the inside to get what I needed aren’t useful here. If there’s any hope of me staying on the outside, it’s time for me to start acting like a free man instead of a caged animal.

  Morgan has the power in this situation—the power to see me locked up or set free. She eats the first bite slowly, then wolfs down the rest and finishes the bottle of water. Hesitantly, she stands. Steps around the partition, pausing to see if I’ll try to stop her or make a move to follow. I do neither.

  A few minutes later, she returns, face damp. I heard her in there splashing in the sink. I assume she used the toothbrush I left out because when she sits next to me, the scent of mint permeates the air.

  I’m going to have to trust her, too. Trust isn’t something I’m good at giving. It’s been kicked in my face too many times
.

  She curls a foot under her and settles, back to the wall. The sun is low, darkness almost upon us. I sit at the kitchen table, not exactly sure where to start unless it’s with the beginning of the end. So that’s what I do.

  “I’ll never forget hearing my mother scream the day she found my brother.”

  Chapter 6

  Jeremy

  Morgan

  Tucker tells the story of his fifteen-year-old brother being found in his closet, hanging by a length of his bedsheets. He avoids details, but really, knowing this and knowing his mother found Jeremy that way is enough detail to invite nightmares. Arms wrapped around my knees, I hug myself tight.

  “She was never the same after that,” Tucker says of his mom. “Partly because of Jeremy. Partly because of me.” He flicks a look up at me. He’s dragged one of the lawn chairs by my bed and sits with his elbows leaning on his knees. He looks younger, fragile almost. I don’t like the fragility in his eyes. Mainly because of the way it makes me soften toward him.

  “I heard,” I murmur.

  “What did you hear?”

  “People talk,” I explain dismissively.

  “What do they say?”

  Rumor mills abounded after Jeremy Noscalo’s death. Some people said Tucker did it, then tried to kill his father, then attacked his mother but was caught before he could do any harm to her. Other people believe his mother went crazy after Jeremy died, and came at her husband and Tucker with a knife. I tell him as much, and he offers a sad smile.

  “Not exactly.”

  “Most people believe Jeremy committed suicide,” I tell him. Including me.

  He sits back in his chair and regards me darkly. “The people in my jury believed. They’re the most important people.”

  Good point. Tucker was found guilty, but it wasn’t for his brother’s death.

  “So when Jeremy…” I couldn’t say it again. “After that, you attacked your father…out of grief?”

  “Warmer.” Tucker crosses his arms, and his face goes expressionless. This is his defense position, I am learning. When he doesn’t want to share something or is uncomfortable, he folds his arms, sits back. It’s supposed to imply control but strikes me as barely concealed nerves. Like a low rattle of warning when you get too close to a snake.

  “What do you think?” he asks.

  I think a lot of things. I’m not sure how much I should say. I brush my hand along my white shorts, idly scratching a bit of dirt marring the right pocket.

  “I don’t believe you hurt your father on purpose,” I say.

  “Colder.”

  “Okay.” I try to rephrase, unwilling to accept his partial admission. “I always believed your actions were provoked. Maybe you hurt your father in defense of your mother. Maybe in defense of your brother. But you were too late.” I venture a gaze up at him and find his mouth a thin, firm line. I’m right, and I can see how uncomfortable my comments make him. He doesn’t like how clearly I see him, and I wonder if anyone ever saw him as clearly as I did. “Am I warm?”

  “Hot.” He says the word on a low exhalation and a drove of tingles slides over my skin. What does he think of me, really? Am I just means to an end, or was there a time he thought of me and his heart kicked into high gear? Did he ever find me desirable? I remember his promise earlier. You’re safe. I am. This I know for sure. It sits in my gut, the only thing I’m sure of right now.

  “My brother was troubled,” he says.

  So I heard. Jeremy was downright wacko.

  “My mother didn’t know.”

  “About Jeremy?” I ask.

  “About anything.” His blue-gray eyes home in on me and I freeze in place, wondering what he is about to tell me.

  Call it premonition, but I worry it won’t be good though I’m not sure what could possibly be worse. Even though I don’t want to hear it, I find myself prompting with “Did he get into trouble like you? Break the law a lot?”

  Tucker shakes his head.

  “I figured a cop’s kids rebelled by breaking the law. Kind of like the way a preacher’s daughter rebels by sneaking her boyfriend into her bedroom through the window.” He doesn’t respond, so I add, “Am I warm?”

  “Ice cold.” He takes a breath, a steeling one, and I get the impression he’s not happy about telling me any of this. “I broke the law for one reason: to get me into juvi and out of the house.”

  My eyebrows furrow in concern.

  “What I didn’t think of was what would happen to Jeremy in my absence.” Shame coats him like a cloak, the prickling energy glancing off him and covering me like an itchy wool sweater.

  “Is your father…violent?” I whisper that last word.

  “My father is a monster.” He meets my eyes, his glare unwavering. His voice is cold and the words are stated simply, matter-of-factly, the way I might point out it’s raining. As if his father being a monster is a simple, undisputable fact.

  “What kind of a monster?” I don’t want to know, but I’m curious about Tucker. Why he is the way he is. What he needs my father to defend him from. Since he started this story, I’m getting a different view of Tucker. Like maybe my instincts were right when I was younger. Maybe he isn’t as bad as everyone thinks he is; maybe he’s just misunderstood.

  He pushes up the long sleeves of his shirt, revealing his scars. V-shaped marks track in an uneven line from mid-forearm to elbow. None of them appear fresh, having faded white with time.

  “You were a cutter,” I say. “Warm?”

  “Warm,” he answers, his eyebrow lifting. I sense pride there, like he knows, and likes, how I guessed correctly.

  “But you didn’t do all of them yourself,” I guess.

  He shakes his head no. I’m right again.

  “Your father?”

  “You’re good at this game.”

  “I know my subject.” And I don’t just mean Tucker. I straighten my left leg and cuff my dingy shorts once, twice, revealing a pattern of shallow scars on my inner thigh. I can’t look at him. “Razor blade. When we first moved here, I wasn’t sure if I’d ever fit in. My attempt at being a broody loner. I was never brave enough to cut deep.” I inspect the barely visible lines. “Can you even see them?”

  The cotton of his T-shirt shifts against his jeans as he leans forward and peers closely at my leg. In this small, quiet space, the sound is intimate. “Barely.”

  He lifts his eyes to mine. We share a moment of camaraderie as this information sinks in. I didn’t always fit in. Amazing. Epiphany had, he sits back again. The cabin is dark save for the light over the stove he left on earlier. The sun has disappeared from the sky and the crickets have begun singing.

  “Yours are deeper,” I point out, rolling the edge of my shorts down and feeling slightly warm from his close inspection.

  “My mother’s sewing scissors.” He gives me a peace sign, then lays his fingers over one of the scars and makes a snip motion.

  I flinch, pulling my shoulders under my ears.

  He leans elbows to knees and closes his eyes. He’s too close not to comfort. I don’t even know why I do it, except that I can’t bear any more of his heartbreaking stories without consoling him in some way. I reach for him and don’t have far to go before my fingertips brush one scar in a line of many. His skin is hot beneath my feather-light touch.

  His eyes fly open, his feet pushing his chair back. The plastic skids across the floor as the whole of him jerks away, his eyes wide and wild. He reacts as if I struck him, which is unreasonable in every way.

  “Don’t touch me.” He stands, his jaw sawing left and right, fists balled at his sides. Dressed in black, his hair falling over his face, he broadcasts dark and dangerous. In high-def.

  I hold my palms up. “I was just…”

  “You don’t get to take anything from me to make yourself feel better,” he grinds out.

  “I wasn’t.” I blink. Then think.

  Was I?

  Touching Tucker did make me feel better
, comforted me in some way. I pull my hands back to my lap and fold my fingers together. “I’m sorry.”

  A deep breath expands his chest, then he blows out a sigh. I’m losing him and I don’t want to. He has more to say, I can tell.

  “Tell me the rest.”

  “That’s enough for today.” He hooks the chair with one hand and pushes it under the table, turning his back to me.

  “You’d better talk while you can. We don’t have much time before my father finds me,” I say, but my confidence isn’t at one hundred percent. More like seventy. Okay, sixty.

  “I know,” Tucker says, surprisingly.

  “Call him.” I know Tucker has a phone. I’ve seen it. “We’ll tell him what you told me.”

  He faces me, shaking his head grimly. “You don’t know everything yet.”

  “Then tell me.” I’m antsy and anxious and so freaking tired of sitting here alone in the dark—figuratively and literally. I’m uninformed and trapped. I hate both of those things.

  “Tomorrow,” he says to the night outside the window. “Get some sleep.”

  I want to argue but resist. Maybe I’ll get lucky and go to sleep—speed through this night and wake in the morning and all of this will be nothing more than a bad dream.

  —

  I jolt awake, heart pounding, hair and chest damp with sweat. My mind is a hectic pattern of shapes and sounds, fuzzy and unpleasant. Layer by layer the images peel back, morphing and sliding in and out of each other as I try and make sense of them.

  Police Chief Victor Noscalo and scissors, Jeremy hanging in a closet by a noose, and Tucker being dragged away from me by armed men.

  Using the napkin Tucker gave me with my sandwich, I dab my face. No telling what time it is, but the dark seems less consuming, like the sun might come out soon. Tucker sleeps in the plastic chair at the table, his arms crossed over his chest, his head tipped uncomfortably to one side. I saw a bed in the loft upstairs, but he apparently doesn’t trust me enough to go up there to sleep.