Forgotten Promises (Lost Boys #1)

by Jessica Lemmon

  “Go on,” she prompts.

  Right. My story. Where to start? Ease up to it, or blurt it out? The only one who knows the truth is one of my friends—for lack of a better term—from juvi. Joel. His father did the same things—the same sorts of things—to him as mine did to me. We confided in each other almost by accident. One of us mumbled a veiled confession, told like a joke, and the other muttered a nervous “Me too.” I can’t remember who said what now; it’s been too long.

  I swallow thickly, gathering my courage.

  “When did it start?” Morgan asks, close to my ear. I resist the urge to shiver at the soft coaxing of her voice. The unnerved-but-not-bad feeling intensifies.

  “I was—” My voice cracks, preventing me from saying more. Shame cascades over me as my insides lurch. I have to tell her. Victor needs to be stopped, and with my brother dead, I’m the only one around who can stop him. I think of the kids at the camp who will soon be exposed to my father’s sadism. Then I clear my throat and try again.

  “I was twelve.” I push the words from my throat, but I’m not so much talking as I am whispering. My voice is strained. Resistant. Like my vocal cords are so used to holding the secret, they can’t quite let it go.

  Next to me, Morgan’s shoulders stiffen.

  “When he touched me for the first time…inappropriately,” I add with another whisper. She either exhales or says the word no. The blood rushing past my eardrums makes it hard to tell. I focus on the window across the room. “Hard to go to the cops when your father is the most respected officer in the county.”

  Though, to be honest, it took me a few years to figure out what my dad was doing was wrong. In my defense, he started mild and turned up the intensity later. When he started on Jeremy, I was gone a lot. Causing trouble led me into juvi, and in turn, away from him. Then things got worse.

  “The marks…” Morgan’s eyes go to the notched scars on my arm, but I don’t need to look to know the exact pattern; to know how many there are. I’ve spent many nights counting and recounting the reasons behind them, especially in my jail cell, where there wasn’t much to do. Every time an inmate asked what they were for, I told them it was the number of people I killed. That answer won me respect, which is fucked up, but it’s a different world there.

  Anyway, not the point. There’s more to say.

  “There is one notch for each time he…” I start, but the words fail me. I take a breath, but it’s unsteady. “He wanted me to remember. He wanted to remember. I used to think part of him was shamed by it, or was, anyway. He looked at the marks as punishment for himself. We had an agreement,” I say, my voice stronger now. “If I didn’t tell anyone what was happening, he wouldn’t touch Jeremy.”

  I should have known better than to trust my father. Lying bastard.

  Morgan moves her hand to her lips as she listens. I’m sorry to have to tell her any of this. I think of her safe, protected world. The bad stuff limited to unappetizing tacos and being dumped for her best friend probably rounded out the “FML” portion of her life.

  I’m a fugitive who has kidnapped a girl whose father is the most powerful lawyer in the state. I’m an on-the-run criminal who left his police-chief father bleeding and barely coherent. It’s safe to say I’m screwed if I can’t get Morgan on my side. But it’s also weirdly cathartic to confess to her. She knows me. She might even trust me.

  “He broke that promise a few years later.” I tell her the rest in rigid monotone. I tell her how things started with him touching me. How he apologized each time at first. How the frequency increased. How he’d hit me with a belt as he cried. How I felt sorry for him the first few times. How I took the blame for him hating himself.

  Most of what I say is to my lap. I speak fast, trying not to feel the emotion behind the words. I don’t feel much now, which is fine. Well, that’s not true. There is one feeling: naked betrayal by a man who should have loved and protected Jeremy and me.

  “I looked up to him,” I tell her. “When I was little, I wanted to be just like him. Then…then there was confusion.” Devastation. Complete and utter bewilderment. My eyes are once again focused on the window. I can’t look at her. Maybe not ever again. What she must think of me…

  “What about your mom?” I hear her ask.

  “She doesn’t know.”

  “Still?” I hear the alarm in her voice.

  I shake my head.

  “Why didn’t you tell your lawyer the truth?”

  Worry swims in her green eyes. I debate whether I should tell her more, but then figure at this point, there’s not much more damage I can do.

  “Because my father would have killed her,” I admit.

  Her mouth falls open. I look back toward the window. The night my mom found Jeremy, she went into hysterics, and my father hit her. I went insane. That crack across my mother’s beautiful face was the match to the fuse that set me off. There was the version of me who held back for the sake of my mother’s safety, then there was the version of me who lost it when her safety was in danger.

  “Tucker.” Morgan’s voice wobbles and much as I don’t want to meet her gaze, I glance over at her anyway. Her brows are contorted, her lips pressed together. Her eyes brim with unshed tears. She’s hurting. For me. A deep, penetrating sorrow wafts off her skin and clings to mine like a thin sheen of sweat.

  I’ve never felt anything like it. Not ever. No one felt sorry for me. My mom never knew. My dad only felt sorry for himself. My counselor in juvi didn’t believe a thing I said, and I’d only shared a tenth of what I’d just told Morgan. My mom thought I was acting out, thought Jeremy was going through a phase. I made sure she didn’t have a reason to feel sympathy for me. Even when she visited me in prison, I kept her at arm’s length. I wanted her to stop hurting and knew the truth would only cause her to hurt more.

  Morgan’s firm, unwavering gaze is making me uncomfortable. She keeps surprising me. Despite her micro-meltdown minutes ago, she’s armored up. Maybe she did it for me. Maybe she did it for her. Either way, this rich, privileged girl is tougher than I imagined. I shift my leg so her knee no longer touches me.

  “Was that…was that your first…experience?” she asks.

  I watch one tear tumble down her cheek. I can’t get over the effect her reaction is having on me. My chest constricts, my ribs slicing into my lungs like razor blades. I want to…I don’t know. Hold her. Comfort her. Apologize.

  But I don’t. All I can do is protect her from knowing more. She knows what she needs to know.

  “Not…all the way.” I can’t look at her, and I don’t know if it’s shame for the lie after promising I’d tell her the truth, or shame because the memory comes at me, and blocking it is like trying to stop a Great White shark with a butterfly net.

  “I’m a virgin,” I say, figuring that technically, that’s still true. “But he stole the possibility of any normal experience I could have with anyone below the waist.” That is the truth, open and unvarnished and not the least bit pretty.

  I’m too embarrassed to look at her. So I tell a mash-up of the truth to the window across the room.

  “I started breaking the law to get out of the house. Stints away were my refuge. He started on Jeremy.” All true. “But he went further with him than with me.” Lie. Regret is a red-hot blade in the center of my chest.

  Once the truth is out, she’ll never look at me the same. My father reserved the beatings for Jeremy while he used me, but I accepted my fate. It was my job to save my little brother. In the end, I failed him miserably.

  “When I came back after my last stay in juvi, Jeremy was a shadow of the brother I left behind. His eyes were dark and troubled. He was angry. He’d tried to kill himself once before. No one was home, and I found him with Mom’s prescription bottle, ready to empty it down his throat. I stopped him and he told me what happened.”

  He wouldn’t stop, Tuck. No matter how much I begged.

  I slam my eyes shut to the memory of my brother’s pain.
“I promised him that night I’d take my father down.”

  But I didn’t. I got busted for stealing copper from a foreclosed house on Salem Avenue that weekend, and back to juvi I went. Joel was there again, and I was relieved to have a friend. We smoked a lot. Ignored our teachers. And I selfishly soaked up my time there like I was at summer camp.

  I wonder if Morgan silently judges me for failing my brother. If so, I can’t blame her. I judge myself for it. But at least she’s not viewing me as a fragile shell like my mom used to.

  My mom, she needed someone to mother even after I’d gone to prison. She would visit and give me family updates. She’d tell me stories of my future—how I’d be someone once my sentence was up. The only thing I ever talked to her about was leaving dad. And one day when she showed up with a bruise on her jaw, I convinced her. They divorced that next month. I consider that one of my crowning accomplishments.

  Morgan leans closer to me and I wet my lips, scared by what she must be thinking, what she might say, how she sees me. I didn’t mind her being pissed at me, hating me for using her to get to her dad, but I don’t want her to pity me. Now that she knows most of the truth, I probably appear weak to her. As less of a man. And that’s one hundred times worse than her hating me.

  Before I spilled my guts, she hadn’t seen how fucked up I really am. At one point I protected her, and I wish I was the guy she thought I was in that basement hallway. I wish I was a normal guy with a normal family. But I’m no superhero, and nothing in my life is, or ever will be, normal.

  “I set up a camera,” I admit—forcing my subconscious not to call up what was on that videotape. I watched only enough to ensure I had it on there. Those few seconds had been enough. Too much. “It was Jeremy’s idea.” Mine. “Dad had a day of the month with him.” Me. “My father had gotten bolder. He didn’t cry anymore. It was just what he did. A pastime. A hobby.”

  Against my wishes, tears burn my eyes. I set my jaw.

  “We have two acts on tape.” Glumly, I realize I make it sound like a performance. My stomach rolls. “One with me. One with my brother.” I remember that moment, and not because I’d watched part of it. I remember because it was the first time I’d fantasized about sliding a knife into my father’s throat. “The tape is in my bedroom. I went back to get it after I was released from prison. I didn’t expect my father to be home.”

  And I didn’t expect him to start describing to me the horrific things he would do to my mother once she returned home from Italy. I considered later he was baiting me, but at least I’d had the brains not to call and warn my mother to stay away. If she knew I’d been released early for good behavior, she’d hop the next flight home.

  Angry tears leak from my eyes, and now I’m embarrassed and infuriated on top of everything else. And so fucking tired. So sick of this being my truth, and even more sick that Morgan had to hear a version of it. I told her the version she could handle. The real truth would see the light soon. Sooner than I wanted. I get a crazy urge to hand her the keys to the Charger and tell her to run far and fast. But with the floodgates open—I can’t stop the words from spilling from my lips in a tide of sickening truth.

  “I saw him and snapped. Just snapped like a lunatic,” I say, my voice watery. “How can he be alive and free and—and have a good reputation while I serve time and live with visible reminders of…of…” I lift my arm with the scars, but my words trail off. The invisible scars are worse. More angry tears pool and my throat aches from the huge lump sitting there as I try to hold them back. “My brother didn’t deserve to die. He didn’t deserve any of it.”

  Those last words don’t exit my lips, they sort of sit in my lungs as my breath constricts into a puny wheeze. Right there in the cabin, in front of a girl who I’ve already embarrassed myself in front of, I succumb to the grief I wasn’t allowed to feel in prison. Grief I wasn’t allowed to show in school. Or in juvi. I had to stay strong for my mother. Stay strong so no one took advantage of me. Holding secrets, bitterness, and anger made me toxic. It spills out now in nuclear sobs, tears running down my face in twin hot trails. I’m unable to catch my breath. Hand to my forehead, I try to exhale, but only a horrible, pained sound escapes.

  Beyond my breakdown, I hear Morgan say my name. I force every ounce of strength I have to the front lines and manage to pull myself together a few seconds later. The wetness on my cheeks lingers. It’s then I notice that Morgan’s entire palm is resting on my shoulder. She is comforting me and her touch is as welcome as anything I’ve ever felt.

  I don’t push her away.

  Chapter 8

  Boundaries

  Morgan

  I slide my palm down Tucker’s arm slowly. I am breaking a million rules. I have no idea how to interact with someone who has suffered the way he has. His past is dark and mottled, and my complaints about dirty clothes and oily hair and chipped nails make me feel like a princess who finds a pea beneath her mattress.

  But I can’t stop myself from consoling him—or trying to, at least. I’m not sure I’m helping. Seeing his tears and hearing his pinched voice, witnessing his breakdown and then watching him try to keep it together nearly breaks me. I lost it earlier over a host of things—all of which pale in comparison to what he’s been through. My own tears tremble on the edges of my lower lashes, but I bite the inside of my cheek and try to think of anything except what he just told me.

  His story was incomplete, jumbled. There are more details and I’m not sure what “kids at the camp” he spoke of, but I’m also not about to press. I just want to show him kindness. The only way I know how to do that is to push the limits of his comfort zone. I don’t know the last time Tucker had a kind hand laid on him, but I want to be his first.

  Selfish, I know.

  I move my hand from his impressive biceps to his elbow, keeping the pressure light. I glance up at him and witness the same pained look on his face. His eyes are shut tight as if he’s hiding from a monster. The analogy is not far from the truth. He’s been running from a monster for years.

  When my fingertips reach his wrist, I flip my hand over and slide it beneath his. Palm to palm, we sit for several seconds, maybe minutes. I listen to him breathe. His breaths are tight, fast. Maybe he’s on the brink of an anxiety attack himself. Funny, mine is gone. Chased away by the man who brought it on.

  A moment later, I separate my fingers and weave them between his one by one. Pinky on the outside of his pinky finger, ring finger between his ring and pinky finger, middle finger between his middle finger and ring finger. Last, I slide my index finger and thumb into place. The act of weaving our fingers together is far more intimate than I anticipate. I go completely still, our intertwined digits taking all my focus.

  Tucker’s jaw unhinges, his full, almost sensual mouth opening to blow out a breath as if he’s just achieved a test of his endurance. I don’t believe he’s unhappy that I’m touching him, though. More…not used to it. His next breath comes easier, less labored. The whole of him relaxes, his shoulders lowering as he leans more solidly against the wall behind us.

  His eyes open and he turns his head. The pain in their depths spears me. The knowledge that his innocence is lost. Or worse. Maybe it can’t be retrieved. If Victor Noscalo were my father, I would have killed him. Twice if I could’ve. What Tucker—what Jeremy, rest his soul—had been through was a horror no child should suffer. No human should suffer.

  Tucker’s throat bobs when he swallows. He’s pulled himself together. My gaze tracks down his stubbled jaw to his amazing mouth, then to his throat. I worry I’m objectifying his near-perfect physical features after what he told me, but the worry fades when his fingers squeeze mine. My eyes shoot to his and I’m humbled and amazed by what I see.

  Peace. Just a little. A thimbleful, maybe.

  He holds my gaze a second longer. Long enough to squeeze my fingers another time, take a deep breath, then…In a flash, he’s up. Jerking his hand from mine and stalking to the front door.

&nb
sp; I peer around the panel dividing my meager bedroom from the cabin to see the door shut behind him. His shadow passes by the window in the waning light. The orange flicker of a flame glows as he lights a cigarette.

  I have half a mind to join him. And I’ve never smoked.

  —

  “Morgan.”

  A voice that sounds oddly familiar and unfamiliar at the same time creeps into my consciousness. My eyelids feel as if they each weigh a ton.

  “Morgan.”

  The voice comes again, and this time I use all my strength to open one eye and peep out. Tucker Noscalo kneels in front of me, his blue-gray eyes level with my face—only his face is sideways. No, wait, my face is sideways.

  I lick my lips. My tongue is dry and plastered to the roof of my mouth. I’m groggy, fatigued, and unsteady as I push myself up using one arm. He helps me sit and the room cants at an awkward angle.

  Then I remember. Xanax.

  While he was outside last night, I dashed to my purse and fished out the two Xanax, took them, and lay down. Within minutes the world began to pleasantly swim. Knowing there would be no nightmares, no further panic attacks, I bobbed pleasantly beneath the tide and sank into sleep.

  This morning wasn’t going quite as smoothly.

  “Come on.” He grasps my elbows.

  “You’re touching me,” I point out.

  “You earned it.”

  “The touching?” I stumble forward as he half walks, half drags me to the bathroom. I hear something. Something wet and pounding. Water. “Is it raining?”

  “No,” he answers. “I took one quick so you’d have some hot water, but I’m not sure how much is left. I’d hop in while there is if I were you.”

  Just inside the bathroom, I turn my head to see glorious water streaming through the gap in an open shower curtain. On the edge of the sink, a toothbrush and toothpaste.