I Promise You

by Madden-Mills, Ilsa

  “Are you a Southern boy? You talk like it, but there’s no accent,” she asks, eyes narrowed.

  “Nana doesn’t trust Yankees,” I warn him.

  “I was born in California but moved to Alabama when I was a kid. My mama’s from Montgomery so I have Southern roots.”

  She walks a circle around him. “My parents were from Montgomery. What’s her family name?”

  “St. Claire.”

  Nana’s lips purse. “Is she the one who married that man who owns all the hotels? McQueen! That’s your family, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She puffs on her unlit cig. “Holy cow. Butter my butt and call me a biscuit. Good job, Serena.”

  I wince. “Nana, it’s not like that.”

  “Does your mama know how to hunt and fish? Or is she one of those highfalutin’ debutante types?” she asks him.

  “Nana…” I start.

  “Shopping is hunting for my mom. She’s in Paris right now.”

  His lips have compressed, a tightness in his eyes. She didn’t come to his first game? I frown. That sucks. It’s his senior year.

  Nana mulls that over. “I can turn you into a country boy in no time, show you how to put a worm on a hook or shoot a squirrel. Serena hid my shotgun, but I’m gonna find it one of these days… You interested?”

  “I swear we aren’t hillbillies,” I tell him.

  He chuckles, his face softening. “I’m game.”

  Buster trots over, sniffs around Dillon’s sneakers, and then inexplicably puts his paw on his shoe and looks up at him.

  “Buster hates everyone.” Nana studies Dillon, and I can already see the wheels turning in her head. One night after dinner, I overheard her on the phone asking Turo if his son’s divorce was final “because Serena needs a good seeing to”.

  She goes on. “So you’re the one who brought her home from the Pig? She should have called me, but I was deep in my bingo game and, well, Turo was there, and I’ve got my sights set on him. She assumed I wouldn’t want to leave, and she was right. He’s Italian.” She takes a breath, gearing up for more. “Serena’s a good girl. She’s been through a lot, putting others first, trying to raise her sister. She was my little angel—until she fell in with that musician. He was a sexy devil, sings with a forked tongue probably, but bless, he was a pile of dog poo, as useless as a screen door on a submarine. I reckon if you want to see her, we need rules. First rule is, when she starts spouting off random stuff, just listen. Her looks make up for it, and it does grow on you. Second rule is, she needs to get hers first, if you know what I mean—”

  “Nana,” I interrupt, my face growing hot. “He doesn’t need my life story. He’s dating three other women.” I can’t resist throwing it in.

  “Just two,” chimes in Sawyer with dancing eyes. “Chantal jumped ship. Something about the Winter Soldier, tequila, and Neanderthals. I couldn’t keep up.”

  “Good for her,” I murmur.

  “I’m not dating other women. I’m in a contest,” Dillon says to Nana. “But Serena keeps turning me down.”

  She bats her eyes. “Call me Nancy, boys. I’m a football fan, you know. Now, since you’ve been sweet to my Serena, do y’all want to stay and have some chicken and waffles?”

  “Nana!” I interject as unease spikes. I’m not ready for Dillon to sit across the table with my family and me. Yes, we shared some confidences in the locker room, but… “I’m sure they have places to go—”

  “Heck yeah,” Owen says. “I’m starving!”

  “I’d love a home-cooked meal,” Sawyer murmurs.

  Dillon studies my face, frowns, then says, “Thank you for the offer. Some other time, Nancy. The rookie and I have a meeting with the quarterback coach anyway. Sawyer, you need to watch game tape.” He pauses. “I’ll see you at the next game?”

  I nod. “Yeah.”

  He hesitates, as if he might say more, then moves past me, his hand briefly brushing against mine, and my traitorous eyes track the slope of his broad shoulders, his trim hips, the flex of his long muscular legs—

  “Are you really going to let that hot piece leave?” Nana hisses as soon as he’s out of earshot.

  “Yeah,” Romy says under her breath, adding her two cents as she slides in next to me. “You haven’t had a man in eighteen months, and I, for one, am tired of you harassing my love interests because you’re jealous—”

  “Of Tree Boy?” I hiss. “Please. He gave you a hickey!”

  “His name is Liam, and I prefer love bite. You should see the one I gave him.”

  “He has braces! Doesn’t that hurt? Never mind, don’t answer that,” I mutter. “If I was Daddy, I’d snap a switch off the tree he climbed down and tan your hide—”

  “You’d never,” she snips. “You don’t approve of corporal punishment, and you hate to see me cry.”

  True.

  “‘Spare the rod, spoil the child,’” I quote. “Starting to see the value in that.”

  “Be quiet, both of you. The football players are leaving, and I think you need to be polite and give a proper thank you to that handsome young man,” Nana says.

  She isn’t wrong.

  “Wait!” I call out and dash over to Dillon, and he pauses before opening his door. He turns to look at me, and my breath feels rushed as I speak. “Thank you for the battery. That was kind and it’s been, um, a while since someone did something that sweet for me. You never said how much it was…”

  “Nah, I don’t want money.”

  “What do you want?”

  An uncertain look flits over his face. He stares at me long enough that my face grows warm. “A kiss. Promise me a kiss.” He dips his head, hiding his eyes. “Um, is that okay?”

  “One?”

  “Maybe two.” His gaze rises to find mine.

  I trace the sensuous curves of his mouth and my breath hitches. What’s the harm? “Okay. Now?”

  “Later.” He gives me a lingering look then gets in his car and cranks it.

  Owen crawls in the back and rolls his window down, his gaze sliding to Romy, and of course, she’s checking him out, lashes batting. I lean in. “She’s jailbait, Sinclair, and has a boyfriend.” Tree Boy is on my shit list, but a college boy is the last thing I need.

  Owen flashes a sly smirk. “Looking doesn’t hurt.”

  “With her, it does,” I say as I reach into the car and thump him on the forehead.

  “Dude!” Owen calls, rearing back from me. “Your women are crazy, Dillon.”

  “I’m not one of his women!”

  “Hard to believe, but true,” Dillon muses.

  “Then why are we running past her house every morning?” Owen says.

  My eyes flare. Aha!

  Dillon gets a wide look in his eyes—caught—and flushes red. He rolls his window up, our eyes holding through the glass.

  Sawyer walks to the Escalade and meets me in the yard. His gaze flicks to the car. “You know, I think he can be kind of shy when it comes to you. Odd.”

  He chuckles and murmurs goodbye and gets in the car. Dillon throws up a wave, and they drive away.

  “Blue hair is hot,” Romy murmurs as we watch them disappear down the road.

  I glower at her. “Remember Liam?”

  She chortles. “Oh my God, his face when you said rectal issues….”

  I throw an arm around her and press my lips against her temple. “You’re a minx. You know I’m grounding you, right? No phone, video games, or Liam for two weeks. Then, we’ll talk and reassess.”

  She shuts her eyes briefly. “Please, Serena. I invited him to the tryouts. You know how anxious I am about it.” She’s mentioned some of the other girls are catty.

  “Fine, he can come, but that’s it for two weeks.”

  She releases a long sigh. “I won’t let him stay again, Serena. I promise.”

  We walk back inside, and my mind is on Dillon and the kiss I promised him.

  12

  Wearing my gra
y tie-dyed leggings and a cropped pink workout top, I head into the student center. As I’m taking the steps to the upper level, my phone rings and I snatch it up without looking to see who the caller is.

  If I’d known, I never would have answered.

  “Serena.” Vane’s voice dances down my spine, and I inhale a sharp breath, ready to hang up, but he jumps in, “Baby, baby—wait. Come on, now, don’t hang up, not like last time. Just for a few minutes, let me talk to you. Please.”

  My hand clenches around the phone. It’s been two months since he called, the longest he’s gone, and I thought he was finally done. Holding the phone to my ear, I sit down in a chair in one of the lounging spaces. “Okay.”

  Background noise fills up the silence between us, muted rock music playing, glasses clinking together—female giggling.

  “Hang on, let me go out on the balcony. Too loud in here, and I can’t hear you.” His words are husky with a slight slur.

  I picture him in a hotel room, probably the penthouse suite somewhere, his riotous black hair swishing around his shoulders as he cradles the phone to his ear, moving past his bandmates, the alcohol bottles littering the tables.

  We met at a bar in Magnolia my sophomore year after my parents died. I was in a weird place, still grieving, and he provided the perfect distraction. When he sang that night, I was mesmerized by the tender way his hands clutched the mic, his ripped-up jeans that hung on his lean hips. His songs called to the music lover in me. He was charismatic, the kind of sexy that tells you he’s going to be a star someday. He kept his gaze on me the entire night, and after he finished his set, he jumped off the stage and took me in his arms. Be mine tonight, he whispered in my ear.

  I was his—for several nights that morphed into months, then years.

  I dip my head, keeping my voice low. “You have to stop calling me. I need to go. Take care of yourself, okay? Lay off the booze.”

  “Baby, baby, the sound of your voice…it’s like the sun after a storm, like a candle in a dark tunnel—”

  “Pretty words you don’t mean,” I say faintly, memories of him tugging on my heart.

  He exhales gustily. “Tour is over, baby. You should have been here. Sold-out crowd in Chicago last night, fifty thousand screaming fans. I’m leaving soon, coming home to Memphis.”

  “That’s good. I’m sure you need the rest and your family misses you.”

  “It’s been over a year since…” he murmurs thickly.

  Our divorce was final. My lungs squeeze.

  “Do you need anything? Money?”

  “You don’t owe me anything, Vane.”

  “I wish you’d let me see you. We have unfinished business, you and me, things I need to say, and if you give me a chance, I’ll make it right, I promise.”

  So many promises… “You can’t fix what you did.”

  “I’m gonna work on the new album, and you can come to my house on the river. It’ll be just like old times.”

  Old times? My jaw tightens. Like the times I skipped class to see him? Or the entire weekends I spent at his house, leaving Romy with Nana? Other memories batter me, a darkened tour bus after a show in Nashville, the drummer of his band trying and failing to hold me back from going inside. The sounds of moans, the naked girl kneeling at Vane’s feet, his hands cupping her scalp as she—

  He knows exactly where my head is… “Serena. Please. Let me explain about that night—”

  “I saw what I needed to.”

  “Just listen. I should have loved you better, I should have, and now look at us, look at what we are…just let me see you…” His voice breaks and I hear him gasping for air. “We lost each other, and the baby, and you were it for me. Please, baby. I fucked up, I fucked up…”

  My eyes shut, willing my voice to be calm and firm. Should I have let him explain himself after what I saw? No. He cheated, probably more than I’m aware of. He broke all his promises to me. End of. I divorced him, and lucky for me, he didn’t even have to be there.

  “I’m happy, Vane. Don’t call me anymore.”

  There’s a long pause from him. Then, “Who is he, Serena? Who are you dating?”

  Leave it to a man to assume I need another man to be happy…

  I swear under my breath and throw a glance around the student center, my chest hitching when my eyes catch on Dillon’s. Through the glass wall of the pizza place, I see him sitting at a table. Bambi is next to Sawyer, and Ashley is next to him. Guess she won rock paper scissors today.

  “I have to go.” I click my phone off and tuck it in the pocket of my leggings.

  Dillon…

  This past Saturday, the Tigers defeated Virginia Tech on our home field. I watched him with rapt attention as he kissed his hands and ran out to his teammates. At halftime, he stopped in front of the fifty-yard line and sent me a long look, seeming to soak me in. Then, he shook his head as if to clear it and ran to the locker room. As far as the game, he led his team like a maestro, orchestrating passes that always hit their target. I loved that quote from my last article, although it was a bitch to write, dry as toast. Warren was happy at least.

  Over this past week, I’ve seen him around, once at a red light a few blocks from campus while I was on my way to the Gazette; another time I glimpsed him leaving the library as I peered over the third-floor railing. The third time was yesterday morning when I looked out my window and saw him and Owen jogging past my house.

  And now, tonight. The universe is tossing him into my path at every turn.

  As if he knows I’ve spotted him, he looks up and freezes. He watches me, deep and penetrating. My eyes shut briefly, trying to break this weird thing between us, and when I open them, he’s weaving his way through the crowd to the exit.

  I dash for the right hallway. I tell myself I’m running because I’m late, but the truth is, I can’t get Dillon out of my head.

  The yoga room is darkened and quiet except for the rainforest music our instructor Zena likes. I grab a spare mat and lay it out in the back.

  The door opens and I turn to see who else is late.

  “Dillon,” I sputter. “What are you doing?”

  “No clue,” he murmurs as he takes a moment to check out the room then walks to the back, picks up a mat, and sets it too close to mine.

  “We’re going to bump into each other.”

  “I’ll live.” Wearing gym shorts and a practice shirt, he takes in my stance, legs spread with one bent, and my arms extended straight out to each side. “Cute.”

  “Warrior pose. You try it and see how long you can hold it.”

  He mimics me, and I’m annoyed when he accomplishes it perfectly, moderating his breathing, not one quiver in his muscles. “How long have you been coming to this class?”

  I think. “Three years, twice a week. It’s free for students.”

  A look of incredulity flashes over his face. “You’ve been coming to the student center all this time and I’ve never once seen you!”

  “We weren’t meant to meet, I guess.”

  “Timing,” he mutters.

  Zena, a willowy attractive lady in her late forties, leaves her mat and walks around. She works for the university in the catering department, and since I pick up the odd job with them, we’ve known each other a while.

  She stops at Dillon’s mat. “Hello, handsome. You sure brighten the place up.” She cocks her hip, a smirk on her face as she takes him in, appreciation in her glance.

  He grins broadly. “Came with Serena. She insisted. How’s my form?”

  “Excellent,” she replies.

  I snort. “He’s my stalker.”

  Dillon rolls his eyes. “Pot, kettle. You were waiting for me at the Oreos and don’t deny it.”

  “Well, he’s in for a treat,” Zena murmurs to me and pops a questioning eyebrow. Do you want to tell him? her face says, and I shake my head. Nope.

  A laugh tinkles from her as she moves on. “Carry on, then. Welcome to class, Dillon. Invite your footbal
l friends.”

  He smiles. “She knows me, Serena, and it’s dark in here.” There’s triumph in his voice as he whips off his shirt and tosses it to the side. His skin is golden, his pecs firm…

  “Cat pose, class,” Zena calls.

  I ignore him—dang, so hard—and maneuver into the pose on my hands and knees, arching my back to the ceiling. He watches, lips pursed as he attempts to mimic me, only his bulk doesn’t allow for much arch and his hands are in the wrong place.

  “Hey, Kitty, try again,” I murmur. “Round your spine toward the ceiling.”

  “Meow,” is his response.

  I bite my lip.

  “Make sure your knees are set below your hips, everyone, and center your head in a neutral position with eyes on the floor,” Zena says.

  “How do you get your back up that high?”

  “Practice.” I stifle a laugh as he tries again and fails.

  “Ladies, this pose will gently warm up your pelvic floor and open your hips—which is crucial for a top-shelf orgasm, the kind that reverberates through your body for several seconds. Flexibility and relaxation are key, especially if he goes in for round two. That’s the best, isn’t it?”

  A round of yeses comes from the ladies.

  Dillon starts. “Hang on. I thought this was a yoga class?”

  “For ladies,” I chirp. “Zena is all about using yoga for, um, the bedroom. Usually it’s only women in here, and the men who show up tend to never come back. You don’t do exercises like this at lacrosse practice?”

  “No, and don’t think I’m not keeping tabs on every time you call me a lacrosse player. So far your debt is so big I don’t think you’ll ever pay it off.”

  “Hmm, how will I repay you?”

  His eyes glitter. “A kiss for every infraction—”

  “I owe you one and you haven’t collected.” Maybe I’m a little miffed about that.

  Zena says, “On the exhale, round your spine up toward the ceiling. Yes, that’s it…engage those abs and warm up your core…open your body, feel the heat…”

  “Why are you smirking?” Dillon asks a few reps later.