Forbidden Promises

by Synithia Williams

  Uh, ya think? He married your sister. No more acting the fool over Travis.

  She and Elaina found their dad surrounded by friends and colleagues all laughing while he told a story. His eyes lit up and became calculating as he introduced her to Russell. Russell actually took her breath away for a second. The man was movie-star handsome. His tall, lean but muscular form was accentuated by a well-tailored suit, sandy brown skin and green eyes.

  After she got over how good-looking he was, she expected him to be arrogant and conceited. But as they talked, she realized he was not only intelligent and well-spoken, but humble. Elaina threw her a told-you-so glance before grabbing a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and excusing herself.

  Russell deftly broke her away from the group so they could talk alone. “Mr. Robidoux told me about your travels with the Transatlantic Orchestra,” he said after they settled at one of the round tables around the dance floor. “I saw the orchestra two years ago in New York. Were you playing with them then?”

  India nodded. “I was. Did you enjoy the show?”

  “Yes. I’ve always been a fan of classical music. I guess it’s the old band nerd in me,” he said, looking slightly bashful. “You know the art museum has an Arts and Drafts night every month? Would you like to go with me sometime?”

  And there it was. The invitation for a date. Over Russell’s shoulder, there was movement on the edge of the dance floor. Travis held Camille in his arms. Closely in his arms. Camille smiled up at him and he returned the smile. Her heart clenched.

  Travis looked away from Camille. Their gazes locked. His dark stare erased her ability to breathe. He whispered something to Camille but didn’t break eye contact with her. India’s body shivered as if he’d spoken to her. As if he’d whispered something soft and seductive in her ear. As if his lips were mere inches away and the warm caress of his breath was a prelude to them tracing the edges of her ear. Desire washed over her body like a summer rain, her nipples hardening and tingles flaring out from the apex of her thighs.

  He twirled Camille, and the moment was broken.

  India felt like she’d just fallen off a roller coaster. Completely thrown for a loop while he danced without a care in the world. What the hell was wrong with her?

  A warm hand rested on her shoulder. She jerked her head up. Met Russell’s concerned gaze. “Are you okay?”

  She nodded, tried to smile. “Sorry, I...I felt a little off for a second. I just got back today—jet lag must be setting in.”

  Russell nodded. “You’re probably exhausted. Do you need me to get you anything?”

  She shook her head. “No, I’m good now. Let’s go sit closer to the house, if you don’t mind. The smoke isn’t helping.” She indicated the couple sitting across from them at the round table. The man held a Robidoux cigar in his hand.

  The smoke wasn’t a problem. She loved the smell of her family’s cigars, but she needed to get away. Needed to avoid seeing Travis with Camille in his arms. Needed to focus on the gorgeous, considerate man in front of her.

  “Of course.” Russell stood and held out a hand.

  He helped her rise, the strength of his grip surprising and unexpected. She bumped into his front. He quickly stepped back with a mumbled “Excuse me,” slipped her arm through his and led her toward the house.

  She knew she shouldn’t, but she glanced over her shoulder. Travis watched them walk away. The crowd on the dance floor swallowed him and Camille before she could make out the expression in his eyes.

  India turned away, placed her other hand over the warmth of Russell’s strong biceps and tried to ignore the way Travis made her forget everything with just a damn look.

  CHAPTER SIX

  TRAVIS TOOK A DEEP, steadying breath as he maneuvered his Cadillac down the gravel drive into the Sunnyside Acres mobile home park. Dozens of single-wide homes were arranged in neat lines down each side of the drive. Pink flamingos, garden gnomes and University of North Carolina flags adorned various trailers, the ornaments the only distinguishing features from one home to the next.

  He didn’t come home often. If at all. Not because he was ashamed of where he came from, as his parents frequently accused him. He wasn’t ashamed. He had too many good memories. Running through the park playing with his friends as kids. Listening to Mr. Jenkins play old-school music and preach to him and his friends about the right way to woo a woman. Losing his virginity between lots nineteen and twenty on the Fourth of July at the age of sixteen while fireworks went off overhead.

  He’d known his family didn’t have much. His mom didn’t work, and his dad barely held down a job, but he’d been happy. He and his friends had hustled and snatched stuff from the houses of the rich folks on the other side of town to help make ends meet.

  Until he’d tried stealing from Grant Robidoux. Gotten his ass kicked by the old man. Then told to come work off his debt in the Robidoux tobacco fields instead of going to jail. He’d worked three weekends before Grant gave him a job. After that, he’d become a pet project of Grant’s. That’s when his parents began to change.

  Sellout. Bougie. Wannabe. All things his parents called him when he spent more and more time at the Robidoux estate. Pretty soon his friends caught on. The neighbors. Until going back home became uncomfortable and he went back less and less.

  Now, as he drove through the place that had once felt as comfortable as his favorite pajamas, he felt like an outsider.

  You need to stop trying.

  Yeah, maybe he needed to. But when he saw balloons swaying in the breeze tied to the door of the trailer he grew up in, he knew today wasn’t the day. Of course his mom probably wouldn’t care that he’d driven here for her birthday.

  There were at least twenty people outside of their place. Some hanging around a cooler, others sitting at the picnic table, a few at another table watching a game of cards while the rest walked around laughing and talking with red Solo cups in their hands. The sound of hip-hop echoed in the air. The bass vibrating the windows of his car.

  As his car slowed to a stop in front of the party, the laughter died down. Smiles turned into looks of disbelief, astonishment and hostility. The hostility from his dad’s side of the family. He wasn’t ashamed for taking Zachariah’s case, but he didn’t know how to get his family to understand without sounding like the betrayer they accused him of being.

  He cut the engine, picked up the dozen long-stemmed roses and card on the seat next to him. He’d considered buying his mom something, but since they didn’t talk regularly, he figured the two thousand dollars in the card would be enough. Cash. No check. No way was he giving his family access to his bank routing and account number.

  Stepping out of the car, Travis didn’t try for waves or fake smiles. He was here to wish his mother a happy birthday in person. Give her a present. Then get the hell out of there.

  She doesn’t want you here. You could have mailed the money.

  True, but he wanted her to see him. Wanted her to accept that despite them turning their backs on him, he wasn’t doing the same. He was still their son. They couldn’t wish him away.

  He felt the bass of the music deep in his bones. Along with the unwavering stares of family and former friends as he crossed the Astroturf his dad put over the dirt in front of the trailer for parties. He stopped at the wooden picnic table in the center of the group.

  “Happy birthday, Mom.” He held out the roses and card.

  Juanita lifted her chin and eyed him. Her dark skin was marked with lines around her mouth and eyes. Mostly from frowning and smoking cigarettes. Her long black hair hung in limp, thin strands around her narrow face. Her dark gaze wasn’t outright hostile, but it wasn’t welcoming either. She’d dressed up in a lavender sundress that appeared loose and baggy on her slim body.

  After several seconds, she reached out and took the flowers and card out of his hand. “Why did
you come?”

  He could always count on his mom to go straight to knocking him in the head. He glanced around and pointed to the balloons attached to her chair floating over her head. “I came for the party.”

  Her lip twisted. “I would have thought you’d know to stay away.”

  He straightened his shoulders. That’s what they wanted him to do. “I don’t have a reason to stay away.”

  He heard grumblings from the direction of his cousins. His mom’s two sisters shifted in their seats next to her, eye rolls and grunts accompanying the movements. He fought not to let his hands clench into fists.

  The door to the trailer slammed open. “Why is the music down?” His dad’s loud voice echoed through the tense silence.

  Mac Strickland’s eyes landed on his son and the grin on his face transformed into a glower. More grumblings rippled through the gathered guests. A ripple of excitement for an upcoming altercation vibrated in the air. His dad could be considered handsome, if he didn’t let his anger for the world and everyone in it show on his face. He and Travis were similar, tall, dark skinned, broad shouldered, but Mac’s once solid build was softened with years of beer and neglect. His stomach protruded over the waistband of his jeans and stretched the buttons of what was supposed to be a loose-fitting jean button-down shirt.

  He stomped down the stairs. “Well, well, well. Look who came slumming.”

  Travis held his ground. “I’m not slumming. I came to wish Mom a happy birthday.”

  “She don’t want your happy birthday,” Mac sneered. “Not when you’re selling out your family.” He positioned himself behind Juanita, his beefy hands clutching the back of her chair. His eyes narrowed in on his son.

  “I’m not selling out my family. I’m doing my job.” Something his dad might have understood if he’d been able to hold on to a job long enough to take pride in his work. Mac had fallen and hurt his back at work seven years ago and rode the wave of worker’s comp, unemployment and disability as far as he could.

  “Your job,” Mac boomed, pointing a thick finger at Travis, “is to look out for family, but you would know that if you didn’t have your nose so far up the asses of those Robidoux. You don’t know what loyalty means.”

  Travis had heard the jab before. The accusation no longer stung. That didn’t mean hearing his father’s bitterness didn’t feel like a kick in the nuts.

  “I guess I learned from the best.” He shouldn’t have reacted. Shouldn’t let his dad know how much his attitude bothered him. Yet he spent his days defending people. Not defending himself wasn’t an option.

  Mac pounded his chest. “I know what loyalty means.”

  “I also know the difference between right and wrong,” Travis countered. “What I’m doing is right.”

  Juanita jumped from her chair. Mac stumbled back. Travis’s mom didn’t pay any attention to her husband. “What’s right is looking out for your family,” she said. “Not helping the person who killed your cousin.”

  “It’s not that simple and you know that,” Travis said.

  Mac pushed Juanita aside and rushed forward. “It is that simple. My brother lost his oldest boy because of your client. Instead of helping us, you’re over there helping him get off.”

  “Helping you?” Travis looked between his parents. “Help you do what? I called and asked if y’all needed anything. I paid for the funeral.” Because his cousin hadn’t had life insurance. Hadn’t thought he’d need it at the young age of thirty-three, despite having two kids.

  “Don’t nobody want your handouts,” his dad spat. “Trying to show us how rich you are.”

  Travis clenched his teeth. No matter what the topic, everything always went back to the same old argument. He’d done well for himself and instead of being happy or proud, his parents resented him. No matter what he did. How much he tried to show them he was still their son and would never forget them or where he came from, they didn’t believe him. They took every gesture he made as something for him to show off.

  “What do you want me to do, then?” The years of frustration with this constant back-and-forth entered his voice.

  “Help us get revenge,” his dad said.

  The words scrambled like a bad puzzle in his head. Had they completely lost their minds? “What? You can’t mean that.”

  Mac stalked around the picnic table. “I mean it. You better figure out what side you’re on real quick. Don’t get caught in the cross fire.”

  A sliver of unease went through Travis. His family didn’t mind dipping into petty crimes, but this was beyond that. “You do realize you’re threatening my client? I can go to the police with this.”

  “But you won’t,” Mac said with a sinister smile. “Not unless you really want to prove you’ve turned your back on your family.”

  “I’ve never turned my back on my family.”

  His dad grunted and rolled his eyes. The standard reply whenever Travis said he wasn’t turning his back on his family. Mac’s chin lifted. He looked over Travis’s shoulder and crossed his arms over his chest. “Time for you to go. Before you ruin the party.”

  The back of Travis’s neck prickled. Slowly, he turned his head and looked over his shoulder. His uncle Mitch and his youngest son, Devon, flanked him. He fought to not curse and keep all expression off his face. Unlike Mac, Mitch hadn’t neglected his body. He was built as if he spent as much time lifting weights as he did breathing. Devon was a younger version of Mitch. Thick necks, beady eyes and square jaws.

  Mitch ran drugs through the county. Travis knew because his uncle had tried to get him to sell. Travis hadn’t wanted anything to do with that scene and never took his uncle up on the offer. Mitch wasn’t a big-time dealer by any means, but he was smart enough to make the link between him and the guys selling on the streets fuzzy enough to prevent the local sheriff’s department from taking him in.

  Travis eased around and faced Mitch and Devon. He hadn’t seen them since before the funeral. When the family had gathered after Antwan’s death. He hadn’t gone to the funeral. By then he’d agreed to take Zachariah’s case and his father told Travis if he showed up at the funeral he’d personally help Mitch beat him out of the church.

  “I didn’t come here to start trouble.” Travis kept his voice calm and cool, even as adrenaline dumped into his system.

  Devon lifted the edge of his T-shirt. The butt of a gun protruded from the waistband of his jeans. Mitch smiled, but it was full of malice.

  “Then it’s time for you to leave,” Mitch said.

  Travis glanced over his shoulder at his parents. Juanita stepped forward. Mac took her by the arm and shoved her behind him. His dad always forced Juanita into taking his side. But this, he never expected his dad to silently condone such a threat on him. Anger rushed over him like a train out of hell. Hot and fast. Why did he keep trying? Why did he still let their rejection taunt him like a bully on the playground? They hadn’t cared. Had left him to his own wits as he grew up. Hadn’t cared when he’d started petty theft to make extra money. They’d only cared when he’d gotten close to the Robidoux family. Cared enough to call him a family traitor. To be honest, when had his family ever had his back?

  The pain of that thought made his throat tighten. He swallowed hard. Getting sentimental wouldn’t change this situation.

  “Happy birthday, Mama,” Travis said grimly over his shoulder. He turned back to his uncle and cousin and stepped forward. They blocked his path to his car. He met their gazes with his own angry glare. Sweat trickled down his back. His heart beat wildly in his chest, but he didn’t back down.

  Devon chuckled and stepped aside. Without looking back, Travis went to his car and was thankful they at least had the decency not to shoot him in the back. For now.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  INDIA CHECKED HER WATCH. For the past hour she’d been held captive in the upstairs family room wh
ile Byron’s campaign manager, Roy Bouknight, outlined the strategy for her brother’s campaign. The primary elections were a few months away. There was another person in Byron’s party also running for the seat departed by a senator who’d retired after serving for twenty-five years. The field was wide-open and people in the area were itching for a change. All good news for Byron. India wanted her brother to win, and had succumbed to family pressure by deciding to help out until she heard more about the LA audition, but she was going to kick someone if she had to spend another minute in here plotting politics.

  “Now that we’ve covered the basics...” Roy said in his brisk, no-nonsense tone of voice.

  India sat forward on the leather sofa. She was making a beeline for the door as soon as this was over.

  “We can discuss the two most pressing challenges of Byron’s campaign.”

  India cocked her head to the side. “Now?” Annoyance crept into her voice. She didn’t give a damn. They’d been in here too long to just be getting to the important stuff.

  Elaina shot India a don’t-be-difficult look. Aunt Liz glared. Byron and her dad both tried to hide their smiles. Ashiya, who was next to India on the couch, elbowed her lightly in the side.

  “I’m just saying. We’ve been here an hour,” India said without remorse.

  Byron’s grin didn’t fade. There was a red tint to Roy’s cheeks and the muscle in his jaw jerked. Roy wasn’t bad, and he had good ideas for a successful campaign. She’d probably like him if he wasn’t the reason she hadn’t been able to enjoy her first Saturday morning back home in years.

  “This won’t take long, India,” Byron said. “Besides, we have food. I know you get...irritable when you’re hungry.”

  She glared at her brother, but without any real anger. The irritable retort on the tip of her tongue disappeared with the soft growl of her stomach. She did become bitchy when she hadn’t eaten. She should have realized this “quick family meeting” was going to take up all her morning when her dad had the staff bring in fresh fruit, bagels, cheese, coffee and juice.