Broken Promises: (Broken Duet #2)

Jean stands in the doorway again, with a stern look and hands on her hips. “Don’t argue. You told us what happened, and nobody cares. You promised to come with us tonight, so you’re coming whether you like it or not.”

“I didn’t promise anything. I’d love to get out of here and stop thinking for a moment, believe me, but—”

“No buts! You’ve been working with me in the shop for two weeks!”

“Thirteen days.” I don’t know why I feel the need to correct her, but I do.

She snorts, shaking her head. “More than twenty people see you every day, and yet somehow your lover boy hasn’t materialized in Texas, so don’t try to tell me that if you go out tonight, he’ll suddenly know where you are.”

Aunt Amanda owns a small convenience store on her premises and asked me to help Jean despite my weak protests. She refused to take money for letting me stay here, so helping out in the shop is the least I can do to pay her back.

I sit on the edge of the bed, fidgeting with the hem of my flannel shirt. Jean insisted I wear those while at work. It’s not a piece of clothing I’d buy given a choice, but there’s no denying that flannels are ridiculously comfortable.

“I only work with you because your mother won’t take my money to cover my expenses.”

“We live in the least interesting town in Texas, Layla. You won’t see any new faces at the bar. Only those you already know from the store. We don’t have gangsters around here, and no one has any clue who you are!” She brushes out her braid and gathers her hair into a ponytail. “And you know what I think?”

Not really.

I don’t care, but stopping Jean from voicing her opinions is as easy as stopping milk from spilling over once it starts boiling.

“I think Dante isn’t even looking for you. I mean, why would he? After what you did to him, he sure put a cross on you. I know I would.”

His name from her lips forces my heart to pick up the pace. I inhale a deep breath, grinding my teeth, but the walls seem to close in on me. I miss him, and sometimes, I don’t understand how it’s possible to miss a person so much. How can anyone love this much? How can anyone fuck up their life the way I did before it even properly began?

“You hope he’s looking for you, Layla. You want him to find you because you think he’ll forgive you. I’m sorry for the brutal honesty, dear,  but hope is the mother of fools.”

It also dies last.

I’m not ready to admit she’s probably right. “If he’s looking for me, it’s not to forgive me.”

“If he loved you as much as you say, he definitely doesn’t want to kill you. Stop freaking out! You’re safe here.” She yanks the hair tie out of her hair once more, pulling a few hairs with it, and combs the locks with her long fingers, tucking loose strands behind her ears. “There.” She hands me her phone. “Call him. Say goodbye, and let’s start a new chapter in your life. I think Rick is into you, you know?”

I hope she doesn’t plan on playing matchmaker, or so help me God, I might get uncharacteristically violent.

“You want me to call Dante? Are you crazy?! He’ll trace the phone. He’ll know where I am!”

“Then hide the caller ID.” She rolls her eyes, pressing the cell phone back in my hand. “Call him, apologize, and say goodbye. You’ll feel better once you close that chapter, Layla. Leaving things hanging isn’t healthy.”

“Say goodbye?” I stare at the black screen.

How?

How am I supposed to say goodbye?

The word won’t slip past my lips. Not to him. I don’t know the rhythm, the sentence structure, or the individual words and letters required to say goodbye. It would never be just one word; it’d be an entire monologue to make him understand. I’d start begging, for sure. I’d probably bawl my eyes out too. There are no words in my dictionary or in my language that could easily convey all the reasons why I betrayed him and why I followed my father’s orders. And I don’t know a language in which I could say goodbye to him.

I set the phone aside.

Jean sighs, pulling a face that’s half pitiful, half annoyed. “Fine. Suit yourself. Get changed and don’t even try to protest, or I’ll send Tayler here, and he won’t be as nice as I am. We’re leaving at seven o’clock sharp.”

A small smile tugs at my lips. It’s six fifty-two. Jean’s the only person who can bring a smile to my face these days. She’s positively nuts. Since I arrived at the doorstep of this house thirteen days ago, she’s crawled out of her skin to rebuild our long-lost friendship. She might be two years my senior, but she sure acts five years younger.

Or maybe I’m overly mature for my age.

I grew up in a big city, in a house full of criminals, guns, and drugs. Jean had a happy childhood on a Texan farm in a small town where the nearest neighbor lives three hundred yards away, on the other side of a small river. I could scream bloody murder here, and no one would hear me.

She’s innocent, joyful, and behaves adequately for her age.

With a defeated sigh, I fling my feet over the edge of the bed. Maybe getting out of the house will do me some good?

A moment later, Tayler pulls into the driveway in his thirty-year-old Ford Ranger that looks and sounds like it wants to kill you the second you get inside. Rick’s in the passenger seat, unmoving, while Tayler hops out onto the gravel to wait outside. He leans against the hood with a cigarette in his mouth, a cell phone in hand. He taps at the screen, seemingly focused on the task, but when Jean stops in front of him, he tucks the phone away immediately and lets his eyes rove the length of her body, dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt. She’s borderline cliché in her love for those things. 

“Finally,” Tayler says, his attention on me long enough to see me standing there. He hardly ever notices anything when Jean is around. “I thought you’d stand us up again.”

“She wanted to, but I told her I’ll send you up to her room this time.” Jean hops in the pickup.

“Am I that scary?”

Not in the slightest. He looks like he’s been taken straight out of a cowboy movie: a hat, shin-high leather boots with spurs, and a checkered shirt tucked into his jeans. I have a feeling that’s not his style, merely a ploy to weaken Jean’s resolve to keep him close, but only as a friend.

“Not so much.” I bite my cheek, winking at him in the rearview mirror as I settle into the back seat with Jean.

Tayler slams the door with all his might to force it shut. He does that every morning when he arrives at the store to see Jean before starting work at an old junkyard in town. You’d think he’d find a working set of doors or a locking mechanism of sorts, but no. He’s perfectly content with forcing the door shut using the little muscles he has.

“Have you played pool before?” Rick turns in his seat to face me, larger than life and coldblooded with an apathetic expression that sends a fit of unpleasant shivers down my spine. He reminds me of Luca.

Luca reminds me of that night.

And that night reminds me of Dante.

There’s no escaping that man.

“No, I’m quite bad at games. Any games, really. It’ll be safer for everyone if I watch and cheer.”

He nods, but with that expressionless face, there’s no guessing whether he agrees or if he decided to teach me the ins and outs of the pool. After living in Chicago my whole life, I’m used to the street noise: traffic, horns, and crowds of pedestrians on the sidewalks. Flashing billboards, smog, and a sort of liveliness of the place.

There’s none of that out here. During a ten-minute drive to the bar, we pass three cars and zero pedestrians. It’s odd, almost unnatural, for any place to be this peaceful. Even the interstate, by which our destination looms in the distance, seems forgotten.

A few trucks and bikes are parked outside the tall, wooden building where a scruffy sign hangs over the door with an ever-so-original name: Joe’s Place. Not a soul loiters in the cold January air. Everyone crowds the spacious bar, sitting at the tables or at the bar on wooden stools. A pool table is tucked out of the way, the place bathed in warm, dimmed lights.

“What’s everyone having?” I ask once we shed our jackets by one of the larger tables. It still barely accommodates the four of us.

“Beer, of course,” Jean says. Auburn locks dance around her cheerful face as she shakes her head with an amused smile. “Don’t count on any fancy drinks around here, Layla. You can have whiskey, vodka, more whiskey, or a beer.”

Neither would be my choice of poison back in Chicago. I feel like I went through the looking glass and emerged in a different, unknown reality. I make my way to the bar, resting my hands on the spotless countertop, and wait for a barmaid to approach.

“What can I get you?” she asks, eyes narrowed.

“Four beers, please.”

She folds her hands under her impressive breasts. “ID?”

Oh… I did not think of that. Again, this is so unfamiliar that I’m instantly taken aback. I’m nineteen, so being asked for ID shouldn’t surprise me, but back home, I’ve never once been asked to prove my age. Being Frank Harston’s daughter and then Dante Carrow’s girlfriend came with certain perks.

“Relax, Sydney, Layla’s with us,” Tayler shouts from across the room. A seemingly irrelevant comment, but it’s enough for heads to snap my way. 

Everyone around drops dead silent, their burning gaze on my head. Sydney cocks a questioning eyebrow, and with a roll of her eyes, she reaches for four beer glasses, then wipes them clean with a crisp white cloth.

“Put it on my tab.” I hear behind me.

My heart goes from zero to sixty faster than Dante’s Ducati. The voice is different, not as low, not as enticing, but the words evoke a wave of memories.

“Thanks, but I pay for my own drinks.” Irritation, sweet and sticky, lace the words shooting out of my mouth, firing like bullets from a nine-millimeter.

The man sits on the stool beside mine, the corners of his lips curled into a coy smile. He’s not a drunk idiot. No, he’s sober and lethal. A black leather jacket hugs his broad chest and shoulders, hiding a thin, grey t-shirt. It works well with his short, dark hair and sharp features. My cheeks heat when emerald-green eyes meet mine.

I glance at the ceiling, swearing internally.

Of course. The one heterosexual man to ever chat me up out of his own accord has to be the enemy.

Not mine, my father’s, but it doesn’t change much.

“I wasn’t asking for permission,” he says, his voice low and rough like that of old rockers.

I crash with reality when Tayler rests his back on the bar beside me.

“I’ve got money, Tayler. I’ve got this.”

“I know you do. Which is why you’ll buy the next round. I’m sure wherever you spent your evenings back in Chicago was a lot fancier than this, but it’s not that bad, right?”

Most people around us return to their conversations, but a few still watch me with curious eyes. Mostly older men with large beer bellies and long beards, but there’s also a group of young guys in the corner whispering among themselves, their eyes darting to me every few seconds. Jean’s still at our table by the pool. Rick stands nearby, engrossed in a conversation with a tall, broad, tattooed man in his early thirties. A deep scar runs from his left eye down his cheek, disappearing under his immaculately trimmed beard.

“That’s Archer,” Tayler says in a hushed voice, following my line of sight. “He and Rick served together for a couple of years. I don’t like the guy.”

A note of envy rings in his voice, making me chuckle. Tayler might be the most insecure man I’ve ever met. Archer’s head snaps in our direction as if he can hear me above the hum of the chatting crowd and the upbeat music seeping from a vintage jukebox. His eyes slowly float down my body in a shameless once-over. I feel exposed. Almost vulnerable under his scorching gaze. My pulse would skyrocket if Dante were in his place, but Archer’s open staring makes me uncomfortable.

“Oh, great,” Tayler huffs, folding his arms over his chest. “Looks like he’s into you. He’s an ass, Layla, he—”

“Don’t even start.” I spin back around, focusing on the barmaid and the beers she’s pouring. “I’m not interested in him or anyone else.”

“Good. Well, not good that you’re not into anyone, but good that you’re not into Archer. He’s not worth your time.”

He grabs the tray with beers that Sydney pushed his way and crosses the room, his steps small and careful so he won’t spill a single drop. Once I’m comfortable in my seat, clutching the cool glass of beer, Jean and Tayler move away to set up the first game. My skin crawls, ears burn, and I’m pretty sure Archer is still watching me, but I don’t turn to check.

“Are you sure you don’t want to play?” Rick comes back to our table when Jean’s almost done humiliating Tayler. She put most of her balls in the pockets while he only managed two.

“No, I’m honestly not very good at games.” I laugh to myself, remembering my poor attempt at bowling.

There are more balls here, and even though I wouldn’t do much damage with those, the long wooden stick could prove a weapon of mass murder in my hands. We talk until Tayler loses and Rick takes his place. Jean doesn’t sit down for the next four games because Tayler lets her win every time. His over-the-top chivalry doesn’t appease her, though. The truth is, she’s well aware of his feelings but never asked him to stop hoping. It’d save the guy time and effort, but I think Jean enjoys being wooed.

The beer glass in my hand empties slowly. It’s not the bitter taste that stops me from upping the tempo. I’m just not in the mood for a bar outing. I’d rather curl into a ball in bed because evenings are the worst. Longing hits hard as if the fact I lived through another day alone doesn’t mean anything. Still, moping in bed won’t do me any better than sitting at the table and watching my cousin win time after time. An hour goes by before I head to the bar for another round.

Archer’s piercing gaze catches mine as I rise from my seat. He’s in the corner of the room, alone.

Why wouldn’t Rick invite him to join us?

He offers me a one-sided smile, but I’m not about to give him the green light in case he gets up to start a conversation. Instead, I nod, aiming for a stern look on my face, and walk away, feeling his eyes follow my every move.

“Four beers,” I say, stopping at the bar.

This time, Sydney doesn’t bother asking for ID, and no one pays me any attention as I stand there, waiting for her to pour the beers. I can’t say it’s growing on me, but I could get used to the bitter taste.

I rest my elbows on the countertop, hiding my face in my hands. Jean’s words echo in my head, tempting, taunting, and confusing the ever-loving hell out of me.

“You hope he’s looking for you, Layla. You want him to find you because you think he’ll forgive you.”

Naive. That’s what I’ve been called my whole life by my father, mother, and everyone on my path. Even Dante said that once, but it ends now. I’m too trusting for my own good. I might wear my heart on my sleeve, but I refuse to be naive anymore. Frank brainwashed me to the point where I lost all sense of right or wrong. Once he died, the hold he had on me died too. My mind cleared of the clutter.

Dante won’t forgive my sins, but he won’t hurt me, either. He loved me with everything he had. That kind of love doesn’t disappear or fizzle out. It stays with us forever, lingering in the depths of our hearts. No, Dante won’t hurt me. He won’t find me to put a bullet through my head. He won’t find me, period. What now seems like a lifetime ago, he made me a promise… although I deserve worse, it hurts more than anything I have experienced so far that he has no intention of keeping his promise.

“I won’t control you. I don’t have to know where you are at all times, but when you’re supposed to meet me, and you don’t show up, don’t pick up the phone, and no one knows where you are, I will look for you.” He moves closer, kissing my lips. “Always.” He kisses again. “Until I find you.”

“You good?” Rick nudges me gently. “C’mon. I’ll help you with this.” He grabs two beers from the countertop, waiting until I take the other two. “Stop tormenting yourself, Layla. Dwelling on the past won’t help you move forward. You can’t move forward if you keep staring backward. You need to distance yourself from what you’ve done and accept that it was unavoidable. There’s nothing you can do to turn back time.”

“That’s the problem,” I say when we sit back down. “Even if I could, I wouldn’t change a thing.”

Tayler peers up from the screen of his cell phone. “You wouldn’t change anything? You mean you wouldn’t even tell Dante about Frank’s plan?”

I shake my head no. In a fit of courage and stupidity, I snatch the cell phone from his hand. “I’ll borrow this for a second.”

Since Jean gave me her phone two hours ago, I can only think about calling Dante to hear his voice again. Before Tayler can protest, I’m on my feet, rushing out the door. Wind whips at me, tugging on my shirt, but I barely register the cold, too pumped up on adrenaline. My heart picks up the pace as I change the iPhone’s settings to disable caller ID, then check three times that the correct setting is definitely on before I tap ten digits which, in the right order, form Dante’s number.

My hands shake so hard it takes me three tries to input the number without mistakes. I stop a hundred yards from the bar and sit cross-legged on the edge of the empty, eerily silent interstate.

The night sky is a sight to behold around here. Back in Chicago, among the skyscrapers and artificial lights, stars are rarely visible. Even when they do peek from between the thick, gray clouds, they don’t shine as bright as they do in Texas. Away from Dallas, on a clear winter night, the sky looks even better than the mural in my bedroom at Jean’s house. An oily, black canvas stretches high above my head, dotted with millions of bright stars. The moon looks more radiant, too. It’s bigger and shines brighter, illuminating the horizon with a soft glow.

One deep breath fails to calm my nerves. Nothing but the touch of Dante’s lips on my forehead could elicit any sense of calmness right now. He always had the magical power to rid me of all troubles with one kiss.

I tap the green button, pressing the phone to my ear. Incoherent thoughts screaming over one another in my head come to an abrupt halt…

“Hello?” he answers before the second tone rings out.

My legs turn cotton-candy-soft. Thirteen days have passed since I last heard his voice. Thirteen days filled with more hurt and pain than some experience in a lifetime.

I might’ve killed Frank myself, but I still mourn him even though he doesn’t deserve a single tear.

Music plays in the background hinting at Dante’s whereabouts.

I squeeze his hand, having a hard time believing he’s not only real but mine too. Frankie was right six months ago when he said he knows what type of woman Dante’s looking for.

He stops to look at me, inching closer not to shout over Britney blasting from the speakers. “Everything good?”

“Yes, all good.” I rise on my toes, curious to see whether such a blatant manifestation of feelings will bother him while everyone who can see us watches us with wide eyes.

He doesn’t stop me when I press my lips to his and smile, satisfied that he’s not planning to hide me like a dirty secret.

I swallow the lump lodged in my throat, unmoving, silent, one hand clasped over my mouth to muffle my ragged breaths. I count to stay focused.

One.

I want to speak, say something, anything that’ll prompt an answer so I can hear his voice again; nitpick his tone to guess what’s going through his head. Whether he hates me or still loves me even a little bit. My mouth falls open, but my mind draws a blank. No words come out. All I can do is listen to the music pumping around him and his steady, calculated breaths.

Two.

Tears sting my eyes. I imagine he sits in the VIP booth at Delta, a drink in hand—vodka on the rocks or maybe cognac. He’s probably surrounded by his men. A focused expression clouds his handsome face, not a hint of softness in his striking green eyes. That softness was reserved for me.

Three.

“You promised,” I whisper, twisting the ring he gave me on my finger.

“Layla,” he says on an exhale, his voice low and coarse as if his throat hurts. “Where are you?!”

The trance I lulled myself into fades when a tendril of panic seizes my chest. An adrenaline rush sharpens my senses as air stalls in my lungs, but my reaction is instantaneous.

I cut the call.