Page 1 of The Worst Kind of Promise
THE NIGHT OF NO RETURN
FAYE
Ilook up at the ominous storm clouds as they inch across the desolate sky, draping the night in everlasting darkness. The promise of rain is poised on the horizon, waiting to fall in tandem with my tears. The streetlamp beside me flickers precariously, a large beacon that shines down on me like I’m a moth caught in a filth-covered flame. Cold air spills over my naked arms and legs, raising goose bumps on flesh, and the cement patch I’ve claimed as home for the time being has made my core temperature drop.
My dress—once a thing of happy memories—has been forever tainted. I can’t feel my body. It’s like it doesn’t belong to me.
See, that already broken part of me has lost another crucial piece tonight, and I don’t know if I’ll ever get it back.
I look at my phone and check the time. Ten minutes have passed since I called the only person I could trust—the one I knew wouldn’t ask questions and who just so happened to be in Pennsylvania visiting a friend.
I called Kit Langley.
Star left defenseman for the NHL’s Riverside Reapers. One of my brother’s best friends. The guy I’m secretly in love with—the guy who looks at me like I’m his kid sister.
I’m sitting on the cold, hard gas station curb, wondering why I can’t feel the rain penetrate my clothes when a Jeep Wrangler pulls haphazardly into one of the parking spaces, parking diagonally across two white-painted lines. The door swings open with enough force to jar me from my thoughts, and Kit’s behemoth frame lumbers out of the vehicle. The minute I meet his dark eyes, I feel mine surge with water, and despite my efforts to keep my emotions at bay, all of my tears flood out of me like a fast-rising tsunami.
Kit races over to me and yanks me up by the arms, pulling me into his large chest. His grip suffocates me, but I don’t try to pull away. He’s mumbling something into my hair, his hand cradling the back of my head, the rapid thundering of his heart a steady medium in my ears.
When his embrace loosens and he backpedals to look at me, his eyes are alight with worry, a muscle in his jaw flickering. “What happened?” he asks.
I’m not alert enough to form a coherent sentence, but my voice box is vibrating before I have the chance to clamp my lips shut.
“I…” My chest feels tight, like there’s a thorn twisting in my sternum. Pair that with the tears wanting to make a quick getaway, and I’m pretty much as useful as a push sign on a pull door.
“Faye, breathe. You’re okay. I’ve got you,” Kit says, the softness in his tone wrapping around me like a gentle caress. His hands are still on my arms, and he’s craning his neck down to look at me.
A few sobs slip unbidden from my mouth as I inhale shakily, forcing my bloodshot gaze to focus. My vision is peppered with all sorts of ink blots, and my tongue feels like it’s swollen to twice its size.
Anger tears across his expression. “Faye, who hurt you?”
“He’s…I…”
Come on, Faye. You’re safe. You’re with Kit. You’re not in danger anymore.
But was I ever in danger, or was it my past playing tricks on me?
The minute I stop trembling from nerves, I break down into a gigantic, blubbering mess, clinging to the back of Kit’s shirt. He hugs me with the same bone-crushing desperation, absorbing the weight of my pain, wringing every tear from me until I’m nothing but a hollow shell.
He uses his thumb to brush away the moisture glistening on my cheek.
My stomach rolls with nausea. “My date. H-he—I said no…” I choke, the sweat on my brow now covering every bare inch of skin.
Kit’s eyes heat with understanding, and every muscle in his upper body ripples with iron-hot rage. The cords in his neck are taut, the veins in his forearms like individual rivers of power snaking up to bulging biceps.
“Did he—”
“No,” I whisper. “It wasn’t his fault. I sent mixed signals.”
I’d gone back to his place, we’d started kissing, and then he’d rolled on top of me, and that long ago night came rushing back with such ferocity that I froze. I couldn’t speak, I couldn’t move, and he took that as a sign to start undoing my dress. It felt like he was peeling off the tattered walls that protected my soul.
“There’s no such thing as mixed signals. Either you’re into it or you’re not. And it’s pretty fucking clear when a chick isn’t.”
“But I was,” I whisper. “Until I wasn’t.”
Kit reaches out to, I don’t know, maybe cup my cheek, and I flinch. He stops and lets out a litany of swears so harsh they feel like sandpaper grating against my skin.
“Where. Is. He.”
