Page 3 of The Worst Kind of Promise
Like any well-adjusted young woman with a burning hatred for romance, my endless search for love is in part thanks to my absent father. When my mother died of cancer, my father abandoned his parental duties, leaving me and my brother to fend for ourselves. The only thing he was good for was the money he sent us.
I knew Kit was going to be in town this week. And a part of me wanted to reach out, to grab lunch with him, to justseehim. But I knew better. So I was going to let him coast through Pennsylvania without so much as a text.
Not only would keeping my distance benefit me, but it would probably save Hayes from going into cardiac arrest. Hayes is a…protective…older brother. He’s never approved of my previous boyfriends. He never thought they were good enough for me. If he found out I liked one of his best friends, his whole world would implode. He’d probably ship me off to a nunnery overseas. After he castrates Kit.
Kit’s lips wrench into a frown, and I wish we were meeting under different circumstances. I wish he was disarming me with that million-dollar grin of his, the one that makes paper-thin wings flutter in the pit of my belly.
“I’m sorry for losing my cool.” He sighs, letting the knots of his muscles slacken, his voice returning to a lukewarm drawl. “You’re scared. Flying off the handle isn’t going to help either of us.”
Upon seeing me shiver, he glides his hands gingerly over my arms, generating a spark of heat within me.
“Come on. Let’s at least sit in the car while we talk things over.”
I nod through the debilitating lump in my throat, letting him guide me to the passenger door.
The minute I get into the safety of his Jeep, the roar of the outside world comes to an anticlimactic stop. All I can hear is the mingling of our breaths and the jittery whirring of the heater coming to life.
“What happened?” he asks, his hands white-knuckling the steering wheel.
I shift uncomfortably against the leather seat, a yawning hole of dread opening inside of me, threatening to drag me under and fill my lungs until they forget what crisp air feels like.
“I was on a date with a guy. Everything was going well. We went out to eat, then he invited me back to his place. It-it all happened so fast. We were in the living room, laughing about something stupid, indulging in glass after glass of wine…and then he was on top of me. He was on top of me, and I couldn’t scream, no matter how hard I tried. I tried saying no. I was frozen.” A string of words, almost all obstructed by the thickening saliva and errant tears in my mouth.
My head sloshes with the insuppressible memories, and my gut does a nosedive all the way to my toes.
“When I finally got the courage to move, I pushed him off me. He had no idea what was happening. I just freaked out. I was so embarrassed. I grabbed my things and ran like hell,” I supply, my hands shaking despite being planted safely in my lap.
This night has brought up a past trauma I’ve tried so hard to bury. Trauma that’s haunted me for five years now. It’s teleported me back to the night of my senior prom—when I was raped by a man who claimed to be my friend. Ever since then, I’ve been wary to go on dates, to trust men. And yet, I went on this date voluntarily, thinking I could gain control over my trauma.
I was wrong.
Kit doesn’t say anything for at least two minutes.
And then he loses it.
He curses so loudly that it echoes in my ears, and he punches the steering wheel, rocking the entire car in the process. I’m surprised he doesn’t break anything. His ivory-colored fists are strained, and his arms twitch with an ungodly amount of tension. I think he’s going to lash out again, but all he does is inhale deeply.
Kit rests his hands on the steering wheel, the surface of his knuckles throbbing with a crimson hue. “What do you want to do?”
The last thing I want to do is go home. Or be by myself. But I don’t really have another option.
I want to stay with you.
“Take me home,” I finally decide, the weight of my solitude bearing down on my shoulders.
Kit’s leg bounces against the underside of the steering wheel. He’s so large that he takes up the whole space, even with his seat pushed all the way back. His head is flush with the ceiling, his elbow eating up the entirety of the console between us.
He ponders me for a moment, swishing my weak words around in his mouth, then grimacing like he hates the taste of them.
He sticks the key in the ignition. “I’m not taking you home.”
I buckle my seat belt even as uncertainty courses through my veins. “Then where are you taking me?”
“To my hotel room,” he says, looking over his shoulder as he backs out of his makeshift parking space.
With his arm right by my head, I get an intoxicating whiff of the bergamot cologne he always wears, which only lightly masks the heady musk of him. I covertly breathe him in, losing myself in his scent, the proximity, the safety of it all.
When I open my eyes, we’re barreling down an empty ribbon of road, vegetation flashing past my peripheral.
