Broken Promises (24 page)

I don’t even want to think about it. That night was so fucked up. It wasn’t long after announcing I was Day Jones when Dad decided to try and beat my ass publicly in front of a gathering of fans at a local music store. There was an undercover cop there with his daughter. Dad showed up intending on beating me to a pulp and before I could swing at him, the cop stepped in between us. Dad didn’t pull his punches, even after seeing the badge. The little girl's screams still ring in my ears. Dad had blood on his mind that day, and he beat the shit out of the cop. The fight only stopped when I hit my father in the back of the head with a metal rack. It tore the flesh at the base of his neck. Blood spewed everywhere. I thought I killed him, and I didn’t think twice about it. As soon as Dad stayed down, other people helped the cop, and I went over to the kid. Her face was wet with tears, and her tiny cheeks were white. Her hands trembled, and she was hysterically sobbing. I held her hands, wanting to comfort her—I knew what it was like to be terrified like that without a parent, plus it was my dad who hurt her father—and she threw her little body into my arms. I held her like that until her Mom showed up. Her name was Becky.

“He didn’t care at that point.” That was the truth. He didn’t care about anything except ruining me.

Bob nods to himself, then blares the horn. The traffic is stop and go, but mostly inert. I could walk to the other side of Manhattan faster than it’s going to take at this time of day.

Bob flips someone off, as he shoves the car into another lane. “Give me a few days. I’ll find someone.” He turns onto East 34th Street and grins. “I got you a ride. Your helicopter is waiting on the tarmac.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, seriously. I know you—you’d walk before you remembered you have that sick machine.” I bought a Sikorsky S-76C a few years ago for about 12 million and change. It’s the same model the military uses, but they make a few luxury models with posh seats and all the bells and whistles. Bob has a serious man crush on that machine.

The Sikorsky was one of those purchases that seemed too out there for me at the time. Looking back, I see why I needed it. Getting around the city is a pain in the ass, and I can’t miss a performance because I couldn’t get to Teterboro on time. Bob’s right. I’m an idiot.

“I want to fly it.” Bob laughs and looks back at me with a huge smile across his wide face.

“Learn to fly first and I’ll let you. We can ditch the car and fly everywhere. No one would mind if I landed in midtown, right?”

“Shit, no! It’s Trystan Scott. People would want you to fucking sing, or something. You’d have to be ready to give impromptu performances for the rest of your life.”

“Yeah, now you know why I usually jump out of the car and walk.” Unspoken words hover in the air, and we both know the opportunity won’t last much longer. “Thanks, Bob.”

He nods as he pulls through the gate and drives straight onto the tarmac, stopping close to the helicopter. “I don’t know what you believe—we've never talked about God or the purpose of life—but I believe bad shit doesn’t come without something seriously good. You’re a good person with a big heart, and lots of people have tried to take advantage of that over the years. Another man would have become bitter, but not you. Fame didn’t change you. Not many can say that.”

I tip my head forward and lift my eyebrows, pointing out the window. “Bob, I have changed. That's a helicopter, and it’s not in a video game.”

“I know you don’t like to hear it, that you think it’s bullshit, some false flattery or something, but it ain't. You have the markers of a very successful man, and you had a shitastic life. The highs are super high, and the lows are in hell. You managed to hold on to who you are through all that. You see what I’m saying? You’re good people, Mr. Scott.”

I’m beyond uncomfortable, so I accept the compliment. “Thanks, Bob, for everything.”

CHAPTER 38

TRYSTAN

W
hen I’m inside the Sikorsky, I pull on the headphones and sink back into the chair. There’s a glass of scotch waiting for me on the little table. I pick it up and hold it in my hand, wanting to knock it back, and wanting to toss it out the window at the same time. This shit poisoned my father. It turned a mean man into a cruel bastard.

I stand and put the glass down in the mini bar and dump the contents in the drain. We hit a bump, and my ass hits the seat hard. The pilot comes on and apologizes. “About fifteen minutes out.”

“Thanks, James.” He’s ex-military, but retained the curt, no-nonsense demeanor. Add that to the New Yorker thing, and I love him. He speaks like he was taught to talk by tweeting and doesn’t use more than one hundred and forty characters per thought. I've tried everything I can think of to send him on a rant, but he never bites.

I look down at the city and the tall steel buildings jutting up out of the ground like glass gods. The windows reflect the dying sun as it sinks, and there are thousands of lights below from homes, offices, and cars. It’s still surreal to fly this close to the ground, alone.

I thought the only time I’d be in a helicopter would be going into battle with Seth. I regret it so much it stings. The memories of him aren’t bittersweet, they’re painful. It’s like trying to swallow razor blades with a smile on your face, and I just can’t do it.

Before he died, I wasn’t around much. He and Katie had graduated to the baby stage, and I was so far from their world, I barely showed my face. Now, it’s too late, and there are no words to make it better. I fucked Seth over, and I ruined Katie’s life.

Seth wouldn’t have been there if I hadn’t planned to enlist. He would have attended college. He wouldn’t have signed on for another tour. Part of me thinks there’s no way to know that, but that’s bullshit. I’m trying to shirk blame even though it’s my fault.

I push the thoughts away for another day.

CHAPTER 39

TRYSTAN

W
hen I get back to the apartment, Mari is gone. I didn’t expect her to stick around all day, but she seemed so upset I thought she'd want to talk more. Maybe it’s cold feet. Certain I'm alone, I'm stripping off my jacket and shirt when my phone buzzes. I pad over to it and see it’s ringing.

I swipe my finger across the screen, swallowing a mouthful of regret. “Yeah?”

“It’s me. Katie. The most bodacious babe you’ve ever had the privilege of befriending. Will you call down and tell your guard to let me up? He thinks I’m a rogue groupie here to do you.” She pulls the phone away from her face—I can hear her as she chastises the guard, “As if I’d even try coming through the front door if I wanted to nail the guy. Service elevator, hello? Fire escape, laundry shoot, the roof! Are you totally new at this—?”

I hang up and call down before Katie can make the man cry. After two rings, he picks up. “Hey, this is Trystan Scott in the penthouse. That lunatic in the lobby is my friend. You should let her up before she castrates you.”

The guy sounds young and star-struck. “I believe you. They left directions not to let anyone up, so I was following—”

“Who said that?”

“Your bodyguard. I would have called if—”

I cut him off. “It’s okay. Let her up, and I’ll talk to Bob later. He’s probably not back yet to check IDs and all that. You can send her up.” I still hear Katie in the background scolding the man when I hang up. I wait next to the elevator doors with my arms folded over my chest. I'd normally grab a shirt, but the elevator is already moving. Better not to have a pissed off Katie roaming through my house looking for me.

The doors chime and slide open. Katie is standing there in a solid black dress that comes to her knee, a black swing coat that’s cinched at the waist, and a pair of biker boots that stop just below her knee. Her makeup is heavy with dark eyeliner and her hair looks wild, as if she'd been standing too close to the helicopter.

I smile at her. “Nice to see you.”

She grumbles and breezes past me, throwing her purse on the couch, and then spinning around to face me. “I hate that man! I can’t stand him. I have to vent, or my brain will explode. If I don't get it all out, I’ll shoot my mouth off to Mari—which is the worst thing I can do.” She takes a moment to breathe and I can feel her looking at me. “What, do you think I’m going to drool over your abs? Put a shirt on!”

Wow, something really got to her. I push off the wall and head back toward my room with Katie on my heels. “New tattoo? I haven't seen that one.” Her finger touches a spot on the small of my back, and I jump. A rather unmanly shriek comes out of my mouth at the same time.

Katie laughs. “Holy crap! Is that a poem? Did you have a poem tattooed on your ass?”

“It’s my back and stops at my hip.”

She chuckles. “Good thing you don’t write long poems, huh?” She waggles her eyebrows mischievously before her mood snaps back to mad. She stomps over to my bed and throws herself on it, ranting while staring at the ceiling. “He’s an asshole. I can see now. I'm kicking myself for not noticing until now—that man passed the initial boyfriend test, and it's hard!”

“I know.” I say, walking into the wardrobe and pulling a long-sleeved white cotton shirt from the hanger. I pull it over my head, and when I come out, she’s still ranting. I cut her off. “What’d he do? And to be clear—are we talking about Derrick?”

“Yes! OMG, weren’t you listening at all? He’s got this evil vibe, and I swear to God he’s an asshole.”

I don’t say anything because I don’t like him either, but for a totally different reason than Katie’s. I doubt she wants to slip Mari out of her clothes and hold her close to her chest. I’m assuming my reason for hating Derrick is tainted, but I can’t tell Katie that.

I stand at the foot of the bed. “What’d he do?”

She makes an annoyed sound in her throat and sits up quickly. “He’s fake. There’s something about him that’s off, and I can’t put my finger on what it is—but have you seen him with her? Derrick is sweet until something happens, he freaks out with uber-asshole style, and then he completely backs down. It doesn’t matter why or over what. His temper flares and then he puts it out cold.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?”

“No!” She yells at me like I'm an idiot. “It means he’s hiding who he really is, and a temper like that followed by a complete one-eighty is a red flag. It’s a big-ass red flag, but if I say anything to Mari now, she’ll just be pissed. She won’t listen to me. I already told her I didn’t like him.” The corner of her lip curls up as she looks down at her nails, and picks at the polish. “I may have told her he was a clone of you.”

“What!” My eyes get huge, and I grab the sides of my head. “Why would you say that?”

“Because he is! Have you seen him?”

No, not really. Dark hair, tall, a little thicker than me. That’s it. The guy could have a baby face, and I wouldn’t know. “Yeah, but a clone isn’t possible.” I get her to laugh.

“Nope, there’s only one Trystan Scott, thank God! The world couldn’t handle two of you. Back to the issue at hand—Mari’s marrying an asshole. What do I do? Stand by and smile? Or blow everything up and make sure she knows? Those are the only options I can think of, and neither sound good. I need a drink. Please tell me you have something stronger than Kool-Aid?”

“Yeah, I do. What do you want?”

She puts a finger to her lips and pauses while tapping it, thinking. Then she smiles, I can hear it in her voice. “A chocolate martini! With a marshmallow. Or whipped cream. I’m guessing you have whipped cream. Vats and vats of it.”

“Yeah, yeah. Come on. I’ll make you something resembling that.” After trying to find something to substitute for just about every regular ingredient, I emerge from the kitchen thinking I nailed it. In terms of being close enough, at least.

I hand Katie a mug. She takes it, and looks into it, “This isn’t a martini glass.”

“It’s not a martini. It’s the next best thing.”

She hesitates, and then takes a tentative sip. “Holy crap! What is that?” I can see her mouth open and shut and hear her laugh. “It’s got some mega-burn.”

“Don’t drink it too fast. Liquor is quicker, and that’s probably two-thirds booze.”

“What’s the other third?”

“Marshmallows soaked in booze.”

Katie pops one in her mouth. “It’s squishy. Is this vodka?”

“Yeah, vodka, schnapps, and a massive amount of Swiss Miss—which I nuked, so it would be hot. It’s probably disgusting cold.” I sit on the chair at the end of the coffee table, adjacent to the sofa where Katie’s perched.

The tension in her voice has subsided a bit, and I make my way back to the reason she showed up. “So, you hate Derrick.”

“Check.” Katie tries to fish out another marshmallow.

“Did something happen last night? Mari showed up really upset.”

“That would be me. I told her what I thought of him, and she ran out. Apparently, it’s no longer open for discussion. The thing that pisses me off most is that I didn’t see it. He’s faking, right? No guy can put on a perfect act forever. The closer they get to the wedding, the more I see the real Derrick the Dick shining through. A guy with a temper that lashes out is bad news.”

“You’re preaching to the choir, Katie. What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know. I was hoping you’d know, because I really don’t. If Seth were here, he’d concoct some elaborate plan to trick the guy into showing his true colors. I’m not good at stuff like that.” Her head hangs between her shoulders and, as I watch her, I notice the black slash across my field of vision is no longer a line—it’s more like a hole.

I really want to tell her, but Katie has enough stuff to deal with right now. I inhale deeply and slide back into my chair. “What if we did the obvious?”

“And that would be?”

“Tell him she spent the night here. A jealous guy with a temper is going to react to his fiancée spending the night with her ex, no matter the reason.” It’d be a dick move on my part, and I don’t want to hurt Mari, but if Katie’s right I need to know. Mari needs to know. The thought of someone hurting Mari makes me insane. My fingers are gripping the arms of the chair so tightly my nails are bending back.