Forgotten Promises (Lost Boys #3) - Jessica Lemmon Page 0,1
convenience store I can find. I need supplies for where I’m going and if the place is shady enough, the clerk won’t bat an eyelash at my T-shirt covered in blood. One hand gripping the wheel, I keep my eyes on the road while searching the front and back for something to change into. Surely Mark has left a shirt or—My fingers curl around something cool and slick in the backseat and I pull it into my lap. The dark leather smells like pot, and has seen better days—like the nineties—but the jacket will have to do. At least it’ll cover my shirt.
My bleeding knuckles, however…I shake my hand out as I pass a Waffle House, several semis parked in the lot, the inside well lit—a little too well lit. Stopping even briefly to wash my hands is tempting, but risky. I settle for the napkins I spotted in the glove compartment when I was digging for the keys.
Alternating hands on the steering wheel, I wipe as gently as possible, grateful that most of the blood isn’t mine and consider I’m luckier than I gave myself credit for a moment ago. My father was always a fighter. I’ve seen him take down a man twice my size—one who was out-of-his-mind high. I shouldn’t have been a challenge for him tonight, but I had the element of surprise.
What I didn’t have was the proof I went to my childhood home to reclaim. The videotape that would exchange mine and my father’s places in the eyes of the law and anyone with a functioning conscious. The plan was to send him to prison, not send myself back. It was time. Jeremy is gone. Mom is safely out of the country.
But now…now I don’t know what the hell to do. Without proof of what he’s done, it’s my word against my father’s, and there’s no doubt who the masses will believe.
I have no idea how I’m going to get that tape. It isn’t as if I can go back and ring the doorbell. It’s not like I can go to the police and plead my side of the story.
There isn’t much sympathy for the ex-con who beats the police chief unconscious. Especially when the police chief is his father.
Happy Freaking Birthday
I’m still gaping at my boyfriend from across the table at Pinky’s taco-slash-karaoke bar, and, if he doesn’t proceed very carefully, his final resting place.
Drew has an exaggerated look of remorse on his face I just know is manufactured.
“We didn’t plan to, Mo,” he tells me.
“Don’t call me that,” I manage and it’s the first words I’m capable of since he and Shayna dropped the bomb that they were doing the nasty. An accurate description, I think, mind still buzzing from either the tequila shots or the new information stinging my brain like a horde of angry bees.
“You’re disgusting.” I shoot daggers from my eyes at Shayna, who sits across the table from me and does her best kicked-puppy impression. Screwed over by my best friend. Correction: ex–best friend.
My accusation shifts her face from guilt-ridden bestie to offended bitch in such a short time frame, it’s almost laughable. “Drew has needs.”
She seriously did not just say that. I blink, stunned, and turn to face Drew, who is having a staring contest with his beer.
“I’m sorry?” I say to him, not the least bit sorry. “You have needs involving your penis in Shayna’s vagina?”
“In my mouth, actually,” she interjects, and it’s such a skanky thing to say I feel my mouth drop open. How was this my best friend? What the hell sort of circumstances led to my linking myself to the girl who one by one alienated our combined group of friends. And Drew! I glare at him.
“This breakup is about blow jobs?” I say a little too loudly.
“Several,” Shayna says with a smirk.
Every inch of me wants to tear her dark hair out by the roots. But I’ve seen enough daytime TV to know not to be the girl who yells at the other girl while the man in the room sits smugly and watches them fight over him.
A rendition of “Before He Cheats” by Carrie Underwood (being sung by a very drunk blonde in a very tight dress) plays from the stage behind me as I stand from my seat. Neither of my exes seems to notice the blatant appropriateness of the song, but I do. And while I don’t possess a Louisville Slugger, and Drew doesn’t have a