THE VOW (Manhattan Nights #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

ELSIE

PRESENT DAY“Taxi! Wait! Taxi? Taxi!”

Shit, why won’t they stop?

I can barely see the yellow cab past the exhaust, and the asphalt beneath my feet is scorching. What’s worse…the car fumes are even hotter. My blonde hair sticks to my face. I wave my hand over the sidewalk on the corner of “Lost as hell,” and my patience grows as thin as the air in my lungs, my throat scratchy from the humidity hanging in the summer air.

On a sweltering Wednesday afternoon, the noise on the city street is deafening, and dammit, I swear I don’t remember New York being like this…

But then again I was sixteen the last time I was here. And s**t, that feels like forever ago. Seven years to be exact. I’ve aged since I stepped off the airplane today. My body’s bruised and sore. My hand hurts from pulling my luggage. My feet ache, and as the thirtieth taxi of the afternoon passes me on the street, I swear out loud, my impatience rolling into rage as I sweep a wave of straw-colored hair off my sticky neck.

I can’t believe I’m going to be late.

One cramped two-hour flight and two confused Uber drivers later, I realize that the address my “new roommate” has given me isn’t one, and after deciphering her bad directions, I’ve come to the conclusion too many minutes too late.

Rush hour is here. And not one yellow cab is empty enough to take me in, the wait for a shared-ride driver longer than ever in the thicker-than-oatmeal traffic. And I know it. I know that I’m going to miss the meet-up with Sophie Santenelli, the only person in a fifty-mile radius renting out a room for less than a king’s ransom.

A rarity from what I’ve seen in my two hours back in this city.

And she’s leaving. For the next two days. And taking with her the only key to the apartment.

Which means I need to meet her. Now.

For a native of the area, my new roomie has even less trust in New York than I do, and her time window before her flight out of town is miniature, making each minute that I’m late to our key hand-off even more agonizing as hot salty sweat pours down my face, mingling with my citrus perfume.

And in the midst of the heat and hunger creeping in, I try hard to hold onto hope, my eyes straining onto the horizon of the dark gray streets. But my rumbling stomach gets the best of me. When the fiftieth taxi shoots hot exhumes in my face on its way by, I flip the bastard a “bird,” flicking up my middle finger.

That finger finds its way into a random face, when lugging my heavy baggage behind me, I swing towards the sidewalk and slam into a petite red-haired woman in a blue suit, sending everything in my hands scattering. A black briefcase in her hand hits the ground, the papers inside popping out as the latch breaks.

I drop my bag down, scrambling to the ground to chase after the flying paper.

“f**k. s**t. Hell. I am so, so sorry.”

She chases papers beside me, her glare locked on the cemented sidewalk. She says nothing, snatching sheets out of the sticky air.

I press further. “Seriously.” I grab another stack of pages. “If I could use more four-letter words to tell you how bad I feel, I would. I didn’t see you there.”

The woman kneeling beside me huffs, her hair blowing in the hot wind.

“It’s fine. My husband didn’t either…” she declares, her words muffled. “And it’s not like I needed these divorce papers anyway.” A vacuum of heat beats down on us, and with a shrug, I watch her stand in heels higher than my rent. She barely looks at me. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I think ‘Shitty day number thirty’ deserves a drink.”

She grabs her briefcase, turning on her heel. Heading towards what looks like an Irish pub, I stare after her, my hungry stomach and conscience eating at me. I follow her in, guilt guiding me inside the pub even as precious seconds tick past.

The scent of cider ale greets me at the door, and before I can search too far, I see her red hair perched several seats away. I drag my belongings behind me, flouncing into the bar stool beside her. I open my mouth to say something—anything.

“Please,” the woman speaks, her head hung low. “No more apologies. It’s been an awful day. The last thing I need is some scared tourist trying to make something up to me.” She raises her hand to the barkeep. “I’d rather be by myself, if you don’t mind.” The bartender comes over, and she spills her order to him. “I’ll take a shot of Jimmy, Jack and Johnny. Water back. Completely neat.”

The bartender raises an eyebrow at me, and I shrug.

“I’ll take a pale ale,” I sigh. “Whatever you’ve got.”

I pull out a credit card that I’m sure is already maxed, sliding it over the bar’s dark wood. I chance a glance at the woman one stool over, noticing how gorgeous her profile is, how awesome her hair appears. Looking like something the cat dragged in next to this saddened glamazon, I find myself frowning as the bartender slips the first drink onto the bar and she downs it with barely a grimace. She swings two sky-blue eyes toward me, her clear irises cold, looking at me.

“Oh come on now.” She quirks a brow towards me. “Don’t tell me you’re going to feel sorry for me.”

“No,” I shake my head. “I’m just wondering how anyone your size can down Jack like that. The only person I’ve ever known to pound a double like that was a local in my town named Killer. And you don’t even want to know why they called him that.”

She nods. “Duly noted. All I can tell you…” she slides the second towards herself. “Is that it takes weeks of practice. Before this, I could barely sip champagne.” She fingers the second glass of alcohol, tapping the shiny edge. She gazes at my drink as the barkeep slides it into my hand. “A pale ale?” Her lips swing downward. “Don’t want to judge…but from where I’m sitting and from the soot stains on your clothes, I don’t think a pale ale is going to cut it.” She glances behind the bar at the shelves. “Grab something good. Like the Freak of Nature. It’s got enough alcohol to no longer classify as a beer, I’m sure, but it’ll get you nice and buzzed. Send your worries out the window, I’ll tell you that.” She looks down at my massive duffel. “Seems you’re packing a lot of worries.” She shifts. “How long you in for?”

My eyebrows raise this time. “Excuse me?”

“How long you in for?” she repeats. “In Manhattan.” She exhales, swiping a curtain of strawberry hair over her shoulder, looking every bit like a runway model.

I stare. “Are you asking because you really want to know, or do you take pleasure into prying into tourists’ lives?”

She smirks. “Both. But for neighbor’s sake, let’s go with the first reason.” Her delicate shoulders fall. “Technically, I’ve been stuck in this city for eight years now. Since I graduated from NYU. Back then, the cells were small. Now the cells are small and more expensive. And don’t worry: You’ll get used to the smell of the streets.”

I snort softly. “I don’t remember it being so rancid.”

“No one does. Tourists always block that part out.” She shines a crooked smile, raising her hand for me to shake. “I’m Violet Keats.”

I take it. “Elsie Carpenter.”

“Elsie?” she asks. “Sounds Midwestern or something.”

I nod. “It is.”

She taps her bottom lip again, giving me a pointed look. “Lemme guess…Ohio?”

“Close,” I counter. “Kansas City.”

“Missouri or Kansas?”

“Kansas.”

She nods, smirking. “Explains why you left.” She glances again at my luggage. “Got a place to put your worries, Kansas?”

I sigh, finding myself slouching. “Honestly, I don’t know… I may have just screwed my place to stay for the night.

I pick at the chipped wood along the bar’s semi-scratched edges, tearing my already chewed nails to pieces. Violet’s eyes slope downward.

Her brows shoot sky high. “You don’t have anyone to stay with? In this big city, you don’t know anyone?” I shake my head, and she presses. “Not one person?”

I glance quickly at my cell phone, thinking of Kayla, my best friend. “Well, no. Not ‘not one.’”

Violet cheers me with the remnants of her glass. “‘Not no one’ is better than nothing. Trust me. I now know the concept of ‘no one’ very well.”

I think back to our sidewalk meeting, just minutes ago. It feels like a lifetime away, but in the short amount of time that I’ve talked with the stranger at the bar, I feel like I’ve made a connection, a neighbor. Hell… maybe even a friend. God knows I need one.

I only have one left. Kayla, for all her faults, is the best friend a girl could ask for. My favorite person in the world, she’d pushed me to come to New York City to pursue my dream of becoming a singer when no one else had, when my dad didn’t give a s**t and my mom was too sad to say anything.

I’d never gone to my parents for support. Not since I was in ninth grade. And even then, the support was fleeing, and I’d leaned on my best friend and her perfect family. The wealthiest one on our block. I’d taken comfort in the arms of Kayla, Carol and Christopher Jackson… and Brett. Her older brother. And the only person I know in this already God-forsaken city. I dismiss the idea that comes to my head as soon as I think his name.

To hell with Brett Jackson. And the motorcycle he rode in on. I refuse to reach out.

Violet catches my attention. “Hello?” I gaze back at her face. “Thought I’d lost you for a second. I was asking if you had a plan B, Kansas. Unless you’re made out of money, booking something decent is going to take your every cent.”

My stomach drops. “Is it?”

“Oh yeah,” she comments, spinning her second glass in her hand. She still hasn’t drank it. “Unless you want to sleep in piss, I suggest you start thinking about reaching out to that ‘Not no one’ option you have. That’s probably as good as you’re going to get for such short notice.”

I shake my head, already saying no, and Violet frowns at me. The stalwart stranger doesn’t get it. And I don’t know how anybody could. Not even Kayla… who I still won’t tell.

I know Violet is right, but…Brett Jackson is not an option for me.

Our pasts are too tightly woven, too f****d up to forget. A history of heartbreak and broken promises has littered the path I’ve taken with my best friend’s brother, and I’d be a fool to try to dismiss it. To try to pretend like the muscled spokesmodel for assholes is someone I can even see again.

I reminisce about the one and only son of my best friend’s family, the local bad boy that roamed the hallways of Riverside High, a customary toothpick between his teeth and a jersey on his back.

Nothing was normal about the local star athlete, known as much for his talent with a pen as much as his fondness for fighting. Brett Jackson was a walking contradiction to anyone who had ever crossed his path, and especially to me.

How long had it been? Seven years? That certainly wasn’t something to sneeze at… And after all we’d been through, after the barely-escaped disasters and fights… and f***s, I didn’t know if I had it in me.

I don’t even know if I hate him at this point. The bad part? I wish I did.

And what does that say about me and Brett? When I’d almost rather risk the streets than spend a second in his presence? The man has always gotten under my skin, which was ironic…considering the fact that he was the first man to touch my skin in a way that no one else has, with tenderness and heat all at the same time.

Even his name floods me with memories. And as I think of him, of his tousled brown hair and blue-green eyes, something inside of me snaps, reminding me that I’m not the same Elsie he knew. The same Elsie I knew. I can survive him.

I did it before. I’ll do it again.

I snap back into reality as Violet moves closer. She taps my hand.

“I think I get what this ‘not no one’ thing might be about.” She finishes the rest of her second dark drink. “Does it involve a swinging p***s?”

I glance at her without breathing. “Yes.”

“Good swinging p***s?”

Another breath. “Yes.”

“Well then…” She pushes her empty glasses to the side, smacking her lips. “I’ve only got two words of advice… No emotion. To make it in Manhattan, you’re going to have to hang your feelings on the wall and forget them. It’s the only way I’ve survived. It’s the only way anyone in this city survives.”

I smile. “Can you put that in writing?”

Violet rises to her feet, swinging her designer briefcase over her shoulder. She looks down at me. “I’m an attorney. I know by now to never put anything in writing.” She places a business card in my hand. “Call me if you get into trouble. And even if you don’t…” She smiles. “Still call me… I’ll see you around, Kansas.”

I stare at her retreating back, my voice whispering. “Thanks.” I glance at her card. “I think I will.”

My cell phone pings suddenly as Violet swings out of the front door, and I see right away that it’s Kayla hitting my phone, asking how everything is going. My heart sinks at the thought of what I’m about to do.

Throat growing tight, my heart dancing its way out of my chest, I text her back before I can lose my nerve.

I know it’s a mistake, but it’s one I will have to live with. And the only thought my muddled brain can now have appears on the screen as I type, my sweaty palms slipping over my phone as I message my best friend the last words on earth I thought I’d ever say.

Hey, I write, my chest growing tight with each word. Do you think you can give me your brother’s number?