The Worst Kind of Promise (Riverside Reapers Book 2)

KIT

Two hours out. Two hours, and then I’ll have to share Faye for the rest of the summer.

Even though she’s been busting my balls this entire road trip (in more ways than one), I wouldn’t trade our time for anything in the world.

She looks so peaceful when she’s sleeping. The slight rumble of her snore, the rise and fall of her chest, the way she curls further in on herself whenever we hit a pothole or sharp turn. I’m crazy about her. So crazy that my heart hurts whenever I remember she’s not mine to have.

I pull into a parking spot right in front of Starbucks, kill the engine, then spend about two prolonged minutes staring at her. I haven’t been able to get that kiss out of my mind. It was life-changing in so many ways for something so simple, so human. I’ve never felt more at peace than when she’s in my arms. She’s my sun, and I’m the idiot orbiting around her.

I gently wiggle her foot, and it takes about a second of consistent shaking before her eyes snap open and she pins me with a withering glare.

“Can I help you?” she grouses, the groggy rasp of her voice making my boxers suddenly feel way too tight.

“I’d be a lot nicer to me considering I’m the one driving you,” I say.

She simply rolls her eyes and stifles a yawn, shoulders the door open, then stretches out her legs like she’s the one who’s been suffering from a lack of legroom. “How close are we?”

I mirror her with a stretch of my own, but unlike her, I crack about every bone in my body. “About two hours out.”

“Are you sure the guys are okay with me crashing their summer?” she asks, flattening down a rumpled tress of hair sticking up on her head. She checks for any other deviants in a preening manner, then smooths down her tiny tank top. The embroidered daisy in the center of her shirt, right between her small, perky breasts, catches my wandering eye. The neckline has fallen a bit, revealing the tops of her neon-colored bra cups—which I can see anyways through the practically translucent fabric.

A frown cuts across my face. “Of course they are. They can’t wait to see you,” I reassure her.

I hold the door open for her, receiving a small smile as she steps into the bustling coffee shop. The aroma of coffee grounds waft through my nostrils, luring me to a display case of overpriced pastries and breakfast sandwiches. Not worth it, but substantial after days’ worth of junk food.

She shies behind me. “But I probably ruined their bachelor plans.”

“Bachelor plans?”

“Yeah, you know, the Three Bs: booze, boobs, and bed,” she explains matter-of-factly with a cocked hip.

Amusement threatens to split my lips into a beaming grin, but I tamp it down. “You think that’s what we do for the entire summer? Drink, fuck, and sleep?”

She deadpans. “You’re a house full of mostly single, professional hockey players.”

I shuffle forward a bit as the line dwindles, the chatter of the shop growing in volume as names and orders are shouted from behind the register. Flashes of green uniforms teleport around the packed space, and the hiss of machines only adds to the chaos of the Friday morning—patrons ranging from students with deadlines, authors with writer’s block, and everyday customers with a hankering for watered-down caffeine.

“Ye of little faith,” I tsk, shaking my head. “I would never be so reckless, or so promiscuous.”

Faye bursts out into a loud goose honk, doubling over, even wiping invisible tears from her eyes. “Oh, God. That’s funny. Which is saying something since you’re very unfunny.”

“I’ll have you know, I am very funny. You just don’t understand my charm.”

“Is that what we’re calling it these days?”

“I’m going to leave you stranded here.”

“I’d like to see you try. I bet you wouldn’t even get that far before missing me.”

She’s got me there.

Without saying anything, I bide my time by looking over the chalk-scrawled menu, deciding on a sausage, cheddar, and egg sandwich, a blueberry muffin, and an Americano, while Faye settles on some cake pop monstrosity, along with a sugary, pink drink that gives me a cavity just looking at it.

I eye her as I swipe my credit card through the card reader. “There’s not a lot of protein in that,” I say, nodding to the cake pop now gripped in her hand.

“Must you comment on everything I do?” She takes a big bite just to spite me.

I grab the little baggy that has my sandwich and muffin. “I’m just looking out for you, Princess.”

Okay, I’m aware that pet names aren’t really keeping things “platonic” between us, but I can’t deny that it doesn’t suit her. Blame it on a Freudian slip. I don’t see her as some damsel in distress that needs to be saved; I see her as a princess who deserves to be adored, to be spoiled, to be tended to at her beck and call. And fuck, I’d give anything to be her prince.

While we wait for our drinks to be made, Faye and I stay a good distance apart, but it doesn’t feel natural. We’re close enough that it’s obvious we came together, but not close enough to reveal the nature of our relationship. No brushing of shoulders or hugs from behind. No discreet smiles or mindless talk. Just…space.

It’s too early for me to be awake, much less for my nerves to be eating away at me. “What do you want to do this summer?” I inquire, catching her off guard.

“I haven’t really thought about it,” she answers, swallowing the last of her dessert and tossing the stick into the garbage.

My free hand scopes the start of stubble peppering my jawline, and I faintly remember the way her palm felt brushing over it. “This is your summer, Faye. No school, no work, no responsibilities. You can do whatever you want. It’s like a vacation, but in a more disgusting part of California that has zero beaches and an influx of heroin addicts.”

“Hmm, when you put it like that…”

I wait for her response with anticipation, my eyes doing a slow drag over her pursed lips, the fold of her arms that just so happen to conveniently push up her tits, the nervous twitter of her foot against the tiles.

“A day out on the water would be nice.”

“That’s it?”

“Yep,” she replies, keeping her focus on the stressed barista behind the counter. Faye’s standing right next to me, but she’s staggered herself a bit—maybe in a futile attempt to escape this conversation.

I don’t have to move much thanks to my long stride, and I stop right behind her, dipping my mouth to the hollow of her throat, a single breath away from making contact. “Don’t you want to do something more…exciting?” I whisper, watching a shiver unravel through her body. I don’t touch her. I hover like a specter, either waiting for her to fight or flee, but the raised hairs on the back of her neck are warning enough that she’ll do the latter.

She opens her mouth to say something, but we’re interrupted by the frazzled barista yelling out my name.

“Kit! Kit’s drink is ready!”

I reach past Faye and grab both of our drinks, offer a pageant-winning smile to the woman who looks like she constantly gets fucked by twelve-hour shifts in the soul-sucking heart of capitalism, then usher Faye out the door.

As she makes a rather exaggerated traipse toward the car, she slurps noisily through her straw. “Why can’t you just leave me to read and rot for the summer?”

“That’s how you want to spend your summer? Inside, hiding away from sunlight like you’re some vampire, staring at a bunch of words?”

“I don’t want to go into anything with expectations. I want to relax. I want to take things at my own pace. I don’t want to be treated like a—”

“—princess,” I finish, opening the passenger door for her.

She narrows her eyes. “I can open my own door.”

I keep my hand firmly planted on the door. “I’m a gentleman.”

A loud groan pops out of her as she climbs into her seat, and I get an indeliberate face full of ass. I didn’t realize how short her shorts were…back there. Faye’s too busy buckling herself in to notice that my face has drained of all its color, so I take my time rounding the car, trying to leash the runaway thoughts that beckon me to say fuck it, and let my inhibitions fly.

“You’re a lot of things, but a gentleman isn’t one of them.” Faye chuckles, stirring her straw amongst a pink sea and floating buoys of ice.

I set my drink down in the cup holder, then get to working on the steaming sandwich calling my name. “You’re really bad for a guy’s ego, you know that?”

“Oh, I know.”

She takes another long pull from her drink, her lips tinted from the dye, her cheeks hollowed. She overestimates and sucks too much liquid out, resulting in a few drops dangling from the hole of the straw. I shouldn’t be so invested. I shouldn’t be watching her. None of this should be sensual. Her tongue flicks out to catch the droplets, and I have to tear my gaze away before I’m too hard to drive.

I shouldn’t think about her tongue tracing the length of my dick, lapping at the crown before repeating the process until I’m leaking for her. I shouldn’t think about the heat of her mouth as she engulfs me, the little noises that slip out of her, the way her nose presses against my full and aching balls. And I definitely shouldn’t think about talking her through it—her choking me down until she can fit every inch inside her perfect mouth, saliva pooling and stringing from the corners of her lips, her hand pumping me at the base with equal enthusiasm—

“Ugh, it’s like talking to a wall sometimes.”

Faye, who’s ditched her drink, has her arms crossed over her chest in her usual Kit-you’re-an-idiot look, complete with two laser beams shooting from her eyes.

“Shit. I’m sorry. I totally spaced,” I say, fairly certain that she either gave me a heartfelt monologue or admitted some deep, dark secret.

I don’t know if it’s the guilt exuding off me or the perfect puppy dog pout, but her face softens incrementally.

“You’re forgiven. But only because you bought breakfast,” she mutters.

Phew. Crisis adverted. For now.

I quietly begin to tuck into my meal. “Please repeat what you were saying,” I implore, my tastebuds rejoicing at the first flavor rush that doesn’t seem to be overly seasoned or sweetened.

“It’s not important.”

Sausage, cheddar, and egg? A great combination. Sausage, cheddar, egg, and that sour pit in my stomach? Not a great combination. “It is. Anything you say is important.”

She makes herself at home again, toeing off her sneakers and throwing her legs up. “I was just talking about how thrilling reading can actually be. It’s relaxing but stimulating. You’re in this other little world, experiencing it for the very first time. You don’t have to worry about your shitty desk job or the errands you have to run tomorrow. You can just…escape.”

I finish my food in two more bites and brush the crumbs from my hands. “Is that what you like to do? Escape?”

“I think so. My life hasn’t always been that great, and during times when it isn’t, I look for a way to get out of it,” she explains in neither a sad nor happy tone.

“What do you read?”

She looks at me strangely, like she can’t believe I’m engaging in something she finds interesting. I don’t blame her—I’m not very well-versed in compassion or empathy. I’m trying to be better. I’m trying to think of others before I think of myself. It’s easy when I have someone like Faye, whose whole job relies on emotional connection, to teach me not to wish death upon people who inconvenience me.

“It’s embarrassing.”

I flap my hand. “I bet it’s not. Hell, you could tell me you read porn, and I wouldn’t judge you.”

Faye grows deathly silent, evades my eyes, and blushes so brightly it looks like she’s glowing.

Holy shit.

My jaw drops open. I wouldn’t be surprised if my tongue lolls out either, because picturing shy, sweet Faye reading some of the dirtiest things in her books has my steel-hard cock stressing against the zipper of my pants. I adjust my legs as discreetly as I can, but I’m pretty sure my high-pitched, prepubescent-sounding voice gives me away.

“Didn’t know you could read that now,” I croak.

She continues to eschew eye contact. “Yeah, it’s very popular in romance books nowadays.”

“Mmm” is all I can manage. And not an, oh-that’s-so-interesting-tell-me-more “mmm” but a please-stop-talking-or-my-dick-will-explode “mmm.”

I have two hours for this boner to deflate. And then I’ll have two months of trying to convince her, Hayes, and myself that I’ve never been more unattracted to a woman in my entire life.