Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Promise
Tricia, the wedding planner, hasn’t addressed me in a half hour. She talks to Angel, explaining the floral arrangements, the sequence of events, the cake.
He doesn’t speak to me either.
And somewhere, over the course of the meeting, Tricia’s interest has shifted from my father to the man who is about to be my husband.
Angel is doing an amazing job of practicing each and every one of my lessons. I wonder what Tricia would think of him if she visited his club?
It’s an ugly thought, because I’m honestly feeling jealous. And I’m somehow painting myself in this light of being better for him than she would be.
Which is stupid.
I’m being forced to marry him. He straight up told me he isn’t a good guy. He’s not in any of this for me, other than jerking off over various parts of my body.
But by the time we head back into the press room, I’ve returned to playing my part. Somehow, being with Angel the last twenty-four hours had made me relax in ways I hadn’t for actual years. And being back in my father’s orbit, all the tension has returned, only it’s worse.
One, because I actually lived for a hot second without it. And two, whatever I thought might be happening with Angel was a complete fabrication in my own head.
I must be desperate for a white knight, because of all the men to paint with a hero brush, I picked the man who runs a whorehouse.
Angel comes back to my side, taking my hand and placing it in his elbow. But I’m numb now, and I barely notice. What’s more, I don’t feel anything at his touch.
I guess my ability to turn off my voice, my feelings, now applies to him. The moment we step into the room, I smile dutifully, walk in the direction I’m pointed, stand on the marked spot on the floor.
The cameras flash, as Angel is directed to sit to the right of the podium, while I remain standing next to my father, placed between them.
Tricia is on the stage, as is my father’s campaign manager, and two aides.
My father grabs my arms, spinning me to face another reporter who wants a picture.
I dutifully pose, barely making eye contact.
“Promise, have you started speaking since the engagement?” one reporter shouts.
Another asks a question before I can even wrinkle my nose. “How does your fiancé feel about silence? Does it make the relationship harder?”
“Will you continue to campaign with your father?”
“Promise, will you be silent with your children?”
“Have you sought counseling for your impairment?”
“Do you harbor any guilt over how you’ve negatively impacted your father’s campaign?”
It’s the last one, fired off from a female reporter in the front row, that has me spinning away, out of my father’s hands. But as I do, cameras still flashing away, my foot catches on something, and suddenly, I’m falling.
I have no idea where I’m going to land, where I’m going to hit.
But a steel band comes around my waist and then…
My stomach crashes into hard, muscular thighs as the air whooshes from my lungs.
The entire room goes silent.
No one laughs.
No one moves.
I blink, my gaze down, large Italian loafers filling my view.
“Get up, you stupid, useless idiot,” my father hisses, the entire first row surely hearing him.
For a moment I freeze, and then I scramble to get up, knowing that however bad today has been, I just made it worse. The press had already flipped the story from poor Promise, to Promise being the problem.
“Stop,” Angel rumbles close to my ear as his hand at my hip squeezes, pressing me deeper into his lap and then he flips me, like I weigh nothing.
An ooh rises up from the crowd as I’m righted in Angel’s lap, his strong arms coming around me.
And then he stands with me in his arms.
He towers over everyone on the stage, my father included.
Several people take a step back, even my father, but Angel doesn’t look at him. Instead, his gaze holds mine. “Are you hurt?”
I shake my head.
“That’s my good girl,” he rumbles softly, but I hear him, as do several others, because cameras start to flash again.
Slowly, he lowers my legs until my stilettos gently touch the floor.
And then he looks away again, his gaze landing on my father and his body hardens away from mine.
Apparently I am not the only one who can turn their feelings on and off. For a moment, we were connected and now…he’s gone again.
My father, his lip curled, steps up to the podium. “The press conference is over. Promise needs her rest for tomorrow.”
Angel grabs me, holding both my arms as he shows me to the door. But this moment isn’t about my protection, I can feel the difference in his touch. It’s cold.
I draw in a shuddering breath as we leave the room.
“When can I take these contacts out?” Axel asks from behind me. “They’re fucking itchy.”
“Not yet,” Angel grits back.
“We need to talk,” my father barks out from the back of the group.
I turn to see who he is speaking with, assuming it’s his campaign manager, but it’s Angel he’s staring at.
Angel nods and lets me go. “Axel.” He waves to his brother. And then he looks at Gunner. “Stay with Promise.” He leans closer. “Remember the signals.”
A long, trembling breath leaves my lips. Because as I watch Angel and my father walk away, their heads bowed together, I know the truth.
Angel isn’t mine, he’s never going to be mine. He was always my father’s.
And I am a fool.
Everyone else disperses, the reporters leaving. Some of them pass me by, giving me long looks, as if they’d like to ask me more questions, but Gunner’s position next to me, coupled with his glare, must deter them.
Finally, it’s just me and Gunner.
“Come on, blondie,” Gunner rumbles. “I’m hungry.”
I follow him as he turns back to the now empty press room. I take a seat in one of the chairs as he grabs a plate and piles it high. “You hungry?”
I shake my head. I couldn’t eat if I tried. Instead, I dip my chin closer to my chest, closing my eyes.
“Not a runner, huh?” he asks with his mouth stuffed full. “I ran away loads when I was kid. Never helps.”
I lift my head again, opening my eyes.
His hair is tied back in a ponytail, since he refused to let me cut it. And I know he doesn’t like being touched.
But the brothers seem so tight now, I wonder why he might run away?
I put my finger to my palm, signaling to write.
He grunts softly and then unlocks his phone, handing it to me. “I’ll tell Angel you need a phone of your own.”
Appreciation washes through me. I know better than to think I’ve found an ally, but anyone thinking of my needs, after what just happened, feels like a major victory.
Nipping at my lip, I try to formulate a question that won’t offend.
Did your brothers run away with you?
He grunts softly as he reads it, continuing to eat finger sandwiches in a single bite. “I didn’t live with them when I was in my running away phase.”
My brow furrows. He sees it and pops another sandwich in his mouth. He chews, taking his time before he answers. “We’re adopted. Me and my brothers.”
My mouths falls open, surprised, mostly that I didn’t realize it sooner. Besides the eyes, they don’t look that much alike.
Except…
You’re all so tall and athletic.
He shrugs. “My adopted father was looking for soldiers. He picked the biggest and baddest boys he could find.”
A wave of something heavy washes through me. Angel and his brothers each have pasts that are dark. I look forward again, as I try to decide what that means.
But I didn’t ask Gunner to learn about Angel. And so, I direct my next question to him.
Why did you run away?
He sets his plate on the chair next to him, scrubbing a hand over his hair. See? Nervous.
“My father was an abusive piece of shit. I’d run away when he beat up on my mom.”
My throat closes, because I know a thing or two about that. I look straight ahead, swallowing down the emotion that is so close to the surface. Because this story ended up with Gunner in foster care, not with his parents divorced and him living with his mom.
What happened to your mom?
“He killed her,” he answers matter-of-factly. “And then I killed him.” He picks up his plate and stuffs another sandwich in his mouth. “I was eleven.”
That makes my eyes bug out. I stare at him, words welling up inside me, fighting to get out. Words I haven’t wanted to say in ages. Secrets. Lies. Promises.
But I want to tell them to Gunner now.
Instead, I hand his phone back to him. And then I sit back in my chair. If Gunner could kill his father at eleven, then he must have been strong even then.
“Most people would be scared shitless to know they were sitting next to a murderer.”
Oh. Right. I shrug, taking his phone back from him without asking.
It’s liars that scare me.
Gunner reads my words and grunts softly. “That’s one way to look at it.”
I’d like to ask him more, but he’s been pretty open for a guy who hasn’t asked me a single thing in return.
So instead, I type one more message. It’s probably more than I should share. More than I’ve said to anyone for a really long time, but maybe I’m desperate to be understood by someone.
Someday I hope I can be more like you.
He reads the words, takes the phone and then deletes every word I’ve written before he pockets the phone.
Then he shoves an entire éclair into his mouth. I stare at the podium where I was just photographed across Angel’s lap and wonder what the media will say this time.
Enough time passes that I’m surprised when Gunner speaks. “If I were you, I wouldn’t try to be a soldier. It’s not your skill set, blondie. But you’ve got some real…assets. I’d focus on convincing a soldier to do the dirty work for you.”
It’s my turn to snort. It’s a nice thought, but if today taught me anything, it’s that winning Angel to my side is a dead end.