A Secret Vow: A Bad Boy Secret Baby Romance (4 page)

He turns the last corner and switches his gaze to me. I feel naked in front of him. He takes slow, confident steps towards me. That intrigued furrow is still written across his forehead. Two steps, one step, then he stops and leans against the wall right next to me.

“I enjoyed talking to you last night,” he says. His voice is low.

In spite of my better instincts, I tell him the truth. “I liked talking to you, too.”

“You deserve better than Grady.”

I can’t say anything back to that. Years of inertia, of learning to just keep my mouth shut if I want to avoid pain, prevents me from saying any of the million things that could be said in response. I say nothing.

“I mean it,” Mortar replies, moving half a step closer. There are just inches between us now. “You deserve someone who makes the things you love possible.” He sweeps a hand around the studio, pointing out the dozens of unfinished pieces that are crying out for more paint, more supplies, just a little bit of money and love to bring them to life.

My lips are parted slightly. It’s the only way to let out the heat that is rocketing up to insane temperatures now, centered on the molten core of my lower abdomen. I’m nervous and swept away all at once. My head is swimming. His eyes are so close.

I don’t know what’s happening, but before I can react, Mortar’s hands are on my hips, drawing me close to him, while our mouths crash together. His tongue teases at the opening of my lips, then slips past, mingling with mine. I hesitate, but I open to let him in. My hands are wound in the curls at the back of his head. I can feel the muscles in his neck moving as we jostle against each other, spreading warmth from body to body.

His fingers untie the apron and it falls to the floor. He slips a hand under my shirt, beneath my bra, and softly caresses my breast. I feel an involuntary moan escaping my throat as he pinches my nipple with a gentle touch, just enough to send a shiver down my spine.

The only thing I want is more. I lean into him, savoring the heft of his granite body pressed against mine. I grip his buttocks to grind against him while our kiss opens deeper. He keeps my head close to his with a hand on the swan curve of my neck. I can feel the ocean breeze tickling my hips where he has pushed up my blouse.

My body is responding to his like it’s known what to do my entire life. My head is another story. It’s a beehive of angry thoughts. I shouldn’t be doing this; I shouldn’t be here with him; I shouldn’t have my tongue in his mouth. Every cry of protest from my head is shut down by the powerful heat emanating from somewhere deep inside me, the heat that wants this more than anything.

He pulls me closer and I lean farther. Our bodies are aligned head to toe while our hands grapple for purchase against one another. Each brush of his lips against mine coaxes a new chorus of nerves to life. I feel like I’ve broken through a wall, or like I’m water overflowing a dam at long last. The sheer sense of
finally
is irresistible. 

I push hard into his chest to kiss deeper. The shift of weight knocks Mortar back on his heels. One elbow flies out and knocks a vase down from its perch on a low pedestal at his side. He breaks away and tries to catch it.

“Shit!” he curses as it hits the floor. Shards of clay tap dance across the tile in every direction.

“It’s okay,” I tell him, dropping to my knees and starting to sweep up the pieces into my hand. “It was stupid anyway. Don’t worry about it, really.” I’m glad he can’t see my face, because I’m blushing hotter than a thousand-watt lightbulb.

He ignores my protests and helps to clean up the broken pottery. When the worst of it is cleared away, we stand. I can’t face him. I look at the floor.

Mortar presses gentle fingertips on the underside of my chin and forces me to look in his eyes.

“Come with me,” he says. I start to tell him that I can’t, that Grady would be livid, but he cuts me off with a shush. “I know you won’t say yes right now. But I want you to know that the offer is there. Whenever, wherever, just let me know and I’ll be there to pick you up. That’s a promise.”

He leans down and draws a soft kiss from me before I can tell myself not to let him. My hands clutch empty air, longing to touch his strong chest again, but I push them down to my sides. He pulls away slowly, still looking into my eyes.

“I don’t break promises,” he says. Then he turns and walks out, hands in his pockets, as calm as the moment he entered.

I, on the other hand, am still reeling. I should feel like I did something wrong, but my whole body is ringing with a mute physical thrill like I’ve never experienced before. I shudder. The sensation scares me a little.

Still painfully aware of the frantic thudding of my pulse, I draw up a chair at the wobbly desk in the corner and force myself to look through the financial documents for the studio space.
Overdue
and
Delinquent
stamps are sprinkled liberally across every page. I crunch numbers and try to breathe.

Slowly, as I dive through statements that don’t contain an ounce of good news, I get my breath and pulse back under control. The sun drops outside while I work.

“Knock, knock,” Grady says.

I turn to look at him through tired eyes. He’s standing, framed in the doorway, just like Mortar had been when he entered. Except everything else is different. Instead of the dark curls, it’s a close-cropped crew cut seated on a meaty head. Their shoulders are the same breadth, but Grady’s body drops into a boulder gut and thighs like tree trunks, instead of the slender abs that I felt beneath Mortar’s jacket.

“Let’s go.”

“One sec,” I tell him. I lean over to file away a few of the papers in my hand.

I hear him suck in a breath. “What’s this?”

I look behind me to see him holding a big chunk of the vase that Mortar and I had broken. It takes everything in me to keep a straight face while I lie and say, “Knocked a vase over while I was cleaning. I must’ve missed a piece cleaning up.”

“Huh.” He tosses it out the window. “Didn’t like that one anyway.”

I gather my stuff.

“Hurry up,” he calls back over his shoulder as he walks outside.

I lock the door behind me, then climb into his patrol car, parked out front. He’s blocking a fire hydrant, I notice, and two wheels are on the sidewalk. Nothing out of the norm. The passenger door clicks shut. We peel off down the road. Grady immediately flicks on the lights and siren before tearing down the median, blasting through red lights, and cutting off drivers everywhere we go. He chuckles when he sees a car screech to a halt just before it would have struck us.

“Sell anything today?” he asks sarcastically. He knows full well that I have nothing salable right now.

“No.”

He sucks his teeth and sighs. “Can’t wait ’til we get rid of that place.”

My heart drops. Get rid of the studio? He’s gotta be joking. That’s the one place I have left, the one thing keeping me tethered to sanity instead of losing my mind in this hellhole that has become my life. I can’t let that happen. I have to tread carefully, though. His temper is a ticking time bomb.

“Sell…the studio?”

“Of course.” He seems surprised, like it’s ridiculous that the thought hadn’t occurred to me before. “I’m not gonna float you forever.”

“We had a deal.”

“And you can’t keep up your end of it. If you’re not selling, how are you gonna make the loan payments you owe me?”

We come full circle with a sickening crunch. I’m transported back to five years ago. I was fresh out of art school. My head was spilling over with a million ideas and the praise of every professor who told me to go for it, to take a stab at being a professional artist. I was going to sell paintings and make beautiful things that would bring happiness to people. I had the talent and the willpower. It was only a matter of time before I made it big.

Confident that success was right around the corner, I’d taken out loans I couldn’t possibly afford in order to buy the studio space and start filling it with the supplies I needed to make masterpieces. Costs just kept adding up—insurance and electricity and air conditioning and all the tools that being an artist required. Before I knew it, I was eyeballs deep in debt and drowning.

Enter Grady. The promise of some help with the loan payments was music to my ears. “Just for a couple months, until I get going,” I’d warned him. And I’d meant it. Things had settled into a workable situation. I got back to work. But then I needed some paint or a brush, and the no he gave me was much harsher and more sudden than I’d been expecting.

Slowly, like everything else horrible in my life, it snowballed, until the studio had become a symbol of all the things I wouldn’t ever be. Still, when I was there, I could find the tiniest sense of relief. It was the last safe haven in my life.

And now that was being taken away.

“I need supplies to finish paintings,” I told him. “Then I can sell them.”

He chortled. “How can you know for sure? You haven’t sold anything in months. Naw, we’re gonna sell that piece of shit place. That’s the only way I’m gonna get any kind of return on all the cash I’ve sunk into it.”

“But—”

“No, shut up. It doesn’t matter. That’s what’s happening.”

It feels like all the sound has been sucked out of the world. I sink low into my seat, trying to wrap my head around what the loss of my studio would mean.

It will be the loss of everything. Once this last link is severed, I’m all alone in Grady’s world. It’s a world of fists and drunken anger and I won’t have any recourse from it, not a single avenue of escape.

Well, except for one: Mortar.

I think about the kiss and as I do, I feel the phantom heat creeping over my skin again. It’s tantalizing. “I don’t break promises,” he’d said. I believe him. He said he’d protect me from Grady. I believe that, too. I believe he would try, at least.

But then I look over at the man to my left, and I realize that there is no one in the world I could trust to keep me safe from him.

I feel a sudden heat on my mouth, and a fingertip touched against my lip comes away wet with blood. I’ve chewed my busted lip open without even noticing. As I fumble for a tissue in my purse, Grady looks over and sees the injury. Some twisted expression, halfway between a grin and a scowl, takes over his face.

“Had a good time last night, did you?”

“It was fine.”

“You and that biker sleaze seemed to be having an awfully interesting conversation.”

“It wasn’t anything.”

He smacks a flat palm against the steering wheel. “Like hell it wasn’t!”

“Grady, it wasn’t anything. You overreacted.”

He pauses. His sudden coolness scares me. I’m used to explosions from him. This icy glee is something new and frightening.

“No, I didn’t overreact. It made me realize something, actually.” I wait, too scared to say a word. The other shoe is about to drop. I can hear my pulse in my ears. “And I made a decision.”

We pull into the driveway. The garage door opens, its shadowy interior beckoning.

“I have a surprise for you,” he says.

He tells me what it is. My jaw drops. I didn’t thought my life could get any worse.

Chapter 3

One Week Later

Who would have thought that ringing church bells could make someone so miserable?

It’s been a hellacious week, easily the worst of my life. Just seven days ago, I was in my studio kissing a man who caused the strangest butterflies to take flight in my stomach. Now, I am standing on an altar with a man who makes them all die.

Grady is wearing a suit and staring straight at me as the priest reads whatever it is he’s reading. I’m not listening. In fact, I haven’t heard a word he’s said since the ceremony started. The only thing I’m capable of doing is breathing: in, out, in, out. It’s taking my full concentration, like I’ve never done it before and I have to focus or else I’ll fuck it all up and that’ll be the end of me.

Which, to be honest, doesn’t sound so bad. It’s preferable to the life that lies ahead. A life of silent dinners and make-up caked around my eye to hide bruises. A life of awful, grunting sex. A horrible life.

I think back to the moment he told me.

We’d pulled in the garage and that awful smile came over his face. Then, “I have a surprise for you.”

He flicked on the headlights of the car. There, illuminated on the back wall of the garage: a wedding dress.

Those awful, beady eyes turned to gauge my reaction. Bile rose in my gut, my throat, my mouth. Nausea. Headache. Dizziness.

“We’re getting married. Next week.”

For five years, I’d pretended that we could keep staving off the day that Grady finally made good on the deal—or the threat, promise, or whatever you wanted to call the sick arrangement I’d been forced into. Sure, I went through the motions in that time. We picked a venue and flowers, crafted invitations, done all the various bullshit involved with a real marriage. But the thought that kept me going throughout that time was that the whole ordeal was never actually going to happen. Grady didn’t care about marrying me; he just cared about keeping me hostage. The loan for the studio was leverage enough, but the engagement was just an extra link in the chain—more icing on the wedding cake, so to speak.

But now it is real. It isn’t a threat anymore. It’s happening. In front of me. Around me. To me.

When will I ever not be a victim?

The priest is droning on. “…together discovering the joys of holy matrimony…” I tune him out. Every word only adds another layer to the sickness in my stomach. The thought of everything that comes after this—all the congratulations and alcohol and people I have to talk to—nearly makes me vomit then and there. The world is conspiring against me.

I take a deep breath, trying to calm my racing nerves and settle the churning storm in my gut. It helps, if only a little bit. For the first time, I dare to take a look around the church. The pews are filled with people. They’re all Grady’s friends. I haven’t had a true friend since I moved in with him. He just wouldn’t allow it. I hardly ever left the house if it wasn’t by his side or to go to the studio. Living with him was the closest thing to being a prisoner.

The cops all look the same, too. They all share the same squinty glare and the same wobbly jowls. Even the skinny ones have that shaky fat in their cheeks, like it’s as much a part of the uniform as the badge and gun. Nearly half the precinct is here. I’m not sure whether it’s because they actually like Grady or if they just want to lick the boots of the man in charge. It doesn’t matter to me either way, but it’s a slight comfort to pretend that I’m not the only one in the world who doesn’t recognize that he’s a monster.

I look to the back of the church, behind the pews filled with people I don’t know and who won’t ever be able to rescue me. The far wall is lined with massive bouquets of flowers. It’s a shame that such beautiful objects are being wasted on such a hideous occasion. I would have preferred dead trees instead.

Then my eyes settle on the man standing in the doorway. For the second time in a week, I see Mortar leaned against the wall, hands resting in his pockets, eyes coolly fixed on me, like everything is normal and good and okay. It isn’t, of course. Things are worse than ever. But looking at him, you’d never know it.

The strangest thing happens when we make eye contact. He’s far away, but even from where I’m standing, I can see the corner of his mouth curl up into a sad smile. Just the hint of it, but enough that I can read volumes from his expression. It sends a tsunami of depression ripping through me.

Is he giving up? He must be. He offered to help, but now it’s too late for that. There’s no rescuing me anymore. Not even Mortar can intervene.

I feel a bitter taste settle into my mouth. He broke his promise.

“And you, Kendra,” the priest booms, “do you take Grady to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and health, until death do you part?”

I gulp. So this is what it feels like to look over the edge of a cliff and know that the only direction you can go is forward. Part of me always wondered. I used to have nightmares like that when I was younger, about looking down into the canyon below. I never got far enough to actually learn what it would be like, though. Luckily, I had Grady to point the way.

My voice is dry and raspy as I say the words. “I do.”

The priest repeats the question to Grady. His stare does not waver. He says in a loud voice, “I do.”

The crowd stands and cheers as Grady grips me by the waist and pulls me into him for a rough kiss. His lips are chapped and nearly jagged. His breath reeks as he presses against me. I have no choice but to let him.

Eventually, he lets me go, but keeps one hand tight on my wrist. He raises it like a boxer winning a prizefight, to thunderous applause from everyone gathered to witness.

I try not to cry.

* * *

The reception is as painful as I imagined. The same conversation over and over again is like twisting a knife in the wound.

“I’m so happy for you, dear. Congratulations.”

“Thank you. We’re very happy.” My cheeks hurt from smiling too hard. I can feel the molars in the back of my mouth grinding with the effort.

“What a joy. Best wishes for a long and happy life together.”

“We appreciate it.” Pain. Lying. Tears barely being held back.

“When can we expect some little ones, Grady?” I overhear a fellow cop asking him.

“Gonna be real soon, I bet,” says another.

Grady winks. “No sense in delaying the inevitable.”

The bile rises higher in my throat. The thought of having children with him hadn’t even occurred to me yet, as bizarre as that seems. Looking around the guests, I see plenty of couples with children in tow. I used to love kids, but now the thought of it makes me sick. Being pregnant with Grady’s child would be no different than carrying a parasite. To have him own everything around me—my art, my freedom—is bad enough. But to let him own my body, too? That’s too much. That would be like eliminating the boundaries between us. If I’m carrying his baby, where does he stop and I begin? I shudder and shove the thought away. I’m close enough to tears already. I can’t manage this.

To add to the maelstrom in my head, Mortar has drifted to the back of the party. I’m sure he’s not invited. Grady hasn’t spotted him yet, so he’s safe for now, but I doubt that either one would be thrilled to see the other.

Every time our eyes land on each other’s, I feel the same heat in my body. I associate it with him now, like I’m a candle wick and he’s this insane flame that sets me off whenever he gets near. It burns hottest between my legs.

I wonder if he touched me, could he feel it? If Mortar touched between my legs, would he know that just looking at him makes me moist and fidgety? Would he be able to see the images forming in my brain: of him pushing a hand up the folds of my wedding dress, pushing aside the white lingerie, and pressing a long finger into my wet cunt? Would he bury his tongue there, too?

Enough
,
I tell myself. I force my attention back to the food in front of me. Grady and I are sitting at a table in the middle of the auditorium where the reception is taking place. We haven’t said a word to each other.

“Eat,” he tells me. “We paid a fuck ton of money for this food.”

I slice a forkful of fish off of the filet and raise it to my mouth. As it passes under my nose, I get an overwhelming whiff of the spicy seafood smell, and my stomach rumbles warningly. I set the silverware back down.

“I’m sorry. I’m just not hungry,” I tell him.

“Fine. Just waste my money. Same as you always do.”

I can’t respond to this. I thank God that someone comes up to the table just then to pat Grady’s hand and give him their best wishes.

“You and your wife must be so thrilled to get married finally,” says the old man. He’s a retired cop, I remember, who I’ve met a few times before. Thompson is his last name, I think.
Wife.
The thought is even more repulsive than the food.

I seize the wine glass next to my plate and toss the whole thing back. I need to be blind drunk right now, or maybe I’ll skip the drunkenness and go straight to unconscious. Anything to make this go away.

It’s all too much at once, and the alcohol breaks down the last of my power to hold all these thoughts at arm’s length. They come rushing in at once, hungry to batter me into submission.

The studio. Mortar. Grady, my husband. The money I’ll never be able to make. It’s a broken record of failures and punishments I never thought I deserved. But they’re relentless, bashing into me over and over. I’ve been fighting it all day, but the urge to vomit rises another notch, and I decide I can’t fight it anymore.

“I’ll be right back,” I gasp, and tear away from the table before Grady or Thompson can say anything.

I push through crowds of people, ignoring everything they’re saying. I need to get out, to breathe, to escape for just a moment from the encircling tentacles looming around every corner. Threading between tables with my skirts clutched in one hand and the other pressed against my mouth, I finally make it to the double doors at the far end of the hall.

I push through. To my right is the front door, while the kitchen sits at the end of the left. I turn left.

The heat of the kitchen hits me like a humid slap. I keep moving. “Fresh air, fresh air,” I repeat to myself endlessly, like that will make all of this go away. Waiters look at me, confused why the bride is storming through the food prep area. There’s an exit sign above a rusty door just past the ovens.

I make it there and push through, and then finally, finally salty, open air rushes into my mouth. I manage to keep the vomit in my stomach, but the tears are unstoppable. I fall to a seat on the steps. I don’t give a damn if I ruin my dress. The only thing left to do is cry. It’s a hideous, full-bodied cry, like the tears are starting in my toes and gathering steam all the way through my legs and torso before they erupt out of my mouth and nose like a gushing faucet. I feel disgusting. My face is blotchy and wet with snot. Isn’t a bride supposed to feel beautiful on her big day?
If this is the best day of my life, kill me now.

Eventually, the flood of tears starts to slow somewhat. I let my head fall into my hands. Hiccups rack my frame for a while until they, too, subside, and I am left huddled and shivering. I’m wearing a wedding dress while sitting in the back alley of a hotel, bawling my eyes out and wishing I was dead.

This is what it feels like when you don’t wake up before you hit the ground.

“I didn’t expect you to join me out here,” someone says.

I look up. Of course. It’s Mortar.

He’s standing at the foot of the steps, smoking a cigarette. His frame blots out the sun, which hangs low and red in the sky behind him.

“I wasn’t exactly planning on it,” I say with a choked voice. The tears have stopped, but I still feel blubbery and weak.