Forgotten Promises (The Promises Series Book 2) (13 page)

“What? Fuck, what’s happened? What’s wrong?” Ethan asks, jerking the car to the side of the road, panic clear in his voice as he comes to an abrupt stop. The action has me jolting forward in my seat and the seatbelt locks, stopping me from being propelled forward, but tightening across my stomach in the process and causing even more pain.

“Blair, what’s wrong?” he shouts, pulling me from my thoughts of how much this sucks right now.

“Relax, baby, I’m fine. My stitches just pulled,” I manage to grind out as I’m frantically trying to unbuckle myself and release the pressure over my tummy.

“Here, let me…there, is that better?” he asks leaning over and releasing the buckle for me. I let out a huge sigh of relief as I try to straighten my body out in the cramped confines of the Camaro.

“Damn, you near on just gave me heart failure! You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah,” I lie. The pain is making me feel nauseous, but the look of panic in his eyes is making me feel worse.

“I didn’t mean to scare you, sorry. The pain just caught me off guard.”

“Princess, you don’t have to apologize.”

“I have painkillers in the front pocket of my purse. Can you reach them for me? I think I need to pop a couple of them suckers now, too.”

He regards me with a concerned look before retrieving the little white container of pills. “Here,” he passes them over with a bottle of water he has rested in the side of his door.

“You want a couple?” I ask as I pop the lid and shake two chalky white capsules into the palm of my hand.

“Yeah, but I’m gonna find us a motel first. I can’t concentrate with this headache, and you’re not exactly in a position to drive,” he says, rubbing his temples. “Plus, let me see those.” He reaches out and takes the bottle from me. “Yeah, thought so. The warning states that they’ll make you drowsy. Can’t take them and then drive,” he frowns.

“We don’t seem to have gotten very far. At this rate it will take us a week to drive home.”

“You’re saying that like it would be the end of the world to spend a week stuck in my car with me,” he laughs.

“Um, there are only so many car games I can play before I want to murder someone,” I grin as his eyes widen.

“Okay. Mental note to self: car games are not Blair’s thing.”

“I don’t mind playing a few, but when we’re scraping the barrel and you’re inventing games like, What Dinosaur Would You Be? I get a little crazy.”

“What Dinosaur Would You Be? Huh. I have that weird déjà vu thing going on. We’ve played that, right? And FYI, it sounds like it would be an epic car game.”

“Did you really just say FYI?” I giggle. “You sound like Brie, and yeah, we’ve played it.”

“Okay, so first you make out like it's a bad thing to be stuck in the car with me, and now you're telling me I talk like a girl. Are you always this complementary?” he asks with a wink. My god, I love it when he does that. I sigh and his dimples make a welcomed appearance.

“Are you having dirty thoughts about me?”

“WHAT!” I scoff, “No, not at all.”

“Shame, I’m having all kinds of kinky thoughts about you.”

I feel the heat spread from my cheeks, straight down my chest and shoot south.

“Shut up,” I laugh and push at his side.

“What? I'm serious. It’s the weird little snort you do when you laugh,” he says nodding his head and biting down on his lower lip. “It’s like it has a direct dial to my di—”

“Oh my god! Shut up!”

“Why? It’s true!” he says, grinning from ear to ear.

He knows he’s embarrassing the hell out of me, and he’s enjoying it. Maybe I should let him carry on, my pride can take a knock if it keeps that gorgeous smile on his face.

“Okay, enough with the snort fetish, pervert...let's get to a motel.”

“See, you are having dirty thoughts. And now you’re trying to get me to some seedy roadside motel, so you can have your wicked way with me. Admit it.”

I want to act all cool and calm, but even though he’s mocking me, the suggestion of a motel has totally got my mind in the gutter.

“I thought you had a headache.”

“I do, but research shows that sex actually helps get rid of them—something to do with the endorphins released.”

“You really are a perv!” I smile.

“Takes one to know one. Besides…you love it.”

“Calm it, Casanova. Let’s go find a room.”

“And you’re the one calling me a perv.”

I shake my head and laugh as he checks his mirrors and pulls back out onto the road. He’s right, though. Now that he’s brought up sex that’s all that’s running through my mind. That and the fact that I’m in no fit state for him to see me sans clothing. I’m hoping like hell that I packed a razor and I’m running a mental inventory of all the things that should have been in my bag that was left at the campsite. My perfume, the girly underwear I packed, the bumper pack of protection, and that's when it hits me. I remember what else was packed—Em’s letter. The butterflies and eager anticipation from moments ago are demolished instantly by the weight of my heart tearing through my chest as it crashes down to my feet. Now all I can think about is what if he remembers.

PRESSURE IS STEADILY building behind my eyes; I keep pressing my finger to my temple, hoping that I’ve suddenly developed a magic touch that will heal a migraine with a simple tap. I’ve only had a migraine once before, to my knowledge. It was after my dad had hit me in the stomach. I was fourteen and I remember stumbling backwards and hitting the back of my head on the corner of a bookshelf. The pain lasted for three whole days; Mom wanted to take me to the emergency room to make sure I hadn’t fractured my skull or something. He told her I was milking the attention she was showing me, that it was probably a ploy to get out of going to school and that I was a lazy son of a bitch for staying in bed. I couldn’t see straight, and the light hurt my eyes, which is kind of how I’m feeling now.

“This looks okay, right?” I ask, pulling into the parking lot of a Motel 6.

“Sure, I’m easy. I’ll sleep anywhere.”

“That’s not something a guy wants to hear his girlfriend say,” I grin.

“Are you kidding me? I thought that’s exactly what a guy would want to hear.”

I smile and bob my head at her, instantly regretting it when a wave of nausea follows the throbbing that the movement causes.

“Come inside with me. I’m not leaving you out here on your own,” I tell her, getting out of the car and making my way over to where the red neon sign flashes Vacancies. She jogs up beside me capturing my hand in hers as we go to book a room.

“This is nice,” she grimaces, taking in the seventies decor and brown and green swirly carpet tiles. I toss my duffle bag on the king size bed and pull the comforter back.

“Sheets are clean; that’s always a good sign,” I smirk.

“Bathroom looks clean too!” she shouts as she closes the door behind her.

I let myself collapse on the bed and toe my boots off, letting them fall with a loud thud. The only light in the room is coming from a dirty orange-colored lamp; it’s highlighting the dust particles streaming in from where the long green drapes don’t quite meet in the middle. By anyone's standards it’s dull in here, but there’s still enough luminescence to have me placing my arm over my face to try and shield it. I hear the door crack, and then the bed dips where Blair sits by my legs.

“I’m retracting my last statement.”

“Huh?”

“The bathroom…it’s not clean. Well, the bathroom itself isn’t dirty, but the water out of the taps runs a rusty color for at least twenty seconds before morphing into a kind of cloudy chalky-colored stream. Just don’t drink any, okay?”

“Noted. Hey, can you find me a couple of your pills now?”

“Your headache still bothering you?” She frowns as I lower my arm and squint at her.

“Yup, the doctors warned me I might have headaches though. I guess I didn’t realize how intense they might get.”

I swallow the pills she passes me without a drink, and stretch out on the bed after flicking the switch off on the lamp.

“You mind if we keep the lights off? It’s kind of bothering me.”

“Not at all. Do you want me to keep my distance? I hate being fussed over and talked to when I’m feeling ill.”

“I’ll take all the fussing you want to give, Princess,” I tell her as I reach out and pull her down beside me, tucking her under my arm. My shoulder and wrist ache, but the feel of her pressed up against me is enough to stop me from moving.

“You realize that you neglected to tell me what’s wrong earlier. Want to tell me now?” Her voice sounds muffled as she speaks into my chest, where her head rests.

“It would be quicker to tell you all the things that are right, instead of detailing everything that’s not.” I pause, wondering what possessed me to answer like that. Now she’ll definitely push for answers. I watch as she rolls onto her stomach and shuffles trying to find a comfy position before she props her head up on her palms. She’s no doubt making herself cozy, anticipating that I’ll elaborate. So that’s what I do. I take a deep breath and hit her with it.

“Where do you want me to start? My dad needs life-saving surgery, except he’s too weak to undergo it at the moment, and instead of being worried about the fact that he might not pull through, I’m nervous that he will. How screwed up is that? I mean, what kind of person thinks like this?”

She doesn’t skip a beat in answering. “The kind who’s had to deal with a lifetime of cruelty that’s who. Baby, if you ask me, what you’re feeling is probably an entirely valid and reasonable response. He has been such a negative force in your life that it’s understandable you would want it to end.”

“That’s the thing though, Blair; I’m not wishing for all of the crap to stop, for him to miraculously decide that he doesn’t hate me anymore. I’m wishing him dead. That’s not normal, Princess, it's fucked up by anyone’s standards. I don’t expect you to tell me it’s okay, I already know it’s not.” I cough, trying to dislodge the pitiful whiney tone my voice has adopted. That taste of disdain is acrid on my tongue. “You want to know what freaks me out the most, though?” I ask as I push myself into a sitting position, resting my back against the cold hard panels of the wooden headboard. I figure I’m on a roll; I need to get this out now or I’ll never say it out loud.

“What?” Her glasses slip off the bridge of her nose from the frown marring her face. I reach forward and push them gently back into place, mesmerized momentarily by the brief touch of her soft skin against my callused fingertips. Her eyes are glinting like emeralds as she waits for me to continue. I exhale, causing a loose strand of her hair to dance across her forehead.

“It’s not feeling any different. I’ve ambled along numbly for as long as I can remember, shutting everything off so that I don’t have to deal with whatever he decides to throw at me. What happens if he dies and I’m still like this? Just an empty vessel existing day by day, anesthetized inside.”

I observe the moment my words sink in; pain—or perhaps sympathy—moves across her face, and the room suddenly feels too small; the space between us thick with tension.

“I think maybe something is broken inside of me, you know? Like the part of me that used to care about him—hell, the same part that used to care about me, even. I've repressed it for so long, what if it never comes back? I have these weird thoughts, kind of like daydreams. I can be tuning my guitar, or playing a piece on the piano and zone out. Suddenly I’ll be with my dad, he’s beating my ass and I’m letting it happen, but he doesn’t tire like normal. He keeps whaling on me until I lose consciousness, but I can make out that he’s shouting at me, ‘Why won't you just die?’ Then I think to myself that maybe it would be better if I did.”