The Lover’s Promise (No Exceptions #3)(13)
Author: J.C. Reed

“My baby.” I looked up to Jett in shock. Tears started to run down my face at the thought that I might be having a miscarriage and lose our child. “What have you done? What have you—?” My voice died in my throat as my eyes fell on his awkward stance—the way he was clenching his stomach in unbearable pain. I strained to make sense of the shock on his face and the pain in those beautiful, green eyes. Jett wasn’t looking at me. Something felt wrong, so very wrong. And then he removed his hand from the wound.

I sucked in a gasp of air as I peered at the flesh wound. Blood as thick as oil paint was pouring from it, and for a moment I just stared at it in disbelief. It was real blood, staining the floor, staining his hand, staining everything.

My legs threatening to give under way, I brushed my fingers over it. It wasn’t my baby. The blood had to be Jett’s. I looked up at him.

“No, Brooke.” He shook his head slowly, grimacing in pain, as he pressed his hands against the wound to stop the bleeding. “What have you done?”

Confused, I followed his line of vision and realized I was holding a knife in my right hand. I gasped in shock and our eyes connected, dismay washing over me.

I had stabbed him.

With disgust, I threw the knife onto the floor.

“Jett!” I screamed and rushed to his side. “Oh, my God. Please no.” Tears began to stream down my face. But it was too late. Jett’s naked body slumped onto the bloodstained floor, his mouth open, his face white, his blood gathering around him in a dark puddle. My bloodied hands touched his face, my heart shattering beyond repair. Somewhere a scream echoed, reminding me of an animal in agony. I recognized it as mine.

JETT

New York City, 2 days earlier

The gang’s residence was located on an industrial property with several three-story warehouses clustered around a big yard, their upper floors converted into generous living space for the members. The first time I saw it fourteen years ago, I was young, rebellious, and uncontrollable, with a fury only a sixteen-year-old could possess. A sixteen-year-old, whose bastard father had kicked him out, apparently unable to control him. When I arrived money and status didn’t matter. The gang had accumulated plenty through their expertise of cyber hacking and other illegal activities. The only currency was courage and a willingness to take risks, no matter how big. I took them all gladly: car races through the city, illegal underground fights—each one earning me a tattoo and the sense of belonging I desperately craved. Whatever I was instructed to do, I considered the task done. And what they prohibited, I still tried. Some said I was reckless, others claimed that I knew no fear. All rumors about me were true. If the stories weren’t enough to hint at my past and the kind of person I was, then the scars on my body could prove it. The benefits of being in a gang were big, the rewards—acceptance and a place I could call home—were even more satisfying. Friendship and loyalty had always meant everything to me, even more than my position as the CEO of Mayfield Realties. I had never valued superficial relationships and contacts. When I decided to marry Brooke, I was ready to leave the gang behind for a second time. This time for real. I was willing to exchange my somewhat chaotic life for something quiet and quaint. At the age of thirty-one, I loved my friends, but more than that I loved Brooke. I wanted to start a family and become a husband to Brooke and a father to our unborn child. But events took different turns. Brooke discovered my secrets and broke off our relationship. That she ended things didn’t surprise me. Sure it hurt like a bitch, but more so it angered me. As a man who had slept with hundreds of women and had enough money to buy anything I ever wanted, including women, my ego couldn’t take it. With a past like mine, I could control whatever came her way. I could punch every guy who so much as looked at her, hunt him down if he tried to hurt her, and seek revenge on those who had harmed her.

But fuck, I couldn’t control her.

I was used to getting things my way. When I asked for something, people bent backwards to please me. When I ordered anyone to jump, they did. Except Brooke. In life she was as stubborn and wild as she was in bed, which made her dangerous, if not stupid for not letting me carry out my plans. For the umpteenth time hot waves of anger washed over me.

It was 5:32 p.m. when I walked into the gang’s community living room in desperate need of a retreat, and slammed the door.

“How did it go?” A familiar voice snapped me out of my dark thoughts. My best friend Kenny was lying on the couch, his gaze fixed on the screen of a notebook. Except for us, the room was empty. I could only assume the others were working.

The TV set was switched on and some indie rock band played in the background at a bearable level. It was hard to say whether Kenny was listening to the music or watching TV or doing both at the same time. Ever since his return from Atlanta, his arm in a plaster cast, he had been lounging around, though not taking life easy. Raised in a family of six and being the eldest child, he felt responsible for everyone, which was why he had always tried to be the best at everything including his “career” as a hacker. Obviously he was growing too old to use his youngest brother’s skateboard—an action he deeply regretted after tumbling down a slide that broke his wrist and put his illegal activities on hold for a few weeks.

“Don’t fucking ask.” I slumped on the couch, ignoring his curious stares when I didn’t elaborate. A long moment passed during which I grabbed an unopened beer bottle from the table and knocked off the lid.

“Trouble in paradise, huh?”

I snorted and took a gulp. “I doubt you could call Brooke’s latest antics trouble.”

“That bad?”

I sensed some raised eyebrows, but didn’t peer in Kenny’s direction as I nodded. “It’s a fucking mess, if not a disaster. That woman’s unpredictable.”

Kenny grabbed the remote control and the sound of the music died. The images across the TV set still continued to flicker in fast succession. The news, I realized, pictures of obliterating madness across the world. How fitting!

I felt Kenny’s stare on me, taking in my reaction.

“Was she mad that you proposed or was it the wrong ring?” The hint of amusement in Kenny’s voice was unmistakable. Ignoring him, I took a slow sip and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. The cold liquid felt welcome. Soothing, even. When Kenny continued to regard me, waiting for my reply, I stirred.

“It was neither,” I said finally.

Kenny’s lips twitched. “I told you, man. Women don’t get our pranks. Igniting her hope and then letting her wait for a day longer than necessary was a bad idea.”