Promise Me Not

Payton

Now, July 5

“I’ve wanted to dance with you like this since that day.” Mason’s confession slams into me, and I think a small gasp slips through my lips. “I didn’t know it then, but I did.”

His mind strayed just as mine had, and it’s as confusing as it is predictable.

As comforting as it is overwhelming.

“I miss you,” he whispers, and my eyes fly open.

My breath hitches and I tense, but his hands continue sliding along my lower back, the heat of his palm calming and rattling at the same time.

“Mason, please.”

He’s quiet for several seconds, and I realize we’re no longer moving but standing still as the room moves around us. He pulls back, his thumb gliding along my jawline, those dark eyes locking on mine in desperation.

Tension tugs at my ribs, and I squash my thoughts, but it’s too late, and now my pulse is jumping higher and higher. It’s fucking flying.

“I can’t do this.” I tear away, rushing over and grabbing my camera, hastily stuffing it in my bag.

Mason appears beside me, gripping my shoulder gently, but I spin away, and what was meant to be a brisk walk turns into a full-on run. People turn to stare, but I ignore them, pretending not to hear the harsh slap of his shoes following behind.

Brady catches my eye on my exit, and he abandons the girl he had pinned to the wall in a heartbeat. I don’t know what he sees, but I know the moment he realizes I’m not the only person running out of the party. His gaze flicks behind me, widening before slicing back to mine.

He gives a curt jerk of his chin, and I’m out the door but not before hearing the scuffle behind me.

There’s a bit of a crash, followed by a shout. “Let me go!”

“Can’t.”

“Swear to god, Brady!”

The door slams closed behind me, and I dart to the left, doing my best to disappear into the darkness in case the quarterback escapes the arms of his lineman.

Unfortunately for me, I wasn’t fast enough, and Brady must have underestimated Mason’s need to get to me, as footsteps pound the payment at my back. There’s no escaping now, so I brace for the onslaught.

“I said I can’t do this!” I shout, preparing to throw out any excuse in the book as I whirl around, but the words die on my lips, my mouth clamping shut.

Mason isn’t behind me. Chase is.

He jerks to a stop, his palms rising as if he’s just come across a wild bear, but when my shoulders fall with instant relief, he tucks his hands in his pockets, offering a gentle smile. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

He glances toward the parking lot and back, a single brow raised. “Wanna get out of here?”

“Yes.”

Just like that, he turns, and with eager steps, I follow.

Chase drives for several minutes, coming to a stop on a dark street in front of one of those giant, industrial-style rolling doors.

“Are you selling me off to drug lords?”

He doesn’t respond, just chuckles and hops out. Reluctantly, I follow, running to catch up with him and crossing my arms as we walk toward the building.

“I feel like a guy in overalls with bodies buried under his porch is about to walk out with a wrench in his hand.”

Chase throws his head back on a laugh, glancing my way with a grin. “That’s oddly specific.”

“My imagination is pretty thorough.”

Shaking his head, he steps inside first, and I stick close behind.

Thankfully, it’s not so terrifying once we enter. There are actual lights on the inside, but the small vacant desk that comes into view is kind of concerning.

My steps slow, but then low voices reach us, and I look to the far right to find a few people kicking back on a sofa pushed up against the wall.

They look up as we enter and smile.

“Hey, welcome to Riot and Rage,” the guy says as the girl climbs to her feet.

“You guys come to let off some steam?” she asks.

I look to Chase, who grins from me to her. “Yup. For two, please.”

“You got it.”

Ten minutes and a scary release of liability form later, we’re standing in the center of a giant room wearing goggles, gloves, and coveralls so long I had to roll mine four times.

A bat hangs from my hands, and a crowbar hangs from his.

There are random doors and mismatched lamps sitting atop hideous end tables. Mirrors hang in a mess of discoordination from one wall to the next, and there’s an ancient flat-screen sitting in the center, just right there on the hard floor.

“So…” I draw out, tucking the bat to my chest. “What now?”

Chase smiles, then turns, bringing the crowbar down on an old fax machine.

I yelp as little plastic pieces fly every which way, my jaw dropping with a laugh a moment later. “What the…”

“Did you think we were coming in here to decorate?” he teases, spinning and taking out a lamp. He moves silently from item to item, a shadow falling over his features as he goes.

I glance around the space, unease settling in my gut.

A loud groan escapes Chase, so I peek behind me, finding him heaving over a broken picture frame, the random couple’s smiles purposely scratched out, and it clicks.

This place, it’s set up for very specific reasons, filled with all the things that can morph in your mind into exactly what you need them to…the object of your inner issue, daring you to destroy it.

To take it by the horns and snap it right off the bull’s head.

I turn, my eyes immediately going to a long mirror on the wall opposite me.

It’s wide and framed in cheap plastic, smudges of who knows what decorating the center. I walk closer, my hands shaking as I pause directly in front of it.

My eyes lift, catching on the girl on the other side.

She’s…broken and weak. A screwup. Fat by other people’s terms.

She’s everything her mother said she’d be…

My jaw clenches, and I close my eyes, tension radiating through my every pore.

A warm hand brushes against my back, and my eyes fly open, meeting a pair of green ones in the mirror. After a moment, Chase nods and steps back.

It takes me a second to mentally check out or maybe check back in, I don’t know, and face my reflection.

I’m not cowering in a corner, begging for someone’s approval.

I’m not killing myself to fit someone else’s standard.

I’m not the girl I used to be.

I think I’m better.

I lift the bat, shattering the image, staring as piece after piece of the girl before me disappears until there’s nothing but a dingy white wall in its wake.

The broken shards crunch and crash to the floor, and an unexpected laugh leaves me. I look over my shoulder, my smile far too wide as I meet Chase’s gaze.

He smirks, and then it’s on.

We take our weapons to everything in the space, trading and tossing, and it’s fucking liberating.

I can’t wipe the grin from my face, and when we’re done, kicking off our coveralls, I finally pause a second to breathe, take Chase in, and start laughing.

He raises a brow, and I shake my head, my hand going to my stomach I’m laughing so hard now. “What’s so funny?” he asks.

“Us. This.” I motion between us, moving my hand up and down. “We literally came from a wedding. You’re wearing slacks and a button-down with black smears all over your face and you have a mace ball perched on your shoulder like it’s normal. I’m in a dress with curls that took way too long and more makeup than I’ve worn in a year, holding a freaking sledgehammer. We look like Harley Quinn and The Joker.”

Chase laughs, too, and then throws his arm over my shoulder, leading us back toward the front. “Nah, we look good.” He beams, and my own mood matches.

Not even the cold night air slapping me in the face as we exit can kill the buzz in the air, and it’s still just as present when, thirty minutes later, we’re seated on the tailgate with milkshakes and a basket of garlic fries.

I sigh for what seems like the millionth time, and Chase just chuckles beside me.

“I take it you’ve never been to a rage room before?” he asks, tossing me a hoodie before yanking one over his dress shirt and closing the cab doors.

He rejoins me, and I take a break from my shake to answer.

“Definitely not. My mother would have an aneurysm at the mere mention of it. She was a ‘work your frustrations out in the gym’ kind of woman, but you know, only if it’s me. Anything to get me to burn off calories, even if I hadn’t consumed any that day.” I frown, thinking about it. “She never worked out and looked flawless all the time. It was annoying.” I look up suddenly, wincing. “Sorry. I’m always such a mood killer.”

“Nah,” Chase disagrees with a smile.

“What about you? Beat things up often?”

He digs a spoon into his sundae, shaking his head. “Never needed to before. I get to knock people around or get knocked around on the field enough.”

I tip my head at him. “Usually.”

He looks over, pausing with a spoon at his lips.

“You usually get knocked around enough that it helps tame the beast.” I try to make light of the subject that’s not really light at all.

It sort of works, and the chuckle that leaves Chase is only slightly strained.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” A heavy sigh escapes him, and he frowns at his pile of caramel syrup as if it’s personally offended him. “Usually.”

Lifting my camera from where it’s sitting in my lap, I hold it up and take his picture.

Chase’s head snaps up, a small glare fixed on his face.

I shake it back and forth. “Because you look so tragic. I figure I’ll show you this when you’re back to your happy-go-lucky self.”

“I’m not happy-go-lucky.”

“Yeah, you are.” I pause, testing the waters a little to see if maybe he wants to talk about it. “Or you were, but not so much lately.”

Chase’s brows dip even lower, but his features quickly go blank as he faces forward. “It’s not what you think,” he finally says.

“I mean, it would be okay if it was.” I lift a shoulder. “If anyone knows how little sense the way missing or wanting someone you can’t have messes with you, it’s me. Half the time, I feel like a rubber band, stretching and stretching, only to snap right back to where I started with a sting that wasn’t there before. It’s…exhausting.” I tense, peeking at him from the corner of my eye to find him staring. “I didn’t mean to throw that at you. I’m fine, really. I’m just—” Cutting myself off, I turn to Chase, my lips flattening, and before I know what I’m doing, I’m running my mouth to him once again. “That’s a lie,” I tell him. “I’m not fine. Sometimes things feel okay, but I’m never fine. I don’t even like that stupid word. Fine. What does it even mean?”

I stand up, pacing the length of the bed of the truck.

I never thought things could get worse, but here I am, twelve months past what I thought was the worst day of my life, and guess what? Things. Are. Worse.

Things are worse, and like my mother always said, it’s all my fault.

My life is crumbling at my feet, and I’m the one holding the hammer.

I’m losing it.

A flash blinds me, and I look to Chase in confusion to find his phone in hand, a soft smile on his lips. “Because you look so tragic right now. Figured I’d show it to you when you’re back to your pretend happy-go-lucky self.”

It takes a moment, but a laugh leaves me, and I drop back onto the tailgate and bump his shoulder the way he did mine last time.

Picking up my milkshake, I give it a little swirl before taking another drink.

We sit in silence for a while, and it’s nice. Relaxing, even if I did have a moment a handful of minutes ago.

I’m so lost in the peace the night provides, I jolt when the warmth of Chase’s skin brushes against my own. My eyes fly to his, but his are on his knuckle as he drags it along the side of my mouth.

A small frown builds, and when he looks up, he lifts his hand to show a dab of ice cream before he uses a napkin to wipe it clean.

I hold my shake out in his direction. “Wanna trade?”

Chase looks down at his sundae, a glare growing before he passes it my way. “Yeah.” He sighs. “I think I’m ready for something new.”

The way he says it, I’m not so sure he’s talking about ice cream, but that’s none of my business.

I take the sundae and eat every bite. Tomorrow, I’ll regret it, but isn’t that the story of my life?

I used to think I was a model of self-control.

I’m not.

I’m a mess of self-sustaining tendencies and destroying everything I touch.

I’m a damn plague.