The Worst Kind of Promise (Riverside Reapers Book 2)

FAYE

“Faye.”

I bristle and nuzzle my head into the hard interior of the car, sluggishly trying to find the least painful angle to rest my neck. I don’t know how people sleep in cars. They’re so uncomfortable, and the rocking movement is giving me motion sickness.

Shaking.

The car’s shaking.

Either a sinkhole is opening up under us, or someone’s trying to rouse me from my non-REM sleep. I’m not sane enough to be awake right now. Mentally, physically, or emotionally. I’m running on two Red Bulls, a bag of Life Savers Gummies, and some questionably flavored beef jerky.

Maybe I shouldn’t have been so…brazen with Kit. Maybe I should’ve waited to discuss our arrangement. I feel bad, even though I know I did the right thing. He hasn’t said anything to me in hours, but that could also be because I’ve been pretending to be asleep. I want to go back to easy banter with him. I want to forget all this awkward tension between us. It makes me want to strangle myself with my seat belt.

“Faye.” That incessant voice, coupled with an impatient inflection, stabs at my ears.

I crack one eyelid open to test the waters, and when I see Kit’s face occupy my entire line of sight, I freeze. Even drenched in darkness, his handsomeness glimmers like the silver lining of a cloud. His breath is minty fresh, and there are notes of masculine undertones in that bergamot scent of his, making him still smell fantastic after eight hours in a car.

“I got you some Junior Mints,” he says, shaking the white box for emphasis. “I didn’t think you’d want a gas station hot dog.”

He’s right. In general, gas station food that’s not packaged or manufactured has no business being sold for public consumption.

Hunger echoes in my belly. “How did you know I liked Junior Mints?” I ask, accepting the candy from him with a grateful smile.

He deposits the rest of the snacks—except for a Kit Kat—in the back of the car, among my scattered luggage. “You were eating them at Hayes’ initiation party,” he explains, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“That was over four years ago.”

Kit unwraps his chocolate, breaking the spine of the Kit Kat. “Don’t you remember the catered desserts we had? You could’ve had any dessert you could imagine, yet you stuck with your half-melted purse mints.”

Halfway to popping said mint in my mouth, I wait to toss it down my gullet. “Is that the first impression you had of me?”

A roguish grin flourishes over Kit’s lips. “Oh, yeah. I was wondering who invited the old lady to our rookie’s party.”

“Hey! I’m not an old lady. Carrying candy around is a hip thing to do nowadays.”

“First off, only old people say ‘hip,’” Kit argues, not bothering to close his mouth as he chews. “Second off, you could’ve at least picked a more appealing candy.”

“More appealing? What’s wrong with Junior Mints?”

“What’s wrong with them? You’re telling me that when you go to the movies, you intentionally buy Junior Mints? Like, not as an alternative because they’re out of everything else?”

I clutch them to my chest like they’re my own flesh and blood. “You know, you’re very judgmental for someone who I saw eat a Hot Pocket after it fell on the ground.”

“In my defense, that was a well-earned Hot Pocket. And it was the last one. Of course I still ate it,” he exclaims, narrowing his eyes at me, though he’s doing a piss-poor job of disguising his smile lines.

I place the hard, smooth outer shell on my tongue and crunch down on it, relishing the gush of mint over my tastebuds. “I’m just saying that I should be allowed to enjoy my ‘old person’ candy in peace if you’re allowed to eat food off the floor like a dog.”

Kit raises his arms in surrender. “You’re right. I should be thanking them for getting rid of your skunk breath,” he jests.

Gasping, I do a quick breath test—which I pass with flying colors, thank you very much—then I jab him in the ribs with my knife hand. “You take it back!”

He winces dramatically. “Ah! Why are your fingers so bony? And why do you always feel the need to resort to physical violence?”

I threaten him with another attack. “Because you’re the only person in this entire world that incites enough annoyance in me to need to resort to physical violence,” I grumble. I think the fumes of my irritation are poisoning my sensibility, because my fingers have this itch to leap into the hard curve of his side and discover whether or not he’s as ticklish as he looks. And that’s bad information for me to have. In fact, anything having to do with Kit’s body is a topic that needs to be stuffed in a safe, smothered in chains, and thrown into the deepest reservoir.

“Being annoying is my friend-given right,” he declares with gusto, devilry twinkling in his eyes.

I swallow another piece of candy, though the sugar doesn’t seem nearly as overpowering as the flame-hot desire boiling in my chest. “You know, I can revoke that title at any moment.”

“You could, but you like me too much.”

He’s right. He’s right, and I hate it. I don’t think Kit fully understands the effect he has on women. I’m pretty sure all he needs to do is bat his lashes and toss in a few flirty smiles to attract hordes of women to him like seagulls flocking to a piece of bread. I bet his pheromones could be weaponized.

“You’re infuriating,” I complain, stowing my Junior Mints in the door compartment. Feet free and legs tingly, I draw my knees to my chest, attempting to find a comfortable position for the next few hours.

Kit flicks his candy wrapper to the floor, then starts the car. “You’re adorable.”

I scoff. “Flattery will get you nowhere.”

“Flattery gets me everywhere.”

Dear God. Breaking things off is easier when your body isn’t fighting you every step of the way. The concerningly high heart rate, the jolting pulse, the sweaty palms, the dry mouth. Kit doesn’t realize how bad I have it for him.

“Not with me,” I say, but my pitch fluctuates to an embarrassing register. “I’m a hard woman to please.”

A knee-weakening smirk strikes me down like a bolt of lightning. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

I feel the aftershocks in the tips of my toes and fingers, feel the subsequent swell of heat reside beneath clammy skin. For the first time, I don’t have a snappy comeback. All I can think about is the kiss we shared in the hotel room—how our lips met each other like long-lost lovers, how our bodies melded together with each stroke and sentiment, how I wanted to chase that Kit high for the rest of my life.

Road weary and in need of a good night’s sleep—or three—I allow myself to drift into unconsciousness as dusk rolls through the sky. The bump and swerve of the road becomes home to me for the rest of the journey, with the occasional stop for the bathroom or more snacks.

The closer we get to our destination, the more nervous I become. This is set for inevitable disaster.