Broken Promises (Burning Mistakes Book 1) Page 3

  CHAPTER TWO

  Micah

  Present

  The specks of water splashing in every direction from the crappy plumbing seem to be the only sound I’m able to focus on as I try to convince myself that I can go through with my night’s plan. I want our evening to be flawless. I’ve spent days trying to figure out the perfect destination and choosing the perfect timing, yet it turns out that I’ve fucked up again. I swear I’m either shit out of luck or horrible at planning things because there’s always something ruining the moment.

  “I should just do this another day,” I mutter, grabbing a few stacks of paper towels. I do my best to clean up the greasy black grime I left on the metallic fittings when I washed the motor oil off my hands.

  Jackson, our chief, is constantly on our backs reminding us to clean up after ourselves. I can’t even count the number of times he’s called us into a meeting and slapped each and every one of us in the back of the head, complaining that his fifteen-year-old son and sixteen-year-old daughter are less disgusting than we are. And he’s right. We’re pretty much a bunch of pigs when it comes to cleaning up. I tried to convince him that hiring a maid would make his life a lot easier a few months ago, but I ended up earning myself an even bigger slap, so I dropped the idea.

  When I’m done cleaning up my and everyone else’s mess, I grip the sink and lower my head. Ten hours of having the guys rooting for me and five minutes alone was all it took for my courage to fly out the window; which was kind of ironic, because she is outside that same window waiting for me to come out for our Plan B date night.

  Plan A was supposed to be dinner at Delizia, the pizza place I took her for our first official date, and then a ride down the back-wood roads on my Ducati to look at the fireflies. Plan A derailed when Jones and Cameron called the chief at eight in the morning to let him know that they both had caught some sort of stomach bug and couldn’t come in.

  Since the rule is that the last guy’s in need to cover, Vincent and I were called in for work, cutting our seventy-two-hour break short, which really sucks.

  I normally crave the extra hours. I love my job, and the more I put in, the quicker I’ll be done with my probation. At the rate I’m going and with all the extra shifts I’m accruing, in a little less than three months, I’ll be a fully trained driver engineer.

  Ending up a firefighter was never part of my life’s plan, but being able to work on fire engines was the best of both worlds. Cars and motorcycles have always been a passion of mine. When I wasn’t seeking trouble after school, I’d be in the backyard garage of The Devil’s Gate, the bar my dad used to visit too many nights a week, working on any type of engines the owner, Ethan Montgomery, allowed me to get my hands on. Among his other side-businesses, he used to do cheap jobs under the table for his regulars and taught me everything he knew. He started with the easy stuff, regular maintenance like tire and oil changes, brake pads and air filters… but as I got older, my thirst for knowledge exceeded his abilities. Ethan contacted an old friend who taught at Saratoga’s Community College and pushed me to pursue my dreams.

  SCC is where I met Vincent. While I was earning my Motor Power Technician’s degree, he studied auto body repair. During the first few weeks of our first semester, we were forced to work together on a joint program project. I was a solitary guy. Meeting new people and mingling just for fun was never my thing, so the idea of having to work with a hot head even if it was just for a few weeks pissed me off more than anything.

  It turned out that Vincent Bankes and I hit it off instantly. A little less than a year into our degree, we started planning the opening of our new shop.

  One night, many months later, changed everything.

  Three Years Ago

  “So—” Vincent takes a seat on my beat-up couch and sets his boots on the table. “If you could pimp out a fire truck any way you want to, what would you do?”

  “Oh, I don’t know… set it on fire, maybe?”

  His brows pinch together at the bitterness in my tone.

  “What?”

  I can tell by the look on his face that Vince was either expecting something more enlightening or he wants me to explain what my problem is. Hopefully, it’s not the latter.

  “I don’t know?” I grumble. “How about a GPS system with remote-controlled traffic lights?”

  “Don’t they have those already?”

  “My guess is no,” I mumble against the glass top of my beer bottle. I earn myself another frown. “How the fuck should I know anyway?”

  His eyebrows dip lower, tracing three deep lines on his forehead. The truth is, I know a lot more than I’m letting on. I just want to change the subject. Unfortunately, asking to talk about something else will raise suspicions and suspicions raise questions to answers I don’t want to give.

  I exhale loudly. “Okay smartass, what would you do?”

  Vincent is a graffiti artist with painting skills that are unlike anything I’ve ever seen before, and if there’s one thing I know for sure it’s that he’d do a wicked multi red-toned paint job.

  “Twenty-eight-inch wheels with a six-inch drop. A hydraulic system, HID lamps—”

  “You know those are illegal when they aren’t stock,” I argue.

  “We’d be fucking firemen, Micah, we could just ask the cops for an exemption.”

  “I doubt being a firefighter means you’re above the law.”

  He shrugs. “It’s hypothetical, who the hell cares?”

  “Fine, HID lamps it is. What else?”

  “Okay, picture this.” He puts his hands up in the air, and I watch him attentively as he outlines the entire project in his head. Vincent Bankes is officially in his element. “A metallic candy-apple red base coat with matador red highlights and a gradient tricoated layer of black cherry on the lower half.”

  “Dude, that would be fucking wicked.”

  “Right? And instead of chrome trimmings, I’d have them coated a light gun-metal grey.”

  “It would be hands down the sexiest fire truck in Pennsylvania.”

  “Pennsylvania?” he argues. “Fuck that, it would be the sexiest truck on the fucking planet.”

  I snicker, but he’s probably right.

  “So—” I swallow the rest of my beer and place the bottle on the table in front of me. “Humor me for a sec here. When did you start thinking about a career switch?”

  “A while ago,” he admits, and I shoot him a surprised look. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I still want us to open our shop. I just… I want to do something more. You know?”

  I don’t. Not at all. Unlike human life, engines are predictable. You can improve and upgrade their performance, their operation follows a logical plan, they’re fixable and if not, they have no value: a pile of rusty metal.

  Completely dispensable.

  “So you’re telling me having a bunch of women fawning over you doesn’t sound appealing?” Vince debates to my silence.

  “No. What I’m saying is that being a firefighter never struck me as something I’d want to do. I’m also adding that switching careers over the possible gain of a harem of chicks is a stupid idea.”

  “Who said I was doing it for the women?”

  I shake my head, wondering how our hypothetical conversation about pimping rescue trucks suddenly became real. Vincent isn’t one to simply throw ideas around. Everything he does has been outlined and thought out more than once. It’s why he’s so talented, it’s why he’s at the top of his class, it’s also how I know that he’s seriously contemplating the idea of switching his career path.

  “What does Leah think?”

  He snorts. “You know her. She’s all about: you can stare but you can’t touch.”

  “I’m not talking about the women, you horny bastard. I’m talking about the career switch.”

  He has a point though, Leah is one bizarre specimen. The girl has no insecurities. I’ve never met someone like her before. She’s hot as hell. Blonde hair, brown eyes, a
perfectly toned body, but the best part of her is that aside from her choice of clothing, which I have to admit is a little out there, she isn’t the fake kind of chick that seeks out attention. She couldn’t give a flying fuck about what other people think of her and when it comes to women; Vince only has eyes for his own.

  “She said that as long as I’m happy, agreed to having her take pictures of me stripping from my uniform, and allowed her to have poster-sized calendars of me hanging at her station, I should do whatever the fuck I want.”

  That totally sounds like something she would say. “You two make a great pair.”

  “I think so too.”

  I grin at his pussy-whipped face.

  “Although I’m not sure about the idea of having so many people looking at me while they get inked.”

  I puff a snort. “You’re really serious about this, aren’t you?”

  He nods. I remember a few months ago when he showed me his old sketchbooks; they go as far back as middle school. The guy has mad skills. Arts and aesthetics are and have always been a passion of his. But this, this is entirely different. He has a look in his eye I’ve never seen before. It’s more than something he wants to do, it’s almost as if it’s something he needs to do. “Don’t you think it would be nice to do something to help people?”

  “I thought that was the plan for the shop,” I argue.

  Vince’s friendship has grown to mean more than any other relationship I’ve had, if the shop isn’t part of our future anymore: then so be it. His happiness is far more important, and I’ll support him regardless of the decisions he makes. But there’s no way in hell he will convince me that battling fires on a daily basis is in my future.

  “It was—it is. Dude, all I’m saying, is that if I could do something to save someone’s life, this is what I’d do. And I know you well enough to know that it’d be a perfect fit for you too.”

  “How many shots did you drink tonight?” I question, frowning. “Me. A fireman? Fuck no. Too fucking shallow for that.”

  “Come on—”

  “I’m serious,” I fire back. “Listen, if they’d ask me to pimp out their engines; I’d do it hands down: airbag suspension with four level settings, an ECU to increase horsepower with a dual NOS tank system—”

  “Nitro boost on a fire truck?”

  “And a flame thrower exhaust system.”

  He chortles. “You’re a dick.”

  “It’s called good fucking irony, and if you weren’t so drunk, you would have caught on.”

  “I’m not drunk. I just think we’d make a great team, that’s all.”

  The muscles in my jaw tense. The subject is hitting too close to home and if he doesn’t stop, I’ll end up saying more about my life than I care to disclose. I need a subject change and fast. “Vince, trust me on this. There’s a reason why I work with engines and not people. I can’t but especially shouldn’t be entrusted with the life of a human being because one way or another, I’ll find a way to screw it up.”

  “That has got to be the stupidest crap that’s ever came out of your mouth, Micah. You’re the first person to step up when shit hits the fan. You’re the most honest person I’ve ever met.” He frowns. “What the hell is going on with you? What’s this really about?”

  “Nothing.” I sigh. I go to my mini-fridge and grab a couple of beers. Popping the caps, I hand him a bottle and take my seat back beside him.

  Vince’s eyes skim my bruised knuckles. He’s concerned. And for the third time since we’ve sat down, I’m convinced he’ll question me about it. He doesn’t. Just like he always does, Bankes chooses to respect my privacy over his curiosity. And for that brief moment, I almost tell him my story.

  Everything about my fucked-up life...

  But then my mind drifts to Aubrey’s piercing blueish-green eyes and I swear the simple thought of her timid smile makes me fucking hard again. It’s a good thing Vince had kept an eye on his sister all night because I definitely wasn’t the only one watching her. But then again it seemed like such a natural thing for him to do. The twins are connected on a completely different level, and I can’t help putting myself in his shoes for a minute… it must have killed him to have her living so far away.

  Everything about Aubrey is perfect. Her face, her body, her ass, her personality, her integrity.

  Beautiful. Pure. Fucking. Perfection.

  “So… how long were you going to keep the fact that you had a hot twin sister a secret from me?” I have secrets of my own, it’s not my place to resent him for not telling me about Aubrey. But right now, I don’t care. I want to know more about her.

  “You knew I had a sister,” he deadpans.

  “Yeah, but you never told me how fucking hot she was.”

  His nostrils flare and I don’t blame him. Vince is right not to trust me. I’m an ass when it comes to women. It all boils down to a nice clean fuck. A promise to call her back, which I obviously never do, and moving on to my next victim.

  “Keep your filthy hands off Aubrey, Lambert. You’re like the dickiest dick on the planet when it comes to women.”

  “Aubrey Lambert,” I muse. “It has a nice ring to it. Don’t you think?”

  “I’m serious. If you even consider laying a finger on her, I’ll cut your balls off.”

  “Dude—” I complain.

  “No.”

  “But, dude—”

  His jaw ticks. “Have I ever told you about Ryan Jamieson?”

  “Does the story involve your sister?”

  He takes a sip of his beer. “What do you think?”

  My brow arches.

  “Right. Well, would you like me to tell you about it?”

  “Depends,” I retort, placing my drink on the table. “Does the story involve me wanting to track him down and kick his ass for hurting your sister?”

  It’s his turn to raise his eyebrow. “What do you think?”

  “Man, I’m just thinking that Aubrey is fucking hot.”

  His distinctive brotherly growl makes me chuckle.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, was that not a rhetorical question?”

  “I’m fucking serious, Micah. My sister is off limits.”

  “Fine,” I respond with a side-smile.

  Vince chucks a pillow at my face and I just laugh back at him. No matter how much I’d love to lose myself inside Aubrey Bankes’ perfect body, it will never happen. His friendship means too much, and the little firefly was too sweet to forfeit.

  Present

  I tried.

  I tried so hard, I was driving myself crazy. What had started as friendship quickly morphed into something I’ve never felt for anyone else. And having Aubrey within reach and not being able to have her was fucking torture.

  She was light. I was darkness.

  Two opposites that couldn’t coexist, yet I wanted to bottle up everything that she was into a small jar and keep her forever.

  An undeserving desire.

  A purely selfish love.

  I tried until I couldn’t anymore.

  For the seventh time in a row, I splash my face with cool water. Droplets cling to my five o’clock shadow, and before wiping them off, I take a long look at myself in the mirror.

  Scared light grey eyes stare back at me.

  They were hers too…

  I have my mother’s eyes. One of the same, my father used to say. To him, they were the eyes of the love of his life. To me, they were eyes of the woman who left us when I was thirteen-years-old; exactly six months after I ruined her and my father’s life. Looking back on it now, however, I have a feeling things had gone bad way before that. I was just the one who gave the last blow.

  After she abandoned our family, my drunken father sunk into an even deeper emotionless state of numbness. He slept all day, drank all evening and his violent temper was bestowed upon me night after night.

  As a result, I became the teenage boy who no matter how hard he tried; couldn’t find the redemption he needed to atone for his
broken promise. My misery was my punishment and I lived to its highest standards.

  I shake my head.

  It’s hard to explain what I’m feeling right now. My stomach is in knots, my mind is reeling, my sweaty palms feel numb…

  I’m ready for this. So ready. But my mind keeps going back to the thought that I don’t deserve the light that is Aubrey Bankes. I have a feeling that sooner or later it’s all going to blow up in my face, and when it does, I’m not sure I’ll be ready for the fall.

  “Yo, bro!” The dull lighting over my head flashes when he bangs on the door. Unfortunately, before I manage to lock Vincent out, the handle turns a quarter of an inch and the door opens. “My sister is out there waiting for you, you dick. What part of ‘if you hurt her, I’ll cut your balls off’ do you not understand?”

  “I doubt having Aubrey wait for me an extra five minute is considered hurting her,” I deadpan.

  What if I can’t do this? What if I can’t be the guy she needs?

  My head slumps and I watch the water dripping from the leaking faucet. Each time it hits the bottom of the porcelain sink, the beads bounce back.

  What’s wrong with me? And why the hell to I feel like someone ran away with my balls.

  Vincent grabs my black New York Yankees cap from off the towel rack and places it on backward over my messy hair. Aubrey has been buying me a new one on my birthday every year. She calls it our running gag. Little does she know that in three years, I’ve never left the house without it. “The whole nervous thing you have going on doesn’t suit you.”

  I glance at the little black velvet box sitting on the small shelf by the mirror. “Shut up, last I recall when you proposed to Leah you were so nervous you almost passed out.”

  “I was running on fumes of a three-day shift. I was tired.”

  “You were pissed-afraid she’d say no.”

  “I was not—you know what, who cares, this isn’t about me. Tell me what’s wrong.”