Promise and Punishment, page 1
Copyright © 2023 by Vivian Mae; Midtown Publishing LLC
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This novel is in its entirety a work of fiction, which means all names, characters, organizations, businesses, etc… are either work of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. If there is any resemblance to a person, living or dead, it is coincidental.
For more information, contact:
vivianmaewrites@gmail.com
Editor: The Romantic Editorial Services
Cover Design: Midtown Publishing LLC
Image @ Shutterstock
First Edition: March 2023
To those who are often the other half of a story that never gets told…
I see you, I hear you.
Your story matters.
This book contains content that some may find sensitive, including mental health disorders, emotional abuse, domestic abuse, drug abuse, childhood trauma, and death. It is filled with explicit mature sexual content which is recommended for readers who are at least eighteen years old.
Promise and Punishment is book 2 in a continuing series and MUST BE READ in order. If you’ve picked this book up first, you MUST READ Lawsuit and Leather by Vivian Mae, book 1 prior to starting book 2. Otherwise, it will not make any sense as it is a trilogy to be read in order.
Thank you, please enjoy!
Adele - “Easy On Me”
Palace - “Never Said It Was Easy”
Sabrina Claudio - “Holding the Gun”
Harry Styles - “Adore You”
Kali Uchis & Rico Nasty - “!aquí yo mando!”
Demi Lovato - “Cool for the Summer”
Dua Lipa - “Hallucinate”
Maggie Rogers - “Light On”
Coldplay - “Warning Sign”
The Weeknd - “Call Out My Name”
H.E.R. - “Let Me In”
Sabrina Claudio - “Protect Her”
— HAMPTONS —
Alton Ellis - “Breaking Up is Hard to Do”
Bobby Pickett & The Crypt-Kickers - “Monster Mash”
Hailee Steinfeld - “Coast”
Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell - “Good Lovin’ Ain’t Easy to Come By”
Majid Jordan - “Waves of Blue”
David Cook - The Time of My Life
Mazzy Star - “Fade Into You”
ASTN - “Tidal Wave”
— Manhattan —
Xavier Omär - “Afraid”
Billie Eilish & ROSALíA - “Lo Vas A Olvidar”
Alina Baraz - “The One”
LEISURE - “Til the End of Time”
Cyn - “I’ll Still Have Me”
Adele - “Love You in the Dark”
Prologue - Parker
14 years earlier (2008)
On the corner of Palmetto Street and Wilson Avenue was the equivalent to what I always thought was a deli. I learned quickly that it wasn’t.
“A tortaria is much better than a deli,” Mateo Gomez, who owned La Parrilla—the non-deli on said corner—would always remind me. “Delis are cold, you smell nothing when you walk inside one. But here, you smell the chorizo before you even get to the door. I should charge for that alone, not just for my tortas,” he overexaggerated the word chorizo, pinching his fingers in the air.
He wasn’t wrong, but any time I tried to say torta, let alone tortaria, my pronunciation made him laugh, so I avoided it all together. “Why can’t I just call them sandwiches?” I’d ask, knowing damn well the question made him sigh.
“Because these are better. They’re hot, filled with potatoes, salsa, crema, and pork. It’s not just a sandwich, it’s a meal.”
“A meal between two slices of bread…” I maintained.
“Wrong! Not bread, a telera! It’s flat but sweet, como las nalgas de mi esposa.” Mateo always said this, but I never knew what it meant. Gloria, his wife—who spent more time cooking than eating—would smack Mateo with a dish towel whenever he’d repeat himself.
I tried not to argue with him, and honestly it was more playful banter than anything else. Mateo was the only man who’d hire me, a twelve-year-old kid, who didn’t know a lick of Spanish on this side of Brooklyn.
“I’ll give you ten bucks to run the route and deliver all the papers with my coupons. If anyone mentions your name while ordering food, I’ll give you an extra ten cents per order. You bring in one hundred customers, and I’ll add you to the Wall of Fuego.” That was Mateo, he was all about the recognition, and for some reason he thought he could entice me the same way. “You could be up there with Oscar De La Hoya. Think about it, güero!” He’d demonstrate, pointing to his collection of autographed portraits that hung adjacent to the cash register.
Güero… that was his nickname for me, which was better than gringo, the name some kids tried to call me at school, but I’d never let them. Mateo was different though, more endearing, like a buddy, not a bully. I just wish I knew how to say the word right.
“Wet... toe,” I attempted, repeating the nickname as I rode my bike down the street, tucking Andy, the stuffed giraffe, back into the blue Ikea bag I carried the newspapers in.
I knew Mateo wanted to ask about the plush animal, and why it said Kings County Pride on its little green shirt, but I didn’t want to explain it. How could I admit that the toy wasn’t mine, or that I wasn’t actually going on the paper route first, but instead, riding to Gemma’s house to drop it off?
That’d be a lot to explain. If I told him about the giraffe, then I’d have to tell him how I got it, about how much work it took to win him at the county fair, a prize that wasn’t for me, but rather a girl. No, not just any girl, but Gemma, my best friend, the very person who left Andy at my house during a sleepover two nights ago.
And if I told Mateo that, then I’d have to explain why it was so important to drop this off first; admitting that Gemma was more of a priority than his potential lunch crowd. He thought I was working to get onto the Wall of Fuego, but in reality, it was because of Gemma.
It was for her… just like how Andy was for her. Anything and everything typically was, though this in particular was special. I was saving money to buy Gemma a birthday gift in the coming months, and that was huge. What would Mateo think if I confessed that I was getting her a ring, one with a small, silver butterfly at its center? I think I’d die from the admission.
He’d surely ask if I had a crush on her, and I’d have to tell him no, but that’d be a lie, and I didn’t like lying. It made me feel sick. But even if I said no, it technically wasn’t a lie, because what I felt was far more than just a crush. I wouldn’t know how to explain it to him, because maybe I wasn’t sure exactly what it was I felt.
Like… at any moment I could explode.
Perhaps, I’d explain how my stomach always felt full, and how food always tasted dull when I wasn’t with her. Or, I could tell him how I didn’t even have space in my head to think about how Gemma made me feel, because all I felt and thought of… was her.
What a big feeling in itself, and the most confusing jigsaw of emotions I’d ever confronted.
With her, my insides felt as though they were made of marble, but also of boiled water. I was melting and stiffening all at once, and at times I thought I was going crazy. What if I told her that myself? “Gemma, you make me crazy.” How would that sound? Or, “Gemma, I think I’m failing seventh-grade math because you sit in front of me, and all I do is stare at the back of your braided, auburn hair.”
I’d sound like a psycho, but considering how much we loved horror movies, it may not have been such a bad label to give myself. Honestly, I wasn’t sure what I’d say to Gemma, but I’d tell her everything after surprising her for her thirteenth birthday.
Pulling up to Gemma’s apartment, I made my way through the old steel door that creaked as it opened. It wasn’t safe to leave my bike outdoors, so I carried it up four flights of stairs—bike on one shoulder, bag of papers on the other. I didn’t mind it, considering each arduous step allowed me an opportunity to think. I had plenty of time to know what I’d say to Gemma on her birthday, but I wasn’t even sure what I’d say to her now. Hi? What’s up?
Hello sounded too simple, but everything else felt equally lame in my head. The thought of even seeing her face made me nervous, especially as I approached her door, regretting my stupid outfit. What was I thinking, wearing a grey shirt with a comic book cover on it? Amazing Fantasy, issue fifteen? The first appearance of Spider-Man swung across my small chest, and it made me feel like an asshole.
I blocked the thought out, knocking three times before placing my hand right back at my waist. I decided to play it cool, delivering the perfect greeting as the door opened.
“Wha’d up?” My voice cracked, shifting from squeaky to deep. I sounded silly but was saved by the fact that it wasn’t Gemma who answered the door.
“Parker?” Mrs. Harrison looked down at me, but not before poking her head out. She peeked from side to side, checking for anyone else in the hall, looking both nervous and hopeful. When her eyes came back to me, they appeared more sunken in than I remembered. They were dark, but not as much as the living room behind her.
“I’m sorry to bother you, Mrs. Harrison.” I couldn’t tell if she had just woken up, or if she hadn’t slept at all, and
the way she clutched onto her robe seemed as though she could tear it apart at any moment. “I’m here for Gemma…”
“For, Gemma?” she asked. “Where are you taking her?”
“Nowhere ma’am,” I clarified, unsure of her interpretation. “I only meant that I’m here to see Gemma. Not take her.”
She seemed confused. “Did she call you?”
“No…”
“So, you don’t know where she is then?”
“I didn’t know she was gone,” I stated, uneasy by the way she asked me. She was stern, and the newly formed lines around her lips made me guess that they were born from years of frowning. I had only seen her a few times before, but not once had we ever really talked. This was by far the longest time we’d spent together alone, and I could truly see the color of her hair now, its auburn hue less vibrant than Gemma’s, held in a pink scrunchy that matched her robe. She was pretty, but faded like an old photograph, her steely eyes scaring me with an intensity that made me want to leave.
“She’s probably out looking for him…” she muttered.
“For who?” I asked.
Mrs. Harrison considered her answer, staring at me, then down at my bag of papers. “Never mind…” She opened the door wider. “You can come in and wait for her, if you want.”
I looked past her again and into the house, the place where the light of day seemed lost. In the hall where I stood, it felt like early morning, but behind Mrs. Harrison, it seemed like dusk.
“Ok…” I reluctantly stared back at the stairs hoping Gemma would appear at any moment. I wanted to wait for her, considering she would be desperate to have Andy back. I pulled my bike to bring it inside, but Mrs. Harrison stopped me.
“No bikes in the house,” she quickly instructed. “Leave that and the bag outside. I don’t know where it’s been.”
I didn’t respond. I only did as I was told, leaning it against the wall outside. I pulled Andy out, keeping my attention on the scuffed white tips of my converse as Mrs. Harrison stepped aside. Right when I passed, she shut the door behind me, magnifying the darkness that surrounded us.
“Do you know when Gemma will be back?” I asked, taking a seat on the brown tufted couch in the living room. It was corduroy and scratchy, but once I sat, I didn’t move. The T.V. was on, playing Terminator 2, and in it, Arnold Schwarzenegger pulled a shotgun out of a box of roses, shooting Robert Patrick in the chest. The sound was low, but the static in the room felt deafening. Mrs. Harrison didn’t answer me, she was in the kitchen for a moment before bringing me a glass of water.
“She’ll be here soon enough, I’m sure,” she finally responded, sitting by my side, placing the glass on an old whicker coffee table. I picked it up, noticing it was a recycled jelly jar with Tom and Jerry on it.
I took a small sip. “I hope so. I’m kinda on a schedule.” The water was warm, and Robert Patrick was now shooting back at Arnold.
“And what are you doing today?”
“I’m out delivering papers for Mr. Gomez. Would you like one?”
“Not particularly,” she sighed, “but thanks.” She reached for my water and took a sip herself. “Why are you out delivering papers?”
“Just for… some extra money.”
“Money?” Mrs. Harrison laughed, and for the first time actually smiled. “Don’t your parents have enough of that?”
“Yes,” I answered. “But that’s their money, not mine.” I didn’t like when people assumed I was made of money. Mom didn’t raise me like that, and in fact, I never wanted anything that I didn’t earn myself. “I’m trying to save as much as I can.”
“Really?” She cocked her head, no longer looking at the screen, but directly at me. “And what could you possibly be saving for? More trading cards?”
I wasn’t sure if I wanted to answer, but it felt like a good idea to do so. This was Gemma’s mom after all, and that meant she was important, and if she knew how I felt, then maybe she could explain it to me, or at least, say it in a way that would make everything less confusing.
“It’s for Gemma,” I blurted out. “I’m saving to get her a birthday gift.”
“A birthday gift?” she grinned. “You are a sweet boy, aren’t you?” She combed a piece of hair away from my forehead and studied me for a minute. I was thirsty again, but the water felt far, and I wasn’t sure if it was considered mine anymore after her sip. “Wait here,” she lowered her voice, lifting herself off the couch to enter the kitchen. She clattered around, grabbing a few items as I watched more of the Terminator. The kid that played John Connor was running in a garage, kickstarting a dirt bike to get away from the killer robots. I wanted to do the same, but thought it’d be rude. What would Gemma think if her mother told her I ran away? That I was scared? Or, as my shirt painfully demonstrated, that I was some small, child?
I forced myself not to move an inch, as Mrs. Harrison returned with a small purse, resting her knee on the cushion near my lap. “Have you ever smoked a cigarette before?” she unzipped the bag.
“No,” I shook my head.
“Good. It’s a bad habit. It’ll kill you, you know?” I nodded as she dug into her purse, pulling out a red and white packet of opened Marlboros. “But then again, some of the best things in life will kill you.” She tapped on the pack, removing a cigarette and sticking it between her lips. She reached back into her purse, pulling out a small book of bar matches, placing them into my hand.
“What are these for?”
“You want to earn money, right?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’m going to pay you to light my cigarette for me,” she gestured with her chin. “You can do that, right?”
“I could figure it out,” I said half-confidently.
She puckered her lips. “Then strike it. And hold it for me until I’m done.”
I looked away and back at the matches, flipping open the thin white lip of its cover. The matches inside were smaller than I expected, their stems almost papery with a white tip. I grabbed one, peeling it off from the rest. Mrs. Harrison leaned forward as I placed the tip near the striker, swiping it once. The match nearly bent in half, it felt so flimsily. I tried again, this time, sandwiching the match between the striker and the front cover. I pulled it through, igniting a small blue flame that lit the space between our faces.
“Good job, sweetie,” she bent closer, meeting the tip of her cigarette to the match. “Now hold still.”
She took a few drags, the flame in my hand contouring the swollen, red puffs under her eyes. If I had to guess, I’d assume she’d been crying, not only from the way she looked, but from how the energy itself was built into the walls around me. Just like how her smoke filled the air, so did something else. I felt it as soon as I entered, as if the static from the T.V. floated across the room and raised the hair along my arms. This home was scary, and I didn’t like it.
The flame on the match inched closer to my finger, its heat drawing nearer to my skin. I wanted to shake it away, but did as I was told, keeping it in place until it reached the tip of my thumb.
“Shit!” I finally pulled away, dropping the match in the process. Immediately, I pulled my thumb into my mouth, sucking it.
Mrs. Harrison said nothing; she simply scooped up the match and dropped it into the jelly jar.
“You hurt?” she finally asked, resting her elbow on the back of the sofa.
I knitted my brows. “I think I’m ok…”
“Good. Now why are you really here?” She took a long moment to look at me, then down towards Andy.
“Gemma forgot this.” I lifted Andy while my thumb continued to throb. I tried to hide the pain, not wanting to worry her, but even if I showed it, I wasn’t sure if she’d even react.
“This ol’ thing?”
“It’s her favorite,” I pulled him back to my chest.
“Oh, I know it is. I know all about how you won it for her. How you spent hours and hours at the county fair. You’re not wrong, poor girl can’t sleep without it.”
“Yes,” I laughed nervously, fighting the smoke that entered my nose.
