Today's Promises

  Judge Me Not series

  I Stand Before You

  Never Doubt Me

  Just Let Me Love You

  The After of Us

  Inevitability duology

  Inevitable Detour

  Inevitable Circumstances

  A Harbour Falls Mystery trilogy

  Harbour Falls

  Willow Point

  Wickingham Way

  Laid Bare novella series

  Exposed: Laid Bare 1

  Unveiled: Laid Bare 2

  Spellbound: Laid Bare 3

  Sacrifice: Laid Bare 4

  Promises series

  Tomorrow’s Lies

  Today’s Promises

  Starting over isn’t easy, especially when the past keeps coming back to haunt you.

  Flynn O’Neill and Jaynie Cumberland thought life outside the foster care system would be a breeze. Now eighteen and sharing a home in the quaint, little town of Lawrence, West Virginia, their new start should be nothing short of idyllic.

  Unfortunately, it is not.

  Flynn and Jaynie are discovering that picking up the pieces of their shattered lives and moving forward is far from easy, particularly when the past keeps rearing its ugly head. And then, as if things weren’t tough enough, they are told the evil Allison Lowry, their former foster sister, may be released from prison early.

  Committed to not allowing that to happen, Flynn and Jaynie begin to search for ways to keep their former tormentor behind bars. In doing so, dark secrets are uncovered. But instead of setting this young couple back, these new developments allow Jaynie and Flynn to grow closer than ever. As their commitment to one another deepens, these two broken people find new purpose and, more importantly, realize the healing they so deeply desire is finally within reach.

  Today’s Promises is the beautiful, stirring conclusion to Flynn and Jaynie’s journey that first began in Tomorrow’s Lies.

  Thank you for taking this journey with me. Flynn and Jaynie’s story is fictional, but, in reality, there are far too many real stories of abuse within the foster care system. Thank you to those individuals I spoke with, who shared their own experiences so readily. This story is for you…and for all the children who have no voice.

  Flynn

  “No, no, no, no…”

  Jaynie thrashes and kicks at my legs, which until a few seconds ago were snugly entwined with hers under the soft homemade quilt on our bed. “Jaynie, wake up!” I cry out.

  I jump back just in time to avoid a sharp kick to the shins.

  Sighing, I reach over to shake her shoulder, to rouse her from whatever horrific nightmare plagues her tonight.

  But before my hand touches her, she wakes on her own.

  Glancing over at me, her expression, clear even in the shadows of our small rented room, turns from panic to relief. “Flynn,” she breathes out. “God, I thought I was alone again. I’m so glad you’re here.”

  “Of course I’m here, sweetheart. Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere, never again.”

  Jaynie starts to cry, her tears soon soaking through the front of her tank top and my T-shirt. “I was so scared, Flynn,” she croaks out.

  “I know, sweetheart. I know.”

  I hold on to her more tightly. It’s all I can do. But it’s good…and it’s more than enough. There’s no need for strung-together words or lengthy explanations. I know all too well the substance of Jaynie’s bad dreams.

  Hell, I have the same nightmares myself—terrible, all-too-real snippets from our time in foster care, brought back to life in living color, deep in the land of bad dreams.

  I did six years’ worth of time in foster care, and Jaynie, she was in for four. If it sounds like I’m talking prison sentences, instead of the foster care system, it’s because living under the state’s too-oft indifferent care, enduring a life of being shuffled from one crappy home to the next… Well, it kind of is like doing time.

  Only thing is you haven’t committed any crime.

  But you sure as hell feel like you did.

  Jaynie lifts my arm. Sliding out from under me, she rises from our bed.

  “Where’re you going?” I ask.

  Turning back to me, she mutters flatly, “Bathroom.”

  When I start to protest, she gives me a small smile. It’s meant to reassure me that all is cool, even though I know it’s not. “I’ll be back in a minute, okay?”

  What can I do? “Yeah, okay,” I mumble.

  I watch as Jaynie pads barefoot the short distance from our bed to the tiny bathroom connected to our room. Her auburn hair sways in time with her slim hips, hips covered by navy-blue boy shorts that were pushed aside earlier so we could engage in a hasty, but intense, coupling.

  It’s like that sometimes with us, desperate and raw, remnants from our past.

  When the bathroom door closes, I hear Jaynie turning the inside latch. She thinks she can lock her secrets in with her, keep them hidden from me.

  But she can’t.

  I know what she does in there. After she empties her bladder, Jaynie will slide down to the cold linoleum floor and binge-eat several candy bars she keeps ferreted away. See, I found her secret stash the other morning, the day after I arrived in Lawrence. I should tell you at this point that I was a few months late in getting here. I should have arrived back in the fall, along with Jaynie. This small West Virginia town was always meant to be our destination…if we ever had to run.

  And we had to. Run, that is.

  I was delayed by our former foster ‘mom,’ a middle-aged woman named Mrs. Lowry, who now sits alongside her equally rotten daughter, Allison, in prison. Mrs. Lowry was blackmailing me, and I ended up stuck in Forsaken, the dying town we used to live in a few miles away, for four extra months.

  But I’m here with Jaynie now, for good.

  So, back to the morning following my arrival…

  After spending the night in Jaynie’s bed—which I guess is now my bed as well, seeing as we live together—I found myself looking for a disposable razor so I could shave. That’s when I came upon a few dozen candy bars. They were stuffed way in the back of the cabinet under the sink, behind several rolls of toilet paper and a few bottles of cleaners. I counted at least forty-seven Hershey’s…and numerous empty wrappers.

  As I sifted through the tattered, chocolate-smudged debris, my intention being to deposit all the trash in the little pail by our toilet, I got to thinking about the nightmare Jaynie had had that morning, just before dawn.

  After I’d rocked her till she was no longer sobbing, she’d excused herself to go to the bathroom, where she spent an exorbitantly long time.

  It only took me a minute to put two and two together.

  I didn’t mention anything to her that morning. And I still haven’t.

  Shit, I understand. Hoarding food doesn’t sound so weird once you’ve experienced true starvation. And starve we did at our last foster care home, especially during the final two months.

  Remembering the hard times, I promptly helped myself to a candy bar that morning, despite the fact Jaynie had, minutes before, yelled into the bathroom that our landlord, Bill Delmont, who also happens to be our employer, had breakfast waiting for us downstairs in his sandwich shop.

  But enough of all that.

  I’m brought back to the present when I hear Jaynie drop something in the bathroom. Scrubbing a hand down my face, I’m torn over how best to help her. It’s hard to help someone, I’ve found, when your own life is a freaking mess.

  I hear Jaynie tearing open a candy bar, and I mutter, “Fuck.”

  Rolling to my back, I rest my arm over my eyes. I’ve eaten plenty lately, but my stomach, as if on cue, begins to rumble. It’s like all this thinking about starving has reminded me of wha
t it actually feels like to go days without food.

  We are still both so fucked-up. Will we ever heal?

  “Fuck it.” I throw back the quilt and head toward the bathroom. “Jaynie…” I rap on the door, once, twice, three times. “Let me in. Please.”

  The door opens slowly, revealing my broken girl. She stands before me, a half-eaten candy bar in one hand and chocolate smudged all over her chin.

  “Busted,” I say. I’m trying to tease her to lighten the mood, but it sounds lame and pathetic.

  “Sorry,” she mumbles.

  I reach out and, using my thumb, wipe away evidence of her binge. “Don’t be silly. There’s no need for apologies. I was only kidding around.”

  “All right, Flynn.”

  When my stomach growls again, there’s no hiding I’m in the same boat as her. We’re like Pavlov’s freaking dogs, I swear.

  “Hey,” I say softly, “think you could spare one for me?”

  Smiling for the first time since I caught her red-handed—or chocolate-chinned, as it were—her deep green eyes sparkle.

  Pulling me into the bathroom, she says, “Just get in here, Flynn.”

  We spend the next ten minutes gorging on chocolate. And the reason is simple—when you’ve lived the lives we’ve lived, all within eighteen short years, you don’t take chances.

  You cover your bases. You live prepared. You eat when you can since you never know when the food might run out, or when it will be withheld from you.

  The bottom line is that you absolutely must be ready for things to turn bad, because they always fucking do.

  “Hey, can I have another?” I ask as I polish off candy bar number three.

  Jaynie hands me five more and then wisely suggests I look for a spot to hide four of them.

  “You know,” she says, shrugging, “in case my stash ever runs out.”

  “I’ll find a good place,” I promise her. “And then I’ll let you know where it is.”

  “You do that, Flynn,” she replies, her eyes holding mine. “But after you tell me, don’t let anyone else know where you hid them. Like…ever.”

  I nod, agreeing to her terms. Hell, it makes perfect sense.

  What can I say—old habits die hard.

  Jaynie

  Bill Delmont, who saved my ass the night I showed up at his door sopping-wet last October, has turned out to be a godsend.

  Bill understands the downtrodden since he’s led a rough life of his own. He was once homeless, but the tide eventually turned for him. He now calls himself a successful businessman. And he is, too; he owns the sandwich shop in Lawrence where Flynn and I work.

  He’s a really good man, the kind of guy who makes it his ongoing mission to give back. That’s why he was quick to give me a job at the Delmont Deli, only an hour after I arrived.

  He helped Flynn when he got here, too. In fact, it was the very next morning, during a big, delicious breakfast Bill had prepared, that he offered Flynn a job manning the counters and cleaning up around here.

  Flynn accepted. He and I divvy up shifts, usually working on alternating days. We were hoping to work together to make double the wages, but a sandwich shop this small, located in a tiny West Virginia town, is not nearly busy enough to justify two employees behind the counter at any one time.

  It happens sometimes, but not on any regular basis.

  That’s why this afternoon, while I’m working my shift, wiping tables in the front of the shop, Flynn is at the counter in the back, perusing the local want ads in the newspaper.

  Bill offered Flynn use of his computer to conduct a search for higher-wage and more-hours employment, but he declined. He believes he’ll have better luck with the local paper.

  When I asked Flynn why he thought the paper would be a better option than checking online, he told me, “Not too many guys searching for the type of work I’m looking into have access to a computer. Some companies post jobs online, sure, but a lot of the local places know that to get a ton of applicants, they better damn well invest in a good old-fashioned want ad.”

  “Makes sense,” I replied, nodding.

  After I finish wiping down the last of the tables, up by the big picture window facing the street, I head to the back of the shop.

  Plopping down on a plushy chair behind where Flynn is still perusing ads, I ask, “Any luck?”

  Spinning his stool to face me, he rubs his hands down his face. “Eh, I don’t know. There aren’t as many listings as I’d hoped.”

  “No good leads, then?” I ask, deflated.

  “Actually,” Flynn says, perking up, “I did see an ad for a pretty decent construction job. It’s Monday through Friday, nine to five. Good wages too, babe.”

  “Well, that sounds promising,” I cross one jean-clad leg over the other. “Where is this promising new job?”

  Flynn lowers his gaze, like he knows I’m not going to like the answer. “Uh, it’s over in Forsaken,” he says.

  I make a face. I don’t like that answer.

  Forsaken isn’t far, but it happens to be the town we ran away from. And frankly, I have no intentions of ever going back. I don’t want Flynn hanging out over there either, whether it’s for work or whatever reason. He was stuck in that blasted town the entire time Mrs. Lowry was blackmailing him.

  “That place holds too many bad memories,” I mutter.

  “Jaynie…” Flynn peers over at me, growing frustration clear on his face. “We could still live here in Lawrence. You’d never have to step one foot in Forsaken if you didn’t want to.”

  “And I don’t,” I scoff, shaking my head.

  “Okay, so what’s the problem?”

  “Well, for one, how do you intend to get to work all the way over there every single day? It’s not like we own a car.”

  “And we’re not ever going to own a car, Jaynie. Not if I can’t land a job paying more than working the counter in this place.”

  I sigh, accepting the truth. “You do have a point,” I reluctantly admit.

  Even though I hate, hate, hate the idea of Flynn working over in that wretched town five days a week, his argument for taking the job is valid. We’ve discussed it numerous times, and the fact remains that unless we plan on living in the single room above the sandwich shop forever, and unless we intend on relying on public transportation indefinitely, we need more cash coming in.

  Flynn’s previously somber expression turns hopeful now that he sees I’m slowly coming around, albeit begrudgingly so.

  “So here’s what I’m thinking…” he begins.

  I can almost see the wheels turning in his head as he works out a plan. It’s endearing, one of the many qualities I missed about him the past four months.

  “Until we’ve saved enough for a car,” Flynn goes on, “I’ll just take the bus. There’s one that heads over to Forsaken every morning and returns every evening. It couldn’t get any easier, Jaynie. Almost like it’s meant to be.”

  Oh, he’s laying it on thick. And I’m not surprised.

  Flynn won’t do this unless I support him. It’s the way we work. And for all the wheels and cogs to run smoothly in this relationship, we also don’t hold each other back. Despite my own misgivings, which are really my own damn issues, I buck up and make myself muster some enthusiasm for Flynn’s plan.

  It’s the least I can do after everything he’s sacrificed for me.

  “Yeah,” I say, my smile forced but present. “Once we have a car, even if it’s some old jalopy, you can use that to get to work. I’d imagine that’d save us a lot on bus fares in the long run, right?”

  “There is that,” Flynn says, shooting me a winning smile.

  I smile back.

  Damn, I am so easy, always won over by Flynn’s charm. And how could I not be? The guy may have been dealt a bad hand in some aspects of life—like losing his brother at his dad’s hands and ending up in foster care—but he sure is blessed in the looks department.

  He wows me every day with his beauty,
inside and out.

  “So,” he goes on, oblivious to my inner fawning, “you’re absolutely sure that you’re fully onboard with me applying for this job?”

  “Yes.” I stand and go to him.

  Wedging my body between his strong thighs, clad in faded jeans, I reach out and touch his shirt. It’s the same steel-gray color as his eyes.

  As I give him a good once-over, I notice something. “Hey, you’re wearing the same clothes you had on when I first met you.” I narrow my eyes, but all in good fun. “Did you plan that to win me over if I bailed on this Forsaken job thing?”

  “No, no way.” He shakes his head, the ends of his sandy-brown hair brushing the back of his tee.

  “Your hair is darker,” I say, touching his face. “And this scruff on your jaw grows in thicker than it used to.”

  “Faster, too,” he adds.

  “Yeah,” I murmur.

  I don’t mention all the other changes, some due simply to better nutrition. Flynn’s gotten much taller, and he’s stronger than the day I met him—much stronger. Working construction while he was stuck in Forsaken has given him broad shoulders and far more muscle mass.

  I’m changed as well. I’m still thinner than I should be, but I do have boobs and an ass, finally.

  Not starving sure does make a difference in a person’s appearance.

  “Oh, the lives we’ve led,” I whisper.

  “And to think we’re only eighteen,” Flynn replies.

  Sighing, I admit, “Some days I feel so much older, Flynn.”

  “Yeah, babe. Me, too.”

  Placing my hands on his shoulders and feeling all the hard muscles flex beneath, I tell this man, “I love you so much, Flynn O’Neill.”

  “I love you even more, Jaynie Cumberland.”

  I touch my nose to his. “Mmm, I don’t know if that’s possible.”

  With his hands trailing down to cup the curve of my ass, he murmurs, “When’s your shift done?”

  Wrought with innuendo, I know Flynn wants me.

  As for me… Well, I pretty much want Flynn all the time. And now is no exception.