Forgotten
Promises
by Jessica Lemmon
Released
January 19th 2016
Loveswept
Loveswept
BlurbIn an edgy, seductive novel hailed by Rachel Van Dyken as “unique and gripping,” Jessica Lemmon introduces the ultimate bad boy . . . and a love that crosses all boundaries.
Morgan Young had a perfect upbringing, and now she’s got a perfect boyfriend and a perfect future—until her twenty-first birthday changes everything. First Morgan finds out, in the most painful way possible, that her relationship is a sham. But that’s nothing compared to the nightmare about to unfold.
It’s too late for Tucker Noscalo. A brutal childhood left him with a bad reputation and a criminal record. Fresh out of jail, Tucker has a score to settle with Baybrook’s crooked chief of police—his own father. Nobody will believe Tucker’s explosive accusations without proof and a good lawyer, neither of which he has on his side. Until he sees someone he used to know, someone who just so happens to be the daughter of the best lawyer in the county.
He needs Morgan to convince her father of the ugly truth. But first he has to convince her, and he’ll do whatever it takes to get her to listen. Confronted by the story of Tucker’s dark past, Morgan feels utterly compelled to help him. And as their connection grows into a fierce bond fueled by raw passion, Morgan finds herself falling for the wrong guy—but never has the promise of love felt so right.
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Book Trailer: https://youtu.be/mFKiofJ0ngo
Tucker
Things aren’t exactly going my way. My breath burns heavy
and hot in my lungs as I run. And run and run and run.
Not that I should have expected them to go smoothly.
After years spent under my father’s command or seeking freedom from it, it’s
eerily unsurprising to find I’ve landed myself in this much trouble just one
day after getting released from prison.
Yeah. I said prison.
But I didn’t belong there.
I don’t intend on going back.
Working out in the yard at Baybrook Penitentiary, jogging
the perimeter every chance I got, has paid off. Blood is drying on my shirt,
the sting of broken flesh on my knuckles a physical reminder of what I am
capable of. I dig deep and find the strength to run faster.
Now to find a car. I had a friend when I was on the
outside. He owed me a favor. I cut across a yard and skirt a big wooden
playground set with brightly colored plastic tubes and slides, wondering what
it might have been like to grow up in a house like this. I wonder if the kids
were protected. Safe. Loved.
But I don’t have time to do a postmortem on my childhood.
Praying no one is looking out of a window, I leap a fence to an attached
apartment complex and land on my feet on a crumbling pile of asphalt. The weeds
are overgrown, the trees scraggly. There is junk in the yard and garbage in the
lot proving that the people who live here don’t give a shit about appearances.
Or much of anything.
People like us have our reasons for feeling that way.
If Lady Luck is any friend at all, she’ll shine on me,
and Mark’s Dodge Charger will be parked in exactly the same spot as when he and
I used to break laws together. Minor laws. We didn’t kill anybody or anything.
I slink past a few other cars parked under a dilapidated
awning, and spot Mark’s Dodge, Chelsea (named for an ex-girlfriend), parked
outside of his garage. Similar to the real Chelsea, the car is dull and kind of
dirty. But for my needs, the car may as well have a light from heaven shining
upon her. This is a blessing when I need one most.
I calm my walk as I approach his driveway, edging along
grass that needs mowed and taking a peek through a pair of partially open
shabby curtains. My former good buddy is sprawled on his couch snoring, mouth
wide open. I wonder if he was able to keep his job at the gravel pit, or if he
was fired for one of many reasons he’d been fired from everywhere else. I smile
as I remember the fun we had together. Feels like about a hundred years ago,
even though it’s been more like two. “Fun” had been a rare commodity in my
world back then, and right about now it is extinct.
I consider knocking on his door, asking if I can borrow
Chelsea, but I don’t consider for long. The debate lasts exactly two seconds
before I turn away from Mark’s window and walk to the car I’m about to
appropriate for myself. She’s unlocked so I slide onto the seat and palm the
steering wheel, ignoring the sting on my knuckles as I grip the wheel. I
haven’t driven a car in a while—not since I stole my father’s Explorer one
fated night, and being in the driver’s seat sends a rush of intoxicating
freedom surging through my veins.
Freedom I can’t allow to be taken from me. Not again. Not
ever.
I am prepared to hot-wire her, a handy trick, but then
check the glove compartment—the stupidest place to keep a set of keys second
only to the visor.
There, beneath the expired registration is a key taped to
the vinyl cover of the owner’s manual.
Jackpot.
Before my luck runs out—given the way every other damn
thing has worked out tonight, it very well might—I jam the key in the ignition
and turn over her blubbering engine. Loud. Way too fucking loud.
As I back out of the driveway, Mark’s door swings open.
He lumbers out, wearing boxers and nothing else, rubbing his eyes, his hair and
beard scraggly. I stomp on the brakes and shift in to drive. Mark’s stark
confusion fades and he smiles.
It’s as good as getting his permission. I jerk my chin in
a silent good-bye and gun the engine. The fuel gauge reads three-quarters full,
plenty of gas to get me to the shittiest convenience store I can find. I need
supplies for where I’m going and if the place is shady enough, the clerk won’t
bat an eyelash at my T-shirt covered in blood. One hand gripping the wheel, I
keep my eyes on the road while searching the front and back for something to
change into. Surely Mark has left a shirt or— My fingers curl around something
cool and slick in the back seat and I pull it into my lap. The dark leather
smells like pot, and has seen better days—like the nineties—but the jacket will
have to do. At least it’ll cover my shirt.
My bleeding knuckles, however . . . I shake my hand out
as I pass a Waffle House, several semis parked in the lot, the inside well
lit—a little too well lit. Stopping even briefly to wash my hands is tempting,
but risky. I settle for the napkins I spotted in the glove compartment when I
was digging for the keys.
Alternating hands on the steering wheel, I wipe as gently
as possible, grateful that most of the blood isn’t mine and consider I’m
luckier than I gave myself credit for a moment ago. My father was always a
fighter. I’ve seen him take down a man twice my size—one who was
out-of-his-mind high. I shouldn’t have been a challenge for him tonight, but I
had the element of surprise.
What I didn’t have was the proof I went to my childhood
home to reclaim. The videotape that would exchange mine and my father’s places
in the eyes of the law and anyone with a functioning conscious. The plan was to
send him to prison, not send myself back. It was time. Jeremy is gone. Mom is
safely out of the country.
But now . . . now I don’t know what the hell to do.
Without proof of what he’s done, it’s my word against my father’s, and there’s
no doubt who the masses will believe.
I have no idea how I’m going to get that tape. It isn’t
as if I can go back and ring the doorbell. It’s not like I can go to the police
and plead my side of the story.
There isn’t much sympathy for the ex-con who beats the
police chief unconscious. Especially when the police chief is his father.
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Author Info
A former job-hopper, Jessica Lemmon resides in Ohio with her husband and rescue dog. She holds a degree in graphic design currently gathering dust in an impressive frame. When she’s not writing super-sexy heroes, she can be found cooking, drawing, drinking coffee (okay, wine), and eating potato chips. She firmly believes God gifts us with talents for a purpose, and with His help, you can create the life you want.
A former job-hopper, Jessica Lemmon resides in Ohio with her husband and rescue dog. She holds a degree in graphic design currently gathering dust in an impressive frame. When she’s not writing super-sexy heroes, she can be found cooking, drawing, drinking coffee (okay, wine), and eating potato chips. She firmly believes God gifts us with talents for a purpose, and with His help, you can create the life you want.
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