Promise and Punishment Read Prologue for FREE

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Hello friends and lovers!

Did you know that Promise and Punishment by Vivian Mae (Mine to Keep series, book 2) releases THIS THURSDAY!?

March 23, 2023 is THE DAY!!

Today’s post is specifically for my readers who want to read the prologue for Promise and Punishment.

Just a heads up, if you’re someone who likes to be surprised and not see anything about the book, whether it be quotes, or artwork, playlists, etc… you just want ZERO spoiling…

Then….

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Also, if you HAVE NOT read book 1 - Lawsuit and Leather…

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One more for good measure!

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All right, now that we have passed the super annoying, yellow, warning/spoiler alert sign, then I’ll assume if you’re reading this, you want to continue onto the prologue, because you have read Lawsuit and Leather book 1 and want a peek into book 2’s prologue - Promise + Punishment.

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Prologue - Parker

(2008: 14 years earlier)

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.

“You did all that for her. Isn’t that right, Parker?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And you’re here now, delivering papers to buy Gemma a gift?”

I nodded again, “I want to do something special.”

“And you can.” She kneaded her chest, nervously twisting her robe. “You can do something for her that she’ll never forget.” My ears perked at the idea as I looked back up.

“Really?”

“Of course… but it’s really serious, and I don’t know how serious you can be.”

“I can be serious. I’m almost thirteen.” I said, flaunting some desperate credential.

Mrs. Harrison looked disgusted. “Almost thirteen? You say that as if you’ll be someone different than who you are now, and that’s not what Gemma needs.”

“And who would that be?”

“Everything you already are, and nothing more,” she said breathlessly, exhausted from an idea that caused her hand to rest on my knee. “You’re a sweet boy, Parker Jones,” she stammered, her eyes more feverish and red.

“I try my best.”

“No. You are, and that’s why I adore you, that’s why I trust you… for now anyway.” The ash grew longer on the tip of her cigarette, hoisted like a dirty stick of incense that filled the room. “Do you like Gemma?”

“Of course. She’s my best friend.”

“And do you care for her?”

“Yes…” I lowered my voice.

The heat of her mouth felt so close, and her questions were met with a gluey, wet gloss over her eyes. I felt like I could see myself looking back, unsettled by the noise of gunshots from the T.V.

“I know you do. I knew it the moment I saw you. It was the same look my husband gave me.”

“My look? What look?” I asked desperately, needing to know. Mrs. Harrison was an oracle of sorts, reading my eyes like she could tell the future. I wasn’t sure if she was happy or sad, but her nails suddenly pinched into my leg.

“It’s the look of love…” she choked, releasing a single, unthreatening tear. The way her lip quivered caught me off guard.

“Love?” I repeated cautiously, the word round like a big balloon in my mouth. I almost suffocated.

“Yes, and not just any kind, but the most incredible type. Love that can change a life in the most spectacular and powerful of ways. I can tell it scares you, and it should… there’s so much potential there.”

“Potential for Gemma?”

“Just for her,” she guaranteed. “Something so precious that it could only come from answered prayers. But you care so much, and I know you’ll do what’s right, because this type of love is nuclear.” She snatched my forearm, letting her cigarette fall onto the sofa.

“Nuclear, as in a bomb?” I worried as the ashy tip of her Marlboro rolled towards my thigh.

“As in the biggest bomb. And this kind of love takes everything. It explodes, and it’s magnificent, and blinds you so much that you can’t see anything, not even the damage it caused. It transforms the very being of your existence till all you are is the explosion itself.” Her neck grew stiff, corded and strained, “Do you want to hurt, Gemma?”

Her thumb pulled at the corner of my eye, stretching it open, forcing me to absorb the entirety of my senses: every word, every scent, and every taste made me feel less like a person, and more like the wet ink to a manifesto.

She. Absolutely. Terrified. Me.

“No… never…” I finally stuttered, blinking slowly, incapable of missing a moment.

“If you love her, you’ll save her from that. You’ll spare her from what happened to me. And don’t say no, don't say it won’t happen because I see it in you, Parker. There is a love that has killed me, that has led me to who I am and the things I’ve done. When that bomb blows, it takes you far from home, and leaves you somewhere different than where you came from. And here, where I am, is dead.” She curled her hand behind my neck, holding it still.

“I want to leave…” I whimpered, struggling to pull my arm away.

“Promise me that if you love her, you’ll listen to me, because the older you get the worse it’ll be.”

“But you’re older… don’t you love Gemma, too? Can’t I be like you?”

“You could never be like me. Someday you’ll be a man. You’ll become a problem. Now look at me, and tell me you’ll be the friend she needs, never the bomb. That’s how you’ll hurt her.”

“But… I could never hurt her.”

“What you think and what you know are different. You didn’t mean to burn your finger on a match, but the fire got too close, didn’t it?” she asked, as my thumb continued to ache. “That’s you, Parker; you’re the flame, and the closer you get, the more likely it is that you’ll burn Gemma. So I’ll ask you again, do you want to hurt her?”

I wanted to shake myself free, but her cold insistence dug into me, haunting like a shackled ghost from the future. Could she really see that in me? She was right about everything else; about what I felt for Gemma, about what I struggled to say and describe. Every word, every sense she produced coiled itself to my core, pulling me closer to her lips and words. If she knew this already, then could she know my future too?

“I don’t want to hurt my Butterfly,” my lip shook, horrified by what she saw in me.

“Then, promise me, swear on your life that you’ll never get close enough to love her, to be the man who ruins her life.”

“I—” I barely trembled out.

“Promise you won’t be like my husband, the man who left, who Gemma’s out there looking for. Now, promise!” she shouted, causing me to flinch. She was broken in the most horrific of ways, burrowing into my mind like a dirty seed, and what she said made no sense, especially about where Gemma was. Her father left years ago, but Mrs. Harrison’s panicked look made me feel as though it had just happened.

“I promise…” I inhaled, blinking as she finally let me loose, my arm stinging worse than my thumb. My own tears threatened to fall as she turned away.

Mrs. Harrison sniffed, her palm a rag to her tears as she reached back into her purse, pulling out a quarter, dropping it into my hand. “No one needs to know about this. No one needs to get hurt. If you keep her safe, you’ll always be a sweet boy…” she squeezed my palm shut and leaned in to kiss my cheek, her lips wet with tears. “Thank you for holding the match.”

I looked down at the quarter, terrorized by everything she said—about love, about Gemma’s dad, and my role in her life. But I refused to believe it. I went to open my mouth—

“PARKER!” Gemma slammed the front door, shrilling. I turned around as she stood in a pink turtleneck, her hands clenching a tiny bag of cookies. She was home but not excited to see me; in fact, she seemed mad, if not frantic. “You need to go!” She shook her head, lifting me up without another word.

When I stood up the stuffed giraffe fell off my lap and onto the floor. “But I brought you, Andy!” I clutched the quarter in my hand as she stared at him, then scowled at her mother. “I figured you’d want him.”

“Thank you. But leave!” She looked like she was about to cry as she twisted my arm, forcing me out.

Mrs. Harrison didn’t blink once, instead mouthed the word promise as she stared into my eyes.

“Gemma, are you ok?” I asked, shoved out the door. “What’s happening? Talk to me!”

For the first time ever, Gemma didn’t look back at me, instead, focused on her mother as she slowly inched the door closer to her body. I knew it then and there, the things Mrs. Harrison said were true. Whatever happened, whatever Gemma’s father or mother did, led her here. It was a bomb, and the tears that burst from her eyes made me want to die.

“Parker…” she whimpered. “I’m sorry.”

Gemma slammed the door, locking me out with a quick click of the latch. I stood there, out from the dark and into the light of the hall.

Everything suddenly became so silent that I nearly forgot to breathe, lost in the realization of what I knew was true all along, of something I felt from the moment I first met her.

Before, I didn’t know how Gemma made me feel, because all I felt was her. That wasn’t the case anymore, and in place of that was the worst kind of truth…

I was completely in love with my best friend.

And I could never tell her.

Not on her birthday, not ever.

And as much as I wanted her to know, I knew I never wanted to see her face like that again; worried, filled with tears, and pain. Could I really do that to her? Could I be the person who ruins her life, a match to burn her finger? I wasn’t sure, but knew I never wanted to find out.

Slowly, I looked to my side, seeing that my bike was now missing, along with Mateo’s newspapers. Someone stole them.

For a moment I paused, unsure of what to do. I wanted to knock again, I wanted to get her out, but instead I walked away.

Gemma Rose Harrison was the love of my life, and I’d protect her from that, even at the cost of my own desires.

I knew now…

This was my promise.

This was my punishment.

continue reading?

Promise and Punishment releases 3/23/23, but is available today for preorder as ebook and also as a signed paperback via my website!

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Happy Tuesday!

Xoxo, Vivian Mae

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