It’s too late for Tucker Noscalo. A brutal childhood left him with a bad reputation and a criminal record. Fresh out of jail, he has a score to settle with Baybrook’s crooked police chief—his own father. But no one will believe Tucker’s explosive accusations without proof and a good lawyer, and Morgan happens to be the daughter of the best lawyer in the county.

He needs her to convince her father of the ugly truth. But first Tucker 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. As their connection grows into a fierce bond fueled by raw passion, she finds herself falling for the wrong guy—but never has the promise of love felt so right.

Details

Standalone (unconnected), featuring Tucker Noscalo & Morgan Young

Awards

Guilty Pleasures Reviews Purest Delight award

“I wasn’t sure what to expect when I picked this book to read; it moved me deeply and while it has a happily ever after getting there was not easy or pretty and it shows another depth to author Jessica Lemmon’s storytelling.”

— Slick, Guilty Pleasures Reviews

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The Series

*Forgotten Promises is a standalone novel within the Lost Boys series.

Extras

Excerpt

Choices

TUCKER

I should go.

But I don’t. I shut the car door as the cute, golden-brown-haired girl steps outside the convenience store cradling her bottle of cheap wine like it holds the answers to life’s mysteries. She’s wrong. Life’s answers can be found in the bottom of a bottle of whiskey.

Morgan Young didn’t need to reintroduce herself in there. She has been on my radar since she moved here when she was fourteen years old. She’s wholesome, pure. Everything I wished I could have had back then. Funny how we lived in the same neighborhood, but our home lives couldn’t have been more different.

In my world, there’s no room for anyone as angelic as Morgan. And tonight, she looks the part, dressed from head to toe in white. White lace shirt over a white tank top, short white shorts, and white sandals. Even the purse looped around her wrist is white. She is the picture of “pure.” Except for the wine. That shit’s rotten.

“I came to say thanks.” She takes a cautious step in my direction, then another.

I need to go.

But my feet stay rooted as my mouth opens to say, “Happy birthday.”

She comes closer, and rather than leave her to her birthday celebration, I come around the back of the car. God, she’s pretty. Always was in high school and is now. Especially now. Long hair slides over her shoulders as she cocks her head and blinks big, dark eyes at me.

She stops a few feet away like she’s nervous being this close to me. She should be. I just served eighteen months for beating the hell out of my father and threatening him with a firearm. Before prison, I spent a lot of time in juvi. I’m not exactly the type of guy she should be comfortable hanging out with. A criminal, and not a reformed one, considering I’d committed another crime tonight. Now it looks like I had revenge on my mind. To be fair, I did. But I didn’t plan on laying a hand on my father. Not until he provoked me.

I need to leave.

This time, my body is in agreement.

“Enjoy it,” I say, fishing the keys from Mark’s jacket pocket.

“Wait.”

Her fragile request freezes me in place.

“I’ve had a shitty birthday.” She takes another couple of steps toward me. “I don’t want to go home yet.” She lowers her eyes and picks at the label on the wine bottle. “You remember me, don’t you?”

Every freckle. I wonder if she has any clue how infatuated I once was with her. I hope not.

I reach through the open window and pull out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter lying on the front seat—also Mark’s. I lean against the passenger door, light one, and pull in an acrid breath.

“You still smoke.”

There’s not a lot to do in prison.

“Smoking is bad for you.” A delicate eyebrow crawls up her forehead.

Holding the cigarette between my lips, I take the bottle from her hands, briefly brushing her fingers with mine. Awareness lights a fire within and I desperately try to ignore it.

With a twist, I crack open the plastic lid, and hand the wine back to her.

She takes a brief look over her shoulder, but there’s nothing to see. The gas station is dead, Morgan and I the only patrons. The clerk at the counter should be grateful. I just paid him over a hundred dollars and half the food I bought is expired.

“I don’t think we’re allowed to drink this in the parking lot,” she whispers.

See what I mean? Pure as driven fucking snow. I take another hit from my cigarette and watch as she wrinkles her nose. It’s amusing how appalling my bad habit is to her. If she only knew the extent of things, she wouldn’t flinch at something as pedestrian as smoking.

If she only knew . . .

A spark of an idea flares to life, but I mentally shield it. It’s crazy . . . too crazy. Her standing here with me is one thing. Getting her to come with me... no way.

She takes a swig from the bottle, her full lips puckering as she chokes it down. Her face scrunches and I allow my eyes to graze the smattering of freckles over the bridge of her nose. Even drinking gas station wine, she’s adorable.

“This isn’t as good as the sangria at Pinky’s.” She licks her lips, still making an unsavory face and possibly regretting her booze selection. “You know Pinky’s? The bar?”

I smoke my cigarette. I don’t know it.

“It’s about a mile from here,” she says dismissively. “It was dollar taco night,” another big drink, a slight wince, then, “I wondered why he took me to such a dive. Why he showed up with Shayna.”

She says that last bit to herself, then blinks as if she’s just noticed me there. She offers me the bottle. I shake my head, blow out a stream of smoke. Aside from a couple of hazy nights with Mark, I’ve never been much of a drinker.

She cradles the bottle to her chest. “This is a nicer gift than Drew gave me.”

Boyfriend, I assume. A sharp, inexplicable flare of jealousy lights my chest the same way it did when we were in school and I saw the pack of jocks vying for her attention. The idea of her being touched by one of those assholes always made me want to hit one of them.

Then one day, I did.

Still the jealousy makes no sense. Morgan isn’t for me. Never was. I’ve always known that much. I guess knowing and wanting are two different beasts.

“Know what he gave me?” she asks, her voice small.

I crush the cigarette under my shoe. I’m not sure I want to know, but she seems bent on telling me.

“The gift of betrayal.”

I flinch. I know betrayal. In its rawest, ugliest form. My insides seize, thinking the worst. And in my case, the worst is truly the absolute worst.

“He cheated on me with my best friend, Shayna, and decided to tell me tonight.” Her eyes soften and go to the side as she cradles that bottle closer.

My eyebrows jump slightly. A cheating boyfriend sucks, but face it, there are bigger issues in life than a guy dumping her for her friend. But then, most of my recent days were spent behind bars trying not to get shanked or raped. I succeeded in both endeavors. I learned how to watch my ass a long time ago.

“Their tacos are terrible,” she says, again illustrating what different worlds we come from. Not only because of her plethora of first-world problems, but because our heritage couldn’t have been more opposite. Her father is a lawyer of the upstanding variety, and my father is a police chief of the criminal variety.

The good guy and the bad guy, in this situation, are definitely reversed. Which brings me to the self-serving reason I bought the wine for her. I didn’t really believe the gamble would pay off, but here she is, striking up conversation like she has nowhere else to be. I’m taking it as a sign of more good luck. I wonder how long until it fizzles out.

“Your dad still a lawyer?” I ask, that sparking idea from earlier making itself known.

She studies me for a second, then nods. “Yeah.”

I need a lawyer. A good one. Her father is Aaron Young, a veritable celebrity in the town of Baybrook. He is the best defense lawyer money could buy, and after my actions tonight, only the best would do. Unfortunately, unless I’d robbed a bank between my father’s house and this 7-Eleven—and I hadn’t—I’m not going to be able to afford to hire Aaron Young.

I open my mouth to inquire about pro bono work. It’s a stretch, but after what happened tonight, even a stretch is a chance I am compelled to take. I can’t go back to prison. Fate put the daughter of Aaron Young behind me in the convenience store, and I need to accept Fate’s gift.

Maybe that’s why I did what I did next. Morgan is my only chance at a good defense attorney. I can’t lose her over a small matter of police sirens.

“Know what else . . .” she starts, then trails off as the ominous wails split the air, answering my earlier musing about when my luck might fizzle out. Right about now. “Oh, crap.”

Panic laces down my spine and tightens my lungs. The clerk must’ve called them. Maybe the blood on my hands made him nervous. Maybe my photo was on the news. Maybe Morgan told him I’m dangerous and came out here to stall me.

Whether she ratted me out or not, it won’t change anything. Earlier, I wondered if I could persuade her to come with me, but there’s no time for that. She has to come with me. It’s the only way. I already know she isn’t going to slide into the passenger seat without complaint.

So do what you need to do.

I snatch the hooch from her and toss it into the bushes. The bottle clangs off the chain-link fence behind it as the peals of sirens grow ever nearer.

It’s the only way. I swallow, will myself not to lose my nerve.

“Oh, good idea.” Her eyes flit nervously across the back lot of the store and again, her problems bordering on laughable. If the police catch us their sole focus will be on cuffing me, and will ignore Morgan even if she’s simultaneously chugging wine while shooting a pistol into the air.

I’m the one they want, not the quintessential good girl who’s having a bad birthday.

There’s no time to do anything but run, but this time, I’m not running alone. I’m taking an insurance policy with me. A pure, angelic girl with golden-brown hair and a celebrity lawyer for a father will do just fine.

“I should go. Thanks for the wine,” she blurts out.

Not now, you don’t.

I lash an arm around her waist and she calls out a sharp “Hey!” as I pop the lid of the trunk…

. . .