Kristen Ashley - The Promise

“Why?”

“You and your ass, hair, legs, tits, and smile do not need to be out on your heels with fuckin’ Cheryl, gettin’ attention and gettin’ into trouble.”

“Benny Bianchi, do you think in a million years I’d do anything to jeopardize the promise of you?” I snapped.

I got silence from Benny for a moment before he asked quietly, “The promise of me?”

“Yes,” I hissed. “The promise of you.”

“Babe, I’m yours. How am I a promise?” he asked, tone now cautious, and my belly did a dip at the “I’m yours” business.

But still.

“Every day is a new promise, Ben,” I told him sharply. “Every night I go to sleep knowin’ it’s a promise, every day I wake knowin’ in some way it’s gonna be fulfilled. And repeat. For…hopefully…ever.”

“Frankie,” he whispered but didn’t go on.

I ignored the depth of meaning behind that whisper and stated, “So don’t tell me I can’t go out with Cheryl. She’s funny. She’s edgy, but she’s nice. I know Vi wouldn’t let her close to her or her girls if she didn’t have a heart of gold, but just sayin’, Cal wouldn’t either. So I’ve got two months left in the ’burg. The whole time I’ve been here it felt like I was in limbo, not at home, away from everyone I love, primarily you, and that really hasn’t felt great. So I’m gonna go out and have fun with one of the few people I know and you aren’t gonna stop me.”

“Okay, baby.”

I blinked again at my pillow. “Okay?”

“Yeah, go out and have fun.”

“As easy as that?” I asked dubiously.

“Pretty much,” he answered.

I didn’t trust it.

“Does this mean you’re gonna play some guy’s wingman while I’m away?”

“Francesca, when do I have time to be some guy’s wingman? I work, and when I’m not workin’, my ass is with you.”

Oh yeah.

Right.

“But, are you sayin’ you can and I can’t?” Ben went on.

“You’re hot,” I pointed out. “Girls like hot.”

“You aren’t butt-ugly,” he returned.

I had to admit, this was true.

He kept going.

“And do you think in a million years I’d do anything to jeopardize the promise of you?”

God.

Benny.

Suddenly, I was not pissed at all.

“No,” I whispered.

“I’m not Enzo,” Ben declared.

“I know you’re not.”

“And you aren’t Ninette.”

“I know.”

“So are you done pissin’ me off after you got me off?” he asked.

“I think so,” I answered. “But just to say, you started it.”

“Fuck,” he muttered.

“Ninette’s fiancé dumped her, by the way,” I told him to change the subject.

This got no response.

“She’s heading up to Chicago to find someone to mooch off of,” I shared.

“That will not be you and me,” Ben stated firmly.

I knew it, and because I did, I smiled.

I also kept at it.

“And Chrissy had the baby.”

Another non-response.

“They named her Domino.”

That got a response.

It was, “Jesus.”

“We’ll call her Minnie.”

“Puttin’ my foot down right now, babe, our kids are not gonna be named stupid-ass names.”

Our kids.

God.

Benny.

“I was thinkin’ Solitaire,” I lied.

“You’d be thinkin’ wrong.”

“Spade?”

“No.”

“Club?”

“No.”

“Monopoly?”

He chuckled through his “Fuck no.”

“How about John?”

“John I’ll consider.”

I grinned at my pillow, and through my grin, I said softly, “Love you, Benny.”

“Love you back, Frankie,” he replied softly. “Now go to sleep with the promise of me, and tomorrow I’ll make certain I do somethin’ to fulfill it.”

God.

I fucking loved Benny Bianchi.

“Okay, honey.”

“’Night, Frankie.”

“’Night, Benny.”

I waited and he waited, then I let him off the hook and disconnected first.

After that, I brought my phone to my lips like it was him and I could touch my mouth to his as a goodnight.

In a couple of months.

Then I’d be full-on happy.

I set the phone aside, snuggled up, and fell asleep.

The phone rang in Benny’s back pocket. He flipped the flaps closed on the box he was sorting through in the basement, pulled his phone out, and saw it was his ma calling.

“Hey, Ma,” he answered.

“Benny, we’re out,” she told him something that he really didn’t need to know.

“She’s out and she dragged my ass with her!” He heard his father shout, which meant wherever they were, everyone heard it.

“Quiet, Vinnie, yeesh,” his ma shushed his pop.

“Ma,” Ben called to get her attention back in hopes of getting this conversation over a lot faster.

“We’re at a furniture shop and we’ve just seen the sweetest bed,” she announced.

“She thinks it’s sweet,” he heard his father yell. “I think it’s girlie.”

“Vinnie, quiet,” his mother snapped.

But Ben knew what this was about. He’d told them Frankie was moving in and he was doing a clear out to prepare for that event.

He’d also, now he saw was stupidly, told them Frankie wanted a guestroom.

“Ma, let Frankie pick the furniture,” he ordered.

“I am,” she returned smartly. “But she needs to see this bed so I need her email address ’cause I’m takin’ a picture of it with my phone. I don’t wanna text it to her. She’s gotta see it bigger, in all its glory.”

Ben gave a moment’s thought to the kind of redecorating Frankie would undoubtedly instigate in his house. These thoughts included the muted colors, candles, minimal knickknacks, and photos she decorated her apartment in. Since he liked all that, he quit thinking about it.

What he did not think was that any bed his mother picked would be something Frankie would want. It was a surprise, but when it came to her home, Francesca Concetti wasn’t about flash but was about taste and minimization. Theresa Bianchi decorated in bulk, with a heavy dose of Catholicism.

Still, he gave his mother her email. A bonus of having Frankie, she could deal with his ma when she got like this. He felt no guilt about that. He was going have to put up with her whacked family, she was going to have to put up with his family’s brand of whacked.

This was something, he’d noted repeatedly, that she not only had no problem doing, she actually liked doing it.

“Do you want your father to come over and help with the basement this weekend?” she asked, taking him out of his pleasant thoughts.

“Workin’ on it now, Ma. And goin’ to Brownsburg this weekend.”

“Oh, right, of course,” she muttered. “Do you want me to send your father over there now?”

Vinnie Senior popping the cap on a beer, finding a sturdy box to sit on, and bossing his ass around for two hours?

No. He didn’t want that.

“I’m good,” he answered.

“You sure?” she pushed, and he sighed.

“Yeah, Ma, I’m sure.”

“Boy, deliver me!” his father yelled over him talking, and Ben looked at his feet and shook his head.

“Okay, you need us, call,” his ma ignored his pop, and gratefully ended it.

“Later, Ma.”

“’Bye, Benny.”

He disconnected, shoved his phone back in his pocket, and moved to another box. He was finding the ex-owners of his house left him mostly junk. Some was good enough that he’d call the Salvation Army to pick it up. The rest he’d take to the dump.

That said, this was not going to be a day’s job. It would take at least a week and he was not looking forward to it.

What he was looking forward to was not having to drive down to Frankie’s every few weeks or waiting for her to come to him. He wanted this. She wanted this. He wanted her to make his house hers. So he was doing what he could so she could do that.

He got through two more boxes before his phone rang again. He pulled it out, expecting it’d be his mother having seen another piece of furniture, or God knew what, this time something she wanted him to see. This was something that could happen easily when his mother was out doing anything.

Not for the first time he was understanding Carm’s play of moving all the way across the country.

But his display said, Sal Calling.

He put his cell to his ear and greeted, “Yo, Sal.”

“Where are you?” Sal barked, and Ben’s back shot straight.

“In my basement,” he answered, not feeling good feelings about Sal’s greeting.

Sal was talking to someone else when he ordered, “Get him to put someone on her and you drive down now.”

Ben took the punch to the heart those words caused and he did it moving quickly to his dog, who was lying on his back, four paws in the air, sleeping on a pile of rags Ben had tossed in the corner. Gus was out because Gus had attacked every attackable item in the basement, and there were a fair few of them, and he’d engaged in this activity for a solid hour.

Benny bent, scooped up Gus, who jumped with surprise in his arm, then immediately started wriggling, ready for play, even right out of sleep. But Ben had to ignore it for once as he headed to the stairs.

He did all this demanding, “Talk to me.”

“Word’s shiftin’ through Indy. A man lookin’ for someone to do a hit for him. Easy job. Some computer kid who works for Wyler Pharmaceuticals. He’s in a hurry this time and doesn’t mind local. He’s also found local.”

Jesus, what the fuck was happening where Frankie worked?