Dark Water Read online

  Debut Novel

  Dark Water

  K.T. Taylor

  Copyright 2022

  Published by K.T. Taylor

  Katy Publishing

  All rights reserved 2022

  This is a work of fiction. Names and characters, living or dead are fictional and built purposely for the novel’s story and factious manner. Any resemblance to actual agencies, businesses, places, events, institutions, or historical figures mentioned in the story serves as a backdrop to the characters and their actions, which are imaginary. Any resemblance is coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No parts of the book may be used or reproduced in any way without the written consent of the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

  ISBN: 979-8-9867005-0-2 (Paper Back)

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dark Water

  Chapter | 1

  Chapter | 2

  Chapter | 3

  Chapter | 4

  Chapter | 5

  Chapter | 6

  Chapter | 7

  Chapter | 8

  Chapter | 9

  Chapter | 10

  Chapter | 11

  Chapter | 12

  Chapter | 13

  Chapter | 14

  Chapter | 15

  Chapter | 16

  Chapter | 17

  Chapter | 18

  Chapter | 19

  Chapter | 20

  Chapter | 21

  Chapter | 22

  Chapter | 23

  Chapter | 24

  Chapter | 25

  Chapter | 26

  Chapter | 27

  Chapter | 28

  Chapter | 29

  Chapter | 30

  Chapter | 31

  Chapter | 32

  Chapter | 33

  Chapter | 34

  Chapter | 35

  Chapter | 36

  Chapter | 37

  Chapter | 38

  Chapter | 39

  Chapter | 40

  Chapter | 41

  Chapter | 42

  Chapter | 43

  Chapter | 44

  Chapter | 45

  Chapter | 46

  Chapter | 47

  Chapter | 48

  Chapter | 49

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Sign up for K.T. Taylor's Mailing List

  This book is dedicated to

  My husband, for every moment of

  love and support.

  To my children.

  You are my sunshine.

  Dark Water

  Katy

  Publishing

  Chapter

  1

  Tiffany

  The dim room looked abandoned, and I contemplated whether the door may have been accidentally left unlocked. Not a good business practice. Tisk-tisk. Looking to my left, a row of tables with upside-down chairs runs parallel to the wall. A longer bar top backed by a wall of mirrors and bottles was filled with clear, golden, and dark liquor. They sit in attendance, waiting to be plucked. I inhale the deep cedar woods, only outdone by the sweet smell of alcohol.

  This was it.

  My bar.

  Oh, the irony.

  Blowing out the air I’d been holding since I left Northern California, my hand goes to my throat. The stress and strain of making the fifteen-hundred-mile trip left me burned out and drained. What I wanted was a bath and now a heavy-handed shot of whiskey.

  Someone has got to be here.

  “Hello?” It comes out weak. I was already giving up.

  I wander further. My fingers trailed the wood grain of the bar. This is where my brother spent all his time. Where he discovered who he was and wasn’t. Most people don’t say their home is a bar, but he did.

  The House.

  The House was a renovated mill from the early nineteen-hundreds that was turned into a bar. It sat on the very edge of the Miles property. My brother said they named it, The House because the layout resembled a poker table with the bar top being the dealer or the House. I think it was just another place, in a long line of houses he lived in.

  “Can I help you?” A male voice said from the far corner forcing a small gasp to escape my lips. Covered by darkness, a shape emerges. Stepping out of the dim light, I felt a little warm. It didn’t matter how much I had planned out every scenario in my head. Seeing him wiped all my brain cells, made my thighs clench, and my heart did that flippy floppy thing. You would think a twenty-seven-year-old could handle seeing a man as insanely gorgeous as Sam Miles was. It was like I was that stupid girl all over again.

  It had been six years, and he’d gone from sexy to a perfect male specimen in every way. His hair was still wavy on top but short on the sides. Even though he was some distance away, his eyes were still dark, his skin tan, and that smug grin telling the world he didn’t give two fucks was still just as prominent. His chest grew, pulling in a ragged breath as he crossed his arms.

  I could do this.

  I smile, taking a step toward him, trying not to look as nervous or out of place as I felt. I hitch my thumb over my shoulder, “The door was open,” as if that was my only reason for entering the bar.

  “We’re closed. Find your way back through it.” His tone was stone marble and arctic cold. It was unnerving. Maybe, even more unnerving was the sound of disdain dripping from his tone.

  Okay, so one scenario I hadn’t planned for. I’d conjured up the thought of him begging for forgiveness over the absolute bullshit games he’d played. I forgave him for that. I even had one fantasy where I ran into his arms, and he promised never to let me go again. We moved in together, got married, and had lots of babies. I’d even imagined him being shy and gentle. But telling me to fuck off like he didn’t know me was not on my radar.

  Nope.

  “Yes.” I smiled again, tilting my head and nodding as I agreed with him. After all, the hours were clearly stated on the door.

  I clear my throat. His eyebrow goes up, annoyed I wasn’t pushing off like he suggested.

  “Yes, well...”

  “Oh. You’re here for the interviews? Those were earlier.” He ran his hand down his face, his fingers stopping on his chin. My stupid memory flashed with the image of him rubbing his stubble across my cheek. Little lightning bolts ran through my belly, awakening that feeling of urgency to be under his touch.

  Shit. Pull it together, Tiffany.

  “Job? Interview?” Catching my confusion before it became awkward, I smiled again, ready to assure him that I was not here for a job. My mind wondered whether checking off items on my to-do list and interviewing for a job at the place I owned, co-owned, was not among them.

  I was Tiffany.

  Princess?

  Your best friend’s sister. You said you’d fallen in love with me. Made promises. Then told me I was just a girl you fucked on the beach.

  “If you’re here for the interviews, you’re late. Honestly though, dressed like that, you probably wouldn’t do well in an industry like this.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest, taking me in. All of me. I would have felt violated had I not been admiring parts of his own body. For instance, his chest moved nicely to his hip, which was still very sexy. Also admirable was that outline of his...

  Wait.

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “Waitresses shouldn’t wear short skirts, low-cut tops, and heels. For that matter, white? Customers get handsy, and things get spilled.”

  Plastering an even bigger smile and crossing my own arms to steady myself, I make sure to use all four inches of my heels to say, ‘wanna bet?’ Raising an eyebrow, I challenge his comment. Confidence wasn’t my strong suit, but a woman should be able to wear what they want wi
thout men being assholes.

  “So, the job?” I force a fake smile pretending to be here for an interview. I smile again, nodding in delight.

  “Not to sound like an ass.”

  “Too late,” I mumble under my breath.

  “Do you want to change first? White attracts everything. You might get dirty.”

  Yes, I was basically wearing all white. I worked with what I had. A simple white tank top I had literally plucked the tags off and the light gray jean skirt I found at a second-hand store that wasn’t as short as he was making it out to be. I thought it was cute. I was going for the purity look. After all, this was the first day of my new life.

  “You never know. I might surprise you.” I smirk, letting my lips reach my eyes.

  “Well, Ma’am,” he clears his throat. He looks me up and down, then shakes his head. “What the hell?” He smiles broadly and slips past me behind the bar. “Let us have an audition. You are going to serve a platter of drinks.”

  “Got it.”

  “Working here is hard, and at times serving a whole group at once is a balancing act. The job requires honesty, loyalty, and character. Weekends and nights are expected, and that takes dedication. People rely on you to be here and to work your hours. Do you think you have that type of commitment?” His harsh words came out like he was trying to whip me with each one. Ironic coming from him.

  Fluttering my eyes up at him, I nod yes.

  “Do you have any experience working in a bar?” His expression was of total irritation now, “Anyone who works here must have experience as a requirement. We don’t currently have time to train people.”

  “Not specifically...” My arms dropped, bringing attention to what I was wearing once again.

  “Awesome...” He clasps his hands together like he is more excited than me.

  “I’ve been a waitress before.”

  He had to remember me.

  Right?

  Shit. I bit back the tightening in my throat and plaster on the fakest smile I could. I think I could have handled a fight better at this point. His not remembering me was much worse than anything I could have imagined. But it proves that he was exactly who he said he was.

  It’s fine.

  I could prove my worthiness. I could also make Sam eat every snide remark by proving I could do this job. I obviously preferred proving myself with office work, but here we were.

  Stepping behind the counter, he pulls out a tray with a little whistle and a bounce to his step. In his hands, he has a small, ten-inch circle tray. He pulls a pitcher and fills it with water, no ice, meaning he’s trying to get me to slosh it around. Then looking to his left, then right, and turning around, he reaches a vile with a purple cap shaped like a teardrop.

  Food coloring?

  Son of a bitch.

  Pulling the lid open, he squirts a long stream and then another until it makes this sputtering sound. The liquid turns almost black while he uses a long wooden spoon to mix the contents. The satisfaction that came across his face was not kind. I knew this face. He delighted in the thought of me making a fool of myself.

  He wanted me to fail.

  Next, he places several glasses beside the pitcher, including a couple of shot glasses.

  Pointing to the furthest table, he folds those large arms over his chest and waits.

  I exhale and, for kicks, moan in defeat. There was only one thing to do. Slipping my shoulder bag off my neck, I set it down next to the tray. I give him a pouty face. I use both hands and pick it up, placing it on the inside of my arms. Immediately the dark-haired man lifts both hands up as his eyes go wide. As if to help me, he gives me a quick shake no. I reciprocate his fear and set the tray down.

  Time to perform. This, I’m good at. You want me to be a good little waitress. I can be anything you want, Sam Miles.

  I quickly rearrange the glasses for balance, centering the pitcher in the middle. I slide the tray in one move and prop it on one hand with perfect balance. Walking from the bar to the end of the room, I clear my tray serving my pretend patrons. I fill each cup with the purple water provided. Leaving the shot glasses empty.

  “I can do two at once if that’ll help, or a larger tray?”

  Crossing his arms in defeat, he looks down at his shoes.

  Winning felt good, and I reveled in it. Holding the tray, I roll it up and then down as I take a bow.

  Because fuck you, Sam.

  “Now, clear the table.” He smirks, knowing precisely what I was hoping he’d ignore. I picked up the small shot glasses and set them inside the pitcher. There would barely be enough space on the small tray for each filled glass. But that was the point, wasn’t it? I do what I’m asked, losing a little bit of my cockiness when I catch Sam looking at his phone.

  “I don’t know. The other applicants did a better job.” He sighs while I set the tray and pitcher down.

  I wasn’t even here for a job.

  “But look, still clean,” looking down at my body, and the thought occurred to me. I didn’t look the same. My twenty-year-old body has all but disappeared. The curves, small chest, and always tan woman was a distant memory. That was six years ago. Six years. Six years served in hell, erasing everything I once was.

  I clear my throat. The stomach acid still trying to make an appearance.

  “No slips, drips, or drops. Do you see anything?” My voice went up like it was a question. Like. It. Was. A question! I asked this man to look at my body, the last thing I needed under the circumstances.

  Pulling his elbows on the bar, he leans over, starting at the ground and tracing each line like he was memorizing me. He drags in a husky breath, and his eyes stop on my lips.

  God, he was gorgeous. I make myself look like a pufferfish. Slowly I exhaled and shook my head, accepting this whole thing was not going well.

  I was not here for a job.

  “Clean.” He finally speaks, answering that question I almost forgot about. When his eyes meet mine, he cracks the slightest smile, and dammit, if that wasn’t making me more nervous. “What if I prefer it dirty?”

  This was Sam. A rush of heat flooded through me, settling in my cheeks. I swallow hard. When I say swallow hard, I mean like my mouth went dry and watered simultaneously. Suddenly a vision of me bent over this bar crossed my vision and went straight to my thighs.

  Once upon a time, I set my sights on a man I swear could have been my happily ever after. Once upon a time, I was fun, reckless, and fearless.

  Then everything changed.

  What if I prefer it dirty?

  “Dirty?”

  Are you being flirty, Sam? I could be flirty.

  I opened my mouth, and I choked literally and figuratively. Coughing, I cover my mouth. My eyes running, I reach for the glass of purple water I’d served my fake patrons, and I take a long drink. His eyes go wide.

  I tried to swallow, but the sour sensation challenged my senses. The concoction went down the wrong pipe, then right up and into his face.

  Oh hell.

  We both stood in total shock.

  Using the back of my hand, I wipe my lips.

  He stares at me with this look that screams, ‘What the fuck?’

  I tried to help by handing him a towel a foot from where I’d set my tray down. But caught my elbow on the empty pitcher sending it forward towards the full glasses of purple water. I watch in horror as a full glass splashes him and runs down the front of his pants.

  He reached for the towel, snatched it out of my hands, and smacked it across the bar top in frustration. I flinched. Fucking flinched.

  When I pulled away in defeat, I hit the next row of glasses. I try to stop the unfortunate events. But it was useless. Not wanting them to drench Sam, I took the entire tray against me.

  That water didn’t need ice. It was already ice cold.

  So, this was how I was going to die. Embarrassment? All those times I’d imagined it, it never looked like this.

  Do not cry.

  Shi
t.

  My eyes fill with tears, and my lip quivers. But I lock that shit up. Pushing my shoulders back, I stand tall. The look on his face was total... enjoyment?

  He was laughing at me. My tears started growing, and I knew he could see them. Kneeling to the ground, I quickly retrieve the glasses holding them against my chest, then dump them onto the bar. Bending over, I pray and plead for an ounce of mercy. Standing up with two more empty glasses, I dump them onto the counter. I didn’t even care anymore.

  My lip quivered, and the raw stupid emotion won.

  “Com-on, Princess.”

  Yeah, mother fucker, you knew who I was.

  Pushing my shoulders back, I draw in a long breath and stare at him.

  “I knew you’d show up eventually.”

  “You’re an asshole.”

  “Well, you’re an ungrateful pain in my ass.”

  “Ungrateful?” I pull the shirt away, fanning the cool condensation running down my chest. I taste the words. Roll them around in my mouth, not liking the way they taste. “Why do you think I’m ungrateful?”

  “Let’s see. Lennon gave you everything, and you didn’t do anything to earn it. You never made it to his funeral. Your own brother’s funeral. You stole his ashes. You disappeared for nearly two months. In that short time, you managed to disrupt Gena’s life. My life. Got a divorce and shacked up with some hippy out in Northern California.”

  My jaw goes a little slack. Everything was true except for the shacking up with a hippy. The hippy was a friend I’d made a few years ago. He had a house off the beach, and I needed to feel the sand beneath my toes.

  “Gena hired a private detective. What a total waste of money. She went up there, you know. I told her you’d show up eventually.”

  “Had I known, I would have told her to stay home,” I said, surprised by my own callousness. He was surprised by that too. I could see the anger building behind his eyes. It was a slow boil but hot, nevertheless.

  “Had you had your phone on, you could have told her, Princess. But you stopped paying the bill for that too.”

  “Had I had my phone on...” I stop myself from saying too much. “It doesn’t matter. I’m here now.”

  “My lawyers have drawn up papers for you to sell me Lennon’s half. I’m willing to offer you a nice sum of money. Not that you deserve any.”