Tombstones (Beekman Hills Book 4)

by K. C. Enders

  But that can’t happen.

  “Jack?” she whispers, pulling me out of my head. “Are you … what happened? Where’d you go?”

  I shake all thoughts of leaving from my mind and focus on the woman who’s breached my walls and crept inside my heart. “Right here. ’M right here,” I tell her, punctuating each word with a kiss down her throat and a thrust of my hips. Each thrust ending with an extra push to get closer, deeper, etching the feel of her permanently on my soul.

  Her nails dig deep, piercing the skin on my back, marking my ass as she pulls me tighter still.

  “Jack …” she gasps.

  I curl down on the next thrust and take her nipple into my mouth, sucking hard, cutting off her words. Biting just the way she likes, and she comes. Hard. Body shaking, muscles pulsing, head thrown back, arching into me. Eyes rolling back, lashes fluttering against her pink cheeks. I thrust two, three, four times, wanting to wring out every ounce of her pleasure before I explode.

  And I do. A blinding fire races up my spine, and all I can think of is Kate. Beneath me, around me, consuming me.

  “Jesus, how did you do it?” I ask before my brain completely comes back online. I push myself up, trying not to crush her, but she firmly holds me in place. “I don’t want to crush you.”

  “You’re not. I love feeling your weight on me. So solid, so … you make me feel safe, secure.” She runs her fingers through the hair at the back of my head. “How did I do what?”

  “Huh?”

  “You asked how I did it … what did I do?” she hums, wrapping her legs around mine, hooking her feet under my calves.

  Fuck. I’m pretty fucking sure I can’t tell Kate I’m falling for her. Not now. Not when I’m leaving in a matter of hours, and I have never dropped into a mission with a girlfriend back home, counting on me to make it out alive. There are too damn many unknowns. All the messy complications that I’ve worked so hard to avoid.

  “Swear I blacked out for a minute.” I slide out of bed and take care of the condom before curling myself around Kate’s relaxed, sated body.

  And, as I drift off to sleep, I hear her whisper, “Thank you” and feel the press of her lips to the palm of my hand.

  After a few hours of the best sleep I think I’ve ever had, I shower and throw on my clothes. I dropped my truck off at Tripp and Chloe’s yesterday afternoon, swapping it for a rental to get to the airport. I’m fucking hard-pressed to find any desire to walk out of here though.

  Light from the partially opened bathroom door slants across the room, highlighting Kate’s sleeping form. Her creamy skin glows in the soft light, calling to me, begging to be tasted and caressed one last time.

  If I wake her to say good-bye, it’ll just be hard on her. On me. So, I do what any cowardly piece of shit would do. I sweep her hair aside and kiss the back of her neck, lingering for an extra beat. Inhaling the scent of her skin, committing it to memory before stealing away.

  Her overstuffed tote bag is still where she dropped it after dinner last night, the top gaping open. I pull the wrapped journal from my ruck and tuck it into her bag. Fuck knows when she’ll actually find it with all the shit she carries around in the name of preparedness. Hopefully, she takes the granny shears out before she tries to go through TSA.

  My eyes dart over to her one last time as I reluctantly ease out the door.

  Chapter 15

  Kate

  MY PLANE TOUCHES DOWN in Hattiesburg, and the minute we get the go-ahead from the flight crew, I turn my phone back on. Desperate for a text from Jack and hating myself for it. The only new texts I have are from Gracyn, gushing about the Christmas present that I left on her bed and bitching about her asshole client. Her daddy runs the family accounting firm and seems to think he’s got the right to handpick a douche-bag husband for her. According to Gracyn, he’s nothing but a highbrow asshat, cheating on her mama and alienating his kids at every turn.

  My mama and daddy, on the other hand, couldn’t be any sweeter on each other.

  I shuffle off the plane, stopping in the restroom on the way to baggage claim. The slash of red marring my panties has never been more welcome after the unfortunate condom debacle. Along with a deep sigh of relief and tension flooding from low in my belly, it’s entirely possible that I do a little happy dance in my stall after putting myself back together.

  On the short walk to grab my checked bag, I send a quick note to Jack.

  Me: Have a fantastic visit home. Also … got the all-clear from Aunt Flo. No mishap from the ill-fitting oops!

  I drop my phone in my tote, next to the pretty wrapped present that magically appeared in there overnight. Part of me wanted to open it the minute I saw it, but mostly, I wanted to wait. For what, I don’t know, but it’s still wrapped, still in my bag. Still a symbol of mysterious possibilities.

  Naturally, my suitcase is just about the last one off the plane, but the minute I have it, I pull my phone back out and call my daddy, letting him know I’m ready. As I end the call, I check my messages and see dots bouncing from Jack. They start and stop several times, finally ghosting and disappearing entirely.

  I shove down my disappointment and roll my bag to the curb where my daddy pulls his shiny red truck to a stop in the middle of God and everybody.

  “Hey, sunshine,” he calls, hopping out, rounding the front side and giving me a big bear hug. “Good to see you again.” He holds me at arm’s length, smile stretching his mouth wide.

  “Hey, Daddy.” I plant a quick kiss on his cheek and look to the line of cars stacking up behind where he stopped, essentially blocking traffic. Bless his heart. Airport security is for everyone but him. “Think we should load these up and head on out?” I collapse the handle of my big rolling suitcase.

  He looks to the left, taking in the annoyed faces peering at us through windshields. Smirking, he nods, and then grabs my bags and setting them in the back seat.

  Yep, my daddy, Dennison Beard, with his brown hair streaked with bits of silver and tortoise-shell glasses drives a big ole truck. The man is president of a bank. A pretty sedan or lush SUV would fit him so much better, but he’s a Southern boy through and through. Pickup truck and business suit.

  We climb in and head into town, passing familiar landmarks.

  “Gonna have to drop you home and head on back to work for an hour or so. Your mama’s in there, baking, I think.” He spins the steering wheel, bouncing us up the drive, stopping next to the house I grew up in. “You go give your mama some love, and I’ll carry your bags up to your room and see y’all for supper.” He gets my door and pulls my bag from the back seat in quick succession. Then, he bounds into the house.

  This is the man who set my expectations so high. How did I fall so far? Being with Jack for the past month has reminded me of my worth. That it’s good to have high standards because, if I don’t have them for myself, no one else is going to have them for me.

  “There she is,” Mama says brightly as I push through the kitchen door.

  “Hey, Mama.” I wrap my arms around her, feeling like I just stepped back in time. This house, this kitchen, the smells—it all brings me back to the very best childhood I could’ve asked for.

  “My God, I have missed you,” she drawls, squeezing me extra tight. “When are you coming back home? There’s plenty of teaching jobs here, you know.”

  I do know. Maggie Hays Beard reminds me of that fact every time we talk.

  “Maybe you and Daddy should come visit me in New York. Y’all just might like it.”

  The front door bangs shut, and my father’s truck roars to life, the rumble fading as he takes off down the street. It doesn’t escape my notice that my invite to visit has gone unacknowledged. Sometimes, I think my parents purposely stay away from New York, avoid visiting me because they might just like it up there the same way that I do. They’ve wanted me to come back home since Chance and I broke up. They still don’t know the reason behind that shitshow, and if they acknowledge how beautiful it
is up north, they might just have to give up their campaign for my return.

  “Well, let’s get to it, baby. We’ve got cookies to make and pies to bake,” Mama says instead. “Tell me about those little darlings you have this year. Who had to take the damn turtle home this break?” She rummages around the cabinet under the island, pulling bowls and cookie sheets out for a full evening of baking.

  “It’s a coveted honor to take Dash home.” Yeah, I didn’t name the turtle Dash for his dashing looks. He actually moves pretty quickly for a turtle. Early on, when I was cleaning his cage, I about lost him as he scurried across the floor, heading straight for the kindergarten commons. “And it’s a highly selective process. Grades, good behavior—”

  “Willing parents,” she finishes for me.

  And I just laugh because it’s absolutely true. So many families travel over the break, so it’s sometimes hard to find anyone willing to pull turtle duty.

  “Who’s your favorite this year? Still that one little boy, Jackson?”

  My heart stutters at her mistake. “Jake, yeah. His daddy came home for leave. I don’t know how he and his mom do it, being apart all the time, but Jake was so happy and proud when he introduced us yesterday. He was absolutely beaming.”

  “Bless them.” There’s more than one meaning to that phrase in the South, but this time, Mama is full of sincerity.

  My family holds service to the country in the highest regard. My great-grandpa served during World War II, and the stories I’ve heard about what he saw would send chills down your spine and turn your hair white.

  The rest of the evening passes in a whirl of food, conversation, and catching up. My brother, Sam, even stops by for a hot minute with my three-year-old niece, Harper, in tow.

  “Y’all leave your mama home alone, Harp?” I ask, tugging on one of her curly brown pigtails.

  Harper wiggles in my arms, trying to get to the rack of cookies cooling on the counter.

  “Yeah, Jules isn’t feeling so great right now,” Sam says, snagging a cookie and breaking it in half. He blows on one piece before handing it to his daughter.

  “Uh-oh. She caught a bug or somethin’? You tell her not to worry about bringing a thing to Christmas dinner. Kate can help me with everything.” My mother pours some milk into a sippy cup, handing it to Harper. “Here ya go, darlin’.”

  Sam mumbles, “Something,” and snags a couple of more cookies, smirking at me from across the kitchen.

  I open my mouth, but he shakes his head and cuts his eyes to Super-Mimi, his nickname for our mother when she’s in full grandma mode. Looks like we’re going to have another baby to spoil next Christmas.

  “All righty, Harper, let’s hit it. Auntie Kate needs her beauty sleep, so she can hang with us cool kids.” He quickly hugs me, whispering his plea to keep the surprise under wraps.

  He plucks Harper from my arms and tosses her in the air. Harper squeals with delight, and Mama admonishes Sam with a smack of a kitchen towel even though he never actually breaks contact with his precious baby girl.

  ***

  SLOWLY BLINKING AWAKE, I roll over and swipe my phone off the nightstand. Still nothing from Jack. Not a word. I guess he wasn’t as concerned about our blowout as I thought he was.

  Tossing my phone aside, I take a quick shower and throw on jeans and a super-lightweight sweater. It’s significantly warmer than I’m used to, but if I go out in just a T-shirt, the winter-minded people of Mississippi might just shiver in their UGGs. And that just won’t do.

  “Morning, baby,” Mama greets, handing me a cup of coffee in a hand-thrown mug. She does love her pottery. “After you eat, I’m gonna need you to run out to the grocery store for me.” She fills a plate, setting it on the island in front of me with a napkin and fork.

  “Jesus, are you trying to fatten me up?” I ask, looking at the homemade biscuits swimming in a pool of creamy gravy.

  As a silent response, she plops a heaping spoonful of sausage crumbles on top and starts writing up her shopping list.

  “Sam’s dropping Harper by on his way to work. I hope whatever Jules has isn’t contagious,” Mama muses.

  I hide my chuckle behind my napkin. God, she’s going to lose her shit when Sam and Jules tell her they’re expecting again.

  Any complaints I had about my huge breakfast are nothing but lies. My plate all but licked clean, I shove my feet into my Chucks and grab my purse, Mama’s list, and the keys to her Lexus. “Call me if you think of anything else while I’m out,” I toss over my shoulder.

  I check my phone before pulling out onto the street. I check it again when I park at the store. I hate that I’m checking it again as I push my buggy past the refrigerated cases to the whipping cream. Disappointment settles in my heart at the lack of any new messages.

  “Well, hey there, Katie. You lookin’ for a text from me?” There’s only one person that voice could possibly belong to, and I’ll be fucked if it’s the last person I feel like dealing with.

  I place my carton of cream in the buggy and straighten, pasting a fake-as-shit smile on my face. “Chance, hey.” I skate my eyes over his shoulder, scanning the area. “You finally bring your boyfriend home to meet the family?” I ask.

  He stiffens and swings his head around, checking to see if anyone overheard me. “Would you hush?”

  Oh Jesus.

  “You still haven’t told them? Bless your heart,” I say, pushing down the aisle to the cheese case. And, yeah, this is the other kind of bless your heart—the fuck you version.

  Chance wraps his hand around my arm, halting me. “I haven’t,” he whispers. “You know how my daddy is. He’d just die. And that would break my mama’s heart, and you know it.”

  It’s true. All of it, but I just can’t really find it in me to care. I peel his hand from my bicep and cross my arms over my chest. I owe him nothing. Not a damn thing, but he’s shifting on his feet and bouncing his hip, his tells for having some favor to ask. How did I not notice in all the years we dated that Chance acted like one of my girlfriends? Am I just now noticing this after all the time I spent with Jack over the past month?

  “So, do you want to hang out while you’re home? Maybe come by for dessert after y’all have Christmas dinner tomorrow?”

  Blink. Blink. Blink. “Are you—”

  “Kate, help me. Just this once. I swear, I’m going to tell them soon. Just … just help me get through the holidays, and then I swear to God, I’ll come out,” he pleads.

  Really? Really?

  “Go to Hell, Chance.” I shake my head in disgust and walk away.

  “Kate?” he calls, still not seeing how fucked up what he’s asking me to do is.

  Hastily, I grab the last few things I need from my list and wave over my shoulder. “Say hey to your mama and them. Merry Christmas, Chance.” I pay and haul ass to the car, cranking the AC once I’m settled in the driver’s seat. And, because I really am a desperate fool, I check my phone one last time—I promise.

  Jack: Check. Merry Christmas. Thanks for everything.

  Thanks for everything? That nothing of a response takes the wind right out of my sails. Right or wrong, I wanted more. I could call him. Fake that I never received his text and tell him again that we’re in the clear, but suddenly, all I want to do is go home and take a nap. I’m tired. I’m sad.

  I just want to crawl into my bed and nurse my serious case of the blues.

  Chapter 16

  Jack

  “YOU’RE HOME.”

  That voice, almost as much as the question itself, causes tension to coil under my skin. This is one of the many reasons I don’t like coming back home. So many damn people tried to keep me here, thinking they had my best interests at heart. In fact, they all had their own agenda at the forefront of their minds.

  I turn to face my ex-girlfriend and take a step back when I see she’s not alone. “Jess.” It’s curt, maybe too curt, but I sure as fuck am not thrilled to see her. I just want to grab the handful of things
my sister asked me to pick up in town and get my ass out to the ranch. Face the next round of interactions that will confirm the wisdom of my decision to leave Montana and choose a completely different life. My skin feels too tight here, constricted.

  Jess takes half a step toward me, a tentative smile painted across her face. “It’s so good to see you again, Wyatt.”

  I bristle at the use of my first name. It’s something I primarily associate with negativity. With home. With the need to run.

  “You look good. Really good,” she continues, her hand fluttering from the shoulder of the young girl standing with her to the base of her throat. A simple gold band on her left ring finger.

  There is so much wrong with this picture. So fucking much, and I’m not sure if I don’t know what to say or if I just don’t care to say anything at all.

  Jess stills, following the line of my gaze, and makes a fist, shoving her wedding-banded hand into the pocket of her parka.

  Shaking my head, I step to the side, essentially putting her daughter between us before replying, “Nice to see you, too, Jess.”

  And the poor kid, twelve years old now—or she will be soon at least—has her head on a swivel, looking from her mother to me, probably wondering what the fuck is happening.

  You and me both, kid.

  I offer my hand, introducing myself, “I’m Jack. Went to school with your mom a million years ago.”

  “Charlie.” The girl shakes my hand and screws up her face. “Jack or Wyatt? Which is it?” Charlie looks at me with all the attitude of a self-centered kid with nothing more than popularity on her mind.

  The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

  “Wyatt Jackson. My friends call me Jack,” I tell her.

  “So, why’d my mom call you Wyatt?”

  Why fucking indeed? Because she’s a backstabbing, manipulative liar.

  Obviously, that story isn’t one that gets shared on the regular, but I don’t need to be an asshole. Not at this given moment anyway and sure as shit not to a kid.