Undertow: A compilation of short beach stories

by Patricia A. Knight

  “Tell me you love me, Bella. Tell me I haven’t fucked this up so bad we can’t fix it.” She pulled her head away from his hands and walked to the cabin door looking out at the bay.

  “I’m scared, Cole. Scared of the depth of my emotions when it comes to you. Scared you’ll go under cover and be consumed by another case. I’m afraid what you feel for me is a shadow of our time undercover.”

  He walked up behind her, exhaustion creeping in and replacing the adrenaline spike from seeing her again. The lack of sleep fought with his will to keep his shit together and night-night time was kicking his ass. He wrapped his arms around her and put his chin on her shoulder smelling a wonderful blend of coconut suntan lotion mixed with the pure sweet smell of Bella. “It’s okay to be afraid, but you will never have to doubt my love for you.” His lips found her neck and she leaned away exposing the golden tanned skin for his tongue and lips to explore.

  “Tell me you love me, Bella. Everything else we can work together to fix.” Cole lifted away from her and turned her in his arms. “Do you love me?”

  Tears pooled in her amazing blue eyes. The smile that split her face took his breath away. “I do. I love you, Cole. I never thought you’d come back.” She tucked herself into his chest burrowing her head under his chin. Wrapped around her, he sighed…then yawned until his jaw cracked.

  When he recovered, he mumbled against her skin, “I’ll never stay away. Your trusting me is something we need to work on. It won’t be easy, Bella. But what we have? It’s worth the risk.” The rocking of the boat registered as they swayed with the motion. He yawned again, this time shuddering with his whole body. What was it…four hours of sleep in the last forty-eight or was it fifty-six?

  She pulled away but took his hand pulling him toward the front of the cabin where a queen-sized bed waited behind the cabin door. “We’ll talk more after you get some rest.”

  “You’re not leaving me.” He pulled her down on the bed with him. Her warm skin against him as the bed sucked him down felt amazing. Holding her completed him. Oblivion via sleep called with a sweet, sultry siren’s song. His eyelids weighed a thousand pounds. No way could he keep them open.

  He felt her soft hands tracing his face and he fought the coming blanket of darkness long enough to hear the woman he loved say, “I love you, Cole. I’ll never leave.”

  A sense of serenity wrapped around him. Cole pulled the blessing from his backwater assignment against him. With her in his arms, he could do anything.

  ~ The Beginning ~

  Next Up: Undertow by Patricia A. Knight

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  Other Books by Kris Michaels:

  Jacob: Kings of Guardian (Book 1)

  Victoria Marshall didn't cooperate by dying in the Afghani hell-hole like the CIA expected. Defying all probability, a privately-funded black ops group led by a handsome, sexy-as-sin southerner pulled her out of the warlord's prison cell and brought her home. Even half out of her mind with pain Tori knew this man was special. She made a date with the commander to meet one year later at a restaurant of his choice. Keeping that date was the best thing she ever did.

  Jacob King found little physically attractive about the woman he saved from the warlord’s camp, though it was hard to see what lay under the filth and suppurating wounds she suffered from countless beatings. He admired her brave humor in the face of her agonizing injuries. This kind of tough-minded woman was someone he'd like to know as a friend. He never expected the leggy, blond bomb-shell in the red dress who showed up for their date.

  But then he never expected she would save his life, either. In a world of shadows, smoke, and dangerous covert missions, where people routinely vanish and living one more day was never a given, Tori and Jacob fight to build their happily ever after.

  Undertow

  by

  Patricia A. Knight

  Former Army Ranger, Max Harper didn’t know the young woman playing fetch on the beach with his therapy dog—but he wanted to. From his first meeting with Holiday Jones, her fresh beauty and soft heart swept him away. The wounded veteran knew he wanted forever with Holiday. There is just one small problem. She thinks he’s someone he’s not. When his down-to-earth Holiday learns who Max really is, love might not be enough—for no matter how generous a woman’s heart, it’s difficult to forgive deception.

  Dedication

  This story is dedicated to my husband and all those who serve or have served in the armed forces of the United States. A heartfelt thank you for your service.

  Patricia

  Chapter One

  I straighten my backpack on my shoulders, paste a smile on my face and march forward into the employees’ locker room. Fridays are usually great—the end of the workweek—the start of the weekend. This Friday has all the earmarks of major suckage. First, my van broke down, again, and now…

  “Miss Jones. You are thirty minutes late for your shift.”

  My boss at PublicMart stands by my locker, his scowl etching deeper lines in his tanned forehead. Beside him, Dave the daytime security guard shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot. The salmon pink of my cashier’s bib sticks out of the open door to my locker. Multiple cans of Chef Boyardee ravioli and Starkist tuna make a two-foot pyramid on the narrow wooden bench in front of it. My heart sinks. He’s found my stash for the homeless. They live just the other side of the inter-coastal bridge from where I work in Palm Beach. It always amazes me how much crossing a narrow span of water can affect your standard of living: Palm Beach, the “haves”—West Palm Beach, the “have-nots.”

  “Mr. Padhuwala, I’m sorry I’m late. The Wombat broke—”

  He interrupts me. “Yes, yes, your van broke down. Again.” He shakes his head in irritation. “Under the circumstances, it doesn’t matter. Miss Jones, I told you what would happen if I caught you caching expired food again.”

  “Mr. Padhuwala, the homeless don’t care if the ravioli or tuna is a day past expiration. This is probably the best meal, the only meal, they’ll have all week.”

  It just hurts me to throw perfectly good food in the dumpster when a few hundred yards away, people starve. Unlike the Jamaican maids that shop for their hoity-toity multi-millionaire employers, Bennie-Under-the-Bridge and Crazy Kate won’t care if the cans are a day or two past the “best by” date. Benny and Kate definitely won’t sue PublicMart over out-of-date pasta. I’m not sure they know what year it is much less the day or the month.

  “We have been over this before, Holiday. Our parent company is emphatic about disposing of anything past the ‘sell by’ date. The potential for litigation due to personal injury is too great. You leave me no choice, Ms. Jones. You’re fired. Dave will stay while you clean out your locker and escort you off the property. We’ll mail you your final check.”

  He walks off shaking his head. I turn to Dave. My shoulders slump and my backpack slithers off and hits the ground.
I make no move to stop it. My eyes hold his sorrowful ones. “I can’t believe he fired me.” All right, yes, I can. Mr. Padhuwala is as tough as a four-day-old bagel. My gaze falls on the pyramid. “Can I take these cans? Please?”

  “Ms. Holiday.” He sighs. “What am I going to do with you, child? Put ‘em in a sack. I’ll leave them by the loading dock. Come by and pick them up on your way out. Just make sure the management doesn’t see you.”

  I hug his neck. “Thank you, Dave. You’re such a nice man.” If you could see a black man blushing, Dave would probably be beet red…but he was a nice man.

  “The world isn’t ready for you, Ms. Holiday.” He pauses and scratches his bald head. “Or maybe I got it bass-ackwards. You aren’t ready for the world. You better look out for your own interests first, child, or this world will gobble you up.”

  I pull my key from the lock and open the door to the apartment I’ve shared for five years with my fiancé Carl. God bless air conditioning. The forty-five minute trek from PublicMart has left me soaked in perspiration.

  I beam at Carl as I throw my backpack and two large sacks of canned goods on the sofa. “Hi, sweetie. What are you doing home this time of day? FedEx run out of boxes to deliver? I’d give you a hug but I’m all hot and sweaty. I really scored for Bennie and Crazy Kate, but man, my morning sucked. It’s so nice to come home and see my sweetie. Wait until I tell you…”

  Allen, one of Carl’s good friends, walks out of the kitchen holding a cup of coffee. “Hey, Holiday.”

  “Hey, Allen.” I greet him with a casual wave. Both men stand awkwardly side-by-side and exchange guilty glances. Allen takes Carl’s hand. I glance at Carl in question. “What’s up?”

  “Ah…Hol…I need to tell you something.”

  ***

  For the last two weeks, I’ve tried to walk off the stress from the hundred-car pile-up that’s my life right now—no more fiancé, no more job. If walking in sand is good for toning calves and thighs, mine should be the best-toned female legs in the Palm Beaches. The money I’ve saved to begin junior college this fall has taken a bad hit paying “first, last and deposit” on my new place. I try not to be depressed at the thought of delaying my secretarial career for another year—or two.

  I live in one of the most beautiful places on the earth. Even if the sand’s not pristine, and I dodge piles of seaweed and Portuguese Man-O-War, there’s something about the Atlantic Ocean that quiets the clamor inside me. Lately, I’ve needed my clamor quieted.

  Sea grape bushes come down to where the beach starts and form a dense green and maroon hedge defining the edge of the private property belonging to the mansions behind them. This stretch of beach in front of the expensive homes is always deserted. It’s a criminal waste, but now, I’m glad of the privacy. I do a 360 and with a quiet sigh of appreciation for the beauty and solitude, I plop my butt in the sand. The driftwood I’ve collected lands beside me like pick-up-sticks. The gentle waves rolling onto the beach are mesmerizing. The sound of the soft, regular lap strokes the inside of me and my soul purrs like a kitten being petted.

  I’m alone on this vast expanse of sand, sky and sea grapes. I snort. Just me, myself and I; and the sea gulls; and the no-see-ums; and the jellyfish; and the sandpipers. My jaunt north from Palm Beach’s public beach has carried me firmly onto exclusive private property. At least, it would be private if anyone could own the shoreline. My free-spirited mom used to delight in reminding me that as long as I don’t get off the sand, light a bonfire or spend the night, the “corrupt capitalist owners of those multi-million dollar tributes to excess that squat along Ocean Drive and deprive the working man of the ocean”—her words not mine—can’t accuse me of trespassing or make me leave the beach. I get their pricey views for free.

  I flop back on the hot sand and close my eyes. I’ll get grit in my curly blond locks, but I don’t care. I’ve abandoned trying to tame the bush and it’s exploded in a riot of shoulder-length blond ringlets. Anyone can achieve this look. Simply stick your tongue in a light socket. Voila, Holiday hair. That’s the one good thing about being unemployed and single—no one to care about your hair. No one to care about anything else, either. How depressing.

  Well, I have to cut my ex some slack. Carl never did anything but tell me I was pretty. My looks weren’t the issue in our breakup. It was my gender. But shoot…I mean really? It took him until now to decide to bat for the other team? I’m twenty-four, the same age as Carl. We’ve been going steady since junior year in high school and engaged since we graduated.

  My shoulders slump. It does explain a lot of his weirdness with the physical end of things. He was my best friend and confidant and I miss him. His new significant other, Allen, is a great guy and he adores Carl. Laughter bubbles up inside when I remember the last time the three of us went for drinks. Allen teased me about the good job I’d done teaching Carl to kiss. They’re so cute together. The bastards.

  Wow…I’m really having a pity party. Well, shoot. I reach blindly for a stick of driftwood and hurl it toward the water, listening for the plunk as it hits. I remind myself to be like the driftwood and float on top of life’s undertow. Don’t fight. Just float. Sooner or later, life’s currents will return me effortlessly to shore. Float, Holiday girl, float.

  Sand sprays onto my bare torso and a wet piece of wood thumps onto my vulnerable stomach followed by a hearty “Woof!”

  “Sweet baby Jesus!” I lurch up, and I’m face-to-face with a beautiful chocolate Lab. Good golly, I love dogs. He noses the wet driftwood on my stomach and woofs again, then bounces away on stiff legs, his golden eyes begging me to throw the stick. Gurgling with laughter, I oblige and he bounds into the water, paddles out to the floating wood, snags it in his mouth and paddles back, gallumping to me with an enormous grin on his doggy face. Of course, he waits until he’s dropped the stick in my lap to shake.

  “Whoa! Now stop that!” I fend off the water droplets, helplessly laughing at his goofy smile. Once more, I hurl the driftwood into the water. As he dives into the waves in total abandon, every ounce of his doggy self committed to capturing that stick, I admire him. He’s so in the moment. Such a joyous, beautiful dog. Someone loves him. Someone cares for him. He belongs somewhere. Is it stupid to envy a dog? Yeah. It is. If she were alive, Mom would definitely tell me, “Get over yourself, girlfriend. Okay, Mom…pity party officially ended.

  Life is good. I’m healthy. I have a plan for the future. After ransacking my contacts list, a call to a good friend got me hooked up with a catering company so some money will be coming in shortly—maybe enough to fix The Wombat. It would be nice to make a left-hand turn without the windshield wipers coming on. Meanwhile, the rent on my studio is paid until the end of the month and Rover the goldfish has a full can of fish flakes. I have a stockpile of Starkist Tuna and Chef Boyardee Ravioli so Benny-under-the-bridge and Crazy Kate won’t starve. So, yeah, girl, you got it rocking. And on that optimistic note, I play with my seventy-pound friend until my cheeks hurt from laughing and I can’t make a fist, much less throw another stick. As I said, I love dogs.

  The sea grapes cast long shadows on the sand when I decide to make my way home. Happily, I don’t mind walking. I’d left The Wombat parked in front of my place to save on gas. Not that my beater Volkswagen van used much, but still…a penny saved and all that. I worry that the sweet Lab will follow me when I leave the beach, but he just stands and watches me, a piece of driftwood hanging from his mouth and a crestfallen look on his face. He’s well cared for and he has a collar and license. He belongs to someone in one of these houses; otherwise, I wouldn’t leave him alone on the beach.

  As I walk backward, I try to console him. “It’s okay fellah. I’ll be back tomorrow. I’ll bring a Frisbee and we can do this some more.”

  My playmate cocks his head, drops his driftwood and bounds toward a break in the sea grape hedge. As I watch, I see why. At the end of a path of pavers that run from the nearest big house to the beach, a man stands—tall
and golden in a pair of long white cargo shorts and a ripped t-shirt that ends just above his midriff and has ‘Ranger Up’ emblazoned across the chest. A flash of light glints off one of those silent dog whistles on a cord around his neck. The sun backlights his silhouette and shadows his features. From the behavior of the Lab, this is the beloved owner.

  He must be the caretaker. No one lives in these beach homes during the summer. They are boarded up with hurricane shutters over their windows and doors—like this one. I can see the massive shutters on the big house behind him from here. I raise my hand in a friendly wave and walk toward him. I want to tell him what a lovely dog he has and maybe make plans for another play-date.

  “I love your dog,” I call. “What’s his name?”

  As I get nearer, the man’s features become visible. Wow...seriously…wow. Six-three at least and spare, like a swimmer or a cyclist, with unkempt brown hair worn long and styled by the ocean breeze. A smile played at the corners of a full mouth on a tanned face striking in its masculine strength, but his eyes did me in. They never left mine and you knew, you just knew from the cautious pain dwelling inside those hazel depths—this gorgeous man had been terribly hurt. How? By what?

  “Hi,” I chirp and give him a little wave. “My name’s Holiday Jones and I adore your dog. This is your dog, right?”

  He grins revealing a mouth of even, perfectly white teeth and nods. “Yeah.” He holds out his hand. “Max.”

  I return his grin and shake his hand. Okay, wow. Warm, elegant hands with a gentle grip. Soulful eyes. Handsome face. Below my navel, Miss Kitty does a happy dance. Carl, sweetie, I’m moving on.