That Was Then (The Re-Do Series Book 1)

by Arthurs, Nia

  That Was Then

  Nia Arthurs

  COPYRIGHT

  First published in Belize, C.A. 2016

  Copyright © Nia Arthurs

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be circulated in any writing of any publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This book has been produced for the Amazon Kindle and is distributed by Amazon Direct Publishing.

  To Mya.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  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 1

  Kendal

  I hate Valentine’s Day.

  With a passion.

  I can’t stand the amorous couples shoving their happiness in my – miserably single – face. Corny red hearts? They’re the worst. And seriously, who was the genius that gave the fat, naked baby a bow and arrow?

  Dodging all the Valentine’s Day buzz is like running through a war zone with a toothbrush. If I could lock myself away in a windowless room for all of February I would.

  Unfortunately, I have bills. Tons of bills. The kind of bills that can drive people to manic depression. So taking a leave of absence because Valentine’s Day sucks will probably get me fired.

  For the past couple of years, I’ve been treating myself to Oreos and cheesy romance movies the minute January limps to its bitter end. The chick flicks drive the knife deeper into my heart. And the calories are no good for my thighs but, hey, that’s one of the perks of being single. I have nobody to impress.

  Things got kind of crazy last night when I decided to ignore diet #3 (eating only one small pack of Oreos a day). Instead, I devoured the jumbo pack that I bought on a whim because I have no self-control. I also stayed up until midnight watching the BBC version of Pride and Prejudice.

  So when I woke up this morning, I was already late. Unfortunately, my life is one disaster after another and when it rains… it pours.

  After jumping in the shower for approximately one minute and tossing a pair of jeans and a fancy work blouse on, I raced to my car. Only to find out that Lula, my beat up Isuzu Trooper, didn’t feel like moving today. Again.

  I tried to coax her with my fabulous duct taping powers, but when Lula digs her heels in, there’s nothing I can do but call a mechanic and find another route to work.

  I pull my phone out of my purse with one hand as I rush down the sidewalk in the direction of the taxi stand a few blocks down. I press the screen and immediately, the phone starts dialing.

  “Charlie!” I scream when the line picks up.

  Without so much as a ‘hello’ or a ‘how-do-you-do’, my cousin instructs. “Sell that piece of junk, Kendall.”

  I pull the phone away from my ear and stick my tongue out at the receiver. My cousin is also my mechanic. I admit, I haven’t been shy about bringing Lula to Charlie’s garage, hoping to exploit the family discount. Doesn’t mean I, or my loving truck, deserve her censure.

  “You didn’t give me a chance to say anything!”

  I breathe hard as I dart across the street, narrowly rushing past a truck going a gazillion miles an hour.

  The sounds of Belizean traffic collide in a cacophony of beeping horns and muttered morning greetings. The clip-clop of black shoes against the pavement creates a rhythm of sorts as children in their uniforms scurry to class.

  Vendors selling piping hot Belizean meat pies and soft-shelled tacos litter the sidewalks, attracting workers and students alike. My stomach grumbles.

  I look down in displeasure. After my incredibly embarrassing Oreo binge last night, I refuse to reward myself with any more fatty foods.

  “You don’t need to.” Charlie points out, “you only call me this early in the morning when that stupid car won’t start.”

  I frown and walk past the meat pie vendor. The scent speaks to my heart. I freeze. My stomach takes control of my body and guides me toward the bicycle with a plastic carton filled with the little delights.

  I’ll jog to the taxi stand so I can exercise while I eat.

  I stick up two fingers in front of the Hispanic salesman and dig in my pocket for change. Holding the phone in between my cheek and shoulder blade, I accept the paper bag from him.

  “Charlie, do you know how hurt I feel, right now? Here you are, a successful, female mechanic with a hot, reggae star boyfriend. Can’t you take pity on your little cousin and share the love? It’s two weeks to Valentine’s Day. Please? Lula just needs a little TLC.”

  Nodding toward the vendor, I break the meat pie in half and enjoy my first bite.

  “I thought you hated Valentine’s Day? Besides, Lula needs a complete overhaul,” Charlie sighs over the phone. “I’m serious, Kendall! Her parts are old and duct tape isn’t cutting it.”

  The meat pie is incredible. I stuff the other half into my mouth as I hail a taxi. Climbing into the car, I rest my purse on the seat.

  “Can you help or not?”

  “You suck.”

  “Life sucks. I’m just a by-product.”

  Charlie groans. “This is the last time, Kendall. I swear it is. I’ll send Sid with a tow.”

  “I could kiss you right now!” I shriek. “Thank you, Charlie. Seriously, you’re a life saver.”

  “I’d be a life saver if I tossed that truck to the junkyard,” she mumbles.

  “I heard that!”

  “I don’t care!” she shoots back.

  “I love you anyway.”

  “Whatever.”

  The taxi parks in front of La Ruba International. I hang up the phone and pay the fare before darting into the innards of the fanciest hotel in Belize.

  I’m a pâtisserie or pastry chef. Immediately after graduating high school, I left for culinary school in the States and returned with a degree and a ton of rejection letters from all the big names in the hospitality business.

  Since I was already in debt from the American university, I decided to take out another loan. Don’t ask me why.

  I trained for a year in France, and though I had to return home because my financial well had run dry, it gave me an amazing foundation.

  La Ruba was the first hotel that offered me a job. That was nearly five years ago.

  My low heels clack against the mosaic tiles as I step through the automatic doors. The elegantly decorated foyer is something to behold. Chandeliers hang from the incredibly high ceiling and everything is encrusted in gold.

  “Morning, Jeffery.”

  I nod at the security guard dressed in a pair of pressed, starched khakis and a dark blue shirt. Streaks of grey weave through his black hair and thread silver into his neat beard. Jeffery’s kind of like a father figure. He’s been a guard at La Ruba for as long as I’ve been a chef.

  “You’re late, Kendall.” Jeffery taps his watch.

  “You look extra-handsome today, Jeff.” I walk backwards as I speak, “Did you work out?”

  “Flattery will get you nowhere.”

>   I blow him a kiss and escape onto the elevator. I’m supposed to use the service entrance, but it’s littered with boxes left over from the kitchen renovation. I often sneak into the guest elevator instead.

  It’s my little deal with Jeffery.

  As soon as I’m fully ensconced in the elevator, I shove the fourth floor button. The doors close with a ‘ding’. I tap my shoes against the floor impatiently and poke the button once more for good measure.

  “I think it got the message.” A deep voice rumbles.

  I whirl around and behold a face created from the stuff of dreams, GQ magazines, and Hollywood blockbusters.

  “Um…” I stutter.

  Lick my lips.

  Remind myself to breathe.

  I’m close to grabbing my phone and snapping a picture of this guy, but I can’t even summon the energy because everything in my body has turned to mush. My gaze rakes his dark brown hair, smoldering brown eyes, high cheekbones, and rugged jaw.

  “Um,” I prance from one foot to the next.

  The elevator stops and the man brushes past me with not even a smile to calm my beating heart. I can’t move. I literally cannot move any part of my body.

  I’m about to go down in the elevator again when he freezes and turns around. His eyes land on mine and I hiss from the impact. Hot Guy returns to the entrance of the elevator in three quick strides. He holds his hands against the wall to prevent the door from closing in on me.

  Fortunately, I manage to walk forward without falling flat on my face. Unfortunately, I’m still unable to connect my brain to my vocal chords.

  The man studies me for a minute.

  Finally he speaks. “Have a nice day.”

  He has an accent. Sweet Lord, he has an accent!

  “Um…”

  Sugar crap.

  His lips hike up in a devastatingly gorgeous smirk. Without another word, the guy turns and continues down the hallway. I rush in the other direction, kicking myself for the pathetic encounter.

  The steel surface of the kitchen doors flashes a quick glimpse of my reflection. I know I’m late, but I backpedal and stare at the brown face in the glass.

  Oh my gosh.

  A splotch of orange meat pie filling is spotted on my cheek.

  Chapter 2

  Alistair

  My name means ‘defender of man’. Some would say it is fitting. Others would not be so quick to agree. I couldn’t care less either way. What people think of my name and my character does not concern me. In my eyes, a name is just a name.

  I have more important things to worry about.

  The thick carpets swallow my feet as I charge down the corridor. The brightly lit hall exposes cream walls. Bronze light fixtures glitter in the early Caribbean sunshine. I stop in front of my hotel room and listen.

  The silence is telling.

  He is here.

  I press my hand against the keycard, feeling the sharp edges cut into my palm. Carefully, I swipe the plastic over the door handle. The click of the lock breaking free is blaring in the stillness.

  Stepping forward hesitantly, I lock the door behind me. The whoosh of a blade rings through the quiet morning. I jump back, my neck falling a breadth away from the edge of a curved dagger.

  “You have gone soft in your old age.” A familiar tone echoes.

  I smile before moving with lightning speed. Grabbing my assailant’s hand by the wrist, I keep a solid grip on the knife and twist him around so that the weapon is against his throat.

  “You have much yet to learn, Damien.”

  I release him and then wrap the younger man in a solid hug.

  “I guess I do.” Damien re-sheaths his dagger and slaps me on the back. “It’s good to see you, Alistair.”

  Damien has a harsh American accent that I’ve yet to grow accustomed to. We met in Milan a few years ago where we were both contracted to exterminate the same target.

  It was my last mission and I was quite happy to walk away with a new acquaintance. Though it was difficult, we have managed to maintain communication through the years.

  I nudge him forward.

  “Come, we can talk in the sitting room.”

  “This is a nice place,” Damien’s brown eyes dart around the suite.

  The roof above is entirely made of thatch which lends to the tropical theme. The white washed walls bear frames depicting colorful imprints of Caribbean life. The bed is large and neatly spread.

  Damien indicates the entertainment center bearing a flat screen television and assorted snacks. “I didn’t expect such opulence from a developing country.”

  “It is the same as any other,” I open the refrigerator and grab a water bottle. “There are the very rich and the very poor. No balance.”

  “You sound like Tatum.” Damien makes a face.

  “I shall take that as a compliment,” I sit upright. “How is the Chief? I’ve only just arrived and have yet to visit him.”

  Damien is a lone wolf, just as I before I retired from the field. I was a contract assassin, moving through cities and borders on my own to take down whomever my superiors so chose. Though the work called for solitude, I often interacted with other mercenaries.

  Tatum is the head of the Caribbean Assassins. He is nearly fifty years old and has a great propensity for lectures. Damien seems to uniquely inspire them.

  The younger man shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

  “He’s rounding up new blood to join the Brotherhood. He tried to woo me with promises of ‘everlasting bonds and honor.’”

  I tip the water to my lips and gulp it down, glad for the refreshing liquid. The morning is still and the air hot as if waiting for a cool breeze from the Caribbean Sea to stir the day.

  A drop of purified water splashes down my chin, calling to mind the young lady that accompanied me in the elevator.

  Immediately, my memory conjures her image. I see her curly hair, carelessly thrown into a bun atop her head. Her bright, sparkling eyes hold a hint of innocence, which is strangely appealing. Her nose spreads across her face, underlining the African heritage that her creamy brown skin already ascribes.

  I slowly recall the plumpness of her mouth, the top tracing a cupid’s bow and the bottom full and luscious. She was petite, but even beneath her modest blouse and jeans, I could see the curves of her body that nearly held me spellbound.

  It had taken supreme strength to keep from pressing my fingers against her lips and wiping the splotch on her cheek. The desire to touch her had so stunned me that for a moment, all I could do was stare.

  When she pressed the elevator button a second time, I’d been compelled to get her attention, to feel the complete effect of her eyes on me. It had been quite satisfying.

  “What are you smirking about?”

  Damien’s hand flits forward. He tips the bottle so that the water splashes against my shirt.

  I cut him a sharp look.

  The man is twenty four, but as mature as a teenager. If I had not been privy to his reputation with a dagger, I would challenge him at this very moment.

  The truth is that Damien can hold his own, though few would believe it so from the outset.

  Pulling my shirt from my chest, I watch the drops falling down my abdomen. The sensation is rather annoying, but at least it spurs me from my thoughts. It has been a while since a woman has so captured me.

  The feeling can become a distraction if I let it linger.

  “Did you enjoy that?” I glance about for a napkin. “Is this what you summoned me to Belize to do?”

  Faster than a flash, Damien offers a cloth.

  “You know you missed me. Besides your instincts are getting slower, Old Man. You used to catch me before I could succeed.”

  Slightly shaken, I accept the paper and dab at my shirt.

  “I’m only seven years older than you, Damien. I’m far from ‘old’. And I let you play that silly prank intentionally.”

  Damien snorts. “Yeah right. What had you so deep in
thought?”

  “It’s nothing.” I give up on drying off with the small cloth and stand.

  Damien sobers. His dark brows hang low over his narrow eyes and he steps closer.

  I’ve been trained to observe the slight nuances of body language, both to disguise my own and to read the unspoken messages of others. Whatever Damien has to say is quite serious.

  “There are whispers through the Caribbean Alliance. It’s just hear-say so far. No one has confirmed them.”

  “What?” I frown. “Speak freely, Damien.”

  The younger man straightens his spine and looks me dead in the eyes.

  “Shadow is coming. He’s coming for you.”

  Chapter 3

  Kendall

  The stainless steel appliances gleam in the light. The industrial bulbs above us highlight the spotless floor and counters.

  Serachi, our locally famous head chef, has a thing about cleanliness. He demands a floor so sanitary that the staff should be able to grab forks and eat on the tiles.

  I still have no idea what miracle is keeping Serachi and me from tearing each other’s throats out. The man is high strung to the max, while I believe in going with the flow.

  It’s a match that has spurred a thousand quarrels. There’s even a kitchen pool to see which one of us goes crazy first.

  “You are late!”

  Serachi’s voice is a few decimals short of a shriek.

  He’s a small man with a thin waist and amazingly thick black eyelashes. Serachi always dresses up for work in close-to-designer starched shirts and pressed slacks.

  Nobody can guess the head chef’s age. Even though there are a few strands of grey in his hair, Serachi’s skin is as tight as a baby’s bottom.

  The word ‘botox’ has been thrown around in regards to his eternal youth.

  “I’m not late, Serachi.” I stuff my purse in the cubicle next to the broken ice cream machine and grab my white apron. “You’re early.”

  “Of course I’m early. We have a party from the Taiwanese embassy at twelve. Or have you forgotten?”

  Serachi sticks his large European nose into the air. He’s half European, half Belizean. It’s common knowledge that he ‘identifies’ with the former more than the latter. His nose clearly agrees.