by Megyn Ward
Diving Deep
Paradise Lost: Book 1
Megyn Ward
Shanen Black
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 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 1
Kylie
I ignore the pinch on my ass when I really want is to slap his hand away and punch the loser in the mouth. This late into the evening, though, there’s really no point. He’s been paying cash each round and I’ve given myself generous tips from his change, so if he needs to cop a feel to get his jollies, well then, I’ll put up with it.
Does that make me a prostitute? Am I contributing to the universal degradation of women?
Yeah, I am.
But I have rent to pay and don’t know how long I’ll need to live on this expensive island before I get the opportunity to work my plan.
What plan? You’ve been here six months now and you’re no closer to Jonas Knightly that you were when you stepped off the plane.
“Kylie, can you take table eight?” Diana wags her head toward the far end of the crowded palapa.
I like working with Diana. With skin the color of hot chocolate and the lilting island accent, she makes the tourists feel like they’re getting the whole vacation experience. What they don’t know is that Diana was raised in Atlanta and came to the Caymans about a year ago, specifically to snag a rich boyfriend. I met her when she joined one of the dives at Dive Love, where I’m a dive master. We hit it off, became roommates, and she recommended me for my second job here at The Green Frog.
“Got it,” I say and hurry off, my flip flops slapping on the sandy, concrete floor. The bar is packed. Annoying clientele but good tips. Table eight is the typical gang for the beginning of January. College kids on winter break, spending Daddy’s money in the tropics.
Diana tries to get me to wear cute sundresses and sandals with heels and to fix my hair and put on makeup. She swears it pays off in tips. And she’s probably right since she brings in more cash than I do by a lot. But she also has the accent and exotic island beauty. Me, not so much. I opted for my regular outfit. Cutoffs or short skirt, a couple of layered tanks, flip flops and my blonde hair pulled off my face and neck in a pony or whatever stayed up. I get my share of the pinches, pats, and stares so it can’t be too bad.
Table eight erupts in laughter. Two couples crowd around the round table in the circle of light from the bar. Two girls, one with strawberry blonde hair, the other with dark hair, both thin, lots of smeared makeup, sundresses and bits of sunburn where they’d been careless with the sunscreen. Two guys. Both giving off an air of casual wealth that instantly sets my teeth on edge.
Behind them, the beach is cloaked in darkness. The surf crashes against the shore, the of it foam glowing in the scant moonlight.
“Nurse!” The pudgy blonde guy with baggy khaki shorts and gaping tank top greets me. “Let’s get a whole lot of Sex on the Beach here.” When he says it the girls at the table giggle like he made a dirty joke and I have to fight to keep myself from rolling my eyes.
I’d been around their type all my life. Mom, a totally classy and organized person, was house mother at a sorority at Harebridge College. Those girls all came from money and they expected the world to wait on them. Mom did her best to cater to their whims. Peanut allergies, lactose intolerant, gluten-free, fat-free, carb-free, protein only… the lists went on and on.
The usual lame jokes circle the table. Two guys and two girls filled out the group. I eye the guys, the blonde who looks like he’d finish a 50-yard dash faster rolling than running. And the other, with a dark skiff of stubble running along his jawline and glassy eyes. My heart does a stupid leaping thing when the scruffy guy shifts his drunk gaze to mine. His eyes are the deep blue of a stormy ocean and when he looks at me, something must have clicked past his haze because he smiles and shows me the cutest dimples in this hemisphere. As soon as they appear, they fade, his face dropping before he looks away, aiming those heart-stopping eyes of his at the dark.
One of the girls gave me a sloppy grin. “Hey, do you give good Sex on the Beach?” Both of the girls look like your typical vacation types with English accents.
“The best on the island.” I force a smile, giving them my standard answer to the question I hear no less than a thousand times a shift.
They remind of the sorority girls my mom used to take care of. When I was little, they treated me like a cute mascot. Dressed me up like a doll. Played with me when they were bored. That all stopped when I hit puberty. In my teens, they quit liking me so much. Then it was all giggles and veiled insults about my thrift store clothes and raised eyebrows at my home haircut. By then, I was working two jobs and pulling down A’s while they laughed at me for working at Walmart and going to public school.
I didn’t give a shit.
I still don’t.
I try for a friendly tone because I need the tip, even though I know what’s coming. “That’s four Sex on the Beaches.”
On cue, the girls and the blonde guy roar and by some small miracle I don’t roll my eyes. How many bars have they been to already?
The guy with the nearly-beard shifts bleary eyes away from the dark to look me. “Three. I’ll take a Dewar’s.”
This time it’s a little harder to stop my eye roll. Dewar’s. Really? Taking a page from Daddy’s book by knocking back the real deal instead of silly tropical drinks. It’s all about the image, huh dude? “Dewar’s. Right.”
A part of me wants to suggest he forego the drink and find a large pizza to sponge up an afternoon of booze. And a part of me I didn’t recognize thinks it might be nice to share it with him.
Jesus. Now I sound like Diana, ready to hook up with the first pretty face that comes along. Except I’m not like Diana and I don’t normally notice the good-looking, asshole guys.
I take table eight their drinks and try not to feel too much resentment. Living in the sorority house, Mom and I had everything we needed and before she’d died, I’d never been jealous of the girls’ wealth and privilege. We had an adequate apartment, plenty to eat, public transportation. Between living frugally and my extra jobs, we managed to save enough for a two-week diving trip every year. When I graduated from high school, I got a great deal to attend the Harebridge College, where Mom worked. That’s where I got my dive master’s training. Good thing, too because it’s kept me from starving in paradise.
As much as she loved diving, Mom hadn’t wanted me to spend the time to get certified. She’d wanted me to focus on my accounting degree, graduate early, get my CPA certificate and start making a fortune. While she loved the girls and her job, she always said she wanted me to be my own boss. I was good at numbers and she believed that would translate into a successful finance career. She wanted more for me than she ever had herself. Now she’s gone and I can’t help but wonder what she’d think if
she knew where I was and what I was doing.
The Green Frog is packed. Loud 70’s rock music pours from speakers, beating down on drunk customers and filtering out to the beach, where it drifts over the tide. Pudge called me over again and circled his finger at the table for another round. Scruff-face hasn’t touched his Dewar’s so I put in an order for 3 of the sugary drinks that would hopefully give them a full measure of hangover love.
In another two hours Diana and I will be strolling along the beach on our way to our dumpy apartment. And six hours from now I’ll be hauling my ass out of bed to go to the dive shop. While these baby tycoons are still snoring, their servants mixing their hangover remedies, I’ll be working my ass off.
I take table eight their round. As soon as I set the tray down, they grab for the tall plastic glasses filled with fuchsia-colored slush. Scruff-face flashes me his dimples, then his attention travels from the noisy bar to the dark beach again, almost like he’s looking for someone. That crazy part of me wants to ask who. If whoever it is, is the reason he looks so lost.
Not your business, Kylie.
Focusing on the rest of them, I watch them chug their drinks. This is the second round I’ve brought without payment and my Spidey senses are starting to tingle. I look at Mr. Pudge. He looks away.
I raise my voice above their drunken chatter. “It’s $65.”
They ignore me. Great. Sometimes the people with the most money are the biggest jerks about paying. I plaster an extra big smile on my face and step closer. “You want to open a tab or pay cash?”
Still, they pretend I’m not here. Pudge’s already downed half his drink and the girls aren’t far behind. Scruff-face’s Dewar’s sits in front of him, forgotten, while he stares off into the dark. His blue eyes look so sad. I don’t know why I notice or even care.
Still not your business, Kylie.
I slap my hand on the table, as much to get someone’s attention as to knock some sense into myself. “Hey. I like you and all that, but the drinks aren’t free. Someone needs to cough up $65.”
Mr. Pudge inhales with a slow intake and swivels toward me. He speaks in the deliberate tone drunks use when they want to appear sober. “Put it on our tab, if you please.”
“Absolutely.” I force the smile to stay on my lips. “Can I get a card to hold at the bar?”
He lowers his eyebrows like a Doberman preparing to strike. “I’m good for it.”
I nod. “I’m sure you are. But I still need a card. Bar policy.”
From my side vision I watch the girls quickly down their drinks. Not good. If they don’t pay, I’ll have to eat their tab. That would be worth three hours of my time tonight. I didn’t like them enough to spring for a hot dog at a beach stand, let alone this bar tab.
Pudge takes a long swig of his drink and I wonder if it gave him a brain freeze. Guess he’s brain dead because he doesn’t hesitate. “Look, you. I don’t have to take this shit. I’ve never had a problem drinking at this bar, or this fucking island for that matter.”
“The problem isn’t you drinking.” I stay calm. Dealing with belligerent drunks is a part of the gig. “The problem seems to be you paying for it.”
From the corner of my eye, I see Scruff-face lean back in his seat to stick his hand in his pocket. I’m so relieved I want to cry. Before he can pull out his wallet, Pudge stops him. “Put that away. I’ve got this.” He gives his friend a toothy grin that turns arrogant and mean when he turns back to look at me. “You’re new here, aren’t you?”
One of the girls slams her empty plastic glass on the table. I glare at Mr. Pudge. “Not that new.”
He waves an arm with about as much muscle as a bowl of pudding and points toward the bar. “Go ask Timothy who I am. He’ll vouch for me.”
I glance at the bartender, but his head was down while he mixes a dozen margaritas. “Don’t be this way,” I say, turning on the charm. “Just give me your card and I’ll bring you another round, on the house.” I’m playing the long game. I’d rather pay for one round than two.
He finishes his Sex on the Beach and flicks his fingers at me. “Go on. Ask him.” He sits back in his seat and glares at me, unwilling to compromise. “Let’s get this taken care of so you won’t harass me every time I bring my friends here.”
Damn it. I really hate this guy. I don’t want to play his, I’m-so-important games. But I want my $65 so I spin around and stride toward the bar.
I push through the crowd and wind around tables. “Hey, Timothy.”
He pulls his head up toward me.
“You know those clowns?” I turn to point to table eight.
Shit.
The fuck-wads are already on the run. All but Scruff-face, who looks confused.
“Wait!”
I shove people out of the way, trying to get to them before they manage to get over the seawall separating the patio from the beach. If I catch one of them I can get my money. Scruff-face might be the only one I have hopes of tackling. Seeing me hustling toward him, he stands and grins again, totally oblivious to the fact that I have every intention of choking my money out of him as soon as I can get my hands on him.
Suddenly, the strawberry blonde scrambles back over the wall to grab hold of Scruff-face’s hand and jerks him toward the wall. Unwilling to give up, I keep going. I still might be able to tackle him.
Scruff-face pulls away from the girl and falls face first over it into the sand. I only have a few more yards to go. I’ll scale the wall and get that fucker. I’m mad enough to fling him with one arm from the beach to the bar where Timothy’ll hold him down until the cops came. That’s one of my favorite things about Timothy. He hates these rich fucks almost as much as I do.
A wooden stool leg scrapes along the concrete. Funny I can hear it with the music thumping and the loud bar laughter. A lumbering, bald, thirty-something pushes back from a table right into my path. I smack into him and bounce backward, landing on my ass.
“Hey!” he shouts, more surprised than mad.
I scramble to get to my feet. He reaches a marshmallow-like paw down and swings it around, trying to get hold of my hand to help me up. He’s had so much liquid vacation he can’t focus so all he manages to do is push me back down.
A ruckus to the left alerts me that Diana’s on the run, too. She yells. “Stop!” She isn’t very lucky, either but I love her from trying.
I finally crawl around another table to get away from the drunk guy’s fumbling and jump to my feet. Even though I fly toward the back wall I know they’re gone.
I lost my chance.
Diana makes it to the back of the bar at the same time I do. We stand looking out at the empty beach, the moonlight highlighting the surf.
“Damn it!” I slam my palm down on the table, the army of empty plastic glasses rattle and fall over.
“Not cool.” Diana bumps up behind me. “Sorry, Ky.”
I think of the weeks’ worth of lunches I’m going to have to do without. “Fucking rich people.”
Diana drapes her arm over my shoulders, I don’t even have to look at her to know she’s grinning like an idiot. “Yeah, but he was a cute fucking rich people.”
Chapter 2
Zach
Hips swaying, Lexi sidles across the bedroom and slips beside me on the cool sheets. Her dark hair forms a curtain around us as she bends to kiss me. Her lips brush against mine like satin.
God, I’ve missed the taste of her.
“I love you, Zach.” She whispers and kisses me at the same time.
It’s been so long since I’ve felt her. Tasted her. So long I don’t ask her where she’s been. Why she left me.
I just wrap my arms around her and pull her closer. Keep kissing her. Touching her.
She settles her weight on me, her breasts hard against my chest. This is what I’ve wanted. Longed for, for months.
Lexi with me again. Loving me. Wanting me as much as I want her.
My palm slides down the gentle curve of her back a
nd across the slope of her perfect ass, her body as firm and soft as I remember it.
She kisses me harder, opening her mouth over mine, teeth grinding against my lips with impatience. She groans into my mouth and nips my lower lip. She pants as she thrusts her hips against mine.
She writhes on top of me, her body warm and delicious. Thighs against thigh. Feet tangled. She pushes herself up, creating more pressure where I’m already rock hard. I’m already close to coming but I fight it off.
I’m with Lexi.
I want this to last.
Slowly, I push onto my elbows and kiss her, gently exploring her mouth with my tongue.
She spreads her legs and hovers over me, closing her hand around my cock, guiding me into her slick, wet folds. She sinks onto me, drawing me deeper, moaning again.
Unable to stop myself, I thrust into her, harder, burying myself in her hot, slick pussy.
She arches her back and cries out.
I stop moving. “Are you okay?”
She heaves against me. “Don’t stop. It’s so good.”
It’s not always good with Lexi.
From the moment we met at boarding school when we were fifteen, she’d called the shots. She decided when we shared our first kiss. We explored each other’s bodies, touched and licked, kissed and nipped, but always on her terms. Her timing. I knew every part of her, from the tiny mole on the inside of her left thigh to the scar on her forehead where her brother threw a rock at her when they were kids.
I’d had to learn her rhythm. How to pay careful attention to how she liked it. Want she wanted. Because if I took one misstep, read one clue wrong, she’d call me names and push me off her, confused and frustrated while she scrambled back into her clothes. As confusing and frustrating as it was, I feel like she gave me a gift. Thanks to seven years of her mood swings and erratic behavior, I got very good at reading women at a very young age.
