Splinter of Hope

by Jody Kaye

  Sharp Edges Ahead

  Splinter of Hope

  Copyright

  About this book

  Reading Order

  Sign up!

  A Request from Jody

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  epilogue

  Sneek Peak: Shred of Decency

  Let's talk typos

  Author Notes

  Sweet Caroline's Marquee

  Fans want to know!

  Connect with Jody

  Also by Jody Kaye

  About the Author

  the end

  ©2020 Jody Kaye

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover Design ©2020 by Jody Kaye

  No part of this publication can be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the consent of the Author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are a creation of the Author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, establishments, events or locales is coincidental. Except the original material written by the Author, all books, songs, and product references are the property of the copyright holders.

  This book contains adult language and scenes. It is not recommended for readers under 18 years of age.

  I want that.

  It was the first thought that entered my mind when I laid eyes on her.

  Kimber is all creamy skin and vibrant red hair. The fiery kind that makes a man understand there is strength in her convictions. She’ll stand by the ones she loves, no matter the cost.

  And it fuels the desire to make her mine.

  The biggest choice she made left her arms empty.

  I’m searching for a flicker of hope she’ll let me fill them again.

  I want that.

  For her.

  For us.

  Today is the day.

  Four years is a long time for any man to wait.

  But if Kimber’s heart hasn’t mended yet, mine will splinter. Because it means I haven’t given the woman I love everything she needs.

  —Trig

  Shattered Hearts of Carolina

  Splinter of Hope

  Shred of Decency

  Sliver of Truth

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  For the Quinters, without whom this story would have never been written.

  I stand in front of the mirror, fluffing my hands through my waist-length red hair one more time before applying sheer gloss to my lips.

  At thirty-six years of age, I’m not sure why I need to look like I’ve stepped out of a magazine. Although, I accept that appearances matter. Today it’s wholesome.

  Last night?

  Well, I manage Sweet Caroline’s, the strip club across the street. So like the ladies who work for me, what I was—or rather wasn’t wearing—is better left to the imagination.

  I slip a silver cross around my neck as a reminder I have faith in myself to make it through the afternoon. Searching my jewelry drawer for a bracelet, I find the one I’m looking for without much effort. It’s pounded metal with a wide cuff. The brilliant silver contrasts with the deep blue of my top. I slip it over the darkening contusion on my wrist, glad it covers the black and blue.

  Trig will be beside himself when he sees the bruise. It’s not healthy of me to hide it from him, but in all fairness, now isn’t the time to add to whatever he’s worried about.

  My phone dings on the dresser and my heart speeds up, pounding in my chest the way it does on the back of Trig’s custom bike. I don’t have to look to know the text is from him, and I can’t explain the thrill it sends through me. The same freedom I find with the wind whipping through my hair on the open road is the way it feels loving this man.

  Trig is constant and steady. He’s borrowed a car and driven me where I need to go, any time I’ve needed to go there, for the past four years. It took a lot for me to decide to count on him. Now, lying in his arms at night, I’m not sure why.

  I pick up an envelope on my nightstand, sliding out its contents to ensure I have the picture inside. I close my eyes. At first, this image is all I see. Then, like the residual spots of looking at something bright, the others I’ve given away over the past decade begin overlapping. Each one holds the memory of another girl with a very different story than the one I’d hoped for.

  The picture goes back into the envelope to protect it. After it’s safe in my purse, my pulse picks up again anticipating being with Trig. I open the door to my room, which is closest to the steps, and move the red velvet rope to the side. It’s not much of a roadblock, more of a mental note to keep the barrier in place for the sake of others.

  The first thing I see is Trig looking up at me from the last stair before the landing.

  If it were any other day, I’d saunter over to him, swishing my ass back and forth. But today quick feet carry me those few steps to where I can feel the warmth of his body against mine.

  On instinct, Trig reaches for my waist, setting his hands on my hips. I tilt my chin down and press my lips to his.

  “You look gorgeous,” he says. His steely eyes dance the same way his fingertips do against the gauzy fabric of my shirt.

  “Thanks.” I worry my lip.

  “Big day.” Still standing below me, Trig brushes my hair over my shoulder.

  The third floor of the factory is off-limits to men. Carver designated the rooms up here for women only, so this is as far as any of the guys go. Part of it is respect for the ladies who live up here and an understanding that Carver is giving us a chance to change our lives. More than that, though, is nobody would be as brash as to piss him off by breaking the long-standing rule. After all, the restored cotton mill is his building. We live here because Carver lets us.

  None of us would ever sneak a man up here either. As a couple, we spend our private time in Trig’s room on the floor just below. The guy’s digs aren’t as nice. I mean, it would be amazing if we had our own private bathrooms the way they do. But I wouldn’t give up the space for a skinny shower stall since we have a sweet claw foot soaking tub up here.

  I could use some of those relaxing bubbles about now.

  “The biggest,” I reply to Trig’s big day comment with a huge sigh.

  The corners of his kind eyes crinkle behind his dorky-but-oh-so-sexy horn rims. I run my fingers through his peppered gray hair.

  As my hand comes forward, his lips catch the underside of my forearm. Trig trails light kisses to my palm.

  I reach behind him, pulling his toque from his back pocket, and slipping it over his silver hair. “Your hat, My Love.” The heat index in Eastern North Carolina could reach one-hundred, and he’d still put a knit cap on.

  Trig gives me a lopsided grin. “It’s good to be taken care of.”

  “It is,” I agree, stepping beside him so we can walk hand-in-hand down to the parking lot.

  At the next landing, right before we enter the lounge, Trig stops me. “I love you, Kimber.”

  “You
told me last night. You showed me too.” I waggle my brows, trying to lighten the mood.

  Trig is my one long-term committed relationship. There won’t be another like him, and I don’t take one minute we’re together for granted. Sometimes, you have to hold on to the splinter of hope that you’ve done your best for a person. Given them everything they needed… Accept when it’s time to move on.

  He pushes me against the stairwell wall. “Stop being kitschy or I’ll ruin your lip gloss. I’m being serious.”

  “So am I. And I have more lip gloss in my bag. Ruin away.”

  I’ve heard the dancers talking in the dressing room at Sweet Caroline’s say some people kiss until they have to come up to catch their breath. Me? I choke on the air while waiting to kiss this woman. Letting Kimber slip from my bed this morning made me feel like I was drowning.

  Kimber waltzed into my life four years ago. The moment I saw her, I decided to make her my own. Of course, in the beginning, the head below my waist was in control. I marked my territory so no one else could have her. It wasn’t long before something else took over and the constant thought of “I want her” that runs through my mind started playing a different tune.

  Maybe I’d gotten to the point in my life when easy pussy became boring. But I’d like to think better of myself. And I definitely think better of Kimber. If anyone was able to change me it was bound to be her.

  I use my lower body to hold her against the stairwell wall.

  “Ruin away.” She dares me, raising a light sculpted brow.

  Kimber takes the temples of my black glasses frame between her fingers and removes them from my face.

  Middle-class housewife isn’t her usual attire. It’s a turn-on nonetheless. Similar to her work clothes, these shorts cling to her ass in all the right places. My thumb sneaks past her khakis and up the thin navy blue shirt she’s wearing, caressing the underside of her breast through her silky bra. When the light shone through the factory window, and she moved in the right direction, the fabric of her cotton top became translucent, showing me all the places I’ve skimmed my tongue against. I could stand seeing her looking like an ad for a southern department store more frequently. I’m intimately aware of what’s underneath. My girl kept wearing G-strings for me long after she’d stopped stripping and started managing at Sweet Caroline’s.

  Our hungry lips crash together as if I haven’t already kissed her half a dozen times this morning. I can’t get enough of this woman.

  Kimber claws at my back. I push her farther into the wall, sucking the soft spot behind her ear, and making her moan. I fucking love that sound falling from her lips when I’m buried balls deep inside her.

  I’d slip my hand down her pants if this interlude wasn’t messing up her timetable for the day. I’ve come to understand Kimber’s desperation, why her kisses are more frenzied than they were an hour ago.

  Before she left the second-floor lounge to get ready, it was closer to a typical Saturday morning for us. We’d sat on a sofa, drinking the steamy cups of Joe she’d poured. Uninterrupted by the sun or anyone else, my palm slid up the leg of her sleep pants, holding Kimber above the ankle while we talked quietly. We both knew deep down the calmness was about to change, but some things we don’t say aloud. Most of them we don’t need to.

  What Kimber is feeling today is the same thing she endured a year ago and twelve months before that: A longing to be close, which I refuse to deny her. Drowning in emotions, she’s searching for a life preserver. I’ll wrap my arms around Kimber to keep her safe any damned way she pleases. I want to convince my fiery redhead that I’m her anchor.

  Her personal convictions aside, it’s finally the day she’s got to let me give her everything I’ve always wanted to. Everything she lost and doesn’t believe she’ll find again. And if her heart hasn’t mended? Well, that’s on me. I have to admit to myself it might be time to tuck my tail between my legs. Although, I’m not sure how I’ll walk away and leave her empty again.

  I pull Kimber back to the center of the landing, straightening her clothes while I’m still kissing her. “You’re going to be late, My Love.” I grin between nips and bites.

  She glances down, brushing her hands over the tats peeking out from my shirt collar, and tracing the lines of others on my pecs hidden by the fabric. “Can’t blame a girl for losing her head over someone as sexy as you.”

  Using the tatted knuckle of my index finger, I lift her chin so our eyes meet. “Tell me again how much you want me?”

  I chuckle when she slaps my chest. Unfortunately, I’ve got the same desire Kimber does. I’ll never tire of hearing her say she wants to fuck me and only me. If she keeps it up today, it might change tomorrow for us.

  “Sterling’s?” I lace her dainty fingers through my rough ones and ask where we’re going. The upscale engraving shop in North Hills is the place she’s had me stop each year.

  Her face breaks into a wide grin and she pats her purse. “Yes.” I catch a little blush across her porcelain cheeks.

  Kimber is my unbreakable China doll. She’s been to hell and found the determination to bring herself back. I can’t fathom half of it considering her life—or rather ours since we’ve been together—is as close to perfection as I’ve been able to make it for her. That said, I’m the one who does everyone’s background checks for Jake, the owner of Sweet Caroline’s. Per Carver’s instructions for anyone who he lets live at the mill, I also had to dig deeper. Nobody sticks around the factory unless we’re sure they aren’t inviting trouble to our door.

  In Kimber’s case, she was one of Jake’s girls, attempting to take control of her life. He proposed Carver put her up on the third floor. The only dancers Carver does that for are the ones who are clean and stay clean. It doesn’t matter none that they’re stripping their way through Pinewood State. It’s that those women want more for themselves than what life’s thrown their way.

  Spew any hateful thing about Carver and Jake. It’s likely the truth, unless it comes to females. They only fuck over the women who fuck with them. It doesn’t make them much different than any other man on the planet. The good girls like mine? They’ll build a stairway to get those ladies to their goals.

  The residents of the third floor all have skeletons in their closets. Kimber is no exception. She’s also about five to ten years older than her floormates so she’s had extra time for trouble to find her. Kinda like me. Only my sole purpose has become keeping her on the straight and narrow. I got fed up with finding trouble a long time ago. My job focuses on figuring out what kind of shit I can use, good or bad, against someone. The reason I don’t need My Love to confess her transgressions is because I’m aware of what they are.

  “Woah.” Kimber is at an utter loss for words as I hold open the door to Carver’s new ride.

  I slide behind the wheel. The dash is wood grain, and the buttery yellow leather seats are softer and more comfortable than anything else I’ve experienced. My bed at the end of a long day doesn’t feel this plush.

  “Makes sense why Jasper keeps stealing the thing when Carver is out of town. This car is the lap of fuckin’ luxury.”

  “How did you get him to loan it to you for the entire day?

  “He owes me a favor. Besides, you’re meant to be riding in style.” I wink. “Okay, Sterling’s. Anyplace else?”

  “I’d like an espresso if you think there’s time.” She bites her lower lip as if indulging her one vice is putting me out.

  Morning, noon, and night Kimber survives on caffeine. She’s also picky as hell about it. Iced; it’s black because the cubes melt. Hot; she wants something sweet with it, but no sugar in it. Cream? Only enough to change the rich chocolate brown color to a dark tan. As far as dependencies go, I don’t think I’ve ever seen her get the shakes or it stop her from falling asleep. I do worry about asking her to cut back. Or, God forbid, switch to decaf.

  I’m more than agreeable to drop in at Baked Beans, her favorite coffee shop, as long as it’s on my t
erms.

  “Stay put,” I tell her while I go inside to pick up the order she’s placed on the drive over.

  It’s closing in on noon and her shift at Sweet Caroline’s ended at three am. Kimber is never sure if Jake, who owns the place, will show his ugly mug on any given night. It doesn’t seem to bug her any since Jake allows her free rein over whatever goes down at the strip club when they are open. She says it’s easier without Jake around in the evenings. Kimber’s only got so much patience for drunk patrons and Jake, like me, avoids calling the cops whenever possible. Luckily, a good number of men I trust work the door and barback for her. Businessmen are more intimidated by a rough, muscled guy with tight fists than the boys in blue with those cuffs attached to their belts. Kimber’s learned to use it to her advantage. The dancers and female waitstaff also hassle her less if Jake’s gone. Since Kimber worked the stage at Sweet Caroline’s herself, she’s good at tamping down the drama. I figure that’s the key reason Jake’s okay with handing over so much autonomy. He avoids dealing with everyone’s shit at all costs. Along with basically any other human emotion. That’s his problem, though. I don’t poke my nose into any of my friend’s business any further than I’m told to.

  I’ve got the kind of job where you can make your own hours. It makes it easy for us to keep the same schedule. Each night, I go over to Jake’s club at closing time to ensure the bar and the parking lot are empty. Then I walk Kimber across the street to the old cotton mill where we live so she gets home safely. The past few evenings, I’ve napped while she’s been gone to be ready for her when she’s back. It always takes Kimber a while to settle after work. The best way to send her off into dreamland is by wearing her out.

  I may have put all my effort into that last night. We’re running on little sleep and today is bound to be a long one for both of us.