Tombstones (Beekman Hills Book 4)

by K. C. Enders

  Tombstones

  Beekman Hills

  KC Enders

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  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

  Epilogue

  Playlist for Tombstones

  Acknowledgements

  Other Titles from KC Enders

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2019 by KC Enders

  All rights reserved.

  Visit my website at www.kcenderswrites.com

  Cover Designer: Alora Kate, Cover Kraze

  Editor: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing, www.unforeseenediting.com

  Proofreader: Judy Zweifel

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN-13: 9781091932371

  Dedication

  To family.

  By blood or by other means, you’re my reason.

  Chapter 1

  Kate

  HOW MANY FROGS DOES a person have to kiss before she finds her—

  Who am I kidding? I’m not even looking for a prince at this point, just someone who’s a little less toad than what I’ve found on Tinder, Bumble, and all the other dating sites.

  I sit across the café table from tonight’s frog, sipping my wine, and I look, really look, at this guy. He’s taller than me, just barely. Works out, probably too much because that really is a thing. Dude is stacked with gym muscle, finely honed and aesthetically pleasing in the bodybuilder-Instagram-profile sort of way. He’s dressed nice, he doesn’t smell bad, and he hasn’t picked his nose or anything, but may the good Lord help me, I might just die of boredom right here in this chair. I don’t have even the slightest clue what he’s droning on about. I tried, really tried, to follow the conversation, but when my mind starts wandering and the first thing that pops into my head is whether or not I cleaned the turtle cage in my classroom, I feel like that’s a sign from up above to cut my losses and move on.

  What might I have to do to make this dude stop talking and pay the bill, so I can just go home? Let’s be real; there’s a part of me that’s wondering if he’s going to cough up the cash for the bill or if I’ll be the one paying. That nonsense has happened to me far too many times in the past year.

  “Excuse me. I’m just going to run to the girls’ room real quick,” I say, sliding my chair back from the table.

  All I get in return is a quick nod, more of a chin lift if I’m being honest, and the frog date goes back to his phone. If he’s smart, he’ll be trolling Tinder while I’m gone to set up a sure thing for later because the only thing I’m sure of is that this is a one-and-done. That the role of tonight’s good-night kiss will be played by the shaking of hands and moving the fuck on.

  The tiny restroom is full of other Friday night dates, and while I wait my turn, I create each of their fictional backstories to entertain myself. The chick at the sink grabs my attention, and with her huge purse/overnight bag splayed open, she’s either getting paid to be on her date or hoping she reaps some similar payoff. Or maybe she’s a Boy Scout wannabe, perpetually prepared for any emergency. She could probably save a small Third World country with what she’s packing in that bag.

  A stall opens up, and I do my business as quickly as I can. Not that I’m in any hurry to get back out to the Frog Prince, but I feel for the very pregnant mama-to-be who’s wedged herself into the cramped room. If there weren’t three angry-looking girls between me and her, I’d have let her skip to the front of the line. But New York girls are way different from what one might find in Hattiesburg, Mississippi. Maybe I should go back home. Lord knows that state could do with some more teachers.

  I love my students here in New York though. The past couple of years, I’ve gotten to know so many families, and I want the chance to teach the younger siblings of my kiddos. Or at least watch them come on through kindergarten.

  I thoroughly wash my hands. Twice, just to kill some extra time because, let’s be honest, I really don’t want to go back out there. I contemplate waiting until the pregnant lady comes out, so I can congratulate her, ask about the baby, pretend for just a moment that I’m next. But that would be creepy and weird. I might have a touch of baby fever but not enough to have a restraining order slapped on me for randomly stalking pregnant baby mamas in public restrooms.

  With a fresh coat of red on my lips and a cursory fluff of the blonde beach waves I labored over for this stupid date, I go back to the dining room, only to find the Frog Prince exchanging phones with the chick from the restroom, the one with the huge bag and desperation spilling off of her.

  “Took care of the check while you were gone. You ready to get out of here?” he asks, throwing his napkin on the table. He hikes his pants high on his hips, almost past his navel, and moves toward the front of the restaurant. “You, uh … you need me to call you a cab or …”

  “I’m good, thanks.” I pluck a valet ticket from my bag and hand it off the moment I’m out the door. I pull a couple of dollars from my wallet and press it into the valet’s hand, letting him know I’m in a hurry. Actually, I’m desperate to get out of here. Turning to the frog, I paste a polite smile on my face the way my mama taught me. “Thank you for dinner. It was lovely meeting you.” I leave the statement dangling in the air between us, hoping, praying that this night will end here. Now. Done.

  “Okay, so I’m going to bolt, Kasey. It was great, really. I, uh …” He shifts his weight, gunning for his escape. “So, you want me to call you or …”

  I don’t bother to correct him on my name; there’s no need. “Not necessary. You take care now,” I say, reining in the bless your heart that is begging for release.

  Thankfully, the valet pulls up and holds open my car door. I slide behind the wheel and let out a sigh of relief, one much like I imagine a deer lets go of when a bullet whizzes past, missing him by a mile. And then the gun jams. And the hunter falls out of the tree. That kind of relief.

  Something has got to give. I can’t keep dating these assholes. There has got to be some real men left out there for a girl. I don’t need a prince or a knight in shining armor. Just a regular person, one with manners. And, if he happens to fill out a pair of jeans just right, that’d be fine, too.

  Streetlights blink through the car’s interior as I drive toward my apartment. I have no desire to go home. None. My roommate, Gracyn, is gone, down in the city for her first client visit since starting with her dad’s accounting firm. Our apartment is far too quiet when she’s not the
re.

  Quiet and lonely. And I just can’t, not yet. I take a left at the next intersection, and three blocks down, I turn into the parking lot of McBride’s Public House. Park. Purse. Phone. Patrón? Maybe that should be the drink of my night.

  Pushing through the door, I sidle up to the bar and claim the one empty seat at the corner. “Finn, we’re drowning my sorrows,” I say, dropping into the barstool. “I’m gonna need a shot of the good stuff with a chaser of his friends.”

  “Grand. You’re ready for the whiskey then?” The redheaded bartender’s brogue carries over the din of conversation filling the air. He snaps a coaster down in front of me and grabs a couple of shot glasses. Lining them up in a pretty little row, like soldiers marching off to war, Finn O’Meara places both hands on the bar and dares me to make a change. Dares me with a wink and a smile, knowing full well that it’s not going to happen.

  “Sweet boy, no. I need Señor Patrón, my friend. He’s the only one for me, the only man who hasn’t let me down yet.”

  Finn nods, reaching high on the shelf behind the bar, past the rows of Irish whiskey and brandy. Past the high-end vodka and gin. Sitting pretty in the middle of the back row, closest to the lights, is the squat bottle with the lime-green ribbon lovingly wrapped around its neck. That’s the one for me. In fact, I’m pretty sure that I’m the only one who drinks it.

  “So, you had another date then?” Finn asks as he pours the fiery liquid into the glasses. He pauses, waiting to see just how bad my date tonight was.

  I nod at the third shot glass, giving him the go-ahead. “I did, and it was at least three tequilas bad.” A hint of honey tickles my senses as I lift the glass, savoring that moment in time where it’s all sweet promises and anticipation. Tipping back the first glass erases all illusions of grandeur. Reality sets in as the peppery blast burns its way down the back of my throat. Cleansing me.

  By the time shot number three slides past my lips, the demons of my most recent dating disaster have just about been exorcised.

  Chapter 2

  Jack

  JUST THIRTY DAYS STATESIDE, and then we’ll be back in the sandbox for another six months. Not enough time to do all the things I want to do at home. Not enough time to see all the people I need to see, but I’ve got to plant my feet on American soil again. That simple act will somehow ground me enough to make it through my final tour in the desert. Not having to shake sand out of fucking everything for that time alone is worth the price of the plane ticket.

  Steak. First thing I want to do is get a big-ass steak, medium rare. Wash it down with an ice-cold IPA and maybe, if the mood strikes, a fresh bright green Caesar salad. Croutons, sharp Parmesan, and creamy, tangy dressing. Forget a reprieve from the sand. Food is worth the damn plane ticket.

  “I’ll drop you at your house and take off for a bit. Give you and the fam some time together. Get reacquainted,” I tell my best friend, Dallas “Tripp” Triplett. My brother in arms. I steer the rental car onto the parkway and head north toward Beekman Hills.

  “Like hell you will,” he drawls, adjusting the satellite radio to an alternative rock station. “Chloe’ll kill me if I let you leave. And don’t even with Jake, man. That boy’ll tear you up if he has to wait any longer to see you.”

  I’m not worried about Chloe. I know she loves me, but she’s not about to harm a hair on her husband’s head once she gets her hands on him again. But their son, Jake? Totally different story.

  That kid has a serious case of hero worship that doesn’t make a lick of sense. His dad is just as badass as me, if not more so. But, for some crazy-ass reason, Jake looks up to me; he is completely obsessed with me.

  “You want me to take Jake out for a burger or something? Give you and Chloe time to—”

  “Nah, man,” Tripp cuts me off. “Come in. Have a beer and get settled. You know she’s made a ton of food for us, and it’d break her heart if you bolted. Really.”

  I check my blind spot and press the gas pedal down, passing a string of slow-moving vehicles. They’re probably doing the speed limit, but I don’t have time for that shit. I have a lot to pack into a short stint—a lot that I need privacy for—and I’m not wasting a precious second puttering along on a perfectly good highway. Hell, my team moves faster than this over shitty sandy roads while searching for IEDs.

  “Fine. I’ll come in, have dinner, and say hello, but I’m not staying with you. You need time with your family, man, and I need time alone. All by my lonesome.” I glance over at Tripp, dead serious and not willing to give an inch. “I don’t even want to consider the possibility of hearing your sorry ass snoring for the next month, so don’t fight me on it. Not negotiable.”

  “Fine,” he says, the matter done.

  ***

  TRIPP SNAPS AWAKE AS I bump the car into his driveway, gravel crunching loudly under the tires.

  “Damn. Fell asleep,” he grunts, as if I hadn’t noticed.

  The windows of the car have been rattling for the past half hour. It never ceases to amaze me how he can lock that shit down when we’re in the field, but the minute he knows everything is squared away, he lets loose. I haven’t slept like that in longer than I can remember—probably the eight damn years since my plebe year at West Point when I went home for Christmas break. That was the sleep of the dead. No stolen naps, no bracing for the upper classes, no pinging or squaring corners. Just quiet, blissful sleep when my pop wasn’t dragging my ass out to run fence line.

  The front door flies open as the car rolls to a stop spilling Jake out into the yard, followed by Tripp’s hunting dog, Bronson. Tripp throws open the door and scoops his boy up into his arms as the white-and-black-dappled hound dog bounces around him, demanding his own slice of attention.

  “You’re home, Dad. You’re really home,” Jake screeches.

  He’s so overcome; the poor kid is on the verge of tears. And the dog? Bronson is beside himself, hopping around and squealing almost as much as Jake.

  After a tight hug, during which my friend somehow completes the transformation from Special Forces sergeant to dad and husband, Tripp says, “And guess who I brought with me.”

  Jake leans back from his dad and narrows his big brown eyes at the car, searching. Darkness of the fall evening keeps me mostly hidden in shadow, and before long, Jake is squirming to get out of his father’s grasp.

  Just as his little feet hit solid ground, I open the driver’s door and step out of the car, beaming at the kid.

  “Uncle Jack.”

  The volume he’s capable of producing is unreal, but I know from experience that I’ve got to be on the ball now or else my balls are getting nailed. And not in a good way.

  Jake launches himself at me, running full throttle, no brakes in sight. I pivot just a hair and brace for impact. Sure, I could pick him up before he gets to me, but this run-and-hug thing has become part of our shtick. It’s just that Jake has grown, and a man, home on leave, has to protect his goods from the wrong kind of overzealous greetings. Specifically, the exuberant greetings of children of unfortunate height. Yeah, I’ve been head-butted in the junk before, and that shit is for sure something I don’t ever want to experience again.

  “Hey, little dude,” I say, letting him hug me for all he’s worth.

  This kid holds my heart in his sweaty little hands, and I couldn’t begin to tell you the whys or hows of it. It just is.

  The vise grip around my body loosens enough for me to crouch down to eye-level with my namesake. Well, my sort-of namesake. As much of an honor as it was for them to want to name their kid after me, the Wyatt Jacksons from my father on back were nothing but overbearing assholes. Hell, I don’t like sharing a name with the old bastards, so Tripp and Chloe flipped what my parents gave me, hopefully breaking the cycle of asshole, and Jacob Wyatt Triplett has been my man ever since.

  “Tell me something good, Jake,” I prompt.

  His eyes go wide with all the seriousness a five-year-old can muster. “You’re home. And my dad
is home. And you can be my lunch buddy at school every day.” His excitement starts to build again, and the motor on his mouth is about to kick into high gear. “And you can meet my friends. I tell them about you all the time. And my teacher, Miss Beard, she’s the best and you can see my seat and my cubby and … and …”

  “Jake, baby, let’s let Uncle Jack and Daddy in the house, you think?” Chloe calls from the front steps, Tripp’s arms wrapped casually around her.

  They do the whole separation-reunion thing with style and grace. Never making those around them feel as though they’re in the way or that they are desperate for a private reunion. They just fall back into absolute normalcy.

  “Hey, Chloe,” I greet, straightening up and ruffling Jake’s sandy hair. “You look gorgeous, as always.” I climb the steps and pull her into a hug. “When are you gonna get smart and leave this bas—sorry—bad boy for a real man?”

  “You couldn’t handle me, Jack”—she swats my chest—“and I wouldn’t know what to do without Tripp. Now, grab your kit bags and come in, so I can feed you.”

  The look Tripp gives me screams, You tell her, as he hustles down to the car and pops the trunk, grabbing both of our bags. And then he kicks the lid onto my coffin. “Where do you want me to put this, Jack? In the house or in your truck?”

  “The house,” Chloe says as I call, “Truck.”

  Chloe props her hands on her hips and hits me with the mom look, her bright blue eyes narrowing.

  “Truck,” I say again with more determination. “Chloe, you know I love you—all of you—but you need family time, and I need some solitude.”

  “But, Jack—”

  “I appreciate the offer—you know I do—but a man has needs.”

  She shakes her head, laughing softly as Tripp joins us again.

  “And I need some relief from this man’s ridiculous snoring. This is the official transfer of custody. I don’t want him back for a month.”