by Britney King
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Bedrock | Book One
Breaking Bedrock | Book Two
Beyond Bedrock | Book Three
The Bedrock Series Box Set
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The Bedrock Series features an unlikely heroine who should have known better. Turns out, she didn’t. Thus she finds herself tangled in a messy, dangerous, forbidden love story and face-to-face with a madman hell-bent on revenge. The series has been compared to Fatal Attraction, Single White Female, and Basic Instinct.
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Around The Bend
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Around The Bend, is a heart-pounding standalone which traces the journey of a well-to-do suburban housewife, and her life as it unravels, thanks to the secrets she keeps. If she were the only one with things she wanted to keep hidden, then maybe it wouldn’t have turned out so bad. But she wasn’t.
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Somewhere With You | Book One
Anywhere With You | Book Two
The With You Series Box Set
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The With You Series at its core is a deep love story about unlikely friends who travel the world; trying to find themselves, together and apart. Packed with drama and adventure along with a heavy dose of suspense, it has been compared to The Secret Life of Walter Mitty and Love, Rosie.
GET EXCLUSIVE MATERIAL
Building a relationship with my readers is one of the best things about writing. Occasionally, I send newsletters with details on new releases, special offers and other bits of news related to what I’m working on. And if you sign up to the mailing list I’ll send you this free content:
A free copy of BEDROCK, a best-selling psychological thriller novel.
A free copy of THE THINGS WE SAY IN SILENCE. A collection of short stories: Exclusive to my mailing list.
Sneak Peek: Water Under The Bridge
Book One
In the spirit of Gone Girl and Behind Closed Doors comes a gripping, twisting, furiously clever read that demands your attention, and keeps you guessing until the very end. For fans of the anti-heroine and stories told in unorthodox ways, Water Under The Bridge delivers us the perfect dark and provocative villain.
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As a woman who feels her clock ticking every single moment of the day, former bad girl Kate Anderson is desperate to reinvent herself. So when she sees a handsome stranger walking toward her, she feels it in her bones, there's no time like the present. He's the one.
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Kate vows to do whatever it takes to have what she wants, even if that something is becoming someone else. Now, ten pounds thinner, armed with a new name, and a plan, she's this close to living the perfect life she's created in her mind.
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But Kate has secrets.
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And too bad for her, that handsome stranger has a few of his own.
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With twists and turns you won't see coming, Water Under The Bridge examines the pressure that many women feel to "have it all" and introduces a protagonist whose hard edges and cutthroat ambition will leave you questioning your judgment and straddling the line between what's right and wrong.
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Enjoy dark fiction? Are you a fan of stories told in unique ways? If so, you'll love Britney King's bestselling psychological thrillers. Get to know Jude and Kate, unreliable narrators at best, intense, and, in your face at worst. Water Under The Bridge is the first book in The Water Trilogy. Available in digital and print.
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DEAD IN THE WATER (Book Two) and COME HELL OR HIGH WATER (Book Three) are now available.
What readers are saying:
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"Another amazingly well-written novel by Britney King. It's every bit as dark, twisted and mind twisting as Water Under The Bridge...maybe even a little more so."
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"Hands down- best book by Britney King. Yet. She has delivered a difficult writing style so perfectly and effortlessly, that you just want to worship the book for the writing. The author has managed to make murder/assassination/accidental- gunshot- to-the-head- look easy. Necessary."
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"Having fallen completely head over heels for these characters and this author with the first book in the series, I've been pretty much salivating over the thought of this book for months now. You'll be glad to know that it did not disappoint!"
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Series Praise
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"If Tarantino were a woman and wrote novels... they might read a bit like this."
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"Fans of Gillian Flynn and Paula Hawkins meet your next obsession."
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"Provocative and scary."
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"A dark and edgy page-turner. What every good thriller is made of."
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"I devoured this novel in a single sitting, absolutely enthralled by the storyline. The suspense was clever and unrelenting!"
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"Completely original and complex."
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"Compulsive and fun."
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"No-holds-barred villains. Fine storytelling full of mystery and suspense."
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"Fresh and breathtaking insight into the darkest corners of the human psyche."
Water Under The Bridge
Britney King
Copyright
WATER UNDER THE BRIDGE is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, images, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author's intellectual property. No part of this publication may be used, shared or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact http://britneyking.com/contact/
Thank you for your support of the author's rights
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Hot Banana Press
Cover Design by Britney King LLC
Cover Image by Grant Reid Photography
Copy Editing by Librum Artis Editorial Services &
RMJ Manuscript Services
Proofread by Proofreading by the Page
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Copyright © 2016 by Britney King LLC. All Rights Reserved.
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First Edition: 2016
ISBN: 978-0-9966497-2-8 (Paperback)
ISBN: 978-0-9966497-4-2 (All E-Books)
britneyking.com
For the Lovers—
for there are few things as easy or as hard as loving.
Preface
There’s a girl long dead who rests down by the water’s edge.
Her final words were, “No. Don’t. Please. I’m sorr—.”
She never did get the second half of her apology out.
I made sure she never will.
Some things are best left unsaid, I think.
In the end, it didn’t matter.
I knew she was sorry.
And she knew it too.
There’s a girl who rests down by the water’s edge.
She was beautiful, but you and the water washed it all away.
You think I don't know what you've done, but I do.
I know that you visit on occasion, and I know other things too.
Chapter One
Jude
AFTER
Your face crumbles as the judge hands down our sentence. I am fascinated by the way your expression changes, as slowly, recognition takes over that unlike the rest of your affairs, this one isn’t going to be a one-and-done deal. Turns out, lucky us, the great State of Texas is having a go at a pilot program designed to drop the state’s divorce rate.
“Excuse me, your Honor—,” you start, and you pause for effect, always the performer. “This really isn’t necessary,” you profess and then you swallow, and I like it when you’re unsure. You go on. “My hus—Jude and I—,” you tell him, and you look over at me, and my god, Kate, you’ve always done indifference so well. “I think we can both agree we’re ready to get on with our lives.”
You refer to me as your husband—or almost, anyway—and for a moment, I recall what it felt like before your words were laced with poison, back when there was nothing but hope.
I listen to you say your piece, and this time is no different than all the times before, only this time, we have witnesses, and you know how I’ve always hated that. You must know this because you sink back in your chair, proud.
Your pride doesn’t last long because when the judge lists out the terms of our captivity, you glare at your attorney, willing her to save you, but she won’t—she can’t. You almost choke when he orders six months of marriage counseling, which includes weekly appointments. Your hand flies to your throat, and I remember what that’s like, holding you in place, having it all in the palm of my hand. I’d give anything—maybe even your life—to know what that feels like again.
The good news here is the judge and I seem to be on the same page as he informs the two of us that a therapist of our choosing must sign off before the court will grant our divorce. You hold your breath as he speaks, and I remember what that felt like too.
I try, for you, though… I do. I wait for him to finish, and then I tell him that you’re right, we’ve made our decision, and as I speak, you sulk, but isn’t this what you’ve always wanted, to be right? It’s hard to look at you, sulking or otherwise, and it never used to be this way.
You’re tanner than the last time I saw you. But then, I guess time away did you good. You said you needed your space, and I let you have it. But you have to know, Kate, it was hard not to follow. Maybe I should have. But it was all the same to you—you made up your mind, and your decision settled mine.
Nevertheless, if there is such a thing as a clean break for you and me, it isn’t looking good, and it certainly won’t be handed down today. This judge does not cease his interminable vendetta against your freedom. He does not relent. You aren’t happy, and I can’t recall the last time you were, even though I try. It’ll come to me, the memory of you, but this courtroom is too stuffy, and you know how I’ve always hated an audience.
The judge looks away, and you look on, defeated; it’s clear, even if you refuse to let it show. As he jots something down, you bite your lip, a tell—you still believe there’s hope. But I know better. When he looks up, holding a pen and our future in his hands, you tell him you’d be better off dead, and he looks surprised, as though he’s missed something. He has. A lot of somethings. He asks if there’s a history of violence. No, you tell him, it was just an expression. Although a part of me wonders if you’re right about that too. Maybe there’s truth in what you say. Maybe you would be better off dead, and I can’t help but wonder if I have it in me.
You text, and there’s something about seeing your name light up my phone that still gets me even after all this time. You’re all business with your words, and I remember how much I’ve always liked this side of you. You write that our first therapy session is on Tuesday, and it’s so like you to take control, so like you to try and set the pace. But you are mistaken, Kate. Our first therapy session is Monday, and you seem to forget that I’m always one step ahead. You cease with the texting and ring me instead because you like to be the one calling the shots. You’re ready to pounce when I offer formalities I don’t mean—meanwhile, I’m just happy to hear your voice. You sound exasperated, and I wish I could see your face. No one tells you how much you can miss a person’s face. You rattle off instructions, but we don’t talk about things, not really, and I wonder when we stopped talking.
We’re talking now, that’s what you’d say. But I won’t— because no one’s really saying anything. Nothing worth saying, anyway. Eventually, after I’ve refused to take the bait because I won’t give you my anger as freely as you give yours, you relent, and you agree to the Monday appointment. You’d never admit it, but you like it when I put you in your place. Better to get it over with, you tell me with an edge. The sooner to see you, my dear, I think. But I don’t say this. I give you what you want. I always have.
You sit cross-legged with your hands folded neatly in your lap, and I hate how pretty you look. Your hair is up, neat and orderly, different, and I study that spot on your neck, the one I know so well. It’s your weak spot, and given the chance, I’d dive right in. But we’re here, not there, in more ways than one, and I hate that this middle-aged doctor is checking you out. I don’t know why you had to wear such a low-cut top, and I recognize the look he gives you. He has a weakness too. But he thinks he’s the one in charge here—I can tell by the way he wears it via the chip on his shoulder—when, in reality, he lacks a real MD behind his name. He’d better watch himself. I’ll kill him if I have to. He isn’t old, the way I’d imagined, and I silently curse myself for not doing more research on something so important.
“Dr. C.” That’s how he introduces himself, and it’s clear he’s the kind of fellow who believes in make-believe. What a joke this is—what a joke he is. We would laugh about this, you and I, if things were different. If now were before. But it isn’t, and no one’s laughing.
“So…why don’t you tell me where things went wrong…?” he urges, and I want to hate him, and I almost do, but I admire his directness. I, too, am eager to get to the point.
You shrug, and then I do the same because I’m well-versed in the art of mirroring, but mostly because I want to know your answer. I’m glad he starts here because he doesn’t know us, Kate, this fake doctor. He doesn’t know that other doctors (both real and fake) have told us we’re not capable of love. But we were capable, you and I. We were. We weren’t make-believe like this guy. We didn’t pretend we were something we weren’t until we did—and that is the real reason we’re here, but I don’t say this. I let you lead the way.
“Is there really any way to know, Doc—” you start and then you stop. You don’t call him ‘doctor,’ but you let him think he’s in charge, and I like that you’re on to him, too. You know his ability to ask a good question doesn’t make him a real doctor, and this is a good start. Already, we’re getting somewhere, you and I, and I’m starting to feel something that looks a lot like hope.
You are right, I tell him. There’s really no way of knowing where things went bad, no way to pinpoint exactly who’s at fault, and yet here we are, sitting in these chairs, talking to him instead of each other, both wanting nothing more than to be anywhere else, getting on with our lives.
You nod, and we’re on the same page again, and all of a sudden the world seems less bleak.
He asks how we met, and you crinkle your nose.
“Does it really matter?” I ask. “It’s over,” I say. “Isn’t it best to let it be?” I add for good measure, showing that I, too, can ask good questions. You sit up a little straighter, but you drop your guard.
“Perhaps,” he says, even though he and I both know he doesn’t mean it. Perhaps. Give me a break. He doesn’t know how much I hate that word, but you do, and I see the corners of your lips turn upward as he says it. It doesn’t matter, though. He isn’t fooling me with his half-hearted response. ‘Dr. C’ is a man used to being right. He likes control, he likes being in charge, he ge
ts off on toying with people’s emotions, and perhaps I could show him the error of his ways.
“And yet—,” he adds, as though he’s exasperated when he hardly knows what it means to lift a finger, “I want to go back to where it began.” He speaks to me as he looks at you, and I can’t blame him. They say living well is the best form of revenge. They are right, and in this case, it’s pretty apparent—I am bad at revenge.