Turning Point (The Kathleen Turner Series)

by Snow, Tiffany

  “I trusted you!” Blane yelled while Kade dodged his blows. Blane was drunk and slower than he would have been normally.

  The pain and rage in Blane’s voice was like a steel knife sliding between Kade’s ribs. Kade had no idea where Blane had gotten the idea that he’d slept with Kathleen, and wanted to make him listen to reason.

  “Knock it off!” Kade shouted. “If you don’t believe me, ask her! She’ll tell you! I didn’t sleep with her!”

  “I did ask her,” Blane snarled. “She lied to me. Just like you are.”

  Fear for Kathleen struck Kade and he quit pulling his punches and dodging. In seconds, he had Blane by the throat against the wall. “Where is she?” Kade demanded. “What did you do to her?”

  Blane’s gaze was unrepentant, blood and sweat dripping down his face. “What do you think I did?” he asked, his voice quiet now. “I’m not going to marry a woman who fucks my own brother behind my back.”

  Rage consumed Kade. In seconds, Blane was on the floor. Kade stood above him, breathing in gasps as he struggled for control. Blane groaned, turning to the side to spit a mouthful of blood.

  Kade wiped away the blood seeping from his nose, staring in disgust at his brother. His hands ached, the knuckles raw and bruised.

  “Kathleen was telling you the truth,” Kade stated flatly. “We never slept together. Not that I didn’t try, back when I thought she was just another eye-candy diversion for you. She turned me down every time. All I’ve heard is how much she loves you, how she belongs with you.”

  Blane had halfway sat up, one hand holding his side. Kade couldn’t see his face.

  “You got her to trust you, fall in love with you, agree to marry you, then you call her a whore and liar and break her heart?” Kade’s voice held nothing but loathing. “You don’t fucking deserve her. And chances are, she realizes that now, too.”

  Kade turned away, his emotions a mix of fury, disgust, and sorrow. He was almost out the door when he remembered.

  “Oh yeah,” he said. “I came here tonight to tell you congratulations”—he paused—“but it looks like you’ve ruined the best thing that ever happened to you.”

  Moments later, he was back in his car and speeding into the night.

  NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  Human trafficking is a horrendous crime that affects upward of 2.5 million people around the world. It can happen to anyone, anywhere, even in the US and other Western countries.

  Under federal law, any individual who uses physical or psychological violence to force someone into labor or services, or into commercial sex acts is considered a human trafficker. Some victims experience beatings, rape, and other forms of physical violence, while other victims are controlled by traffickers through psychological means, such as threats of violence, manipulation, and lies. In many cases, traffickers use a combination of direct violence and mental abuse. The federal definition of the crime, as defined in the Trafficking Victims Protection Act of 2000 (TVPA), was created to address the wider spectrum of methods of control used by traffickers beyond “bodily harm.”

  The National Human Trafficking Resource Center (NHTRC), at 1-888-3737-888, is a toll-free hotline, available to answer calls from anywhere in the US, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, every day of the year. The NHTRC is a program of Polaris Project, a nonprofit, nongovernmental organization working exclusively on the issue of human trafficking. The Polaris Project (www.polarisproject.org) is one of the leading organizations in the global fight against human trafficking and modern-day slavery. Please visit their website for more information or to find out how you can help fight human trafficking.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Tiffany Snow has been reading romance novels since she was too young to read romance novels. After fifteen years working in the Information Technology field, she now holds her dream job of writing full time.

  Tiffany makes her home in the Midwest with her husband and two daughters. She can be reached at tiffany@tiffanyasnow.com. Visit her at her website, www.TiffanyASnow.com, to keep up with the latest in The Kathleen Turner Series.

  Turn the page for a sneak peek at the fourth book in The Kathleen Turner Series, Out of Turn.

  Out of Turn

  CHAPTER ONE

  No one had shot at me in weeks, or beat me up. I hadn’t been cut, punched, or slapped. No one threatened me, stalked me, or stabbed me.

  It was a nice change.

  And that’s what I kept telling myself as I headed to my car. It was midafternoon and the humid heat of late June in Indianapolis made perspiration slide down the middle of my back under the thin T-shirt I wore. The backpack I carried didn’t help matters any.

  The air inside my white Toyota Corolla was stifling, and sliding inside felt as though I were climbing into an oven. I rolled down the windows as I drove to my apartment, waiting for the AC to kick in. The air gusting through the windows was still hot, but cooled my sweat-dampened skin.

  I thought longingly of the huge Lexus SUV I’d had the brief privilege of driving. It had been a gift, a wonderful gift that I’d have been happy to keep, if it hadn’t cost so much to drive. Gas was too expensive for me to justify driving the luxury car, especially when I sometimes wondered how I was going to pay my rent, so I’d sold it, using the money to buy a used Toyota and what was left to help pay my tuition.

  I had just enough time to feed my cat Tigger and jump in the shower before I had to leave for work at The Drop. It was Friday night and, like most downtown bars, I was sure we’d be busy.

  In the summer my boss, Romeo, allowed the girls to wear black shorts and white T-shirts instead of our usual uniform. That would normally be a good thing, but Romeo believed sex always sells, so the shorts were nearly Daisy Dukes, and the T-shirts were tight with plunging necklines. Not that I could be real choosy about it. I needed my bartending job to pay the bills, especially since I was now taking classes during the day at the IU campus downtown rather than working for the law firm of Kirk and Trent.

  “Hey, Kathleen! Can you give me a hand?”

  That’s me. Kathleen Turner, and sometimes I really wished I were that Kathleen Turner. I bet she never had to worry about paying her electric bill. Cursed with the family legacy, I had been the latest to be named for a famous Turner. My dad was Ted Turner, my grandma was Tina Turner, and my cousin was William Turner, though he went by his middle name, Chance. Wish I’d thought of that years ago.

  “Yeah, sure,” I replied to Tish as she juggled one too many plates of food. I shoved my purse under the bar and hurried to help her take the dishes to a table of five.

  I was right. The bar was busy tonight and I didn’t have time to even think. I was grateful for that. I didn’t want to think. If I did, I’d remember.

  “Another round, please.”

  I jerked my attention back to my job, hurrying to fill the order tossed my way. By the time closing neared, I was almost dead on my feet. Thank God. Maybe I’d get more than three or four hours sleep tonight.

  “Have some cheese fries,” Tish said, sliding onto a stool and placing a laden plate on the bar. “I’m exhausted,” she sighed, picking up a dripping French fry and popping it in her mouth.

  I grabbed us each a bottle of beer and leaned against the bar. The cold, bitter liquid felt good going down. My hair had come loose from its ponytail, so I redid it, pulling the long strawberry blonde strands up and off my neck. I hated when my hair got in the way when I was working, but I liked it too much to have it cut short. Along with my blue eyes, I thought it was my best feature.

  “Have some,” Tish insisted, pushing the plate toward me.

  I shook my head. “No, thanks. I’m good.” I took another drink.

  “Kathleen, you drink too much and eat too little,” she said with a frown.

  I snorted, my eyebrows climbing. “Yes, Mom,” I teased.

  Tish didn’t smile back. “I’m your friend and I’m worried about you.”

  “I’m fine,” I dismissed. To appease her, I p
icked up a fry and took a bite.

  She hesitated. “You know, maybe you could talk to someone. I have this lady I see every once in a while—”

  “No, thanks,” I interrupted, taking another swig.

  “But it may help…”

  Tish stopped talking at the look I gave her. She heaved a sigh and ate another cheese fry.

  I couldn’t be mad at her, not really. She cared about me and was just trying to help. Once upon a time, I’d have probably said the same thing. Come to think of it, I actually had given the same advice, in what felt like a lifetime ago. And the recipient had reacted the same way I had.

  Why the fuck would I want to do that?

  “It’s just a breakup,” I said, feeling bad now that she was worrying about me. “Everybody goes through them.” I shrugged and finished off my beer, tossing the bottle into the trash with a loud clank.

  “It’s just…”

  She paused and I raised my eyebrows.

  “Just what?” I asked.

  “You’re… different now,” she said, looking slightly abashed. “Harder, I guess. Colder. And I just really hate to see you that way.”

  Her words stung. I couldn’t disagree with her, but it wasn’t something I could fix right now. I needed an emotional distance from everyone, including myself.

  “I’m sorry,” I said quietly. “I don’t mean to be. I just can’t—”

  “I know,” she said, reaching out to rest a hand on my arm. “I know you need to be in this place for now, just don’t let yourself stay there, okay? I miss the old Kathleen.”

  I gave Tish a weak smile, but inwardly I wondered if the old Kathleen was gone for good.

  “Rough night, eh, ladies?”

  I turned to see that Scott had grabbed his own beer. He leaned against the bar behind me, glad to be done with his bartending shift.

  “Good tips, though,” I said, stepping away from Tish.

  Scott turned the volume up on the television, sipping his beer while he watched the news. A familiar name froze me in my tracks.

  “… gubernatorial candidate Blane Kirk is back in Indy tonight for a fund-raiser downtown after ten days on campaign stops throughout the state.”

  I felt as though someone had sucker punched me. My hands turned to ice. I couldn’t take a deep breath. Even so, I couldn’t stop myself from turning to look.

  Blane.

  I’d avoided all newspapers and the television for three months. This was the first time I’d seen his face since that awful day in March. The day he’d accused me of sleeping with his brother, the day he broke off our engagement.

  If I’d thought the passage of time would ease the blow when I saw his image again, I was very, very wrong.

  I avidly drank in the news footage, which showed Blane shaking hands with people in a crowd, the sunlight making his dark-blond hair shine like gold. He had on a loosely knotted tie and a white shirt with the cuffs rolled back. His smile was gleaming white, dimpled, and perfect. A politician at his best. I noticed his smile still didn’t reach his eyes, but then again, it rarely did.

  The scene changed, showing Blane now in a tuxedo entering the Grand Plaza downtown. A woman was with him, his hand on her lower back. I watched, unable to tear my eyes away, as she turned and the camera caught her face.

  Charlotte Page.

  Dressed in a long gown of deep bronze, she exuded elegance and sensuality. Her hair was long and nearly black, her skin a warm olive. I’d once likened her to Penélope Cruz and I could see the description was still apt. A fellow lawyer in the firm, together she and Blane made a stunning pair.

  I couldn’t breathe.

  “I’ve… uh… I’ve got to go,” I stammered, making a frantic grab for my purse under the bar.

  “Yeah, sure, I’ll close up,” Tish said.

  She frowned at Scott, but he didn’t see, since he was still watching TV. I couldn’t blame him. I’d told only Tish the sordid details of my breakup with Blane.

  “Thanks.” I managed a grateful smile before beating a hasty retreat outside. I heard Scott calling a belated good-bye to me as the door swung closed.

  Once I reached my car, I just leaned against it, bracing my arms on the warm metal.

  Just breathe.

  I drove on autopilot, replaying the images of Blane in my head. It made my chest hurt and my stomach turn into knots. I regretted even the small bite of French fry I’d eaten as nausea clawed my throat.

  I thought by now it would have been easier to see him with someone else.

  It wasn’t.

  Tigger met me at the door. My two-story apartment building was in a section of Indy where police sirens were a nightly occurrence, but I hadn’t had any problems since I’d lived there. At least, no problems that were because of the neighborhood.

  I changed into a more comfortable pair of shorts and a tank, opening the windows to give my AC, and my electric bill, a break. Light filtered in from the streetlamps, so I didn’t bother turning on any lights in the apartment. I poured myself a vodka tonic and curled up on the couch, absently petting Tigger as I stared into space.

  It was late, but I knew if I went to bed, I wouldn’t sleep. And even if I did, I’d probably be plagued by nightmares. The ordeal I’d endured a few months ago at the hands of human traffickers had left mental scars, though physically I was fine. So I didn’t sleep a whole lot.

  My stomach churned and I resolutely took another drink. I did not want to puke. I hated throwing up.

  I thought about what Tish had said and wondered when, if ever, I’d feel like myself again. Normal. When I didn’t dread each new day as something to get through. When I’d look forward to waking up. When the ice inside me would melt.

  I was angry with Blane, that much was true. He had believed his uncle’s lies instead of me, his fiancée. He hadn’t trusted me.

  But I was devastated, too. Blane had devastated me, and part of me hated him for that, even as I ached to see him, talk to him. The newscast tonight had been bittersweet to watch.

  I finished my drink in one long gulp, pushing Tigger aside as I got on the floor and started doing sit-ups. When the liquor didn’t work to quiet my brain, I exercised, trying to make myself as exhausted as I possibly could. Sit-ups and push-ups when it was dark outside, running when it wasn’t.

  I was in great shape. I wish I cared.

  Running always made me think of Kade. Kade Dennon. Ex–FBI agent. Assassin-for-hire. Blane’s half brother. I hadn’t heard from him in months, not since the night he’d kissed me and told me I should be with him, not Blane.

  I hadn’t counted on how much I’d miss having him in my life.

  I glanced at my cell phone as I lay panting on the floor, my abdominal muscles screaming at me. Blane and Kade were still listed in my contacts. I should get rid of them, and I would. Just not tonight.

  A warm breeze flowed through the open window, bringing with it the familiar scent of a summer’s night. At the moment, no sirens wailed and I could hear the occasional car pass by. I wondered what Blane was doing, and if it included Charlotte.

  Sunlight streaming through the window and a marmalade lump of feline woke me Saturday morning. I’d fallen asleep on the floor and now my back ached. Tigger used my stomach as a pillow, his clawless paws kneading my flesh.

  “Give it a rest,” I grumbled as I sat up. He complained about the loss of his pillow and followed me into the kitchen, where I started the coffeemaker. I went for a run and showered before bolting down some caffeine. I had homework to do and had agreed to meet Clarice for lunch today.

  A few hours later, I was winding my way behind a hostess as she led me through a local restaurant to the patio tables outside. I was glad of that. I’d be able to leave my sunglasses on. Lack of sleep left a toll that makeup couldn’t always cover.

  Clarice had already arrived and was waiting for me. She stood to give me a hug. She wore a long, flowing skirt, a sleeveless top, and sandals.

  “So good to see you!”
she said.

  “You, too.” My smile was genuine. I’d missed seeing and talking to her every day.

  “You look great,” she added as we sat down.

  “Thanks. So do you.”

  And she did look fantastic. Being in love agreed with her. She was a mother of two who’d been divorced for some years. Right before Valentine’s Day, the high-school science teacher she’d been dating had proposed.

  “So how is Jack?” I asked, scooting my chair into the shade of the umbrella. I’d worn a spaghetti-strap sundress today and I didn’t want my arms or shoulders to get burned.

  “Jack’s great, kids are good, too,” she replied. “They’re so excited for the wedding.”

  “Just them?” I teased.

  She grinned. “Okay, me, too.”

  We laughed. “Two weeks,” I said, “and you’ll be Mrs. Jack Bryant.”

  “I know. I can’t wait.”

  Clarice looked so happy it practically radiated from her. It was wonderful to see and I was so glad she’d found someone who made her feel that way. She certainly deserved it.

  We paused to order when the waitress came by. Clarice joined me indulging in a cold glass of chardonnay.

  “Your dress fitting is Thursday afternoon,” she said. “Can you make it?”

  I was one of her bridesmaids. “Sure,” I said.

  We chatted for a while about the wedding plans and where she and Jack were going on their honeymoon—Hawaii. We ate our salads and drank our wine and it felt nice and normal to be having lunch with a girlfriend.

  “So,” Clarice said after we’d exhausted the topic of her impending nuptials. “How are you doing, really?”

  I stiffened. Clarice and I always refrained from talking about Blane or the breakup. I refused to let her. Since she was his secretary, I didn’t want to put her in a bad position, and I didn’t want to be tempted to quiz her about Blane. I’d told her he’d broken off the engagement and that was all.

  My smile was forced. “I’m fine. Just takes some time, you know?”