Taking Root (The Eros Tales Book 1)

by Katherine McIntyre

  Taking

  ROOT

  KATHERINE MCINTYRE

  Taking Root

  Copyright © 2019 by Katherine McIntyre.

  All rights reserved.

  First Print Edition: July 2019

  Limitless Publishing, LLC

  Kailua, HI 96734

  www.limitlesspublishing.com

  Formatting: Limitless Publishing

  ISBN-13: 978-1-64034-845-5

  ISBN-10: 1-64034-845-X

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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

  Dedication

  To my own family filled with chaos, humor, and love, an inspiration for the Dukas tribe.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Epilogue

  Chapter One

  Danielle Reynolds had passed through so many towns that her footprints stopped leaving marks. Out of everywhere she’d traveled, though, she associated this place’s magnolia and salt-sweet breeze with home.

  Danny wiped the sweat from her forehead, the blistering heat of the late afternoon sun beating down on her. She gripped her heavy-duty gardener’s gloves tight, covered in stains from the earth she’d been digging into the past couple of hours. Behind her, the polished ivory exterior of the Horntrees’ mansion preached effortless elegance to anyone passing. Columns out front and dozens of gleaming windows framed by charcoal shutters caught the eye, even if the overgrown Spanish moss lining the path needed some work. That’s why she’d been hired.

  One interview before she’d moved to Charleston combined with some flawless credentials courtesy of the U.S. Marshals, and the Horntree family offered her the vacant gardener position.

  They’d been all plastic smiles, keeping it light and polite when she’d met them today, but unlike the plants she grew, Danny wasn’t green. Natalie Horntree had been staring something fierce at her beat-up jeans and olive peasant top, both of which were covered in stains and rips. After the once-over came a murmur about making sure to use the servant’s entrance out back when arriving for her shifts.

  Danny rolled her shoulders and strode across their trimmed front lawn, reveling in her private rebellion. She’d be the smudge of dirt on their pristine blouse any day. Her Subaru WRX, Bella, waited for her, the neon blue companion she’d owned for over a decade. As she’d lived in too many different towns across the East Coast since getting sent away in high school, this car was the one stable thing in her life, that and a growing collection of electronica CDs. A little un-tiss, un-tiss vibrating the speakers and sometimes she could pretend she didn’t live by her lonesome.

  She slipped into the worn driver’s seat and turned the key in the ignition. The hum of her car beneath her feet offered some comfort, her home on wheels. The Charleston area hadn’t been one for over a decade now.

  Her phone buzzed in her pocket, and she picked up at once. Danny never wondered who might be calling her.

  “Hey, Evie. Day one of the new job is complete. Gardening for another family of rich assholes.” Danny cut to the chase. Not like her handler, Eve Jensen, she wasn’t one for casual chat.

  “We last sighted your father in Chicago. The F.B.I. is following his trail,” Eve Jensen said in the prim, professional tone Danny had grown used to over the years. Even though Eve came across like a tightwad, she occasionally slipped and offered softness Danny appreciated all the more. “Stationing you close to your childhood home is a calculated risk, but you’ve been away long enough,” Eve continued. “Still, if you’re recognized, alert us at once. We’ll pull you out.”

  “You sure know how to give a girl the warm fuzzies,” Danny responded. “Anyone ever tell you how chatty you are?”

  Before she could continue, Eve cut her off. “I’ll update you as soon as we get his next location. Stay discreet.” The click of the phone hanging up echoed in Danny’s ear, and she heaved a sigh.

  So, she was safe.

  At least, that’s what the marshals promised her at every new location.

  Danny stroked the pistol she kept strapped to her thigh. She’d believe them when her dad rotted behind bars.

  She glanced to the rear-view mirror and batted at the rust-orange strands plastered across her forehead. Time to indulge in a well-earned drink.

  She sped down the highway, Bella thrumming beneath her feet and the bass pumping as heavy trance beats pulsed through her speakers. Familiar green signs cropped up, exits she’d memorized on frequent city trips when she lived in the ’burbs of Charleston, those days in Hanahan. No way would she dare return to her matchbox-sized town, even if it lay a mere half hour away. Too risky when far too many people could identify her by birth name. She’d entertained a plethora of different aliases since those days, but Danielle Reynolds was one she’d grown the fondest of.

  Even if the people in Hanahan remembered Samantha Peterson, she no longer looked like the lanky, awkward kid who’d tutored half the guys on the track team because she preferred books to people. The one thing that stuck from her early years was an abundance of freckles, but her dirty blonde hair had been sacrificed on the altar of box dye, Intense Copper to be precise. She ditched the glasses for contacts, took up kickboxing, and got a healthy, unrelenting dose of fear under her skin to morph her into the exact opposite of the girl who’d last existed here.

  She hopped off the nearest exit, rolling the window down. The salt breeze filtered through her car even as it batted around the strands of her hair that slipped out of her ponytail. If she was going to while away the rest of her evening in a public sphere, only the bars of the French Quarter would do.

  Once Bella rolled into the heart of Charleston, Danny’s pace slowed as she navigated the maze of congested streets and daily traffic that picked up around this time. In the distance, the stripe of cerulean glittered under the intense sun, beckoning her to dive in and swim away. God, she was tempted.

  A mythical parking spot opened along the strip of bars and shops ahead, so Danny darted in for the kill. She snagged a fresh shirt from the backseat, a sleeveless lilac scoop neck to class up her act a bit. Danny tossed her sweat-soaked peasant top behind her, ignoring the stares from the passersby getting flashed by her scandalous black bra on their nice afternoon stroll. An older woman shielded her eyes in horror, and Danny flipped her the finger. Life had beaten any ounce of shame out of her.

  After a few spritzes of lavender perfume, she snagged the canvas bag she dubbed a purse and slipped out of her car to join the rest of the pedestrians. The pastel buildings lining the streets painted the prettiest pict
ure with glimpses of the antebellum South, and casual chatter floated in the breeze, a calm and fluid aspect of Charleston. She could swing into the pace of this relaxed city, unlike the tempest toss she’d experienced every time she entered Philly or Boston.

  Danny tugged on the strap of her purse, slowing as she noticed a tacked-on sign made of driftwood in front of a building. The Gin Mill was painted on the sign, and a blackened glass door out front drew her curiosity.

  The moment she entered, Danny blinked the spots out of her eyes. The switch from bright sunlight to this darkened atmosphere threw her off. Dim globe lamps lined the corners of the room, and fat, flickering candles at the center of tables combined with no overhead lights created a quiet ambiance. She made a beeline for the empty mahogany barstool in the middle of the row. It offered the best spot to chat with the bartenders and other patrons.

  The hurricane lamps along the polished hardwood bar provided a cute touch, this place pure speakeasy. Jazz leaked out the speakers, the smooth, soothing sort that irritated her, but she’d already entered, so she missed her window for a fast retreat. The drink specials were written in chalk on a blackboard hung along the back wall, and Danny squinted to scan them over as she took a seat.

  “Lost?” The bartender wandered over, a guy about mid-thirties with a hefty amount of scruff and more tattoos than she could ID peeking out from his black tee. He had the slim form of a runner and wasn’t the stuffy, old guy she’d predicted for a swanky joint swilling jazz.

  Danny flashed him a smile. “That obvious I’m new in town?”

  “The way you’re stumbling shy might’ve been a tip off.” The bartender rapped his knuckles on the countertop in front of him. “I’m Mitch. Come on over and take a seat.”

  Danny hooked a thumb into her pocket as she wandered closer to the bar. “Don’t suppose in a place like this I can get an Aviation?”

  His eyes crinkled with a warm smile that settled the nerves buzzing through her of new place, new place. She found herself taking a seat.

  “I think I can handle that.” Mitch grabbed the shaker and set to work.

  Danny leaned forward, forearms on the bar as she settled into the stool. The door creaked, and seconds later, a shadow loomed over her from behind. Her momentary state of relaxation vanished, and she reached for the piece tucked at her side.

  A musclebound thug of a guy wearing an Under Armour tank and Nike shorts settled into the stool beside her, looking like he’d been plucked from watching a Panthers game at a sports bar. Danny returned her hand to the bar, trying to roll her shoulders to shake off the nerves. Not like it worked. Her heart remained lodged in her throat.

  “Coors,” the guy grunted at Mitch without so much as a greeting. Meathead’s eyes flickered her way and held. Danny almost groaned out loud as he did the normal body scan, starting at her tits and stopping at her ass. Two seconds in his proximity and he wasn’t someone she wanted to chat with.

  Mitch took painstaking care in making her Aviation, pouring the crème de violette in a slow drip. He drew out the wait time before getting to the asshole’s beer, a quiet protest which Danny silently applauded.

  “I’ve got whatever she’s having too,” Meathead said, locking eyes with her like a bull ready to charge.

  Danny shook her head. “I’m covering myself.”

  Mitch didn’t restrain his smirk as he placed one beaut of an Aviation in front of her. She lifted it to her lips and savored the crispness of the gin. Mitch grabbed a pint glass and began to pour Meathead’s beer, but an undercurrent of tension stretched through the air. She broadcasted no, all while the guy beside her tuned in to another station.

  “Independent girl, I like that,” he said, swiveling her way so his knees almost bumped into hers. The unwanted contact shocked her system, making her want to recoil on the spot. “The name’s Eric. What’s your story?” Even as he asked the question, he zeroed in on her curves, making it clear he didn’t care.

  Danny smiled sweetly. “I’m an Aquarius who enjoys long walks on the beach and playing in the blood of my enemies.” The bartender didn’t hide his snort as he delivered the Coors, foam sloshing over the rim.

  Eric glowered. “You don’t have to be a bitch. I’m just trying to get to know you.”

  “This bitch isn’t interested,” she responded, her tone subzero, even as the adrenaline thumped inside her. He leaned in, his thick brows furrowing and thunderstorms in his eyes. Then he grabbed her by the wrist, gripping tight enough to cut off circulation.

  Mitch whipped around, his mouth opened to shout, and his hands balled into fists.

  Too bad for Eric he’d left one of her hands free.

  Her fist sped for his jaw at sixty miles an hour, no brakes.

  The thud as her knuckles collided with flesh echoed around the bar. If the folks at their private tables weren’t looking her way before, they were now. Their gazes bored into her, shocked expressions and a cold shower of judgment. His grip on her wrist loosened.

  Eric staggered, clutching his jaw as a growl ripped from his throat. Mitch slammed his hands on the bar counter with enough force to demand attention.

  “Mierda,” he cursed. “Both of you, sit down, drink your damn drinks, and stop fighting.”

  Danny sucked in a deep breath, shook out her hand before lifting both in the air as she inched toward her abandoned barstool.

  Eric’s hands balled into fists, the glower not evaporating from his face. Based on the way his shoulders tensed, he prepared to charge. Bring it. She kept her holy trinity on her at all times, a taser, pepper spray, and her last resort pistol.

  “Out,” Mitch barked, jabbing a finger at the door as he homed in on Eric, who failed at taking hints, and directions as well.

  Eric whipped around toward him, biceps bulging and his fists tensed to spring. Danny inched out her pepper spray, finger slipping near the trigger.

  “Need some help, Mitch?” a voice came from further down the bar. A guy who must’ve slipped in stepped behind Eric, same height but slimmer.

  “I’d be happy to offer my services,” Danny chimed in with a hesitant grin. When Mitch shook his head, smirking as his flash of temper returned to calm and easy, the bundle inside her unwound. Even an idiot like Eric realized he was outnumbered as he glanced to the guy behind him, to Mitch, and then to the pepper spray she brandished out in the open. Clinging to his masculinity like a flimsy scarf, Eric smacked the bar counter.

  “Take your beer back. I didn’t drink it anyway.” He stormed out, his stomps reverberating through the hush that swept across the bar. Folks stared at them from the private candlelit two seaters tucked away in the shadowy corners of this place. Danny heaved a shaky sigh and lifted her Aviation to her lips. Her knuckles stung, but she didn’t regret shaking up the Gin Mill with a little chaos if it meant getting him away from her. She knew what came after the wrist grab.

  Mitch tapped a finger on the counter of the bar as he leaned in. “I saw him make the first aggressive move. If you hadn’t punched him in the face, someone else would’ve, either me or one of these layabouts I call regulars.”

  Danny swallowed, her chest squeezing tight in a mix of relief, warmth, and confusion. “Thanks.” She lifted her glass in salute.

  “I could’ve handled him.” The guy who had been jonesin’ to step in moments before took a seat beside her as she caught her first real look at him. Cedar wafted her way from his aftershave, and his muscled frame filled out his slate button-down too well. He glanced her way, electric blue eyes framed by lashes that had her paying attention. “Though, if I placed bets on who would’ve won the fight, my money was on you. You gave one hell of a right hook.”

  “Always be prepared, right?” She lifted her hand, waggling her fingers. “Name’s Danny Reynolds.” Something about this guy seemed too familiar. Maybe the way he hunched forward like he’d launch into action or the low timbre of his voice, a scrape of another lifetime.

  He offered a hand to shake, one she accepted wi
th ease. His grin deepened his dimples, accentuating a square jaw. The guy had an oak tree frame, solid and unwavering, like his roots extended deep into this place. His warm, callused palm met hers, and the contact sent a jolt through her, almost as strong as the familiarity of his gaze.

  She remembered those eyes.

  “Adrian Dukas,” he responded. Except she already knew. The Dukas family was a part of Sam Peterson’s life, one she’d left behind when the marshals pulled her out of high school. And Adrian?

  Well, at seventeen years old, he was the closest she’d come to falling head over heels.

  Chapter Two

  The last thing Adrian Dukas wanted to do after a twelve-hour shift was head to the Gin Mill. However, Lex had asked him to pick up her last paycheck from Mitch, and he needed the guaranteed bait in order for his sister to show to the next family dinner.

  She’d been avoiding all of them since she got out from her six months of jail time following a protest that had gotten way too Mad Max to be contained. The tipping point in her case was assault on an officer, since they’d obtained visual proof of Lex screaming like a banshee as she slung the first punch. Typical. Cal offered to pick up her check even though the last time they’d talked, she called Cal an unprincipled shit. However, Adrian was the oldest—if anyone could deal with Alexis, he could.

  He sure as hell hadn’t expected to walk into the middle of a standoff between a big bruiser and a short redhead who prepared to slurp the guy’s spine through a straw.

  And when she’d punched the big bruiser square in the jaw?

  Well, he just might’ve fallen in love.

  “Here for Lex’s paycheck?” Mitch asked, bringing a rag over to polish the drops of beer spilled onto his countertop. When the pissed-off bruiser stormed out of the bar during his adult-sized temper tantrum, Mitch poured the pint of Coors down the drain.