Troubles (Beekman Hills Book 1)

by K. C. Enders

  Troubles

  Beekman Hills Book 1

  K.C. Enders

  Troubles

  Copyright © 2017 by K.C. Enders

  Published by K.C. Enders

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced, distributed, or used in any manner whatsoever including but not limited to photocopying, recording or other electronic or mechanical methods without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons living, deceased or to actual events is purely coincidental.

  The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referred to in this work of fiction which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing, 2017

  Troubles: Published by K.C. Enders November 9, 2017

  kcenders.writes@gmail.com

  Cover Design: Alora Kate, Cover Craze

  Formatting: AB Formatting

  Editing: Evident Ink, Tee Tate

  Proofreading: Judy's Proofreading, Teri Stevens

  To my ‘fiends’. There is no way this I could have done this without the support of each of you.

  Thank you!

  Contents

  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

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Lis

  Orphan.

  Origin: Late Middle English (noun)-Late Latin orphanus destitute, without parents.

  I’m an orphan.

  It’s an unofficial designation, but it fits. I’m broke as hell putting myself through college, and that’s close enough to destitute.

  The “without parents” part is tricky. They’re both alive. They even live in the same small New York town as me; we just don’t interact. At all—no phone calls, no dinners together.

  Nothing.

  Cutting them out of my life was not an easy choice until it was. Cut ties, or let them drag me down. If I didn’t have Gracyn as my roommate, I don’t know what I’d do.

  I scoop another handful of ice into the blender and hold the lid in place. Flipping the switch, I watch as the whiskey blends with the lemonade. When the ice is a slushed perfectly sassy pink, I pour the whiskey sours into tall glasses, adding straws and a couple whiskey-soaked cherries. My nana taught me to make these before I hit double digits. Told me it was her “secret” recipe. I don’t know that it’s any great secret, but it’s perfect every damn time.

  The sound of the blender is replaced by the whir of Gracyn’s hairdryer as I take the handful of steps down the hall to our bathroom. I squeeze between where she’s leaning against the vanity and the tub, knocking into her as I pass and hand her a whiskey sour hoping for a distraction.

  I shove my arms up into the front of my new tee shirt and pull it away from my body, needing to stretch it out over my boobs a little. Gracyn bought us matching shirts for St. Patrick’s Day and, of course, she bought a size smaller than I would have.

  “What are you doing?” She slams her glass down and smacks at my hands. “That shirt fits you perfectly. Leave it alone.”

  “Gracyn,” I whine, “we’re just going to McBride’s. Why do you feel the need to pour me into this tiny thing?” I’m not proud of the whining, but I feel way too exposed.

  I prop my hands on my hips and face the mirror full-on. The thin green material stretches tight over the girls and the neckline scoops way lower than I’m comfortable with. Gracyn stares back at me, slurping from her glass.

  It’s fascinating, watching her brain freeze hit, twisting and contorting her features. I try to push down the laughter that bubbles up, but it’s not working.

  “Lis, you need to stop hiding your curves—use them, show them off. And for the love of God, promise me you’ll try and have fun tonight?”

  I settle myself on the side of the tub in our tiny bathroom while she finishes her smoky cat-eye. “It’s time for you to get back out there. Just a little bit. Maybe flirt a little—kiss someone tonight.” Gracyn waves her hands up and down the script on her shirt, like she’s presenting prizes on a game show. “Kiss me, I’m Irish-ish” is scrawled across our chests, highlighted with bright red kissy lips. The shirts are cute, but it would be so much better if the lips weren’t perfectly centered over my left boob.

  “There’s not going to be anyone new there. I’m pretty sure I’ve kissed everyone I needed to in this town.” It’s mostly true. Beekman Hills is nothing but a sleepy little college town about an hour outside New York City. Gracyn and I grew up here and sadly never left.

  McBride’s Public House is only a few blocks from our apartment and the walk down Main Street is cold. Our breaths trail behind us in white plumes. I pull my fleece tighter around me and pick up the pace. Most of the businesses along Main Street are closed for the night, but the scent of cinnamon and coffee still linger outside the coffee shop as we hurry past.

  The line to get into the pub winds around the white clapboard building that’s been here longer than I’ve been alive. College students and townies dressed in whatever green and plaid they could find—short skirts, ridiculous hats—and frat boys in kilts. All these people are in line, anxious to get their hands on cheap green beer and listen to a really bad Irish band.

  Gracyn and I scoot around the back of the building and push through the door into the kitchen. Francie McBride’s bright gaze peers up at us over an impossibly tall stack of plastic cups. He juts his cheek out around the tower precariously balanced in his hands for a quick kiss. “’Lo, love. Just gettin' in, are you?” His accent is extra thick tonight.

  Gracyn and I have not had to wait in a line here for years. Francie busted me when I was nineteen trying to drink with a fake ID. He sat talking to me for hours instead of calling the cops, taking me under his wing and eventually bought me my first legal drink. He’s been kind of a dad to me ever since. My own father couldn’t be bothered finding his way out of the bottom of a bottle.

  Gracyn pulls her jacket off over her head showing off her creation. “I bought us matching shirts for tonight and she didn’t want to wear it. It took some time to convince her.”

  “No, it took whiskey to convince me.” I pull my bottom lip between my teeth and shi
ft uncomfortably.

  Francie steps back to look at us as I drop my jacket on a stack of boxes, eyes crinkling above the scruffy beard he’s had forever.

  “Let me help you take those out to Finn,” I say to try and move the conversation off my chest.

  “I’ve got these. Go and have a pint. Off with you, then.” Francie pushes past me, chuckling at our shirts, shaking his head. “Come on, then. I’ve a new lad at the bar tonight, make sure he treats you right, yeah?”

  It’s tight, but following close behind we get through the chaos pretty quickly. At the scarred, deep oak bar Francie bumps Finn and throws a nod in our direction. Finn turns, his wide smile about splits his face as he makes his way over to us, pouring drinks and collecting money as he goes. He hops up leaning over the bar and lays a kiss on me.

  He thinks he’s the Irish Casanova, but the boy is too sweet to pull it off.

  “Finn, I need a pitcher and two cups,” I shout to him slapping ten dollars down on the bar.

  “And two shots of whiskey,” Gracyn yells throwing down another ten.

  Finn slides us our plastic cups before filling the pitcher. “Give us a kiss, Gracyn, and I’ll get it for you.” He’s already reaching for the bottle and a couple of shot glasses.

  Gracyn leans over the bar and Finn’s eyes go wide with surprise, spilling whiskey as he pours. He thinks he has a chance, but she’s a flirt, plain and simple, so the kiss Finn thinks he’s getting? Nothing more than a peck on the cheek.

  We down our shots and turn, taking in the crush of wall-to-wall bodies. There’s a tiny bit of open space by the pool tables, so I grab the pitcher and start making my way through—turning sideways, trying hard not to brush up against strangers. I breathe a sigh of relief when we’re through and fill our cups.

  The band in the corner launches into their next set, filling the old bar with strains of violin and lilting voices bouncing around the room.

  “Have you heard from them?” Gracyn leans in close, not so much for the noise level, but more to keep this conversation just between us.

  I take a drink of the crappy beer and shake my head.

  “Nothing? From any of them?”

  I shake my head and sigh. “Nope. Not a word.” I should be surprised, sad, something, but this is how my family is.

  Gracyn walked in on my boyfriend—ex-boyfriend—bending my sister over the hood of my mom’s car on Christmas Eve.

  Nope, not going there—not tonight.

  “I thought I’d hear from Rob when Francie kicked him and Maryse out last month, but, nothing,” I say.

  “Unreal. What a dickhead. Hey—” She lurches at me spilling beer down my front. It doesn’t feel cold in the cup, but when it’s running down my cleavage, it’s frigid.

  The icy sneering glare of Rob’s best friend, Tyler, is worse. “Watch where you’re going, bitch. You wouldn’t want to get thrown out of McBride’s.” Tyler wasn’t all that nice to me when I was dating Rob, but since we broke up, he’s been an absolute dick.

  Somehow, this is my fault. I feel eyes on me from all around. I hate being the center of attention, and with bodies pressing in from all sides, my skin feels hot and too tight. I blink at the ceiling trying desperately to stem the tears starting to form. There’s no way I can make it through the tightly packed crowd before they spill and, God help me, the last thing I want is for it to get back to Rob that I’m still crying over him—because that’s exactly the story this asshole will tell.

  “Oi!” A low growl comes from Francie’s new guy as he slices through the crowd like they’re not even there. “None of that—apologize to her. Now.” His voice, strong and thickly accented, carries over the band and bar noise, leaving no doubt that he’s serious. He stands with his back to me, shielding me from the rest of the room.

  Gracyn reaches for the bar towel in his hand and he nods to her.

  “Not my fault she spilled her drink—looks good on her though.” Tyler looks around the broad wall between us, leering at the way my shirt clings to my very obviously cold boobs.

  The music has stopped, all attention is on me now and I just want to disappear.

  Francie checks me with a quick look and a nod placing a warm hand on my shoulder. “Aidan, take her round back and fetch her a dry shirt from one o’ the boxes back there. I’ll take care of this one.” With a firm hand, Francie collects Tyler’s cup and chucks it in the trash. “Out, and ye’ll not come back. Go drink wit’ that bastard friend o’ yours. Off with you, then.”

  The new guy, Aidan, takes the towel from Gracyn and pauses, his hand between us. He moves to try and blot at my shirt but stops, handing me the towel instead. “Erm, here.”

  I clutch the white towel to my chest, trying and failing miserably to hide my discomfort.

  Grabbing my hand, he pulls me in close behind him leading me to the backroom. He rifles through some boxes pulling out a clean shirt that is huge—huge. “This should do, then.”

  “Thanks. You didn’t have to do that, you know.”

  “Your shirt’s soaked.” He rests his hands on his hips, making a point to meet my gaze.

  “I meant coming to my rescue. I’m used to his shit. I’d have been fine.” I shake out the dry shirt pulling it over my head and wrap my arms around myself inside—hiding a little.

  “Jesus, what are you doing?” Aidan turns on his heel, his broad back blocking the doorway. “Hang on, I’ll just—” Muttering, he pulls the door shut behind him.

  I change quickly, relieved to be dry and out of the cold, clingy shirt.

  The door doesn’t budge when I push at it. I knock, but the noise in the bar means the sound gets lost. Sighing, I turn to lean back against it, and pull out my phone hoping Gracyn will feel her phone vibrate, or come looking for me soon. Before I slide halfway to the floor, the door flies open and I tumble out, not at all gracefully.

  Shit.

  “That’s twice, I’ve rescued you now.” Aidan’s lips quirk up on one side, like he’s trying to suppress a smile as he helps me up off the floor. “Sorry, I was leaning on it—making sure no one walked in on you.” His warm hand envelopes mine, squeezing before I slide it away.

  “So, what does that mean, I have the luck of the Irish?” I can’t believe that really just came out of my mouth. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, trying to push my complete awkwardness away with the exhale.

  “You’re Irish then?” His brow cocks up, disappearing under his black hair falling forward across his forehead. Dark blue eyes dance across my face as he pulls a curl from the collar of my new, way too big shirt.

  “Absolutely.” I’m not the least bit Irish. Not at all. “Everyone’s Irish on St. Patrick's Day.”

  “Well, then. Let’s get you a fresh beer and back to your friend.” His touch is hot, low on my back, guiding me away from the quiet and back out to the crowd.

  Gracyn hands me a beer and looks up at Aidan. “Thank you.”

  “Think nothing of it.” His eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles down at me before sliding back behind the bar. His teeth gleaming white against the dark scruff along his jaw. It’s perfect, warm and sweet, right down to the slightly crooked tooth, front and center. I miss the warmth of his hand as he falls right into the rhythm again, pouring drinks and smiling broadly at each person.

  As we move across the room, my skin prickles again. Turning around, my gaze goes straight to Aidan—only to find him watching me. I smile and turn away feeling my stomach flip and flutter.

  Gracyn finds some people we work with, people I know and feel comfortable with, but I feel eyes on me the whole time. That itchy, scratchy feeling that tells me I’m paranoid about Rob and his stupid friends. I know Francie threw those guys out, but I can’t help scanning the room, and each time I do, my eyes fall on him instead.

  Aidan.

  He and Finn are in constant motion. Working the bar like they’re dancing, playing to the crowd like nothing I’ve seen before. Aidan is older than me, for sure, but it sh
ows more in his bearing, the way he moves—the way he commands attention, than anything else. Looking around the room, I see most of the girls are staring at him, or undressing him in their minds, I’m sure.

  His green plaid button-down stretches across his broad shoulders as he reaches for the next pitcher to fill. The buttons strain across his muscled chest a little when he takes a deep breath, pulling on the tap. And just a touch of his flat stomach shows as he reaches up to push his black hair back from his face as the green beer fills the plastic pitcher. He surveys the room, brows pinched together like he’s searching for something.

  I watch as he takes in every corner of the room—scanning the faces—until his gaze settles on mine and his features relax into a smile.

  Chapter 2

  Aidan

  In the past two weeks of working this pub, I thought I’d seen it busy. Not in the least. Right now, the place is packed wall-to-wall with university students and probably half the population of this small town—and the queue to get in still snakes around the building. If you'd asked me six months ago I would have thought I’d be spending the day in a pub with my brother, but plans changed and I needed to get out of Dublin.

  Francie welcomed me with open arms and a cold pint when I showed up at his door. I’d known him most of my life. When he offered me a place to stay and a few shifts in his pub, I jumped at the chance to lose myself for a bit. I moved in with a couple of his bartenders and while it was nothing special—a loft space in their two-bedroom apartment—it was the distraction I needed; a good place to get my head together.