Beautiful Dark Read online

  Published by Velvet Pen Books

  Copyright © 2017 Jordyn White

  ISBN 978-1-945261-30-5

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

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. You must not circulate this book in any format. Thank you for respecting the work of the author.

  Cover Design: Sara Eirew

  Cover Photography: Lindee Robinson Photography

  Models: Alyse Madej and David Turner

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

  Beautiful Dark (Beautiful Rivers, #3)

  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

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  Beautiful Dark

  by Jordyn White

  Chapter 1

  Corrine

  It’s funny how certain things in your life can come to define you. I suspect that most people who know me, automatically think of the One Big Thing they know about me. It’s sort of woven into my identity in general. I guess I can’t blame them. I feel the same way, sometimes.

  Because the things that define you are sometimes also the things that change you. I didn’t use to give the proper respect to things like death and time. Now, I have a bucket list I actually pay attention to, and my mental calendar gets a little fuzzy when things get too far down the road. But I think that’s okay, because after all, the day that counts is the one you’re in.

  I kind of figured I knew how things would go for the duration, until something else came along that changed me. Or, I should say, someone. And that someone made me realize there are actually worse things than taking your final bow.

  It started as such a glorious day. Mason and I spent the afternoon luxuriating in the lazy river at the Rivers Paradise Resort, going round and round, surrounded by rowdy kids and long-suffering parents, but insulated from it all in our own little world. Our bodies drifted weightless in the cool water, our arms crossed over the soft rubber of the inner tubes, our skin warming in the summer California sun. Our chins rested on our arms, our noses inches apart. The sun glittered on the water and reflected in his deep brown eyes.

  We were mere hours away from the resort’s big Fourth of July celebration and the grand fireworks display I promised him. Another holiday. Some of the most significant moments in our relationship seemed to happen during the holidays.

  This one would be no different.

  I was intoxicated by the smell of suntan lotion on his arms, by the smile he gave me, by the surge of love I felt for him. He lightly brushed the tip of my nose, being ornery about a running joke we shared, and laughed when I stuck my tongue out at him. His laugh rolled around and expanded in my chest. At that moment I had the distinct impression that my life had reached its pinnacle. That it couldn’t possibly get any better.

  I silently thanked God that He’d kept me alive long enough to experience such a glorious moment.

  Before the evening was over, everything that made that moment glorious would be gone. And I would be left with more desperate longing for life than I’d ever had.

  Which is saying something.

  But I should back up, and begin at the beginning.

  Mason

  When I pull my Harley up to my mother’s house, I’m surprised to discover she isn’t here. There’s nothing in the drive but the ’86 Stingray I restored for her years ago. My first. I send a text asking where she is, then climb the wooden porch and let myself in with my key. Her house is an old wooden foursquare in a neighborhood filled with old foursquares. There’s plenty of neighborhoods like this in the little city of Galesburg, Illinois, along with more modern, if modest, homes.

  My mother often grumbles about the old pluming and old wiring system, but she loves the charm of this place and so do I. It’s better than the nondescript flat above the garage where I work, but what I do like about the flat is it’s mine. As two widows, my mother and grandmother keep me busy with their “honey do” lists. But it’s been that way since I hit my big growth spurt as a teen and was suddenly taller and stronger than both of them. I don’t mind; I’d do anything for them. But a man needs his own space.

  By the time I get to the sink in her bathroom, the cupboard below already emptied out for my convenience, she texts me back. Sorry. I got called in. I’m here till midnight. Leftovers in the fridge if you want them.

  Mom’s an ER nurse and, in spite of her seniority, still gets called in to cover for someone else from time to time.

  I send my reply. Okay. Anything else you need?

  Mom: There’s a light out in the guest room. Would you mind?

  We both know I’ll do it, but she’s sweet about not taking even small things for granted.

  Me: No problem.

  Thirty minutes later, I’ve cleared the clog in her drain, changed the light bulb, and decided against leftovers. I’d rather head to the pub for wings and a beer. I’m about to send a few texts out to some guys to see if they want to join me when there’s a knock at the door.

  When I answer, I’m confronted with a woman who’s clearly not from around here. She’s wearing what look to be designer jeans and these little brown leather boots that cover her calves. It’s a good thing there’s no snow on the ground yet, though, since these boots have thin, little heels that are good for nothing, as far as I can tell. She’s wearing a lightweight, expensive-looking jacket I’m willing to bet she didn’t pick up at the local Wal-Mart. It’s late November, the Saturday before Thanksgiving, and the fall air has that bite in it that suggests winter’s just around the corner. Her bare hands are clasped together for warmth and I spot an engagement ring with a rock the size of Illinois.

  I’d assume she’s some sort of solicitor—for a politician maybe?—if it weren’t for the rental car at the curb and the expression on her face. It’s simultaneously suggesting she’s friendly, and putting me on edge.

  “Yeah?” I answer.

  “Um... are you Mason Reeves?”

  I take her in again. The fact that she knows my name, especially at my mother’s house, only reinforces the idea that she’s some sort of salesperson. I moved out quite a while ago, but my mother still gets occasional mail for me here including, strangely, junk mail from lingerie companies. How I got on their list is a mystery to me. I’d worry about my mother wondering if I have some sort of creepy secret fetish, but aside from me being as far from a girly man as it gets, it’s obvious that nothing in those catalogues would fit my six foot one, 210-pound frame
anyway.

  Of course, there is someone else who sends my mail here. Someone I didn’t bother giving my real address to. After all, I didn’t really expect or want a reply to my “fuck off” letter.

  But this woman probably has nothing to do with that. Right?

  “Who wants to know?”

  She sticks out a hand, wanting to shake mine. “I’m Elizabeth Rivers.” My blood starts buzzing. Rivers? Fuck. “Lizzy.”

  I glance at her hand, my heart beating so hard it feels like it’s trying to bust out of my chest. Elizabeth Rivers. She looks to be in her late twenties, around my age. Is she the daughter?

  “What are you doing here?” I’m just barely keeping my cool. It’s a good thing she’s a woman or I’d be throwing her ass off the porch right now. My head is spinning. Did that lawyer send her? What the hell is that asshole after? I told him I didn’t want the fucking inheritance. Why should he care? Now this woman’s at my door?

  She has to be the daughter. The daughter of the man who...

  She drops her hand, realizing I have no intention of shaking it. Her eyes are earnest. “I wanted to talk to you.”

  “Well, I don’t want to talk to you.” I start to close the door, but she puts her hand on it and shoves her little boot between the door and the jamb.

  “Please wait,” she says, in a pleading tone that disarms me more than I want it to. “Please.”

  I open the door before I crush her foot. “Are you serious, lady?”

  “Please,” she says, with a desperate sort of urgency I can’t ignore. “I’m sorry, but...”

  I clench my jaw, trying to stave off the unexpected inclination I have to yield to her. The way she said please. The way she said sorry. As if she knows this will be hard, for both of us, but that it needs to be done.

  “I need to ask you a question.”

  I keep my face neutral, but my mind is a jumble of thoughts. A question. She has a question for me? What could she possibly want to know? I’m the one with the fucking questions.

  She pulls her foot back and drops her hand from the door. Still, she’s wearing that damned guileless, sincere expression that’s getting to me. Who is this woman?

  Remembering the rental car at the curb, I wonder if she lives in California. She looks it. Or perhaps life took her elsewhere since that day so long ago, like it did us. “Do you live in California?” It’s a pointless question that skirts the real issue. But I’m stalling. Trying to figure out if I want anything more to do with her or not.

  She nods in answer, seemingly afraid to speak and spook me off.

  “You came here all the way from California to ask me a question?”

  She nods again, her green eyes openly searching me. She’s so damned disarming. I want to kick her off the porch. Send her packing. It’s what Mom would have me do. And it makes sense. I mean, really. What does Elizabeth Rivers think she has to gain by coming here?

  But...

  In the brief minute that we stand here assessing each other, I get the inexplicable feeling that she’s the solution to something. Part of me wants to talk to her. Part of me wants to let a lifetime of questions spill out one after the other in rapid succession. Even though I know she can’t answer any of them.

  “Maybe I don’t feel like answering your question,” I say, both a lie and not a lie. I have no idea what to do next. I don’t know whether to shut the door again, this time for real, or pull it all the way open and let her in. Strangely, I’m glad my mother isn’t here. Because then this conversation really would be over.

  “I understand,” she says softly, like she really does. “But... if you’re my brother, I have a right to know.”

  I lose all ability to keep a neutral expression. My hand falls from the knob and I stare at her. Did she just say what I think she said? Each word dripping with incredulity, I say, “You think I’m your brother?”

  Her expression changes, too. Gone the soft earnestness. Gone any sense of control. Shock colors her cheeks and she blinks at me wide-eyed.

  Holy fuck, she really thought I was her brother. I don’t have the wherewithal to figure out how she came to such a conclusion, or to speculate why she knew where to find me but doesn’t know something as basic as the fucking truth.

  A truth I’ve had to live with for twenty-one years, and this little princess doesn’t know a thing about it.

  “No,” I say harshly. “I’m not your damn brother. Now go away.”

  I slam the door, and it’s a good thing she didn’t think to shove her boot in my way again because I’m too pissed to have cared. I stand staring at the door, fuming, wishing I could slam it again and again. I want to stomp around and find things to hurl, but I’m too stunned to even do that. I can’t move. All I can do is listen to my heart beating in my ears.

  She doesn’t know what happened. Do any of them? What the fuck?

  I don’t know how long it is before I hear little leather-covered footfalls exiting the wooden porch. Still unable to move, I pinch my eyes shut, run both hands through my hair, grab it by big handfuls, and breathe out hard.

  She doesn’t know.

  Why not? And why did she think I’m her brother? I hear her car door shut. She’s leaving. Just like I wanted her to. I still do.

  Don’t I?

  I drop my hands, my eyes closed and my face tilted toward the ceiling. The whole thing plays through my mind again. I see Elizabeth Rivers’ open and earnest face. I hear the pleading in her voice, and something else. Was it tenderness? Not of the romantic sort, but almost like... well... like a sister might have for a long-lost brother.

  “God,” I mutter, rubbing my face with my hands. “How fucked up is that?”

  Isn’t it?

  Questions that I’ve more or less learned how to keep quiet most of my life are swirling around in my head with renewed force. It all started with the letter I got from the lawyer in California two months ago informing me that I’d inherited my former childhood home, and no small amount of cash, from a certain Grant Rivers.

  Grant Rivers. A name my mother can only spit out like he was the devil incarnate.

  I’ve never blamed her for that. But... recently... I’ve had a few brief moments when I’ve wondered... before I pushed that traitorous wondering away.

  Now Elizabeth Rivers shows up at my door and amidst all the other emotions I’m feeling, there’s that wondering again. Only I can’t push it away. I’m wondering loud and clear.

  Is my mother right about the kind of man Grant Rivers was? I don’t know. I wish I did.

  No. More than a wish. I need to know.

  I hear the car door shut... for the second time. I realize I never heard her drive away. Has she been sitting in her car, chewing things over, just like I’ve been standing here incapacitated, doing the same thing?

  Familiar footfalls come up the steps. Across the wooden planks. Then a pause. Then a knock.

  This isn’t over.

  And I’m stunned to discover, that I’m glad.

  Chapter 2

  Corrine

  Eight days.

  It’s two days before Thanksgiving break, and it’s a pretty routine day, all things considered. My Social Psychology class just let out, which means my friend, Hailey, and I are sidling up to the counter at the Gizmo, Hartman College’s on-campus cafe that has way better food than the cafeteria. It’s pretty much our standard Thursday lunch locale.

  We’re eyeing the sandwiches on display, and make a joke about the stack of egg-salad sandwiches. We’ve never seen anyone buy one, and there are always exactly six, so we’ve determined these are the same six sandwiches they’ve had since the semester started.

  The salami and olive tapenade sandwiches on the other hand...drool. There’s only one left, and it’s mine, baby. “I’ll take that one,” I say to the pimply freshman behind the counter, pointing to my sandwich of choice.

  I turn to Hailey. She’s a senior, like me, but I’m two years older than her. I’m two years older than prett
y much all the seniors on campus. I feel like I’ve been going to Hartman for.ev.er.

  I wonder if I’ll ever freaking graduate. I have only three weeks left of this semester, then just one more semester to go.

  Please, let me finish it.

  “What are you getting this time?” I ask. Her routine is to vacillate between the pesto chicken Panini and the turkey sourdough for a few minutes before making her decision, which is usually the Panini. “You should get an egg one,” I tease. “Just to see how hard it is.”

  She gives me an evil grin. “That’s what she said.”

  “Pervert,” I say grinning back.

  It’s a routine day, but still a good one. I pick up one of the giant brownies wrapped in cellophane and it’s still warm. Oh my god, this day just got tons better.

  “Oooh, a fresh one,” I breathe, putting its underside against my cheek and sighing dramatically. She giggles. “Mmmmm. I’m tempted to skip the sandwich and get two of these instead.”

  I’m not kidding, either. After all, eight days.

  The pimply kid puts my sandwich on the counter in front of me, to which I add the brownie and a bottle of water.

  “Anything else?” he asks.

  I grab another brownie and plunk it down next to the other. I grin at my friend. “A girl can’t be expected to resist warm brownies, can she?”

  Seven days.

  I headed out of town immediately following my last class of the day, and I’m almost done with the hour and a half drive from Hartman College to Swan Pointe. My destination is a charming Central Californian coastal town that’s been home to me for more years than it hasn’t. I grew up here, but spent a few years in San Francisco following my parents’ divorce when I was in high school.

  Since my Freshman year at Hartman, Swan Pointe became home again when my Uncle Grant and Aunt Sharon invited me to stay with them during school breaks. It was better than going back to Mom’s and dealing with the post-divorce drama, and they could give me temp work at their resort as a bonus. It worked out perfectly.

  They both drowned in a horrible boating accident a little over a year ago. Their children—Lizzy and her two brothers—inherited their parents’ famous Rivers Paradise Resort, an impressive chunk of investments and cash, and the house. I inherited money and an investment property as well. Lizzy bought out her brothers and kept their parents’ house, so I continued to stay there during breaks, just as I did when Uncle Grant and Aunt Sharon were alive.