Far From Over

1. CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER ONE

KINSLEY

“ T he wedding is canceled.”

A stout bald man, whom I can only presume is Ben, places his lips on the swell of a blond woman’s breast, but as he hears my voice, his hands skyrocket, and he jumps from the metal folding chair set up in the center of the cluttered room. The move causes the petite blonde to fall from his lap. Scrambling, he hides his dick, but not before I catch the neon yellow condom glowing in the dark, presumably ribbed for his pleasure, not hers.

Head tossed back, I laugh. This is beyond picture worthy. My job is exciting, yeah, but I’ve never actually caught the groom-to-be in the act of fucking a stripper before.

Are strippers even allowed to have sex with their clients?

I make a mental note to find out later and then remind myself to hire an assistant. I need someone to tag along to snap pictures of stuff like this for my blog. If I’d caught this on camera, there’s no telling how much publicity it would generate for my business.

“Who the hell are you?” Ben shouts.

The woman quickly gets to her feet and drapes a black raincoat over her bare body. Rather than alarmed, she looks annoyed.

I flick an envelope at him. “Name is Kinsley. Carmen hired me to cancel the wedding. She already moved out of the apartment. The key is in the envelope, along with a letter.”

“Wedding?” the blonde shrieks. “I was told this was a birthday present.” She tightens a belt around her small waist. When she catches me giving her the side-eye, she continues. “What? We all have our limits.”

A stripper with a conscience? Odd. Though I suppose she’s right, we all have to draw the line somewhere. I just haven’t figured out where that line is for me.

I toss my chocolate brown hair over my shoulder and turn, ready to leave, but I’m stopped when three men barrel into the dingy room. The bald one manages to stay upright as his two counterparts’ trip over Ben’s clothes and land on the floor.

“Fuck,” one grumbles, running a hand over his wiry black hair.

“Get off me,” the other chimes in.

“Sorry, Ben. Everett said she was looking for the bathroom,” the bald one slurs.

Everett . The silver fox who glowered at me the moment my red pumps hit the cement floor of his establishment.

“Can you point me in the direction of the bathroom,” I’d said, batting my long lashes at the man behind the bar.

“I’d say you don’t belong in a place like this, but I’m pretty sure you already know that,” he growled, his nostrils flaring, as if I were the city health inspector ready to shut him down for a cockroach infestation.

I could admit that my white slacks and matching blazer stood out among his biker vibe décor. Even so, I didn’t let that stop me from doing my thing.

“I’ll take whatever the special is,” I said coyly, inching my way closer to him.

“Everett,” a voice echoed across the expansive room. “We need another round.”

Glowering, the angry bartender pulled out a beer and set it in front of me. Then he pointed over his shoulder. “Bathroom is back there.”

I took a sip, smiled, and purred out a quiet “Thank you.’” But before I’d made it two steps, he nabbed me by the arm.

“I know you,” he huffed out.

I returned his sour expression and pulled my arm free from his grasp. For one, I hate when people touch me. And two, I’d bet the small balance in my checking account that this biker dude has never read a lifestyle blog a day in his life. “I assure you; you do not know me.”

Now, assessing the bald man on the floor, I say, “Remind me to thank Everett.”

All three men are sloppy drunk, so I step over the two stooges sprawled out on the yellow linoleum floor and head for the door. I pat Curly on the back, then make my exit.

Outside, I nod a farewell to the woman with the raincoat and walk briskly to my car. It’s dark, the sun barely visible above the horizon. I’m not afraid of the dark, but I am a woman, and in my line of work, I never know how angry and vindictive the men I confront might become. Pissing off men with giant egos and pea-sized brains isn’t for the faint of heart. Then there’s Everett. I get the sense that he’s out here somewhere, watching me. Making sure I leave.

I slip into my car and lock the doors. Then I send a quick it’s done message to Carmen. I’ll give her the rest of the details once I get home. For now, she knows not to answer any of Ben’s calls until we speak. It’s part of the protocol. It helps to simplify things for her, as well as me.

Just as I hit the road, my phone lights up. I swipe to answer and wait for it to connect to my car.

“Hey. What are you doing?” Tessa’s soft voice fills the space around me.

“Oh, you know,” I say, not wanting to disappoint my sister.

Her responding sigh crackles down the line. She doesn’t exactly approve of my job. She liked it when all I did was blog from the safety of my own apartment.

“Whose heart did you break this time?”

I snort. “Something tells me the guy will live to see another day. He wasn’t what I’d call ‘committed.’ Tomorrow’s the one I’m worried about. The woman who hired me said he’s the sentimental kind.”

“Tomorrow is Saturday. Please don’t say it’s their wedding day.”

“Oh, God no.” A vision of my own wedding day flashes in my mind. Discovering my ex-fiancé and my ex-best friend having sex just minutes before our ceremony was about to begin. I’d never interfere that close to the wedding. I’ve only taken two last-minute calls, but both times, I made it to the church well before the guests arrived.

“Good. I still think you need therapy, but what do I know?”

“You’re probably right—”

“I know I’m right, but that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.” Tessa inhales deeply, then lets the breath out slowly. “Have you figured out what you’re going to do about your lease?”

It’s my turn to sigh. After I broke off my engagement with Jay, I found a gorgeous one-bedroom apartment in the French Quarter of Charleston. It’s only a few blocks from City Market, and it was move-in ready with fully furnished rooms. The only drawback was the price tag.

Now, two years later, while I’m not necessarily struggling to make ends meet, I have acknowledged that my apartment might not be best suited for a single person with a single income. And if I’m honest with myself, I can’t imagine staying long term.

“No. I have a few more weeks to decide.”

“I ran into Maggie’s attorney,” she says, her voice lowering. “He told me they’re putting her house on the market.”

“What?” I bolt upright, heart plummeting, and grip the steering wheel tight. Maggie and her late husband, Ezra Fletcher, were our neighbors when we were kids, and they were the closest thing we had to grandparents. They lived in a beautiful two-story Victorian home that sat on a twenty-acre farm where they grew everything from trees to shrubs to fresh produce they handpicked and sold at the local farmers’ market. At one point, they had goats and pigs and chickens, but after Ezra got sick and passed away, it became too much for Maggie. When I left for college, she stopped tending to the land altogether and sold what remained of their animals.

And then she was diagnosed with major neurocognitive disorder.

“The lawyer needs to sell her assets to continue funding Sunny Meadows,” Tessa says, her tone laced with sympathy.

Sunny Meadows is the assisted living home where Maggie now lives. It’s designed for people with dementia.

“Can he do that?” I ask.

“If she never put the house into a trust, then yeah, I think he can.”

I sigh. “When does the house go on the market?”

“Tomorrow morning,” she says with a hint of glee in her voice. This house is just as special to her as it is to me. It was our sanctuary when our mom was away on work trips and a haven of solitude when we wanted to be alone.

“ I want you to have it ,” Maggie said the night of Ezra’s funeral. “ No one will appreciate it as much as you. ”

I’d told her she was crazy. That I didn’t know the first thing about historic houses or farms. But she insisted she was willing it to me. “ Ezra would roll over in his grave if you didn’t take it. ”

That was years ago. Before her illness.

“Do you want to come by this weekend? We can take a look. I can set up a showing. After you crush another soul, that is.”

The idea that I could buy her house after all this time sends a shudder up my spine. “Yes, of course.”

“Great. I’ll arrange a showing for Sunday morning, but come by tomorrow after the heartbreak. Derrick invited a coworker over. His name is Tim. We’re going to barbecue. And before you get your panties all in a twist, this is not my attempt at setting you up.”

My sister is lying. She’s tried to set me up with guy after guy for the past year.

“Thank God,” I say. “Does that mean you also invited Piper and Morty?” I ask, referring to her friends. “Maybe your neighbors while you’re at it. This way Derrick’s friend knows it’s not a setup too. We all know I don’t make good company, and if he had even the slightest inkling that we might hit it off, well—”

“Dammit, Kinz,” my sister huffs. “It’s been two years. Two years. When are you going to move on? You can’t live the rest of your life like this. Not all men are like Jay.”

“It could be ten years, and I still wouldn’t be interested.” I turn the corner and pull into a spot at the rear of my apartment complex.

I love my sister. She’s my absolute favorite person on the planet. She has to be, considering we shared a womb for nine months. But for some reason, maybe because she was born first, she thinks she has to be the mature one. That she has to clean up all her twin’s messes. And let’s be honest, I’ve had my fair share of disasters. They follow me wherever I go.

Each and every time, Tessa is there, picking up the jagged pieces of my life and smoothing them back out. Like the time I was left completely gutted at the altar. Scratch that. I wasn’t left at the altar. I was publicly humiliated as the man I was supposed to spend the rest of my life with declared his love for another woman while simultaneously ejaculating inside her while stuffed into a closet at the church. Like the loving sister she is, Tessa pressed pause on her life to help me piece mine back together.

It took months to get over Jay. Not because I missed him or wanted him back, but because I was so angry that he’d gone and fucked another woman right under my nose. I felt stupid. Betrayed. I never want to feel that way again, so no, I don’t date. Hookups, maybe, but only on my terms. There’s nothing worse than being set up with a random stranger while expectations loom overhead.

“Don’t be interested, then,” Tessa grumbles. “Just don’t be a dick. And if you don’t show up, I’ll hunt your ass down and twist all your damn panties.”

“That’ll be a challenge, given that I’m wearing the only pair I own.”