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  RIPTIDE AFFAIR

  CATHERINE BLACK

  Copyright © 2019 Catherine Black

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system without written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, locations, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and registered trademark owners of all branded names referenced without TM, SM, or ® symbols due to formatting constraints, and is not claiming ownership of or collaboration with said trademark brands. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Printed in the United States of America

  RIPTIDE AFFAIR

  If you grew up in poverty, then perhaps you get me. You understand the necessity of microwave noodles five nights in a row, and counting out dimes and nickles to pay for gas, and the ominous beep a register makes when your card is declined. If that's the case, then I think you'll understand why I did what I did.

  In retrospect, it was by far my most egregious error but that's where I met him.

  The one.

  Now, don't get too excited. I'm no soot-covered princess, he's no Prince Charming, and I've always hated fairy tales. That is, until my heart—traitorous heathen that it is—decided to fall in love.

  However, there are no glass slippers in my great love story. No singing woodland creatures or grand carriages or kisses that raise the dead.

  There is only a man, a tragedy, and me.

  The villain.

  PROLOGUE

  Merrin

  2006

  “I'm sorry, sir, could you repeat that one more time?”

  The receptionist smiles sweetly at my father and I have to grit my teeth and look away when he gifts her with a flirtatious grin. She's at least fifteen years his senior, with a beehive hairdo that went out of style decades ago and bright pink cat eye glasses that say Barbie across the ear piece, but my father just can't help himself. Out of all the God-given gifts my father possesses, charming women is the one he employs most.

  “Of course. I know it's a difficult name,” he says, possessing all the patience of a saint while I stew angrily in the corner. “It's T-A-K-A-H-A-S-H-I. Takahashi.”

  The woman nods slowly, glancing down at my admittance form. “Merrin Raven Takahashi.” She says each of my names slowly, like the label serving as my identity is some kind of a joke.

  It's not.

  My parents are just idiots.

  Since I was unlucky enough to be born on Halloween, my mother argued that it was imperative I be given a name reflecting the darkness accompanying the holiday. However, being a Japanese immigrant, she didn't fully understand the commercialization of Americanized Samhein, so as she sat in her hospital bed with my father at her side, she flipped through channel after channel of Halloween marathons until she landed on, you guessed it, The Exorcist, circa 1973, starring Max von Sydow as Father Merrin. One more click of the remote landed us on an animated retelling of Edgar Allan Poe's classic, The Raven, and there you have it, folks...the amount of effort it took my mother to name me.

  On top of that shit sandwich of a name, my giver-of-life also decided I needed to bear her family name instead of my father's—which, for the record, is Johnson and would have saved me so much grief over the years—but Suelynn Takahashi was a force to be reckoned with and always got her way.

  Right up until six months ago, when the cancer eating away at her insides finally overthrew her will to live. If I believed in Karma, I'd say that was my mother's penance for leaving my father for another man the day before my fifteenth birthday, but even I'm not that cruel. The cancer wasn't punishment; I know that. People die every day for all sorts of reasons—car crashes, heart failure, undetectable aneurysms—and there's no rhyme or reason to any of it. Death is just a part of life—the biggest part if you ask me—and it just so happened my mother met her end because her cells deemed it time to extinguish the fervent light in her love-thirsty eyes.

  “And are you Merrin's legal guardian?”

  My eyes swing back around to watch my father's reaction to this seemingly innocent inquiry. It's not the first time someone's asked him this question, nor will it be the last, and because the confusion has been so frequent since we moved back to his hometown of Blackjack, Missouri, only a flash of annoyance registers behind his bright blue eyes.

  “I'm her father,” he says flatly. “Her biological father.”

  “Oh. Yes. Of—of course,” she stutters.

  Years ago, my father—Jack Johnson—was Blackjack's golden boy. The center of gossip and every girl's dream man. I've seen the yearbooks and I've counted the trophies. Yeah, he was a catch.

  Then.

  Now...twenty years later? The dude's got crows feet framing his receding hairline, shoulders that slump under the grief of losing his soul mate, and a teenage daughter whose black hair, almond eyes, and olive skin make locals do a double-take. And as soon as their eyes ping back to us—or, more accurately, me—I see it. The blame. The accusation. The hatred. Not only am I the daughter of the woman who broke the heart of Blackjack's resident heart throb, but my features remind everyone here why they were distrustful of my mother in the first place.

  Blackjack doesn't like outsiders. And they sure as shit don't like outsiders from across the pond.

  After clacking away at her keyboard a little longer, the receptionist prints my class schedule and slides it across the desk to my father, who then hands it off to me.

  “Looks like you're all set, kiddo.”

  “Wonderful,” I grumble, shoving the schedule in my pocket.

  “Hey. Don't be like that.” He gives my shoulders an encouraging squeeze, and for the first time since I was a little girl I want to cling to his leg and beg him to take me home. To protect me and shield me from the big bad world. But I can't do that. Not only because I'm almost an adult, but because as much as I love my father, I've come to realize that even though he may love me, he doesn't have it in him to protect me. Not here. He'd take a bullet for me—there's no doubt in my mind about that—but protecting me from the glares and whispers and ritualistic hazing practices of Blackjack High and all the closed-minded, prejudiced adolescents that snarled their lips at me as I walked into the office this morning? He's powerless.

  “You'll learn to love it here,” he whispers.

  Fat chance. I loved it back in Columbus where I had friends and an intact family, but whatever.

  “First block is phys-ed,” the receptionist chirps. “Coach Ryan already took everyone down to the football field so you'll have to meet him there. Oh! And you'll get to see our brand new bleachers! They were just installed last week.”

  “Oh goodie.”

  “Right?” she claps, smiling. “How lucky are you?”

  Good lord, Beehive Barbie thinks I'm being sincere.

  “Super duper lucky,” I sneer, which lands me an elbow to the side. My father doesn't appreciate my sarcasm on my best days, and this is far, far from my best.

  “Well, I guess I'll leave you to it.” He pulls me in for a one-armed hug that I refuse to reciprocate because I'm in full brat mode. “See you at three. Love you.”

  He wastes no time disappearing around the corner and I take a second to close my eyes, draw in a breath, and set my shoulders right there in the middle of the office. Today is going to suck, but at least I'm prepared. My mother may have only visited Blackjack once in her youth, but that was enough to teach her to never come back. Which is why everyone here hates her and, by extension, me as well.

 
“I paged Coach Ryan and he's expecting you. Do you need an escort to the field?”

  Instead of answering, or at the very least, looking back to acknowledge I heard the question, I roll my eyes and push through the office doors, stroll down the side hall, and end my twenty-foot long journey in the parking lot where I'm left staring straight at, you guessed it, the football field.

  Hitching my backpack up higher on my shoulder, I take off down the hill, headed straight to the cluster of twenty-or-so kids in white shirts and black shorts doing stretches near the goal post. The coach, a stocky guy with a ball cap pulled so low I can't see his eyes, paces back and forth, making sure everyone tries their best to touch their toes. When I come to a stop next to him and clear my throat, he barely spares me a glance, but then, does a double take.

  “You Meryl?” he asks.

  I hate him already.

  “Uh, it's Merrin, actually. Merrin Takahashi.”

  He gives me a curt nod, giving me a once-over. “You speak English?”

  What the—

  I literally just spoke English. Clearly.

  “Pretty sure that's the only language I know.”

  He searches my face for a beat, but I give him nothing. Not a smile. Not a shrug. Not even a blink. Just...nothing.

  “Good,” he snaps. “Start stretching. Tomorrow, bring gym clothes. You can toss your bag up on the bleachers.”

  “Oh, those bleachers?” I jut a thumb over my shoulder, toward the ugly brown seats. “The super duper exciting new ones?”

  Turns out, Coach Ryan doesn't appreciate my sarcasm either. “Just get on the grass.”

  I raise my hand in a salute, toss my bag to the side, and find a spot in the dew-covered grass a good ten-feet from the nearest student. My jeans will be damp the rest of the day, which will be super fun, but hey, kinda seems par for the course so far.

  As I stretch, I try to keep my head down and my eyes focused on the grass between my legs, but every few minutes I get that creepy-crawly feeling of being watched, and when I lift my head, sure enough, someone is staring. I want to roll my eyes. Shake my head. Chuckle under my breath. But I can't do any of those things because the truth of the matter is...I'm uncomfortable. Riddled with nervous energy. Every time I look up, I don't see curiosity or interest or even a pleasant smile.

  I see disgust. Pity. Disdain. Arrogant smiles are aimed my way, only to break off so they can whisper to a neighbor before laughing at an inside joke I'm not privy to. With every passing second, my skin gets tighter and tighter, and I have to focus on my breathing to keep it shallow. The last thing I want is to launch myself into a panic attack and make this day even worse than it already is.

  “Ten laps around the field,” Coach barks. “Keep to the inside of the far lane. I don't wanna have to drag any of your asses out of the creek.”

  Thankful I wore sneakers today, I fall in line with the rest of the class, jogging around the perimeter of the football field and—oh look...a creek. The length of track running furthest from the school is wide, but just on the other side of the lanes is a steep bank, a few scraggly trees, and down below, water. My stomach cramps just looking at it in all it's brown, stagnant glory.

  “Pick up the pace, Takaheshe,” Coach yells, butchering my name and embarrassing me in one fell swoop. “You're draggin' ass!”

  Jesus, what is wrong with this guy? What kind of teacher curses at their students?

  “I don't give participation ribbons in my class. You gotta earn your grade.”

  I'm not even sure who he's talking to at this point, but I pump my arms harder, wishing that the jean capris I put on this morning had a little more give to them. In minutes, I'm so far behind that the guys at the front of the line start passing me, some of them shoulder-checking me as they pass.

  “Well excuse the hell outta me,” I pant, forcing my feet to pick up the damn pace.

  My black pony tail swishes from side to side at my back like a pendulum and, before long, my anger acts as motivation. Breathing in the fresh Missouri air, I push everything else away but the injustice I feel at being treated like yesterday's meatloaf, and it's not long before I start passing my classmates on the inside, head held high as I find my stride.

  But, as they say, all good things must come to an end, and end it does. Because by three o'clock, my stride is more of a slow, desperate crawl and I have to use what little energy I have left in my reserve to hoist myself up into my father's Tahoe.

  “So?” he asks, grinning from ear to ear, practically bouncing in his seat. “How'd it go?”

  I slam the door shut and take a beat to mull over how exactly I plan to answer.

  Well, Dad, Blackjack is literally the stuff of nightmares. Someone called me Chink in Western Civilization, a guy spit in my hair at lunch, two girls started a rumor about me—saying that my pussy runs sideways just like my eyes, and then to top it all off, as I was grabbing my backpack to leave, some douchebag slammed my locker door shut, got in my face, grabbed his junk, and squealed “suckie suckie five dolla” at the top of his lungs.

  So...yeah.

  Great fuckin' day, Dad!

  “It was fine.”

  “Ooh, okay. The dreaded fine,” he chuckles. “That bad, huh?”

  He's trying to lighten the mood, God love him, but I'm not having it. My spirit is in shambles after the day I've had, and I just can't bring myself to relax even now that I'm away from that wretched place because I know I'll have to go back tomorrow. And the next day. And the day after that. And the day after that...

  The thought makes my throat feel like it's filled with cement.

  Dad lets me stew quietly most of the way home, and I use that time to stare at the tassel hanging from the rear view. Once upon a time, when it hung off my mother's graduation cap, it was bright royal blue, but it's faded with age. For as long as we've had this vehicle, the thing has hung there and swayed happily on every road trip, every shopping excursion and fast-food run. It was even there in my periphery the day we buried my mother. By then, my father's anger toward her had cooled, but mine had not. Which is why a few weeks ago I tried to take it down, but the threads were all tangled and it wouldn't come off. Dad caught me, told me to give it up and give her a break, so that's exactly what I did. I gave up. And I gave her a break—both from my mind and my heart—and now that damn tassel is stuck there. Forever. Much like me, here in Blackjack. Stuck.

  “So...try again tomorrow?” he asks.

  I don't want to talk about tomorrow. I want to rewind time. Venture to the past. Find the person I was when my mother was still alive, back when she loved me and valued what it meant to be a family, and I want to be that girl for a while.

  The tassel does a happy dance as we round a sharp corner on the back country road leading to my late-grandfather's farm, and I have to cross my arms so I don't rip it and the entire mirror off the windshield.

  “Why do you keep that stupid thing up there?”

  Dad glances over, brows furrowed, then lets out a sigh so heavy I feel the seat shift. “Merrin...look. I know you're hurting right now and you probably had a shitty day, but lashing out at me won't help one bit and you know it.”

  Damn him and his level-headed logic. Tears start burning at my eyes so I look out the side window and count trees as they pass. But I've never been good at holding my tongue, and that hasn't changed with my zip code.

  “Why couldn't we stay in Columbus?” My voice is weak. Unsteady. Like every word I speak is crumbling. “Why here? Why Blackjack? There's nothing here!”

  “Merrin, I know you loved Columbus, sweetheart, so did I, but I just wasn't comfortable staying there when—”

  “When what?” I snap, whipping my head around to face him, knowing that I've kept everything inside for too long and it's boiling, building pressure. “When classmates weren't spitting in my hair? When people weren't tripping me in hallways or whispering behind my back or throwing crumpled pieces of paper at my head or taping print outs of Pearl Harbor wre
ckage on my locker?”

  Silence envelops the car. He has no words. None. All there is to be heard is my lame attempt at stifling sobs, tires traveling over gravel, and the swish of my mother's graduation tassel.

  “I'll be there first thing in the morning.” His tone is grave as he steers us around yet another curve. “The principal is an old friend. We'll sort this—”

  “Don't bother,” I huff. “You'll just make things worse.”

  “I know it's easy to think that, but some of these kids just need straightened out. I was a teenager once too. I know how hard it is.”

  This time, I'm the one shocked silent.

  Slowly, I pivot in my seat, not stopping until I can see my fathers face and, sure as shit, the earnest gleam in his eyes tells me he actually believes what he's saying.

  “You know how hard it is,” I repeat, shaking my head.

  “Yeah,” he insists, “I do.”

  “No, dad. I really, really don't think you do.”

  “What?” He glances back and forth between me and the road. “What's that supposed to mean?”

  “It means I saw the pictures, Dad! And the trophies! And the fucking newspaper articles about how much Blackjack adored you!”

  “Watch your language.” His eyebrows drop low over angry eyes, but I am not deterred.

  “Don't for one minute try to say you understand what it felt like walking through that school today because you don't know. You don't. These people look at me like I'm a goddamn alien!”

  “Language!”

  “No!” I scream, past the point of caring if I'm being extra juvenile or unreasonable. I'm pissed. “This is bullshit! You say you get it but you don't! You were a fucking king here and that's why we came back. So you could sit on your throne again and feel like royalty when really all you are is a big fish in a little pond!”

  “That's enough!”

  I can barely breathe. Barely see straight. Barely keep my mind on track. I'm burning up with outrage over what happened in the span of the last seven hours and I'll be damned if I'm made to feel like my anger is invalid.