Tiebreaker: A Dark Romance (Darker Nights Book 1) Read online

  Tiebreaker

  Book 1 in the Sleepless Knights Series

  KT Strange

  Copyright © 2021 by KT Strange

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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

  For more information:

  http://kstrange.com

  [email protected]

  Book Design: Heartcandies Publishing

  Cover design: Ciaran Strange

  To my dark beauties,

  who like their dark heroes

  and their dark stories

  with a glimmer of light.

  Contents

  Stay in touch!

  1. Olivia

  2. Kai

  3. Olivia

  4. Olivia

  5. Olivia

  6. Olivia

  7. Olivia

  8. Olivia

  9. Olivia

  10. Olivia

  11. Olivia

  12. Olivia

  13. Olivia

  14. Olivia

  15. Olivia

  16. Olivia

  17. Olivia

  18. Olivia

  19. Olivia

  20. Olivia

  Stay in touch!

  About the Author

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  One

  Olivia

  “Shit!”

  My hand throbs and I growl under my breath at the stupid milk foamer. There’s a red mark on my the back of my hand, and fuck, it hurts. The last thing I needed today was another workplace injury. My feet are killing me and I feel like I want to commit murder.

  Maybe not, but I’m considering it.

  Greeeeeeeeeee….

  The AC unit above starts whining and I stare out across the counter at all of the patrons gathered in the coffee shop.

  Heads brown, blond, and black bend over laptops, their hands casually wrapped around coffees like they’re totally working on their next big screenplays whilst chugging down their third custom-blended beverage of the day and keeping an eye on their phones.

  Which aren’t going to ring.

  I know because I’ve been here for years now, and it’s always the same. Obnoxious 30-something men living on trust funds trying to make it in Hollywood. Turning their personal finances into professional credentials through all those unpaid internships only the rich can afford to take.

  It makes my gut curdle.

  I guess I shouldn’t be jealous, but I’ve got nobody. No family to support me, financially or otherwise, and no trust fund. My degree would probably be more useful if I used it as rolling papers to smoke up with and come up with a real life plan. One of these days…

  “Are you listening to me? I feel like I’ve taught you this before, and you should know it by now.”

  That voice is like a power drill to my brain. I paste a smile across the lower half of my face and ignore my aching feet.

  “I know, but can you explain it just one more time?” I ask.

  The computer in front of me isn't doing what it’s supposed to be doing. It’s Monday, which means it’s reports day, and I’ve got to print out all of our sales for the last week. It’s supposed to be my boss’s job, but she spends most of her time on her ass in her cushy little office, texting her boyfriends. Plural. As in, multiple.

  Not that I'm judging, except I kinda am. I probably wouldn't think so poorly of her if she actually did her job for once, instead of letting every single weight that drops land on my shoulders.

  Los Angeles is an expensive city to live in and I don't have the time or patience, or frankly the salary, to justify all the work I do around here. It sucks up my energy, and I would even get a second job if I could, but I’m so burnt and exhausted by the time I get home…

  But that’s life here. I’m just another under-employed coffee shop girl with two degrees, a mountain of student loan debt, and nothing else to show for it except a tip cup that’s holding fifty cents and a wadded up gum wrapper.

  My boss scuttles over to me with a glare and starts poking at the touchscreen around my shoulder, as if I’ve been doing it wrong. She’s uncomfortably close.

  I glance outside and try to ignore my throbbing, raw hand.

  “I need to go get some burn gel,” I tell her, and she waves at me, ignoring me as I step away, toward the backroom where the first aid kit is. The curtain falls behind me, separating me in a little bubble of solitude, and I take a deep, cleansing breath.

  I can do this. It’s not a bad job. I’m just being a baby. I rummage through the first aid kit, looking for the tube of aloe to make the pain go away.

  I can hear my boss cursing under her breath from beyond the curtain, and do my best to ignore her. No matter what I do, it’s always wrong. I’ve been wrong ever since I dumped an iced matcha latte all over the front of one of her boyfriend’s shirts. A shirt that apparently cost $500, which is a ridiculous amount of money to spend on a repurposed tablecloth in my opinion. It's half the reason that I only have a couple bucks in the bank. I just made my final payment to replace it a week ago.

  “Did you install the updates on this thing?” she shrills, as I lather aloe across my thumb and palm. “I thought I told you—”

  I close my eyes. I can’t hear you… Is this seriously my life right now? My hand is starting to feel better and, with an intake of air to brace myself, I push the curtain aside.

  “Maybe if you did your job for once and actually installed the updates like you’re supposed to,” she immediately goes on the attack, shotgunning me with her tone. In the shop, I see heads start to pop up, and my cheeks burn as people stare at us.

  Screenwriters, coffees lifted half-way to their mouths, are watching us like we’re a couple of animals having a brawl at the zoo.

  I just want to be home with my cat, not stuck here, in a dead-end job, hating my life and nursing stupid little injuries every day.

  “It’s not my job,” I snap back, a sick, crunching feeling of unfairness swelling in my chest. Which is true, it isn’t. It’s hers. I’m here to serve coffee, take money, and clean. Not maintain software. Not take verbal abuse. Not grovel for her many boyfriends and remember which one knows about the others and which one thinks he has exclusive access to her womanly portal or whatever.

  My face is hot and I’m an inch away from grabbing at the ties to my apron even though I need this job, I need the money and—

  “Hey, what’s a rockstar gotta do to get a coffee around here?”

  A thick, rich voice interrupts our catfight showdown, and Mariah looks up with a hiss, ready to unleash an unholy stream of venom at the guy.

  She halts dead in her tracks and, when I look up too, my heart gives a triplicate of beats in my chest before thudding to a sudden stop.

  He is unfairly, illegally hot.

&n
bsp; Mariah’s mouth fish-guppys, opening and closing, and then she squeaks:

  “Kai Brooks?!” Her throat closes on his last name, the air barely making it out from between her lips. He smirks, and lifts his sunglasses, shoving them back in his hair casually like nothing matters in the whole world, and he’s used to people reacting to him exactly like Mariah is right now.

  He’s tall, with godly good looks, and I know that face. It’s been staring down at me every time I take the subway, smoldering blue eyes with an ache in them that nothing seems to touch. Not even his multiple awards, or the basquillions of dollars he must have.

  Speaking of money — he’s wearing a stupidly expensive leather jacket that would pay my rent for at least two months, black and rich and plush. I want to drag my fingers down over it and then bury my face in its weight to inhale the scent. I’m a scent-girl. I like new book-smell and fresh cut grass, sun pouring over lavender fields, and I’d murder for clean pillowcases every single night.

  And Kai looks like… sex. Sex, style, and a bad reputation on legs.

  “I just want a coffee,” he says, “no autographs—” And the way he says it, the morph in Mariah’s face as she goes from overwhelmed to crestfallen in a second, does… something to me.

  Something deep inside.

  “Excuse you?” I ask, not able to keep my mouth shut. Yeah, Mariah’s a bitch. A total bitch, and then some. But she’s my bitch, and she looks like he just kicked her in the puppy.

  Yeah, the puppy.

  His hot gaze flicks from her over to me.

  “Did you just… waltz in here and call yourself a rockstar, and then tell us no autographs?” I draw myself up and now heads are absolutely looking at us. Half-lidded eyes and shocked mouths hidden behind laptops are open, turned toward me.

  “I—”

  “You know what, dude, we get a lot of people in here, a lot of really famous people, and they’re mostly class acts. Maybe you should take a lesson from them,” I say, in my element, on a roll—

  “Olivia,” Mariah hisses, like I’m somehow doing something wrong.

  “What? Are you going to let him talk to you like you’re nothing?” I ask her, and her eye twitches when I look at her. No. No way. Not this guy. Not after the day, month, life I’ve had.

  He looks shocked, like he’s never been spoken to in his existence like this.

  Well, too fucking bad, bro.

  “Is this a thing you do? Announced yourself and then act all offended when people want autographs? Talk about mixed messages.” I glare at him. His mouth is open, and his pupils are narrowed, like I’m a big hairy biker and I just slapped his ass with full-grip.

  Good. He deserves it.

  “Medium coffee,” he mutters. “Cream. And… and two sugars.”

  “Please,” I hiss at him.

  “Excuse me,” he says, eyebrows hiking up, and I walk over to the coffee pot.

  “You’re not excused.”

  “Coffee’s on the house,” Mariah pipes up quickly, grabbing the cup out of my hand so fast that it nearly spills all over me. “And I’m so so sorry, Mr. Brooks, for—”

  I roll my eyes, and catch Kai Brooks the Rockstar staring at me. A weird, unexpected smile is forming on his lips.

  “Don’t forget to pick that name you dropped up on the way out, we have a strict rule about cleaning up your own garbage,” I snap, because how dare he smile at me. He is so… rude! I turn away as his eyes flicker with amusement. Everyone is staring at me. He is too, that stupid look on his face, like he’s laughing at my insults.

  Like they, like I, haven’t even phased him.

  I execute my escape. I disappear behind the curtain and try not to hyperventilate.

  “Let me at least tip her,” I can hear him saying to Mariah as I lean over the sink and choke silently on air. “She’s funny.”

  This is the reason I came to L.A. to begin with. I mean not really. Not… not to be yelling at rockstars or anything like that. I came because I wanted to make art and meet artists and be immersed in beautiful things. I wanted to be down on the beach every day and watch the sun melt over the water.

  Instead, I’m stuck making minimum wage at a coffee shop. And now, I'm about to be unemployed because I can’t even hold my damn temper when I encounter an asshole. There’s a strange silence I don’t expect to hear. I peek out from behind the curtain.

  Kai’s leaning in, smiling at my boss, saying words that I'm not even computing, and that's when I see it. The $100 bill that he forks over.

  She grins up at him, putting on her best charm and then he’s out the door, coffee in hand, the bell jingling behind him as he leaves. My spirits lift.

  A hundred dollars! That is a lot of groceries. I could even pay my phone bill and prevent my service from being disconnected.

  The curtain yanks aside and I step back. Her face is a storm cloud. I see it, that bill twisting between her fingers. As I reach for it, she yanks it back.

  “Oh, I don't think so,” she says. “You have reports to do.” She gives me a smile. “And by the way, I’m keeping this and you should thank me because it's the only reason I'm not firing your sorry ass right now.”

  She turns on her heel and walks away, every step sinking my heart lower and lower in my chest until it hits rock bottom. The computer beeps and I glance over at it as the printer starts to crunch and churn and run underneath the counter. Paper starts spitting out way too many copies of a week’s report and I realize that she didn’t just print one copy — she printed about a hundred.

  One hundred seems to be like… my cursed number, or something. That’s a thing, right?

  I turn back to the computer. It wasn't my hundred to begin with anyway. I wasn't even polite to him. But, for a split second, I'd had a sliver of hope.

  Oh, well. That’s just my life, isn’t it?

  I'm that girl who has everything for a split second, and then has it all taken back again. The universe giveth and the universe yeeteth away.

  I gulp down my disappointment like a sour beverage, and reach for the reports. Maybe if I do them she’ll split the tip with me. Maybe.

  Two

  Kai

  I’m not used to being up at this fucking time of day. The coffee in my hand is hot and I have to admit that the barista made me laugh a bit, but it's the only thing that I got going that’s good for me. At least, for the next hour.

  I can’t believe I’m back here again… I stare up at the tower, its glossy windows sparkling in the early morning sun like molten crystal shards jabbing at the sky.

  Anyone passing by would think it's just another tower, just another skyscraper, just another company. An office building filled with people typing on computers, fucking in the copy room, getting on with business. But for me, it's like going back to prison. And maybe that’s because, for a short period of a time, this is where I lived. I won’t call it a home. It was the furthest thing from it.

  It’s a pretty crystalline prison, and the top ten floors are an ode to masculine ego, with minimalist apartments outfitted with expensive fittings and furnishings for each of us… the heirs.

  Ugh.

  I walk toward the front door, and it's already open for me before I get within ten feet. Of course, they know me on sight. I’m a returning prince, a fallen knight, a prodigal son, and I’m coming back to the castle after doing battle. The doorman nods, pulling at his hat.

  I make a face.

  “Doesn’t that uniform get sweaty?” I ask as I walk by, breezing right into the lobby.

  The doorman shakes his head but I can see that he’s stifling a laugh, trying not to smile.

  “Do they pay you extra not have a personality?” I ask, the urge to needle at him rising up inside me like a fuckin’ tidal wave. He looks away and I don't know if I’ve pissed him off or made him piss himself. Frankly, I don’t give a fuck. It was probably the highlight of his day, though. The elevator bank is waiting for me and I begin the nauseatingly fast seventeen-second shot to the t
op.

  To the executive suite.

  Or the common area floor of it, anyway. It’s got a lounge with a foosball table in it that we’ve never used. None of us ever stuck around long enough, or liked each other well enough to bother kicking off a game. Luxury condos are stacked above it — one of them with my name figuratively on the door, though it’s probably inch-deep in dust, all the furniture wrapped in tight plastic. I have no idea what it looks like these days, and I have no intention of checking in on it.

  I left this all behind, made my own damn life, and yet… here I am again.

  It’s only been, what, five years? Maybe? Fuck, I’ve actually lost track. The elevators open and the rush of scent envelops me, the synesthetic memories it brings with it hitting me like a physical wall. They pay extra to have their signature building fragrance piped through the HVAC system. It’s ridiculous and overdone, but Everett has never been anything but ridiculous and overdone.

  And that’s saying something, since I'm the fucking rockstar. I should be the extra, over the top, stinky-flower-shit-in-the-HVAC-system one.

  Stepping out into the foyer, I realize I’m holding my breath and let it go in a rush. There she is, the secretary of the month, standing and waiting to receive me. I wonder how often she receives Everett’s dick — if she's under his desk, mouth open, servicing him through every meeting that he takes via Zoom. Probably. She’s got those red lips and the short skirt and that vacant, dumb smile that doesn't reach her eyes.

  “Oh,” she says. “You already have a coffee. Can I make you something special? Or add anything to it?”