Black Waters (Tainted Waters #2) - India R Adams

Preface

The muffled, distorted sounds under water always comforted me and brought about peaceful moments where I could feel boundless, with no restraints from the real world trying to mask me—contain me. That’s why I always swam through the water instead of on top for easy access to the air I needed to live. In the underworld, I felt air was not necessary and found the softened noises serene and uniquely beautiful, but there was no beauty in her dying that day…

The blue water Whit once loved now looked black because it was claiming her, taking her from me. Crash was unconscious. Blood floated from his wounds, and his shirt remained clutched in her desperate, tiny fist. I swam with a vengeance to save her. At least, that’s what I believed until I saw her expression, the message in her eyes. The ballerina’s sacrifice… I knew Whitney was choosing to die for him, with him.

Morning sunrays lit the way, shining a path through the blackness to my best friend, to my—giving me even more determination to reach the girl I loved and not let her succeed.

Her elegant dancer hand floated gracefully above her, following her undeniable descent until her fingers twitched as if life—hope—had somehow ignited. Whitney looked down at Crash’s fingers pitifully touching hers, trying to encourage her to fight for her life because there was no beauty in her dying that day, and we both knew it.

Chapter One

Façades

Secrets can be harmless, or they can be torturous inner struggles that devour you from the inside out. That is what my secrets did. The thing is, they weren’t just mine, they were ours, and they exposed a much bigger, twisted story that unraveled, costing lives—innocent lives.

In the dark, I had been able to fool myself—time and time again. Caught up in the moment, I moaned, “Whit.”

“Reether? W-What did you just say to me?”

Everyone wondered why Constance hated my best friend with a vengeance, but this was why. Girlfriends don’t take it well when, while kissing them hungrily, you call them the wrong name, especially when it’s the name of a girl your girlfriend is constantly accusing you of loving in more than a sisterly or best friend kind of way.

In Connie’s feminine, light, blue bedroom, my forehead dropped to her shoulder. “Babe, don’t start. I got off the phone with Whit before I got here. It was a slip of the tongue.”

Connie pushed me off her. “A slip of the tongue while your tongue is in my mouth!”

“Shh, your parents will hear you.” I lay on my back instead of on top of my girlfriend, who was clearly shutting down a much-needed sex session.

“Go home, Reether.”

I sat up, sorely disappointed, if you know what I mean, sticking my unused condom back in my front pocket. “What about the movies? The reason I’m here?”

“We both know why you’re here, Reether.” Connie put her blouse back on, trying to act strong, but the poor girl had it bad for me, and I used her vulnerability like the asshole I was. That’s probably why God wasn’t allowing me to have the girl I really wanted.

Once dressed, Connie faced me. “If I decide I still want to go, I’ll ride with Harlan.”

When I got up from her bed and my toes couldn’t feel her plush carpet, I realized I hadn’t even bothered to take off my sneakers.

Hit and run.

Slowly, while buckling my jeans, I walked to her with shame in every step. Connie wouldn’t look in my eyes as she retreated until her back was up against her bedroom wall. She had every right to feel disrespected and used. She was a victim of sorts.

My hand gently grabbed the nape of her neck to get her to look at me. “I’m sorry.” I kissed her cheek and left her room. I meant it. I was sorry—sorry for loving my best friend in ways I shouldn’t and for not loving Connie like I should. It wasn’t fair to either of them, but I couldn’t control or stop what was in my heart.

As I exited her overly decorated home that announced the quantity of cash rolling through her family’s bank accounts, I was unaware how that night would become sweet revenge for Connie, and that she would use it against me—against my only weakness.

Unlike Whit’s parents, mine were always home and had already retired for the evening. My bedroom smelled of fresh paint. Mom thought white walls were more uplifting than my old brown. She seemed to