Vote Then Read: Volume I
Page 68
“With you.”
“Of course I turned him down.”
“They deal in import-export. Now they want to go into entertainment?” Then again, the MacKenna family wanted in on anything successful up and down the East Coast, that much he’d learned from the newspapers. Not much to do in prison but read and workout and wait for the next surprise attack.
“If they want revenge, why'd they wait so long? I mean, I've been here for three months.” Then again, they hadn’t waited, had they? His joints ached at the memories—being dragged into a dark cell and pummeled by fists, being jumped in the men’s room, his head rammed against porcelain and tiles. He’d learned to fight back in any way he could, but he’d always been outnumbered. No wonder he walked around with a case of what his counselor had blasély referred to as “the usual PTSD” —humiliating anxiety attacks that left him irrationally enraged and prone to violence.
Declan shrugged. “Ruark doesn't come often. We believe he hasn't seen you until tonight. Now ...”
“They want to take over Shakedown to punish you for giving me a job.”
“Likely.” Silence numbed his mind. It was a good trick, one he’d used in prison. He shook it off. He needed his brain working, hell, his feet working. He spun on his heel and ran smack into Trick, who laid his palm flat across Nathan’s pec.
“We're not sure what is going on yet.”
Trick would say that. He didn't know the MacKenna family. He didn’t know Nathan had swung a crowbar at Daniel MacKenna so hard, he’d splattered the man’s brains on the adjacent wall. Daniel threw punches like a professional MMA fighter—quick, hard, and lethal. That night, Daniel MacKenna had been intent on killing Declan. Had he not intervened, MacKenna would have.
It had gone down in Declan's old office in a run-down warehouse—a prosperous antiques business Declan had lost, thanks to those fucking MacKennas. At trial, his attorney had argued Nathan had defended Declan from mortal peril—that nothing short of lethal force would have stopped MacKenna. A jury—surely a paid-off jury—thought otherwise.
Nathan lowered his gaze to Trick's hand. The man wisely removed it. Good thing, as his manager could find himself without a few fingers, if not careful.
“We'll take care of it,” Trick said.
Nathan chuffed. “Sure.” He turned to Declan, who remained irritatingly calm, though a twitch in his jaw showed the frustration he hid. “You remember what they said? In the courtroom? Don't fuck with family.”
“Nathan. I owe you. Let me handle this.”
“You can't, Declan. One doesn’t handle the MacKennas. I’ve gotta get out of here.” Nathan spun, every fiber of his body needed out.
Never again would he be taken by surprise like he had been so many times behind bars. Nine years of regular beatings turned a man into something no one wanted—all rough edges and no impulse control to curb the savage energy that lived inside him. Prison had earned him nothing but a graduate degree in unfettered violence.
“You can't take on the MacKennas, either. Besides, where are you going to go?” Declan's voice had risen. “At least here, you've got friends.”
His statement was a sucker punch to the gut. He had nowhere to go. He’d left prison with $20 bucks in his pocket and a pair of jeans and a shirt that no longer fit him. He had more now—thanks to Declan, but not enough to leave town.
He paused at the door and curled his hand around the doorknob, wanting to crush it in his fist. “You're buying a lot of trouble.”
“Like I said. I owe you.”
“Consider the debt paid.” He headed to the office he shared with Max, a ridiculous perk to begin with because what does the muscle need an office for? He'd think about his next step.
He yanked open the door. Starr leaned against the far wall, her nose buried in a rose. She cocked her head and lowered the flower. “Jackie said you were with Declan. Drink? I owe you one. For rescuing me earlier.”
A drink? Nothing sounded better. Screw the moratorium on alcohol. If any night called for liquor, it was tonight.
5
Starr plunked her bag down and slid onto a stool at the bar. An image of her perfect ass surfaced so clearly in his brain he had to seal his lips in case his mouth proved as undisciplined as his imagination. Even having a MacKenna show up couldn't erase the effect she had on him. In fact, air moved better in his lungs, his ribs unlocked a little, just by seeing her.
She placed the rose on the bar. “What's good for forgetting things?”
“Tequila.” Tequila sounded real good right about now, but he wouldn’t, despite his earlier, momentary lapse in judgment. Alcohol wouldn't change his situation. He ducked under the waitress stand. While he poured himself a glass of water, he would play bartender.
“Somehow I knew you’d say that.” She leaned her forearms on the bar and peered up at him. Her Rolling Stones T-shirt stretched tighter across her breasts. It had seen better days. The material was thin enough to let him know the color of her bra. He'd give his life to be her tee-shirt.
He pulled down the Don Julio 1942 while she pulled out her phone.
“Damn.” She set it on the bar, face down. “Dead.”
“Want me to charge her for you?”
“Oh, would you? Thanks.”
He stuck the charger cord into her phone—a perk Declan had installed at the bar for patrons—then poured her a shot of the tequila.
“Your feathers okay?” He pushed the jigger her way.
“My fans are fine. Hey, did you like the show?” She winked at him, a slow lowering of those long, thick lashes until they touched her porcelain cheek. Heat smeared every inch of his skin, and thinking wasn't possible.
“Perfect.” A vision of her body twirling, the long strands of silvery fringe and sparkling beads shooting straight out and wrapping her perfect hips flashed in his brainpan. Goddamn, to be a fucking piece of string. Then, that slow air kiss—maybe offered to him? He hardened. His body really hadn’t gotten the memo on respectful thoughts but then no one showed him respect in years.
She raised her shot toward him in a toast. Her smile was amazing. “To tonight being over.”
He clinked the jigger with his ice water. She shot her tequila back like a champ, and still looked like a cover model while doing it.
She pushed the empty shot glass toward him. “Can I have another?”
“Your wish is my command.”
She laughed at his use of the cliché. “So, how do you like your new gig here?”
“It's good,” he managed to spit out despite tonight’s cluster. He filled her glass to the brim.
“Glad to hear it.” She sipped the tequila this time and grinned at him anew. Yeah, he could fall into her smile if he let himself. “I hear you and Declan have known each other a long time.”
“Yeah, worked for him when I was in school.”
“College?” Her eyes brightened. “What’d you study?”
“Mechanical engineering.” He hadn’t thought about that in years.
“I almost went to college. To study arts management, but, well, you know how life changes …”
Did he ever. “Never got to finish, but here I am. Working for Declan again.”
They were exchanging the most words since he’d started at Shakedown three months ago, overall, the most words he’d spoken in days. Their conversation was casual, like normal people talk. Maybe all women were like this now? Hell, no. He’d met her sister Phoenix. She could freeze a man’s nuts off with her eyes. Starr was different, easy and nice, but not all giggly like so many of the women at the club.
“I’m glad you’re here. Declan’s one of the good ones.” She twisted the shot glass in her fingers. “He’s a good boss, too. I trust those kids from tonight will never get in again.”
“You got that right.”
“I can't believe men think they can grab women like that.” Her smile faded.
She shouldn’t have to put up with that crap. “All men are idiots.”
“Not all.” Her lips arched up. In response, his heart did its skipping thing again, only this time for a better cause. “Thanks for escorting me off the stage. That was real gentlemanly, and sorry for snapping at you.”
He leaned his elbows on the bar top. “No problem, but, hey, sorry if I scared you … in the hallway when you got off stage.” Of all people to throw his anger at, it shouldn’t be her.
“Oh, you didn’t. I just have these reflexes. My sisters and I had a bad father. He was the usual drunken abuser.”
He straightened, and a trickle of heat ran down his spine. “Nothing usual about that.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t handle anger well, especially men with short fuses, and for a second there … “ She trailed off.
“I reminded you of your dad?” Shit. He scrubbed his bicep and peered down at her. Had he gone off the rails that badly in front of her?
“No, not like that.” Her blue eyes warmed toward him. “You just looked like you were going to lose it for a second.”
“Let’s just say I don’t take well to men who put their hands on defenseless people. I get angry—fast.” Something about this woman made him want to be honest. Perhaps it was the way her face was so open or the way her eyes fixed on him without hesitation. She deserved the same openness from him.
“Where does that come from?” she asked lightly.
“Prison. Got jumped, repeatedly. Beaten pretty badly. Makes a guy angry inside. But I control it, and I sure as hell would never lift a hand to any woman or child. I don’t have it in me.” It felt important to tell her that.
“Oh.” She stared at him for a long time, and he couldn’t find it in him to break her gaze. He could see the question in her eyes—what was he in for? He didn’t want to have this conversation right now.
She suddenly raised the shot glass toward him. “Well. Here’s to us. For overcoming.”
“I can get behind that sentiment.” He lifted his water, now dripping with condensation, and slugged down a couple of swallows.
She gulped the last bit of tequila, slammed the jigger upside down, and dabbed those pink lips with a cocktail napkin. Yeah, so now those lips were all his fricking mind could think of—so ungentlemanly. He couldn't have been more in fucking awe of her.
She cocked her head and assessed him. “You got family nearby?”
He sucked in air. Just like that, the conversation wasn’t so normal.
“Sorry,” she said quickly. “I tend to ask a lot of questions. I don’t like mystery. My father said it would be the death of me someday.” A sliver of sadness crossed her eyes. This woman should have had a father-of-the-year raising her, not a lush who’d abused her. Of course, it would have been nice if his own family had bothered to support him, instead of acting like he didn’t exist.
He scratched at his beard. “That’s okay. It’s just hard sometimes to know what to say about family.”
She murmured. “Tell me about it. Try being part of triplets. Sometimes I think my own head isn’t my own.”
“Finishing each other’s sentences?”
“Even finishing each other’s thoughts.” She spun the glass under her fingers. “How about a girlfriend? Have one of those?” She cocked her head and sucked her bottom lip between her teeth.
Jesus, she was adorable and hot, and his heart hammered in his chest more than it should have for such an innocent question. He slowly shook his head, amazed she cared.
“Well, that’s a shame. You’d make a good boyfriend. I mean, jumping on stage to rescue a girl.”
She held his gaze for long seconds, long enough for him to memorize the darker ring of blue around her eyes. It reminded him of the water off Turks and Caicos during one of his college spring breaks. A splash of freckles decorated the bridge of her nose.
“Life’s … complicated right now.”
She sighed and leaned her chin against her hand. “Is it ever too complicated for love?”
Did she seriously want an answer because he had nada. Before he could cobble together some potential answer, she eased off the stool.
“Ya know what? This tequila is starting to do its job. I need my bed.”
Wow, she changed subjects at lightning speed—so fast, he’d let his moment pass. Maybe if he’d asked her out, she’d have considered it. It didn’t matter. His life was shit right now, and he would not let her get contaminated by it.
When he saw her reach for her wallet, he waved her off. “I got this.” He unplugged her phone and handed it to her. “Only thirty percent, but it should get you home all right. I’ll walk you to your car.” No way was this woman going into a parking lot by herself at this hour.
She scrolled quickly through her phone and tapped the screen. “Uber will be here in two minutes.”
“I can give you a lift.”
“That’s okay. Maybe next time?” She shrugged one shoulder.
“Still walking you to the parking lot.”
“Thanks, Nathan. You really are a gentleman.”
They didn’t talk, but she hooked her arm through his as they crossed the short distance across the empty club floor, the vacuum cleaners humming over carpeting in the main hall the only other sound. Her impossibly soft hand against his skin was the best thing he’d touched in years. He inhaled her scent—spicy cinnamon laced with something familiar and earthy. Rosemary.
Once through the front door, a shiny gray SUV had already pulled up. He was disappointed at the driver’s timeliness because he finally had an answer to her earlier question about love.
He opened the door for her. After she climbed in, she winked at him again. “Have a great night.”
“You, too, Starr. And, no, it’s never too complicated for that” —for some reason, the word “love” wouldn’t come out of his mouth— “but maybe life can be too complicated to act on it.”
She rolled her pink lips between her teeth, then released them in a soft smack, like she got where he was coming from. “Yeah.” She pulled the door closed.
He knocked on the roof, and the car pulled away.
Man, what a missed opportunity, but then his world was already too convoluted. Still, she was the kind of woman who gave a man something to aim for, like a life that was clean and violence-free.
His phone buzzed. The stupid thing was always yelling reminders at him. Erin Johanson's name flashed for a brief second. Yeah, yeah. He had another humiliating phone check-in with her on Thursday. Bitter resentment rode up his neck at how, now under parole, he had so little privacy. He already knew what Erin would say if he let her into his head, if he let her hear those thoughts he had about a certain redheaded burlesque dancer. Getting involved with anyone new right now will be a challenge. As if he didn't know that already. None of her business anyway, though, according to the great state of Maryland, if he took a crap, it was her business. He’d give anything to have a normal life where if he asked out a woman, it wasn’t the business of Erin Johanson.
6
Stan, the P.I., turned out to be a regular guy in a regular office, behind a regular desk. Starr’s well-honed radar told her he wasn’t a creeper. Pictures of a woman and two little girls lined the credenza behind him. At least Luna had chosen wisely when she went behind their backs.
Of course, she couldn’t believe she was here at all. Luna had begged her to come, and she’d capitulated on two conditions—it would be the end of her quest, and no telling Phee.
Stan laid his finger on a manila folder. “Seems he's in court-mandated rehab in Rockville, not too far from here. His name came up pretty easily, and that photo helped.”
She glared at Luna, who flushed a little.
“He had to have a picture.”
“
Why did you have one? Didn't we burn all that?” She leaned forward, a trickle of sweat running between her breasts. The office was as hot as Hades, and the oscillating fan didn't unstick the tiny hairs on her neck one bit. “He's got debt, doesn't he? Loans?”
Luna sat back in her chair, the metal creaking a little. “How would you know?”
She shrugged. “A feeling.” The last time she'd seen Robert O'Malley, he’d had a room in a foul hotel near the airport. He sat in a dirty, upholstered chair by the window, and slats of sunshine had cut through the broken blinds over his potbelly. He'd begged her for money because ‘people’ were after him. It didn't take an I.Q. of 200 to know what kind of people. So, she’d broken their sister deal, too, that one time, nine years ago, but it had been justified.
Stan tapped his middle fingertip on the folder. “He's got a record. Small-time stuff like bar brawls. Nothing serious, but it seems he finally wants to turn his life around. Of course ...” He leaned back in his chair.
“There's more, isn't there?” She wished he'd just spit it out. “Just tell us.”
“According to court records, this is his third attempt at rehab.”
“Who paid for the first two?”
“His wife.”
She and Luna looked at each other. Their mother had died when they were nine years old, so he’d moved on—without them. More betrayal. More pain. More anger. She wasn’t sure what to feel first.
She turned back to Stan.
“This woman.” He opened up the folder and showed a picture of a woman with flaming red hair holding up a police lineup photo template. The number across it was blurred. She scowled into the camera. A tattoo of green, red, and blue swirls crawled up her neck.
After they finished passing it between them, Starr tossed it on his desk. “His thirst for redheads hasn't waned.” The roiling in her belly grew.