Vote Then Read: Volume I

by Carly Phillips

  Ruark drew closer as if trying to scare him. Too bad, asshole. There was nothing this man could do to him that he couldn’t deliver right back.

  “I repeat. What the hell do you want, MacKenna? I did my time.”

  Cold blue eyes assessed him. “And, now you're here.” He peered up the side of the building. “Checking I.D.s. Watching pretty girls strip.”

  “Dance,” he corrected.

  Ruark chuffed. “That what they call it now? You watch them. Closely. As if a loser like you could stand a shot?”

  Plenty of barbed words had been slung at him in prison—along with fists, pipes, shivs, and anything else the inmates could get their hands on—so MacKenna could go fuck himself if he thought anything he was lobbing would do damage.

  Enough of this. Nathan angled toward his car. This guy didn’t deserve another second of his night.

  “Got to admit, the view every night here must help jerk yourself to sleep easier,” MacKenna called out. “Whores like that, shaking their goods all over the stage ...”

  Nathan stormed forward until he was a foot from Ruark's stone-cold face. The man’s breath stunk like cheap whiskey and cigarettes.

  MacKenna sneered. “There's the real guy. Jesus, you're easy, Nathan. Just like those girls. Especially the one they call Starr. She's the one you watch real close. And then there was that White Knight act you pulled when I was asking her out. And, believe me. She will go out with me, and then we’ll see how easy she is once I get her alone.”

  Nathan curled his fists until his fingernails dug crescents in his palm, and he'd keep doing that until they broke the skin and bled if it meant not throwing the punch he desperately wanted to. One, this asshole wasn’t getting near her. He’d see to it. Two, he also wasn’t going to impact the direction of Nathan’s life anymore—and a fight most certainly would. Starr was too smart to fall for this man, so Nathan would be too smart to fall for his bullshit.

  “You aren't fit to be in the same room as her.” Shit, and just like that, he’d given something away. He'd told the fucker exactly how he could wound him. “Leave all of them alone.” His jaw locked hard.

  “A parolee isn’t in a position to tell me to do anything.”

  This MacKenna and the rest of his lawyering-up, silver-spoon family could kiss his ass. “Careful. You could be accused of stalking. That would be your modus operandi, now wouldn't it? Sticking your nose in where it doesn't belong. Why are you here, really?”

  “You'll see.” Ruark sauntered off in the cocky way only men who've never had their freedom taken from them did.

  He'd given up on happiness long ago, but was it too much to ask for peace? Apparently so. For the first time in his life, he began to believe that saving Declan from being pummeled to death wasn't worth the price of never again having a normal life.

  There was more coming from the MacKennas. Ruark MacKenna had just shown his hand. He would go after anyone Nathan got close to. Well, he would be prepared next time, not get caught in an alley with nothing but a cat as back up. As for Starr? She would be warned and watched.

  14

  Declan's antique executive chair creaked complaints as he leaned back. “Empty threats.”

  “Nothing the MacKennas do is empty.” Nathan scratched his chin, his beard rough against his dried-out hands. He hadn't slept, instead, taking a run through Baltimore's streets until his lungs nearly burst and then showering for an hour as if hot water could wash away this mess. He’d stacked and restacked boxes in the back until Declan got to the club. Don't try to go it alone when you're on the outside, they'd said. The advice the two-timers he'd met in prison gave him better work.

  “You just need to know Ruark was hanging around the club after hours.” He stared down at the carpeting. “Nothing good can come from a MacKenna hanging around the club. He might be targeting some of our female employees.”

  Because that's what MacKennas did. They identified someone vulnerable, someone important to you, and took their revenge out on them. Jesus, if anything happened to Starr ...

  “Glad you told me.” Declan let his chair return to its upright position in a loud thunk and steepled his fingers in front of him. “I know very well how they operate. So this is how this is going to go. Nathan, you're off the door. No buts. Trick ...” He turned to the man who'd been holding up the wall during this whole chat. “Call Amos. See if he can fill in for a while. I want you to help Max out front. One second of trouble and Ruark’s tossed out on his ass. He, just like everyone else, has to abide by the rules here. No harassing my employees.”

  Trick finally pushed off the wall. “Been watching him for a while, like you asked, but I really thought we were done with him. Max caught him in the hallway once. Been delivering flowers to the girls. Starr mostly.”

  What? Ruark MacKenna had been sending flowers? Fuck, yeah, any man would want to woo Starr or any of the others, but the fact he’d singled her out was too much of a coincidence for him.

  “He’s got his eye on Starr.” Nathan scrubbed his hair.

  Declan at least looked concerned. “I’ll nip that in the bud right away. If she wants, I’ll get a restraining order.”

  That was it? “And then what? You know them. They're wealthy. Got connections. They're—”

  “Used to getting what they want? Remember, I did business with them before ...” he trailed off.

  Yeah, before. There were so many “befores,” like before Declan discovered they were using his antiques to move drugs, and before Declan went to prison himself—a set-up that mysteriously got “solved” so he got out early. That last set-up was a warning shot over the bow by the MacKennas, for sure. The man couldn't risk any more trouble.

  “Nathan, trust me. We're going to handle this by the books. Now, does MacKenna know where you live?”

  Nathan shrugged. “Probably. But I haven't caught any tails.” After spending nine years staring at the same walls and a chain-link fence, he was just getting used to taking in the circus atmosphere of the world at large. He was bound to lose some details. “I think I’ve seen someone outside the club at times.” Nathan scratched at his chin. “Might be Ruark ... but it was just a silhouette. Fuck, I don't know.”

  “Trick, pull up the camera feeds. Make sure everyone knows what Ruark looks like.”

  Nathan stiffened, and started to comment.

  Declan held up his hand. “No details given as to why Ruark is here. It’s no one's business but yours, Nathan.”

  He let out a puff of air. He trusted the man, but gossip about Ruark MacKenna would make the rounds. He'd just gotten an in with Starr. She was smart. She’d back off, and any possible chance with her would be off the table in a nano-second, just when he needed to stay close to her more than ever.

  “Now go home.” Declan stood. “Be back here tomorrow. For now, get what's running through your head sorted.”

  His temples pounded. Having a boss who'd also done time helped him understand the shit storm in Nathan's head on most days. But stop coming into work? That would put him at home, alone, with twenty-two hours to kill. Too much time to do nothing but let his brain run in circles.

  Declan rounded his desk. “This could be good timing.” He slapped Nathan on the shoulder, and he swerved out of habit. Declan ignored his response. “Starr asked for some time off. The girls have been working too hard as it is.”

  The man turned him toward the door. The conversation was over.

  Once in the hallway, on instinct, he turned left instead of right. Starr needed to know everything so she could make up her own mind. Instead of finding her in the dressing room, it was Luna who told him she'd gone out to the main floor to pick up something. As soon as he stepped onto the floor and saw her standing at the bar, every muscle in his body seized. Ruark MacKenna leaned toward a grim-faced Starr, his arm in his gaudy suit coat reaching for her waist.

  Nathan was going to disappoint his parole officer. No amount of deep breathing was going to counter his fury. It took every ou
nce of self-preservation he could muster to walk slowly up to them.

  “Starr,” he ground out. “Got a minute?”

  She smiled up at him. “Of course.”

  MacKenna didn’t so much as glance at him.

  Nathan kept his arms by his side but took a wide stance. “I told you to stay away from her, now let her go.”

  Her jaw set, and she cocked her head at Nathan in warning. “We’re in public,” she sang between clenched teeth.

  “I mean it, MacKenna.”

  Ruark's hand snaked to the back of the barstool, his fingers resting lightly against her back. Nathan’s teeth ached from clenching them so hard. Yanking Ruark’s hand to the bar, slapping it down, and taking a few of those fingers off with the lemon peeling knife just under the counter would feel really good right now. Maybe it'd take the edge off the nagging frustration that simmered under his skin every time he thought about how the system was so easily manipulated by a guy like Ruark—money, name-dropping. It took surprisingly little to make things go their way and go so wrong for him.

  But not with Starr. He'd be damned if he'd let Ruark MacKenna use her.

  Nathan stared down at the champagne flute in Starr's hand. “Starr, don't drink that.” God knows what the guy had put in her drink.

  The fucker’s arm circled her waist, and he yanked her to him. Starr yelped a little and pushed against him. He let her go, but fuck, she trembled. A few people nearby started giving them worried glances—and moving away.

  The guy laughed. “Guess I don’t know my own strength. But don’t worry, baby.” He fingered a lock of her hair. “I’d never hurt a lady. But then maybe you’re not a lady.”

  Nathan grabbed hold of Ruark’s lapel and yanked him up, right off his stool.

  The guy laughed. “Go ahead. Do it.”

  Nathan pushed him back down. “You’re not worth the spit under my shoe.”

  Ruark re-adjusted his suit. “Don't mind him, Miss O’Malley. He lost his manners in prison. After he murdered my brother.”

  Her gaze shot to Nathan, her lips parting slightly as she spun herself free from Ruark, the bar, and him. If he could just get one fucking break already…

  MacKenna rose and held out his arm to Starr as if nothing had just happened. “I have a private booth, and we'll talk. I can fill you in on some things you might not know about Mr. Baldwin.”

  “Whatever you two have going on—” She lifted her hand in a stop sign gesture “—just, no.” Thankfully, she left the drink on the bar top but turned away without so much as a glance back at either one of them. Shrugging him off, too? Well, too bad, sister. He was going to watch her back because Ruark MacKenna wouldn’t get within five feet of her ever again.

  “Ruark.” Declan’s voice wasn’t welcomed.

  “I got this, man,” Nathan said to his boss.

  “No one’s got anything. This is my club, my guests, and my rules. Ruark. My office?”

  The guy lifted his chin. “I don’t answer your summons, Declan.”

  “Leave then.”

  Ruark huffed, turned to the bar and gestured for Jackie. “My tab. Close it.” He then turned back to Declan. “For now.”

  Nathan didn’t have time for this. Starr had marched off in a huff, and he wouldn’t let Ruark MacKenna’s words simmer in her consciousness for long. Damn, he didn’t have her number, either.

  Without another word, he spun and headed toward the exit. He caught Max in the hallway, who reported that Starr was headed to her car. As soon as he pushed through the exit door, he knew he was too late. A strange pang went off in his chest as he watched her car’s taillights disappear down the street. He recognized that tug around his heart muscle. He cared for this woman—a lot.

  The door slammed behind him. He wheeled around and slammed his fist into the metal casing. His knuckles stung like a bitch but it was good—so fucking good—to let out a punch.

  God, he was in hot water—the kind that melted all defenses and made you grow even more obsessed with a certain redhead—and her safety and happiness. A man could get lost in a woman like her. It was going to be a problem, a real fucking big problem. He had to remain close, however. He just hadn’t a clue how to do that now, given what she now knew about him.

  15

  Starr stared up at the Sunset Home sign in cheery yellow against an orange background as if the paint colors would elevate your mood about the place. She sighed and opened the car door. “Phee, what if he asks for you directly? What do you want us to say?”

  “Tell him I've died.”

  The fact she’d come at all was amazing. Starr had come clean about her and Luna’s trip to the P.I., and how she believed it might be good to confront their father, get some things off their chest. They’d had one hell of a fight about it, but by some miracle, Phee had agreed to go with them—and sit in the car.

  Luna touched Starr's arm. “Just let her stay here.”

  Starr plunked the car keys in the console tray in case Phoenix needed to restart the air conditioning. As she and Luna crunched across the gravel parking lot, she swept her hair up into a hair tie, getting it off her damp neck. This summer's especially-heinous mugginess was going to kill her, or perhaps this visit would.

  Blessed cool air washed over them as they stepped inside the front entrance into a long hallway. By the looks of things, they could have been in a hospital. A woman in a nurse's uniform looked up from the reception desk and smiled.

  “Hi, I'm Mimi. I think you’re the O’Malley’s. Is it true you're triplets?”

  “We are. How is our father?” Luna's voice adopted the too-cheerful thing she did when nervous. Starr took her arm.

  “He's having a good day. A real good day. Out of detox for two weeks.” She inclined her head down the hall. “I'll show you where he is.”

  They followed her past individual rooms, some doors open, some closed. Through the doorways, Starr caught glimpses of the other residents. Some sat on their beds, staring into space. Another fingered a piece of a puzzle before snapping it down. A man in a wheelchair rocked back and forth before a window.

  Posters lined the walls with bumper sticker sayings like It Does Not Matter How Slow You Go So Long As You Do Not Stop and My Recovery Must Come First So That Everything I Love In Life Doesn't Have To Come Last. If only that were true of their father.

  “If you weren't depressed before arriving, you sure would be when you left,” Starr muttered.

  “They try.” Luna furrowed her brows at her. “It's got nurses and counselors who graduated top of their class.”

  “You get that on Yelp?” Starr didn't care if Luna had poured over their website and every single document about family gatherings, in-home support, and more. All the forced cheer raised Starr's radar to high alert.

  Luna yanked her arm. “Shhh, Mimi might hear you.”

  “Just kidding. You used to have a better sense of humor.” Starr rubbed her forehead. Her head was killing her already.

  Her sister glared at her. “You shouldn't kid about this.”

  Mimi led them through the maze of halls until they reached a large room with nothing but a circle of chairs, the beige fabric stained on some, ripped on others. On the far side sat one haggard-faced man with grayed stubble on sunken cheeks. The man lifted his lids, revealing a wash of blue so familiar, except for the reddened capillaries.

  A young woman in jeans and a yellow, flowered top rose and swept forward. “Hello. I'm Sharon, a counselor here at Sunset Home. Thanks for coming.”

  He stared across the circle of chairs at them, checking out Luna, moving to Starr, and then returning to Luna. So, this is what had become of their father.

  Gone was the robust welder. There wasn't even a shadow of the man who could bench press his body weight. Instead, this stranger was hunched, wearing permanent pain on his face. The ravages of years of abusing a bottle had etched into his skin and yellowed his eyes. Madame Karma had done excellent work on this guy.

  Luna jogged over to
him as if the jolt of enthusiasm would mean something. The girl never gave up, did she? She took “wishing will make it so” to an award-winning level. Wishing or hoping didn't make crap happen. A woman had to go forth and conquer on her own.

  “Hi.” Luna crouched down and placed her hand on his. The guy hadn't even risen, but from the way his hands shook, and one of his legs jogged, he might not be able to.

  Starr took the counselor's outstretched hand. “Where are the others? Isn’t this a group therapy session?”

  “For a first-time family visit, we thought it best it just be us.” She peered around Starr. “There's a third sister”—she checked her clipboard—“isn't there?”

  “Phee. She's not coming.”

  The woman nodded once. “I understand.”

  Did she? Did she have any concept of the emotional minefield she was about to enter?

  Their father's eyes scrunched into slits as he assessed Luna. “Still so pretty.” His face stretched into a grin that would make any car salesman proud. Luna looked so young at that moment, kneeling before him. The urge to run hit Starr so fast she shifted her weight from leg to leg.

  “Dad,” she sharpened her voice on purpose in an attempt to get his attention away from fawning over Luna.

  He peered at Starr and, out of pure instinct or perhaps some long-lost sense of self-preservation, she stepped backward. God, she hated that. She hated that her instincts defaulted to flight if he looked her way.

  He cleared his throat. “Thanks for coming.” Then as if recognition sank in, his brow wrinkled even further. “I see one. I see two. Where's three?”

  The familiar game immediately catapulted her to the memory of a warm day, a sprinkler making the grass slick under her feet. She was running, jumping, and her father growled like a lovable bear as he chased them through the spray.

  “Where's my⸺”

  “She's not feeling well.” Luna stood.

  “That right?” He scrubbed the back of his neck.

  “I heard you're out of detox. Good for you.”