by Rose, Emery
Beautiful Rush
Emery Rose
Copyright © 2019 Emery Rose
All rights reserved.
Cover design: Sarah Hansen, Okay Creations
Editing: Ellie McLove, My Brother’s Editor
Interior Formatting: Jessica Ames
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author.
This is a work of fiction. Any names or characters, businesses or places, events or incidents, are fictitious or have been used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
For Carol Radcliffe, my soul sister. I’m so grateful for your friendship and your support. Keep the music coming. xoxo
PlayList
“Big Girls Cry” – Sia
“Hold Me Down” – Halsey
“Make It Rain” – Ed Sheeran
“Drive” – Deftones
“all good girls go to hell” – Billie Eilish
“Call Out My Name” – The Weeknd
“Lovely” – Billie Eilish (with Khalid)
“Knockin’ On Heaven’s Door” – Bob Dylan
“Edge Of Town” – Middle Kids
“I’ll Keep You Safe” – Sleeping At Last
Contents
1. Keira
2. Keira
3. Keira
4. Keira
5. Keira
6. Deacon
7. Keira
8. Deacon
9. Deacon
10. Deacon
11. Keira
12. Deacon
13. Keira
14. Keira
15. Deacon
16. Keira
17. Keira
18. Keira
19. Deacon
20. Keira
21. Keira
22. Deacon
23. Deacon
24. Keira
25. Deacon
26. Keira
Epilogue
Also by Emery Rose
Acknowledgments
Excerpt of Beneath Your Beautiful
About the Author
1
Keira
Guilty. Even though I’d expected it, had sat in this courtroom every day for the past few weeks listening to the testimony, it still came as a shock. I had expected the jury to deliberate longer. For my father’s attorney to pull a rabbit out of his hat.
My father’s gaze landed on me. There was no accusation in his eyes. No anger or hatred. Only disappointment. It felt like a knife in my gut, twisting and turning, my conviction that I’d done the right thing faltering. He looked as handsome as ever in a Brioni suit, silk tie, and crisp white dress shirt. My father was meticulous about his wardrobe. Even his casual clothes were elegant. I’ve never seen his shirt rumpled or sweat-stained. Not so much as a stray piece of lint on his suit jacket. Ronan Shaughnessy was a silver-tongued devil who hid his ruthlessness behind his Hollywood movie star looks and charming smile. His trial and the months leading up to it had been fodder for every newspaper, network, and tabloid in the country.
As they slapped the handcuffs on his wrists, I traced the words tattooed on my inner wrist. “To thine own self be true.” Not very original, but the Bard’s words were fitting. I asked my brother Connor to ink the words a few days before we came down to Miami. Since then, I’ve traced them hundreds of times. Trying to find strength. Trying to believe that I had done the right thing. For myself. For my brothers. For my mother who sat next to me but was so far out of reach she might as well have been on another planet. She had only spoken a handful of words to me in all the days that we’d been here and had barely acknowledged Killian and Connor.
Now, sobs wracked her body, her pain visible to everyone sitting in this courtroom as they led the love of her life away in handcuffs. The man she’d sacrificed everything for had been brought to his knees by his own daughter. Her own daughter.
“Mom,” I said, my voice hushed. “Please…” I couldn’t even finish the sentence. I didn’t know what I was pleading for. Forgiveness. Understanding. Her love. She straightened her spine and wiped away the tears, her brilliant blue eyes meeting mine. My mother was beautiful in the way that marble statues in a museum are beautiful—cold, unyielding, and untouchable.
“Goodbye, Keira. Take care of yourself.” There was no warmth in her voice, no indication that she cared what happened to me. Maybe she never had.
Goodbye. Take care of yourself.
Her face was neutral, betraying no emotion and except for her smudged eyeliner, there was no sign that she was grieving. That display of grief had been rare for her, and now she regretted letting anyone see it.
She turned to my brothers for the first time acknowledging their presence and gave them a curt nod before she walked out of the courtroom, head held high, back ramrod straight. Elegant and regal. My father’s queen. As I watched her go, I knew I would never see her again. She was cutting me out of her life just like she’d done to my brothers over twenty years ago. Now, she left without a backward glance while I stood fixed to my spot, my eyes glued to the doorway she’d just exited.
My gaze swung to Connor and Killian, so handsome in their suits and ties. Tall and strong, they’d stood by me through it all. They looked so much like my mother—dark hair, olive skin, and eyes the same shade of blue. Technically, they were my half-brothers, but we were family in the truest sense of the word. They loved me, and I loved them. It was that simple and that complicated.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. I was apologizing for my mother. For my father. For everything my brothers had suffered because of my parents. Left by my mother to fend for themselves when they were just kids, they’d been raised by an abusive drunk who hid his crimes beneath a badge.
“You have nothing to be sorry about,” Connor said, a soft smile on his face. I adored him. He was my confidante, our bond forged two years ago when he came down to Miami looking for my mother. His and Killian’s mother. At the time, I didn’t even know he was my brother. At the time, he resented me for having had her in my life. But all that had changed.
“We didn’t come down here for her,” Killian said, a hard edge to his voice. “We’re here for you.” Seven years older than me, Killian was the rock. The protector. The fighter.
“Well, at least you won’t have to postpone the wedding,” I said, trying to lighten the mood. Find a silver lining in this whole mess. Killian was marrying Eden in ten days. He’d found a woman who was perfect for him and so had Connor who was back together with his girlfriend, Ava. My brothers were finally happy. Nobody deserved happiness more than they did.
“Ready?” Connor asked, loosening his tie and undoing the top two buttons of his shirt. He hated feeling constrained and was ready to bolt, his eyes trained on the exit like he couldn’t get out of here fast enough.
I wasn’t ready, but I nodded. I knew what awaited us outside the federal courthouse. A sea of journalists, hoping for a statement or a photo that would sell their newspapers. I reminded myself that they were only doing their job, and everyone had to earn a living somehow. Today’s sensational news would be forgotten by tomorrow when the next hot story or scandal came along.
The three of us donned our sunglasses to ward off the glaring June sunlight. Miami was at its most brutal in the summertime. The heat and sunlight and vibrant colors intensified until it was almost too much. I took a deep breath of stale air before I walked out of the courthouse, flanked by my brothers. Today I wore a pearl gray Prada sheath dress and Louboutin heels, my hair smoothed into a neat chignon. Classy, understated, elegant, and
expensive. I looked nothing like myself. I looked like my father’s daughter. Every day I had dressed up for him, wearing the designer clothes that had once filled my closet, mostly unworn, some with the tags still on. As soon as I got back to Brooklyn, they were all going to the thrift store.
Instead of ducking my head in shame, I smiled for the cameras. The dazzling smile I inherited from my father. The smile that hid a multitude of sins. We refused to comment, even as they jumped in front of us, crowding us with their mics in hand, a barrage of questions coming from all sides.
My brothers warded them off, protecting me from the worst of it. As we walked away, I held up my middle finger in a salute to let them know what I thought of their invasive questions and sensationalism.
“Nice one,” Connor said, unable to hide his amusement.
Killian shook his head and muttered something under his breath while Connor and I cracked up laughing. It relieved some of the heaviness pressing down on my chest. The weeks of sitting in a stuffy courtroom, barely able to breathe as I listened to the horrible things my father had done. The lives he’d ruined. The means he’d used to acquire our luxury lifestyle.
A villa in The Caymans. A fleet of cars. A sleek boat in the marina. Our Spanish-style Coral Gables home with its opulent crystal chandeliers, expanses of marble, priceless antiques, and artwork. The government had seized his assets and now he had nothing. Except for the ten thousand dollars in cash I’d left for my mother in a plain brown envelope—guilt money—she had nothing. How would my mother support herself? She had never worked a day in her life.
Of course, that photo of me flipping the journalists the bird would be the one that graced the newspapers: Wild Child Keira Shaughnessy, daughter of convicted criminal Ronan Shaughnessy leaving the Miami Federal Courthouse with former UFC champion, Killian ‘The Kill’ Vincent and heroin addict, Connor Vincent.
That wasn’t the exact headline, but it was close enough.
We had garnered publicity that none of us had wanted. Our pasts and dirty secrets dug up and exposed. It had been inevitable. We were still young, but we had already lived a thousand lives.
“Let’s go home,” I said, the words bringing a genuine smile to my face for the first time in weeks.
Killian beeped the locks of our rental SUV in the parking garage and we climbed in, closing the doors and shutting out the Miami heat. Our bags were already packed and loaded in the trunk, ready for our evening flight.
Brooklyn was home now and had been for the past seven months. I had a job I loved, working for Tate at Atlas Motors. I’d talked him into buying and restoring American muscle cars that turned a profit. In January, I moved into my own apartment, much to Killian’s dismay. If it had been left up to him, I’d still be in the guest room of his and Eden’s loft. He’d been pissed when I rented the apartment without telling him, but Eden had a way of smoothing his ruffled feathers and he got over it. Eventually.
Most importantly, I had my freedom and independence. Although my brothers sometimes got a tad bit overprotective, I’d learned how to work around that. After a lifetime of being tailed by bodyguards, I was resourceful.
As the plane took off and the view of Miami got smaller and smaller from my window, I said a final goodbye to my old life.
2
Keira
Smoke choked the night air, perfumed with the scent of burning rubber and nitrous oxide. Rap music pounded from a car stereo, blotting out the sound of squealing tires. It was Friday night and I was in my element, camped out in the parking lot behind a decrepit strip mall in Queens.
Street racing was a testosterone-fueled sport, and I was the token female racer. There were other girls, gathered around some of the racers like groupies, sitting on the hoods of cars that lined both sides of the empty lot. The guy with the most groupies drove a candy apple red Camaro. Whenever he won a race, he strutted around, chest puffed out, a shit-eating grin on his face. I’d never raced him before, but I knew our day was coming.
He was making out with a blonde, her legs wrapped around his waist, his hands on her ass. He caught my eye and set down the girl, pushing her away when she tried to loop her arms around his neck. He gave me a cocky grin, all swagger and bravado as he strutted toward me.
Arms crossed, I leaned against the side of my 1970 Dodge Charger Hemi. Sleek and glossy black with a mirror finish and white racing stripes, the muscle car was my baby. Even more impressive than the exterior with its hidden headlights and big chrome surround was under the hood. Dual four-barrel carburetors sat atop a Hemi motor that produced a street-eating 500 horsepower. Nobody messed with my car.
I watched him warily, not moving a muscle as he circled my car. He let out a low whistle and stopped in front of me. “Sweet ride. Daddy buy it for you?”
Technically, yes. I bought the Charger after I sold my dad’s Porsche which I’d ‘borrowed’ to drive from Miami to Brooklyn last November. Borrowed in the sense that he was never getting it back.
When I didn’t respond, he tilted his head, studying my face like I was a puzzle he needed to solve. He wouldn’t figure me out. I was complicated. The guy was good-looking in a generic, forgettable way. Brown hair with a side part. Straight nose. Perfect teeth. He wore an air of entitlement. In other words, not my type.
“I’m Tyler, by the way.” He held up his hands as if to stop me from introducing myself which I hadn’t planned on doing. “I know who you are, Keira Shaughnessy. I was like, damn, that girl in the news looks a lot like Racer Girl.” He tugged on the fringe of my black leather jacket. I resisted the urge to smack his hand away. He was trying to get a reaction out of me, but I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Instead, I gave him the bored, insolent look that I reserved for guys like Tyler. Guys with smug smiles and superiority complexes. Guys who treated girls like they were just an accessory to be used and discarded when something newer and shinier caught their eye. “It’s you and me tonight. After I beat your sweet ass…” He smirked as his gazed raked over me—I wore a ‘Fight Like a Girl’ T-shirt under my jacket, denim cutoffs, and black biker boots. I knew how I looked. Like a rebel with no good cause. Like a rich girl with daddy issues looking to get her kicks. His gaze returned to my face. “I’ll kiss it better.”
I gave him a sweet smile, belying the words that came out of my mouth. “I’m going to leave you in my dust. You’ll be too busy choking on it to kiss me.”
He brayed laughter. It grated on my nerves like nails on a chalkboard. “We’ll see about that.”
Z pointed to me and then Tyler. “You two. You’re up next.”
Tyler winked at me. “Watch yourself out there, Racer Girl. The streets can get dangerous.”
I climbed into the driver’s seat where I felt most at home. I had always loved cars, motorcycles, airplanes…anything with an engine. Anything that could go fast and take me away from it all. I reveled in the sense of freedom. And tonight, more than ever, I needed the rush.
Even though I took home a couple grand whenever I won, I wasn’t in this for the money. All my winnings had been split between my mother and Killian’s foundation for at-risk youth. In a plain brown envelope from an anonymous donor. If he found out it was me and where the money came from, he’d ream me a new one and put a stop to these races. But what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. Besides, it was a good cause.
We lined up at the starting line and a guy in a hoodie and baggy jeans checked that our bumpers were lined up before gesturing with his hand that I should back up a bit. I reversed until he held up his hand to let me know I was good.
I revved my engine, the rumble of the dual exhaust shooting straight through my core. Z had already mapped out the route for us, and now I tried to picture it in my mind as I ran the pad of my thumb over the black and gold crucifix tucked inside the collar of my T-shirt.
I turned my head to look at my opponent. He shot me a finger gun. Douchebag. I returned my focus to the windshield, watching for the signal that the race had begun, one hand on t
he gear shift, the other wrapped around the steering wheel.
The guy in front of us lowered his arms. I punched the accelerator and my Charger shot ahead.
We raced through traffic lights, the streets passing by in a neon blur under the light of a strawberry moon. Adrenaline pumped through my veins like a drug. I craved this. I needed it. My body vibrated, hummed from the roar of the engine, all that power underneath me like an aphrodisiac. I never felt so alive as I did when I was just on the brink of losing control.
The Camaro—Tyler—swerved into my lane, forcing me into the oncoming lane of traffic. He played dirty. I floored the accelerator, shot ahead of him and swerved back into my lane, narrowly missing a yellow taxi. The driver laid on his horn. One long bleating sound punctuated by the obscenities he shouted out his window.
I darted into the other lane and hung a right at the intersection as the light turned from yellow to red. The race was one big loop on the city streets, all right turns until we ended up back in the parking lot.
In my periphery, I caught a flash of red and glanced to my left as the Camaro inched closer to my driver’s side. If he even puts a scratch in my paint job, I’ll kill him. Not literally. I wasn’t homicidal. But I wasn’t about to play bumper cars with him either. He was edging me out, blocking me in between his car and the parked cars to my right. I checked my rearview mirror. Behind me the coast was clear. I hit the brakes and he flew past me, veering into my lane, tires squealing as he peeled out ahead of me. He was obviously too busy keeping his eye on me to notice the street repairs up ahead. I put a wide berth between his car and the cones marking off the section of the street that had been dug up. He noticed it too late. A quick look in my rearview confirmed that he’d spun out.