HUDSON (The Beckett Boys, Book Six)

by Olivia Chase

  Both my brothers are quiet for a moment.

  “At least the bar is successful,” Axel finally says. “We’re making great money.”

  “True,” Hale acknowledges grudgingly.

  “We’ve got a really good thing going here,” I say in a quiet tone, hoping to placate them. “But we all have to work together. This bar is a success. Because of us. No one thought we could do it, but here we are, proving them all wrong.”

  Hale huffs, but I can see the tension is gone from his face. I’m forgiven. “Well, you’re lucky you had us here with you when this shit went down.”

  I clap his back. “Damn straight. Now let’s go serve some beers.”

  Things just keep getting better, I think to myself as I wake up one morning some weeks later.

  Now that the bar is truly a success, well established, I’ve started to enjoy some of the finer things in life.

  And none finer than the female lying next to me right now.

  “Let’s not leave bed,” Marissa says, shooting me a wicked smile. She gives a luxurious stretch and rolls over onto her stomach, her brown hair glossy and mussed from our marathon sex. I’ve never seen anyone so beautiful in my life.

  “It’s tempting,” I say, swatting her ass and laughing at the small gasp she gives, “but we gotta get our asses to work. We’re gonna be late.”

  “I know. I’m just being lazy.” She scoots onto her knees and faces me. “So you really liked the menu design? You’re not just saying that because I’m putting out?”

  “Well, you putting out did help sway my decision…”

  “Hey.” Marissa’s wrinkled face in response to my comment makes me bark out a laugh.

  “No, goof. You did a great job,” I reassure her. “The printer said they’ll be finished tomorrow. Now.” I press a kiss to her throat, and she purrs. “Get this sexy ass into the shower, and I’ll join you there.”

  “If you join me,” she says, dropping her head back and reaching up to stroke my arms, “we’re definitely going to be late.”

  We shower—with a lot of teasing and touching involved—then hop in my new Benz and make our way to Fugitives. When we arrive, the men delivering the new furniture for the bar are just leaving. Axel takes a wad of cash and hands them a nice tip in thanks.

  Marissa runs her fingers over the new tables and chair and bar stools. “Oh God, these look so good. What a difference it makes in here!” Her beam of excitement makes me glad I decided to do some upgrades to the bar.

  We’re flush with cash, and we could finally afford to buy nice stuff, not secondhand pieces we got the first time around.

  It’s looking like a real bar now.

  I give her hand a private, quick squeeze and then head to my office. I want to kiss her more, right in the middle of the bar, but I haven’t talked to my brothers about Marissa. Of course they know what’s going on between us, but it’s become a bit of the elephant in the room that nobody wants to discuss.

  They’re probably too busy reaping the benefits of our success to give it too much thought.

  The bar opens, and I can hear the usual noise as customers come in and get drinks. I focus on my spreadsheet, typing away in the computer I got to keep track of our finances better. I bury myself in the task until there’s a knock on my office door.

  “Come in,” I say.

  The door opens, and to my surprise, it’s Jamison and Zack. My two other brothers are standing behind them, glowering at their backs. It’s no wonder. We haven’t seen either of them for months now, since they both abandoned our family and struck up friendships with Smith and the other Beckett cousins who run Outlaws.

  I flip the lid of my laptop closed and say evenly, “What the fuck are you two doing here?”

  Hale shoots me a look, asking if everything’s okay. He’d like nothing more than to put his fists of fury to good use, but I still don’t like to roll that way if I can avoid it.

  I give a slight nod, and he backs away slowly, closing the door behind Zack and Jamison.

  Zack clears his throat. “Look, we came here to talk.”

  “Hey, we’re doing great, thanks for asking,” I say in a snarky tone. What the fuck? Months go by, and then these two come strolling in here without giving two shits about us. Splendid.

  Jamison flushes a dull red, a sign of irritation, starts to open his mouth then closes it.

  Zack sighs. “I know everything is fucked up for our family. But we wanted to talk to you and ask you to take it easy on Outlaws.”

  “We think both businesses can coexist instead of each side of the family trying to ruin each other,” Jamison continues.

  “Interesting. I’m not sure how Outlaws can ruin us, given how shitty their business seems to be these days,” I say, musing out loud. I scratch my jaw. “Maybe I should ask if we can use their empty parking lot for overflow parking.”

  Truth is, I’m not even trying to hurt Outlaws anymore. In fact, I never even give them a thought anymore. We’re making money hand over fist, and I’m smart enough to realize this is where our attention should be. Butch will be ecstatic about how successful we are and won’t care about Outlaws anymore—who wants to take on a failing business, anyway?

  Hell, we’re doing well enough that I’m already starting to consider where a second location could go. Screw Outlaws. We have a winner in Fugitives.

  Jamison frowns. “They’re struggling, dude.”

  “So? Why should I give two fucks? They didn’t ever care about us, or the debt their pops owed Butch.” I point to the bottle of wine Smith brought over on opening day. “See that? That was our dear cousin’s present to me, along with a shitty comment about the quality of our bar. He was hoping we would fail, taunting me about it. But now that they’re in trouble, I’m supposed to be upset on their behalf and try to help them out?” Righteous anger fills me, and I glare at my brothers. “If that’s what kind of nonsense you came to peddle, you might as well walk your turncoat asses right up out of here.”

  Zack sighs. “Look, word on the street is that Conor McAllister is pissed off and ready to hit back at you for humiliating him. I don’t know what kind of shit you guys have gotten tangled up in—”

  “Nor is it any of your business. He’s not a threat to me,” I retort, although just hearing Conor’s name brings a sharp pang of unease. “We can handle our own.”

  Jamison shakes his head, dismay clear on this face. “Pride comes before a fall, brother.”

  “We ain’t “bro’s” anymore,” I remind him. “Not after the crap you guys pulled, bailing on the family when we needed you most.”

  Jamison and Zack just exchange glances, as if to silently agree that I’m a lost cause, before turning and leaving the office, closing the door behind them.

  I stare blindly at the ceiling, a conflict of emotions swirling in me. Memories of how tight our family used to be. Now we’re divided, impossibly so, our family ripped apart over a bar that is likely going to go out of business soon. What a waste.

  They made their choices though, and I made mine. And now my two brothers and I are successful in a way no one ever thought we could be. We’re not scrambling to survive any longer.

  Not to mention Marissa. The woman who has changed my life and made me start to open up.

  My life is fucking good. I don’t need Zack or Jamison and I certainly don’t need Outlaws or our shitty cousins.

  The door opens early evening with a group of people entering Fugitives, and a cool gust of air comes into the bar. I walk over to close it behind them, since it got stuck, and peek out at the parking lot across the street. It’s nearly empty, whereas ours is almost full to the brim—and we’re not even at prime time yet. I close the door.

  The conversation I had with my brothers a few nights ago has crawled under my skin and nags at my mind.

  If Zack and Jamison had stayed loyal to our family, they could have been here with us, sharing our success. Instead, they’re rats scrambling to stay alive on a sinking ship
. As frustrated as I am with them, part of me is still deeply hurt by their defection.

  Whatever. It’s not my problem anymore. I’m moving forward, focusing on things that matter to me. I head to the bar to take stock of what inventory we need to replace—gotta put in an order soon. We’re working with real vendors now, not just buying a bunch of shit from the grocery store to stock our shelves.

  I pass by Marissa, brushing my hand along the swell of her ass, and I see her shoot a smile over her shoulder as she continues pouring a beer. I lean over and whisper in her ear, “I’m going to fuck you so hard tonight.” I already have visions in my head of the things I want to do to her. “Are you wearing the panties I laid out for you?”

  She finishes pouring the beer, slides it across the bar, then turns to me with a smirk. “You’re gonna have to lift up my skirt to find out.”

  I wanna kiss that bratty mouth; it’s hard to resist, but I shoot her a dark glare that just makes her laugh.

  “You won’t be laughing later,” I warn her.

  The front door opens, and in burst two men dressed in black, wearing masks. I freeze for a moment out of surprise, then grab Marissa and shove her down to protect her while they raise guns at a man sitting against the wall and fire.

  Screams of panic and chaos fill the air. The man’s body jerks from the force of the bullets, blood spattering everywhere.

  “What is going on?” Marissa is crying out, but I’m scrambling to figure out our best cover.

  The two men turn right back around and dash out of the bar without a backward glance. On their heels, customers are rushing around to escape, and the bar empties quicker than I thought possible. Only a couple of people remain, lingering in the fringes, staring in shock.

  Holy fuck. My chest feels like a grenade went off inside my ribcage. “Stay down,” I order Marissa, then rush over to the man, who’s clearly dead, from the glazed look in his eyes. I press the dish towel in my hand to his wounds to staunch the bleeding, just in case they can resuscitate him. The blood oozes through the towel to stain my hands.

  Blood is splashed on the wall, on the floor, the table.

  A crime scene. In my fucking bar.

  “What the fuck was that?” Hale yells.

  Axel has his cell phone out and is dialing 9-1-1. He’s explaining the incident and giving whatever details he can about the two shooters. Within a couple of minutes, the sounds of sirens fill the air, and the police and ambulance arrive.

  Everything happens at once—the police interviewing us about what happened, the paramedics trying to save the victim’s life, to no success. We’re in the bar for hours going over the details. No, we didn’t personally know the man. No, we didn’t see the hit men’s faces. And so on.

  But I have a sinking suspicion I know who is responsible. Someone who has the power to order a hit on a man—because it’s clear that this was a professional job, not a crime of passion or circumstance. The guy was taken out.

  The police cordon off the area, and we’re escorted outside. The bar will be closed for days while they investigate.

  The whole time, Marissa is quiet, frozen in shock. I stand close to her since I don’t want to touch her with my soiled hands, trying to focus so I can get her back to the hotel. She’s never been exposed to the violence my brothers and I have. No doubt this is going to scar her for a long time.

  And it’s my fault.

  I brought this violence here because of my deal with Conor. There’s no doubt he’s the one who did this. This guy was probably a snitch or something, and Conor decided to have him killed in my bar—two birds with one stone. He’s clever, I gotta hand him that. Bitterness fills me, flows through my veins. Bitterness and guilt.

  I’m a fucking idiot. Of course the man wasn’t going to just be happy taking the money. I embarrassed him in front of people by beating his men up and forcing him out of the bar, and now I’m reaping the effects of his hot temper. His taste for revenge. He fucked us over good with this move.

  And a man is dead because of everything I allowed to go down on my watch. My brothers even tried to warn me, but I wouldn’t listen.

  Fuck.

  It’s late at night when we’re finally allowed to leave, with the instructions that we need to stay nearby in case the police have further questions. The bar is closed while they continue evaluating evidence.

  “Come on,” I tell Marissa. I dig into my car and grab a bottle of water, splashing it over my hands to rinse off the blood. Wipe my hands on my jean-clad thighs. “Let’s get you back to the hotel.” I’m growing alarmed by how little she’s speaking, her face drawn and pale.

  She looks up at me. “I…” Her breath puffs out, and she shivers. “My jacket is inside. I need it.”

  “We can’t go back in there,” I tell her, guiding her to the passenger seat. “We’ll get it later.” I crank the heat on in the car. Seeing her like this is breaking me apart. “Stay here a second. I’m going to talk to my brothers, and then we’re going.”

  I walk over to where Axel and Hale are talking quietly among themselves. We haven’t had a chance to discuss the incident. Their haggard, tired faces look just like how I imagine I do. Fatigue has soaked into my bones.

  I rake a hand through my mussed hair and look at them.

  Hale’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “Shoulda known Conor wasn’t going to let that go.”

  I nod. “I know. I fucked that up. But we’ll fix this.”

  “How?” Axel’s frustration bleeds through his words. “Who the hell is going to come to our bar now? It’ll be clear soon enough on the news that it was a mob hit. Our business is dead in the water.” He’s echoing the things I’m thinking but don’t want to face.

  I feel a surge of anger and struggle to hold it back. It’s not his fault. Not Hale’s fault either. No, the blame is solely on me. “We’ll fix this,” I stubbornly repeat.

  “You’d better get Marissa out of here,” Hale says. “She looked pretty bad.”

  “I’ll touch base with you guys once I hear from the police when we can come back in.”

  They give me curt nods, and we disperse.

  The drive to the hotel is filled with tension. Marissa’s hands are in her lap, her fingers twisting together. I reach over and take the cold digits in my hand, rubbing them to warm them up.

  “When my grandma died,” she says quietly, “it was peaceful. In her sleep. She just went to bed and never woke up. Nothing traumatic. Hers was the only dead body I’d seen before today.” Her voice hitches on the word “dead.”

  I squeeze her hand. “Let’s get you warmed up.”

  “I’m scared,” she admits, and it sounds like there are tears in her eyes. “Who would do this? Do you think it was Conor? Was that meant to be a message to us—is he going to shoot us next?” Her tone is getting higher as she speaks, panic making her words tumble out fast and anxious.

  I grip her fingers. “I don’t believe he’s going to shoot us, no. You’re safe. I won’t let anyone hurt you.” But can I really make that promise? If two men were able to walk into my bar and take out a customer in a split second, how can I ensure that she’ll be safe? I can’t. Not a hundred percent.

  I feel like puking.

  We get to the hotel, and the valet takes the keys without saying a word about the blood spattered on my shirt. I guide Marissa to the elevator, then to our room. Run a hot bath, removing my own clothes while encouraging Marissa to do the same.

  Her movements are robotic and slow.

  After I’ve slid in, Marissa gets into the tub, and I take her hand and nestle her in front of me, wrapping my arms around her.

  “This is going to hurt the bar, isn’t it,” she murmurs.

  I grab some soap and lather my hands, running them over her body. Not sexually, but to comfort, to help her come down from the trauma of what she saw. “We’ll bounce back from it.” At least, I hope we will. But deep down, I’m afraid that this is it. Conor’s bold move fucked us over. How can
we come back from this kind of event, get our customers to trust that they’re safe with us? Hell, I don’t even know if we are safe at the bar after this.

  I feel frustrated and sick. Stuck. What do I do? I can’t go after Conor. That’s insane—a death wish. Butch would be furious if he knew what happened. I gotta get Fugitives going again before word gets back to him about Conor tangling with our family. It could start something bloody and messy.

  “We have a few days off,” I tell her. “Let’s forget the bar for a while.” I’ll deal with it later. I can’t even go back in there now until I get the go-ahead. At the moment, Marissa is my main concern.

  Her sigh is heavy, and she rests her hands on my knees. The water laps around us with her movement. “I don’t know if I can forget.”

  I stroke her hair, both of us wrapped up in our own thoughts, silence stretching out in painful ticks.

  I don’t know if I can, either.

  Over a week passes until I finally get the call from the detective that they’ve investigated as much as they could and collected evidence. Given the lack of evidence, it’s likely no one will be convicted for the man’s death. It was a professional hit, which I already knew from day one—Conor doesn’t fuck around when it comes to that. His men know their shit.

  I leave Marissa at the hotel while my brothers and I go to clean up the mess. I don’t want her around the blood. We’ll get it straightened up before she returns to work.

  The bar is a wreck. We just stand in the doorway, staring. Hopelessness pervades my brain. I shake it off. I can’t give up.

  “Okay,” I say, “let’s get started.”

  Axel puts on music for the background as we clean broken glass, littered all over the floor from when people fled in panic. We mop the sticky floor, sweep and dust and clean. I putty the bullet holes in the wall and touch them up with paint. Toss a couple of broken chairs and rearrange seats as needed.

  It’s a hard, back-breaking day of work, but by the time we’re done, I feel better. The place looks back to normal. Ready for customers again. I just pray they come back. When I get back to the hotel, Marissa’s lying on her side, fast asleep. I take a quick shower and crawl in beside her, craving the comfort of her body against mine. It takes me hours to fall asleep, despite how exhausted I am.