Tough Luck (The Shakedown Series Book 1)

by Elizabeth SaFleur

  Phee didn’t object, which only meant one thing. She had no fight left. Starr bristled a little on the inside. Her sister wasn't one to melt into sentimentality, and it wasn't until that second Starr recognized how much she counted on that, as if Phee’s hard edge kept her and Luna from dissolving under pressure over the years. It was oddly a gift.

  The maddening injustice of the whole situation hit Starr in a mad rush. He’d been rejected. Now, he was lying in a hospital bed on the brink of—death? Vegetation? Did it matter anymore what state he was in? It was like he was holding them hostage.

  Phee cocked her head. “L, you should come with me.”

  Luna nodded. “I’ll come back tomorrow.”

  “Nathan, Starr, you coming?”

  That was the first time Phee had even remotely acknowledged Nathan was part of the group. Starr should have been comforted by that fact, but an unsettled nest of bees still droned in her belly.

  “Give me fifteen minutes? See you in the parking lot. I’ll go and tell the nurses we’re leaving.”

  “Okay.” Phee sighed in an obvious why-bother tone.

  Starr turned to Nathan as soon as they were alone. “I need to go do something. Mind waiting for me here?”

  ‘I’ll go with you.” Nathan took her hand.

  “No, please. I need to do this alone.”

  He nodded once. “Only because you won’t be alone in there with him.”

  She squeezed his hand.

  She didn’t need to tell anyone they were leaving. Visiting hours for the ICU were over, but there was something she needed to do. Declan had pulled her aside earlier, told her not to worry about hospital bills or insurance, that he’d help. His generosity only maddened her more because Declan didn’t deserve to be saddled with their father’s fuck-ups, but then again, neither did they.

  She paused at the nurse’s station, a nice man covered in head to toe blue scrubs with a cap on his head, smiled up at her. “Miss O’Malley, what can I do for you?”

  “I was wondering if I could just pop in for a second? We’re all leaving, and, well, I wanted to give my father a message before I left.”

  He squinched his eyes. “Okay, but just for a second.”

  He escorted her down the hall, darkened for the evening hours but still with too much light for anyone to get any real rest. An anxious quiet mixed with the incessant beeps and rhythmic wooshes and thumps of ventilators.

  They paused in the doorway. “Hey, Jean, Miss O’Malley here wants to tell her father good night.”

  Oh, if he only knew.

  “Just for a second.” The woman’s face was mostly covered by a facemask, but Starr caught the stern and admonishing message in the woman’s eyes.

  Whatever, lady. I don’t want to be here anymore than you do.

  Starr moved to her father’s bedside, and stared down at the shriveled figure, limp and lifeless. She didn’t care if Jean, who hovered by the side of the bed, heard what she’d come to say. She didn’t care if the world heard.

  “Well, Dad, you did it again,” she spluttered and kept her eyes on his face. In her periphery, she saw Jean’s hands curled over the bed railing.

  “We’re going home now. Jean, here— “she glanced up at those stern dark eyes— “is going to take care of you tonight. You probably don’t deserve her.”

  She was getting off track.

  “So, you broke our deal. How fucking dare you? You landing in this place means we are forced to deal with you. But that may be what you planned all along. A big grand gesture to get our attention? Or maybe you were trying to kill yourself.”

  Would his death have been better? She couldn’t say.

  “Well I’m here to tell you, you’re not doing either. You’re not going to hold us hostage.” God, her voice cracked.

  She leaned down, close to his face, and inhaled the stale scent of an old man’s skin mixed with bleached cotton. “This time, old man, you’re going to make good on your promises. You’re not going to die because that would kill Luna, who seems hell-bent on finding peace.” She nearly spat her final words. “And you’re not going to revert to your old ways because that will kill Phee. Just knowing you’re out there, that you could continue to hurt people like you hurt her would cause her worry.” Heat filled her throat, and tears spilled over her lashes.

  His sallow face sickened her, and she drew away a few inches. “Because you know what? She’s a good person. She doesn’t think she is, and that’s all because of you.” Starr swatted at her wet cheeks, and she cleared her throat. “So listen up. You’re going to get better. You’re going to make things up to us. I don’t know how, but you will.”

  She leaned close to him again. “I’ll see you atone for what you’ve done to Phee if it’s the last thing I do on this earth, and you have no idea how far I’ll go.”

  He didn’t know because he didn’t know her. He didn’t know any of them.

  She straightened. There was nothing left to say. She looked up at the nurse whose eyes had widened. “Thanks, Jean. See you tomorrow.” She then turned on her heel.

  “Miss O’Malley.” The words were muffled from behind her mask.

  She turned back to her. Jean had pulled her mask down so Starr could see her face. The woman was younger than she’d expected. “I’m breaking protocol in telling you this, but he might not ever wake up.”

  “I know.”

  “I’ve been working in this unit for a long time. Even when they are unconscious, you’d be amazed at how much patients remember about what is said to them.” She then pulled her mask back over her mouth.

  Starr didn’t answer, just marched back to Nathan. She didn’t care whether Jean was trying to make her feel better, as if her father might remember her words, or make her feel worse. It didn’t matter. That man would not get to die—a free pass in her mind—or continue to cause trouble.

  This cycle of them ignoring the fact they’d been abused, abandoned, neglected, couldn’t stand. It was like invisible chains had wrapped around them, and it was time to break free. It would start with everyone, including their father, admitting exactly what had happened, and what needed to happen next. Her father was not going to mess up their future. No one would ever do that to them again.

  43

  Nathan grasped Starr’s hand as soon as they stepped through the sliding glass doors into the thick August air. It was like walking into a wall of cotton. She snatched her hand back.

  “It’s hot.” She shook her red hair out of her face.

  This situation was hard. He knew that, but her reaction to being touched didn't sit well with him.

  Let her be? Press her? Ask her what's up? What should he do? What did she need?

  He waved at Declan, who leaned against his car door, engine running. Phee and Luna were situated in front of the air conditioner inside. Declan blew out a long thin line of smoke.

  Nathan held out his keys to Starr. “I need to talk to Declan, Starr. Give me a sec?”

  “Sure.” She took them, unsmiling.

  He ran his hand down the side of her face. “And you? You okay?”

  “I’m going to be. I should call Cherry. She’s worrying. I can feel it from here.”

  He nodded and left her to her call.

  He strode over to Declan. “Thought you were trying to quit.”

  “Some things are hard to give up on.”

  “Some things should never be given up on.” Nathan glanced at Phee sitting in the front seat and back to Declan

  Declan eyed him. “Need more time off?”

  “No.” That was definitely something he did not need. “Just wanted to thank you. For the Erin thing.”

  Starr stood by his car, her cell phone held up to her ear.

  “Can't afford to lose you.” Declan tossed his cigarette to the ground, twisted it into ash under his shoe. “How’s Starr?”

  He scrubbed his hair. “Hard to say.”

  “Well, the father-daughter thing is a tough one.”


  Declan wasn’t aiming arrows at him, but his words landed that way just the same.

  “How much do you know about Starr and her sister’s past? With their father, I mean?”

  “A lot.” Declan looked over at her “It's why Phee’s so pissy with me all the time.”

  “Women like their secrets.”

  “And hate ours.”

  And didn't that truth sting? Yesterday would have been the perfect time to tell Starr about his daughter Madeline, but he hadn’t found the words. Today would be the worst time.

  Declan cracked open his door and lowered himself into the driver's side. He'd never understand why the man loved his old Jag so much. It broke down every other day.

  After Declan pulled away and disappeared around the corner, he looked at Starr pacing back and forth next to his car two rows over. Her phone was still pressed to her ear. She swiped at a something in the air—a mosquito, perhaps. A trickle of sweat ran down his back. Man, it was hot, even at 9:30 in the evening.

  He moved to the trees that stood in the parking lot meridian to give her some privacy and him a break from the heat. He'd rather go inside and take advantage of the air conditioning, but leaving Starr out here by herself wasn’t happening.

  He pulled his shirt from his clammy chest and tuned into the distant car engine rumblings of the highway close by. A train was moving fast on railway tracks somewhere nearby, too. It wasn't silent, but rather quiet for a Saturday evening, as if something was about to happen, like the moments before racehorses are let out of a gate.

  On the side street, a plain white workman's van approached the lot, turned in, but instead of slowing down, it sped up.

  The van door slung open. Two men—brown skin, tattoos, jeans, it was all such a blur—reached for Starr. Arms banded around her chest, her neck, and a meaty palm covered her mouth. Her blue eyes, large and shocked, caught his, and his legs moved fast. His feet beat the pavement, but they weren’t fast enough. If only his lungs could take in more air. His hands smacked the hot metal side of the van door just as it clanked shut. He pounded the side and tried to follow it as it hurtled away from him.

  They had her. They’d taken her.

  A black BMW swerved around from behind the van to stop so closely to him that the front tire narrowly missed his foot. A tinted window lowered, and Ruark smirked at him from the driver's side. “If I were you, I'd get in.”

  44

  Black, scratchy fabric covered Starr's face. Smothering, she was smothering. Big, rough hands tossed her forward, and her ankle twisted against an uneven metal surface. A cry broke from her throat. Still, too little air came when she inhaled.

  “Shut up, bitch.”

  Just as little pricks of light danced before her eyes, the sandpaper fabric was dragged off her head. Light washed her face as her head was freed. Her body seized the opportunity and filled her lungs with blessed cool air. She tried to raise her hand to rub the grit that had landed in her eye, but a grip from behind stopped her.

  “W-wha—”

  Pain exploded across her forehead, cheek, and chin. The hard metal floor smacked the side of her face, and the vibration of the road thrummed underneath her.

  “I said. Shut up.”

  The tang of rust and salt settled on her tongue. Blood. She'd bitten the inside of her cheek. Bile rose in her throat, and her throat muscles threatened to contract.

  Phee. Luna. Nathan. Where were they? Sucking in air, she took a second to determine her surroundings.

  A man crouched before her. He cocked his head as if he observed a wounded animal on the side of the road. His lips curled in a twisted snarl, and his dark eyes filled with feral glee. His scalp was marked in colored tattoos, but it was the angry, pink scar across his neck that captured her attention. She only hoped the cause had been a murder attempt. Her head throbbed from his punch.

  “Get there already, will ya?” A voice behind her roughed out the words in some accent she couldn't place.

  “You want me to attract the cops?” Another male voice came from where the driver would sit. She swayed at a sharp turn and reached out with her arm to steady herself. Her fingers rested on a nest of ropes.

  “Fuck, Remy, learn to drive.” Tattoo-head looked back at her. “So ...” He pushed her hair over her shoulder, and she shuddered. “You be a good girl, and maybe we'll be extra nice to you.”

  Icy spangles of fear snaked up her legs and spine. She had to get a grip. She lowered her gaze as if that would help. Like maybe if she wasn't looking at him, he might not notice her?

  He rose up, spreading his legs wide to steady himself. “Tie her up.”

  Calloused hands forced her to sit upright. A shot of pain went through her right shoulder as her arms were yanked behind her back. Her wrists and forearms were roughly bound with scratchy rope. Her hands would be numb from the constriction in seconds. When done, he stepped back, and she toppled back to her side. The dress she wore rode up to expose her panties.

  “I always did like pink.” It was the accented voice. A cold grip of fear seized her. They were going to rape her.

  Over my fucking dead body.

  She tested the ropes a little. Her legs were strong. She’d get a good kick to at least one set of balls before they did whatever they planned.

  “Leave it.” Tattoo-head guy must be the leader.

  Think, think, think. She demanded her brain to come up with something. What was she supposed to do when in danger? Make noise? Adrenaline pushed her heartbeat into her throat, her ears, her chest, blocking out any brainpower. Think, girl. Something about a second location. Her brain fought to latch on to something, anything, she could do to help herself. Yes, never let them take you to a second location. That's where the rape-murder happens.

  She willed herself to look—really look—at the inside of the van. Was there anything sharp she might get a hold of? The door had two handles that needed to be pushed down to open them. Car sounds outside grew closer. If she could just kick the door handle, let someone behind them see who was in this van… Her fingers sought for purchase on the knots binding her hands. Damn it, where were they?

  The vehicle slowed, turned, and her body jostled against the grooves in the van as it clanked over something hard and metal. The light dimmed.

  When she was yanked upright, she finally got a look at the guy behind her. Twice the size of the head tattoo guy, his baby face did little to counter the menace in his soulless black eyes.

  Forced to jump down to the ground, her bare feet hit rough concrete, gritty and cold. Where were her shoes? If she had to run, it'd be easier to be barefoot than in high heels, but already the uneven ground stung the soles of her feet.

  They forced her to keep moving forward, and the pain in her shoulder sharpened.

  She glanced around the space, trying to take in as much as possible. They were in an industrial warehouse. A row of fluorescent lights beamed a path over the uneven concrete floor. The second location. The cavernous space was stacked high with huge metal containers like those she'd seen whizz by on any of the endless trains that roared through Baltimore. So many places to hide a dead body—after they did whatever they were going to do to her.

  Nathan saw her get snatched. Someone would come. Someone would surely come.

  The most ordinary guy in the world, dressed in jeans and polo shirt, jumped from the driver's seat just as tattoo-guy kicked an old metal chair toward her. “Sit your ass down.”

  She didn't have a chance to obey because her other captor roughly sat her in the chair. He pushed her forward, and her shoulder threatened to spasm. She couldn't hold back a yelp. Her captors didn't care, and the rough rope scratched and bit into her wrists and forearms as he yanked them free. When her arms were released, tingles of blood ran through her veins, and her skin burned. She pushed her hands into her lap, hoping to pull her dress down without them noticing. Yeah, because driving attention away from her sex was going to help—not.

  “You're not going to run.” Th
e guy with the tattoos pulled up a second chair, turning it so he could straddle the seat. He leaned toward her until he balanced on two chair legs, and his liquor-breath ran over her face. “Are you, sweetheart?”

  She shook her head. She needed time. So long as she acted compliant, she might not get smacked into unconsciousness.

  “That's a good girl.” The rear feet of his chair thunked back to the ground.

  They’d left the large doors open, which was good because she could run. But faster than these two? Maybe not, but she could scream—loudly.

  The whine of a car engine grew closer. Tattoo-man stood up and twisted the metal chair out of the way. All three of the men stood to attention as a BMW rolled up to them.

  She blinked. She was seeing things. Nathan's face stared at her from the passenger side. He’d come for her.

  “Nathan?”

  He dove out of the car and rushed to squat in front of her. “Starr. Are you okay?” He ran his hands down her arms, taking in the scratches and bruises that lit up anew with his fingertips. He shot to his feet and swung his fist hard toward the man with black eyes, but the guy had anticipated his move and punched Nathan in the gut so hard, he was knocked off his feet.

  She darted up, but Tattoo-guy grabbed her around the waist.

  “You leave it,” he growled.

  Nathan lay sputtering on the ground. She tried to reach for him and failed as iron arms held her fast. He had come for her, and they would kill him for it. An ache started low in her chest and spread like a cancer until she was veiled in sheer bleak truth. They weren’t going to be okay—not by a long shot. Only one emotion blazed strong, red-hot anger because they didn’t deserve this torture.

  “Now, now, Miss Starr.”

  She looked up at the familiar voice. Ruark MacKenna had the gall to stand there in his cheap ass suit, grinning at her like they still sat at that coffee shop. Fire obliterated her thinking, and she struggled against the thickly muscled arms that squeezed her and held her to the hard metal chair. She sputtered, unable to form words, the pain in her shoulder growing distant and fuzzy. Fury raged on and on inside her, fed by Ruark's smug face grinning down at her.