She stilled when the tattooed-man kicked Nathan, hard, in the back, and Nathan grunted, blood bubbling out of his mouth.
“Leave him alone,” she snarled.
“Now, Slate,” Ruark said. “Is that any way to treat our guests?”
Nathan spit blood and pushed himself to standing. “Fuck you.” He spun and punched the guy named Slate, hard, so he stumbled backward.
“Leave it, Slate.” Ruark clapped slowly. “Good man, Nathan. I'm sure your parole officer would love to hear of you throwing some punches.”
A line of blood spittle hung from Nathan's lips toward the floor. He swiped at his mouth. “That your plan? Get me back behind bars? You lack imagination.”
Ruark sucked air between his teeth. “Well, when they find out you've killed your girlfriend here, there'll be a chair waiting for you.”
Nathan groaned as he rose. He had to be hurt, given how he stood slightly hunched. “MacKenna, swear to God—”
Ruark reached behind his back and pulled out a Glock. She couldn't tear her eyes from it, the gunmetal-black against his skin, the way his hand molded the contours with ease, as if he’d used it—often.
Nathan shook his head slowly from side to side, a half-smile on his lips. “You always were dramatic. Sending a pig's heart, and now the big man with a gun on display.”
How could Nathan goad him?
“Tsk, tsk, guy.” Slate—what a stupid name—leered at Nathan. “Teasing Ruark isn't real smart.”
“Shut it.” Ruark pointed the gun at Nathan. “Now. Talk is over.”
45
Acid rumbled in his belly and climbed up his throat, which oddly, dulled the pains shooting through his back. His heart threatened to punch itself out of his rib cage. Not now. Fuck him if he was going to go down looking like a pussy. He glanced at Starr, latching on to the sight of her to steady himself. He needed to buy them some time so he could get her out of there. He fingered his phone in his pocket. Too bad his hands didn’t have eyes so they could hit the record button.
He spit blood from his mouth. “What do you want? You got any specifics for once?”
Ruark arched his eyebrow. “Want? I want what you stole from me.”
“I can't bring your brother back.” His throat was raw. “I'm sorry he's dead. Truly, I am.” The guy had no idea how sorry he was. He'd spent too many nights lying on a striped camping mattress, nursing bruises and cuts, listening to men cough and moan in the dark corners of cells, not to passionately regret his actions.
A maniacal laugh from Ruark cut through all the heaviness in his chest “You’re sorry Daniel’s dead? I'm not.” Ruark turned away, his lips twitching, his eyes downcast, as he slowly paced like a caged bird shuffling on a perch. “You just don't get it, do you? I hated the fucker.” He stopped and raised his gaze toward Nathan. “Wanted to kill him myself. Instead, you made him a God to my father and mother. My brother.” He rushed forward until he was inches from Nathan's face.
The gun barrel pressed on Nathan's temple. Cold fingers of dread wrapped around his limbs. He’d be no good to Starr dead.
Ruark sucked air through his teeth. “I was the one who was going to take him out, not some pussy college kid.” He stepped back and lowered the gun. “How dare you.”
The man was a psycho. He might have been speaking in Arabic for all the sense he made. Nathan forced air into his burning lungs, eyed the other men, and took stock of their positions. Ruark's three accomplices stared at him unflinching, their eyes flat with disinterest. The devil’s soldiers awaiting orders.
“You asked what I want?” Ruark jutted out his chin. “I want back my opportunity to lay him in the ground myself. Be the one to rise in my family. My father’s time is over, and it should be me who takes over. You gonna give that to me?” He snorted. “Naw, I didn't think so.”
Nathan swayed a little. His ribs pinched and shifted inside, stealing his breath. “You're insane, man. You can have whatever you want, MacKenna. Take it out on me, but let Starr go.”
“No can do, busboy. She's your collateral damage. Just like everyone else in your life.” He cocked his head. “Like your wife, your daughter. Oh, yes, I know all about them.”
His ribs swore at him as he inhaled sharply. The floor would just not stop tilting. Nathan glanced at Starr, her eyes a mixture of confusion and fear. He didn't believe it was possible to hate Ruark MacKenna any more than he did right now. The fucker stepped around Starr and stood behind her. He brushed her hair from her shoulder with the gun barrel. Trembling, her hands grasped the sides of the chair, and her eyes glazed over in wild alarm. He leaned down and whispered in her ear. “Did you know that, sweet Starr? That your boy abandoned a wife? A kid?”
Nathan fixed his eyes on Starr.
“Nathan?” His name was nothing more than a whisper.
He ached to crush his mouth to hers, to whisper he would fix everything.
MacKenna continued his rant. “You see, when I kill her and you” —he lifted his gun and gazed down the barrel— “I’ll be sure the gun ends up with your prints. That should be the end for you. Me, the brother, gets revenge for the death of Daniel, trying, but sadly failing, to save the girl. My father will love that shit. Plus, taking care of unfinished business is always rewarded in my family.” He moved the gun to her temple, and Starr stiffened. Ruark’s eyes, two dark beams of hatred, bored into Nathan.
Nathan shuffled a few inches closer. Just two more steps and he'd be close enough to shove her aside, wrap his hands around MacKenna's throat.
“Okay, Ruark. That's enough.” A male voice thundered into the room. A silhouette of a large, stocky man framed by sunlight and black shadow stood at the entrance, hands shoved in pants pockets. “Now, you mind lowering that gun?”
When this new guy stepped inside, his features became visible. He had the same cloud of black hair and the same ice blue eyes as Ruark. Great. Another MacKenna. Yet this man was taller, leaner, wearing an I've-seen-this-all-before expression.
“Hello, brother.” Ruark stepped forward, putting some distance between him and Starr.
Nathan stared at the two men, his eyes trained on the gun hanging along Ruark's leg. His heart thumped with adrenaline. He was about to do something stupid.
Ruark pointed the gun toward his brother. “Stay out of this, Carragh.”
The guy strutted forward until the gun touched his chest. “Like I said. Lower the gun.”
Ruark obeyed, but his chin rose, and one of his legs danced as if this interruption agitated him.
Now was Nathan's chance. With them occupied, he closed the distance between himself and Starr and got behind her. He placed his hands on her shoulders, shook his head a little as her lips parted to speak.
Ruark sputtered. “You wanted out of this, so stay out of it.”
“Mind telling me what 'it' is, brother?”
“Don't play dumb.”
“Looks like you're ratcheting things up. First you went by Shakedown and got poor Seamus to run his car into the awning. I rather liked the door you smashed to smithereens, by the way. Yeah, we've been listening to the chatter, so I was sent to watch you. Sending a pig’s heart? You got us noticed by the police—again.”
Watch. All those sightings, at the club, outside his apartment ...
“Got a call from our father. You know how I hate to get those, Ruark. I was put on babysitting duty. He was curious to see how far my fucked-up younger brother was going to go. This is far enough, don't you think?”
“That's not our way,” Ruark spat. “No one lays one of ours in the ground and gets away with it.”
“I'd say no one got away with shit. Daniel was a fuck-up. Baldwin here paid for that fuck-up. So, you mind not furthering this fucked up situation? You're calling attention to us ... brother. Enough is enough.” His shoulders hardened. “We're calling it quits.”
“Like hell.” Ruark spun and raised the gun toward Starr. Sirens went from background noise to close vicinity. They were coming here
. Carragh reached for Ruark's arm, and a gunshot blast pierced Nathan’s eardrum. His whole body lurched forward, met Starr's body, and pushed her off the chair. His chest collapsed, and air wasn't possible.
On the other side of a fuzzy ring in his ears, he heard shouts. Then blue and red lights danced against the shadowed corrugated steel of the building. His fingers touched silk. Starr. When he’d fallen, he'd crushed her underneath him.
46
Nathan cracked open his eyes. Through the emergency room’s white curtains, the back of a blue uniform was visible. Nathan shifted on the gurney and grunted in discomfort as something unseen stabbed his shoulder. The pain was sharp in contrast to the dull thud, thud, thud of his ribs. At least the bullet had only grazed his shoulder. No “internal damage,” they'd said, so he could go—at least to jail, which was next. They’d run his name, caught the not-so-little bit about him being on parole, and Erin was on her way. Yeah, life turnarounds were only for the rich and free.
He pushed himself off the gurney only to land on a hard floor that tilted and moved. Damn painkillers. They could lessen pain, but it never was gone fully, and they made him unstable and muddled.
At least Starr was okay, or so said the nurse, the one kind person in the place who’d relayed his “girlfriend” just had some bumps and bruises. He needed to find her, that is, if she'd ever want to see him again after the Ruark bombshell. He should have shared that with her weeks ago.
He took his time putting one foot in front of the other as if walking slowly would delay the inevitable. As soon as he was through the curtain, one of the cops grasped his bicep. Fuck him, he was getting an escort. The cop jerked him forward. “Your parole officer is here.”
Thick block wooden chairs, padded in orange and green fabric, lined the waiting area walls.
Erin stood and crossed her arms. “I’ve got this,” she said to the officer whose grip hadn’t lessened one bit during the long, slow trek to her. She held a plastic bag, which probably held his phone and wallet. She handed it to him.
The cop nodded once and left them alone in the quiet waiting room. It was, what? 4:00 a.m. by now?
She jerked her jeans jacket into place. “Tell me.”
“MacKenna nabbed Starr. The police—”
“You called them?”
“No. I think it might've been Carragh MacKenna. The brother.” At least that was as much as his brain could deliver as an answer. The cops had been just as rough as MacKenna’s goons, and between getting beat up, shot, and attempting to save Starr, he was lucky if he could remember his name.
“Plausible deniability.” Erin's voice was definitive. “Makes this Carragh look like he's on the straight and narrow, showing up to break up a fight. Hmm. Ruark MacKenna might get off if no one presses charges, and the payoff is high enough.”
Her words made sense. For all the cops knew, Ruark was merely there to stop the thugs he'd hired from harming him and Starr. Nathan had seen first-hand how the word of a MacKenna overrode truth, no matter how obvious.
“Nathan.”
He stopped contemplating his boots, stained with dried blood, and looked up at her.
“You fight MacKenna?”
“Does harsh language count?” Sure he’d clocked that thug, but Ruark had been untouched.
“Good man.” She took in a long breath. “But this is the third strike.” She sat in one of the chairs and patted the one next to her. “Okay, start from the beginning, and don’t you fucking dare leave out a single detail. I’m recording this.” She pulled out her phone. By the end, she’d done him a solid and gave him the truth. He’d go to jail until the investigation was sorted, which could be never. He was sure they would find some rule they could use to revoke his parole despite the fact Ruark was responsible for this whole cluster, and it involved felonious activities. Nathan had been coerced into the car with Ruark, but the law would only see he’d gotten involved.
“Well, at least, the cops are fairly convinced you didn’t start the fight. Ruark and company still might get charged. Anyone ask you to press charges?” Erin asked.
Why would they? “Starr should do that. Ruark was going to kill her.”
“Yeah, well, she may not even have to.” Erin rose. “Listen, let me talk to the cops over there. Find out what the fuck is going on. Don’t move. I’ll be right over there.” She pointed to the entrance area where two cops stood clutching coffee cups.
After she strode away, he hung his throbbing head. If he could just close his eyes for a minute …
“Nathan.” Starr’s distressed voice nearly made him jump out of his skin. He grunted at the resulting agony. The damned painkillers were starting to wear off.
He rose, slowly, as every part of him ached and creaked.
Her face, grayed with fatigue, etched with deep lines in her forehead, was almost too much to bear. Dark circles under her eyes competed with the purpling on her neck and arms. She touched his arm, tentatively, as if one might touch a stranger. “You look terrible.”
He didn't know why that made him laugh, but it did. Sharp glass spikes from his bruised ribs drove into his side, and he bent over a little. “Just got grazed. It's nothing.” His injuries wouldn't stop him from being chained, hobbled, and taken to a cell until they could transfer him.
Starr shuffled on her feet. “Is what Ruark said, true? You're married?”
Shit. Okay, they were starting there. “Divorced.”
“And you have a child.”
His throat squeezed just enough to make him force down a swallow. “A girl. Madeline.” God, he hadn't said her name in so long it actually hurt when it came out. But that might be just his battered ribs that sent a shooting pain through his body every time he moved.
She grasped her bottom lip in her teeth for a second. “How old is she?”
“Nine. I think.” He tried not to think about how long it’d been.
That was clearly the wrong thing to say as her face hardened. Those eyes of hers, though, they colored with something entirely new—disappointment.
She elevated her chin a little. “You never mentioned her.”
“I’ve never seen her. Dawn, that’s my ex, told me to stay away. She didn’t want a convicted felon around her. So out of respect, I did what she asked.”
“Don’t you want to—”
“See her? Hell, yeah. I mean, I had a family who abandoned me once I got put away. I’d never want Madeline to think I didn’t want her.” A searing hot poker went through his chest when he sucked in a frustrated breath.
“I'll bet she's a doll. With your kind eyes and smile. The dove tattoo. It's for her, isn't it?”
“Yes.” He couldn’t look at her.
“Miss O’Malley.” Carragh’s unwelcomed voice filled the space. He sauntered over and stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets. “I understand we’ve had a … misunderstanding.”
“Is that what you’re calling it?” She showed off her arm. “I'm sure the witnesses here would agree these bruises didn't come from harsh language.”
So she wasn't so cowed by what had happened.
Carragh widened his stance. “My brother could have been trying to protect you from those two thugs.”
“Is that why he pointed a gun at Nathan and me? Repeatedly?”
“She could press for kidnapping, not just false imprisonment,” Nathan stated. “Oh, and threats of sexual assault on top of kidnapping? Felonies everywhere.” If he were going to go down, he'd go down fighting, and there was one advantage to incarceration, if you paid attention, you learned a fuck-ton about the law.
“No such thing occurred.” The man's cool, smooth tone wasn't helping Nathan tamp down his anger—not one bit.
Starr didn't give an inch. “Says the man who didn’t see the half of it. Unlike you alpha-holes, I don't lie.”
God, Nathan loved this woman.
MacKenna scratched his chin. “How about this? If you don't press charges⸺”
“We don't need to press an
ything.” Nathan wasn’t going to be cowed anymore by this family. “Facts are facts. This isn't a CSI episode.”
MacKenna glared at him. “If you'll let me finish? We'll pay for everything that was ... inadvertently damaged in this misunderstanding. I understand Mr. Phillip's club had to put in a new door. And, of course, Miss O'Malley, any work you may have to miss due to your encounter with those other gentlemen.” He ran evaluating eyes over her body. Nathan had never wanted to hit a man so badly as in that moment—and that was saying something. “We'll cover any lost wages for as long as you need.”
His eyes shot over to Nathan. “And as for you. This feud you have with my brother? It's over. We'll chalk it up to some testosterone matches.”
“You're kidding me, right?” Nathan couldn't believe this bullshit.
“We’ve lost one brother. I’m sure my father doesn’t want to lose another son.”
“Guess he should have had better parenting skills.”
“What’s going on here?” Erin appeared and muscled her way between Carragh and himself.
Carragh didn’t flinch. “I was just expressing my dismay to Miss Starr here. Such poor behavior. I don't know where those men came from.”
Erin squinted up at the man. “Uh, huh. They’re keeping Ruark overnight, as well.”
“Why?”
“Bail hearing will be held tomorrow. Thing is, exactly how this goes down depends on Miss O'Malley’s final statements.” The woman turned toward Nathan and Starr. “If they consider them ‘complete.’” She considered Starr, in particular.
Holy shit, his parole officer was giving her an opportunity. Was it to recant or to expand on what she said had occurred?
“I might have more to say.” Starr smiled at Erin. “Of course, it's my understanding at any point in the next seven years I can press charges, right?”
“I'm no lawyer, but I'd say if you remember anything, Miss O’Malley, they’d be happy to hear it.”
Starr eyed the man once more. “Well, since Mr. MacKenna here is assuring me his family doesn't have anything else to say, I might not, either. It's interesting how when two people agree, when they are, how should I say, at peace over things, life can go on. Wouldn't you agree, Mr. MacKenna?”
Tough Luck (The Shakedown Series Book 1) Page 20