Tough Love (The Shakedown Series Book 3)

by Elizabeth SaFleur

  Sean sidled up to him.

  “Where was he?” Carragh asked.

  “His office.”

  Of course, he was. It was where he spent most of his life. “Who found him? You?”

  “No, Mary. Called an ambulance. She tried to get ahold of you. Repeatedly.”

  He swung his gaze to the man. “Are you seriously giving me attitude now?”

  “You were with her, weren’t you?”

  “Hallway.”

  The hallway was empty, but he lowered his voice anyway. “None of your damn business.”

  “I would say it is my business now. Your father is in the middle of his first business transaction with the Monroes, and you should have been there—”

  “We’re pausing the deal.”

  Sean’s lips parted. “Tomas would want it to continue.”

  He slanted his eyes down at Sean. He’d never seen the man dig in his heels so hard. “What the hell would you know?”

  “I’ve been in every meeting. Have you?”

  He hadn’t. “We’re waiting, Sean.” The ability to delay things a bit was a blessing in disguise. “No arguments.”

  Carragh waited to see if his protests—which he could see as clear as day sitting on his lips—might come out. They didn’t.

  “I’m getting some coffee,” he finally said.

  “Go home, Sean. I’ve got this.”

  He nodded once and didn’t look happy, but really, who cared right now?

  Now to secure a certain redhead. He dialed Luna’s number and was forced to leave a message. She was probably onstage, being eyed by other males. Fuck him. He had a lot to do—and all of it needed to be done at once. Jealously would have to wait another day.

  He had needed a window of opportunity to make his move, and by some damned miracle, he was getting it.

  Luna should be dead on her feet. She’d done three solo acts, two duets, and now the final night’s ensemble. The Steamboat Sally routine didn’t seem to have its usual effects tonight on the crowd. Maybe they were as bored as she was. Then again, maybe she just had better things to do—like focus her attentions on a certain man.

  She felt uncommonly good. Guess this is what being in love was like.

  She slammed her trunk shut after securing her two bags. Her costumes needed serious cleaning—especially her blue velvet dress.

  The glow of a cigarette in her periphery caught her eye. It was late, and just a few cars peppered the lot. Starr and the other dancers were long-gone.

  A few cars over, a brunette in a black coat leaned against a car, staring hard at her. She pitched the cigarette, still lit, to the pavement and pushed off. There was no mistaking she was headed Luna’s way, and as she grew closer, Luna recognized her as Nicole Monroe, the woman Carragh was supposedly not engaged to after all.

  “He’s never going to marry you, you know.”

  Here it comes. The jealous woman tirade. Luna had been embroiled in many over the years, all of which proved stupid given she’d never steal another woman’s man. It usually started when a man just looked at her onstage.

  “Who? And who said I wanted to get married?” Playing dumb seemed the wisest course.

  Nicole swayed a little on her feet. “Oh, you’re going to act stupid.” She reached into her bag and brought out another cigarette. “Well, you do strip for a living.”

  Luna’s spine wanted to snap in two. “I dance. Big difference. You need me to call you a cab?”

  Nicole snorted and lit her cigarette. “A cab? You have got to be kidding me.” She drew closer, blew smoke in her face. The cigarette twiddled between her two fingers.

  Luna kept one eye on it and one eye on Nicole. That was the thing about growing up with a drunken father who smoked. You learned fast to dodge the sparks—or the burning end of it. “It’s late, Nicole. Go home.”

  She smirked. “You know my name. Very good. Then you know Carragh and I are engaged.”

  “No, you’re not.” She should not be arguing with a drunk, green-eyed woman, but she was going to stand up for herself—and her future.

  Muscles in the woman’s jaw twitched and she and her lit cigarette breached the final inches of polite space. “If you care about him, you’ll stay away.”

  The clatter of the exit door sounded behind her. Declan filled the doorway.

  “Luna.” Declan’s voice carried across the parking lot.

  “Be right there.” She turned back to Nicole. “Good night, Nicole.”

  Nicole grasped her arm—hard—and cigarette ashes and sparks fell to her skin. “Remember what I said.”

  Luna yanked her arm free and brushed the ashes off her skin, which left a smudge. She spun on her heel and headed toward the club. There was no use in arguing with the bitchy woman.

  “Who is that?” Declan raised an eyebrow.

  “No one.” She glanced back to see Nicole getting in her car. “I was just heading out. Need something?”

  “That one of Carragh’s girls?”

  Luna shrugged.

  “I don’t suppose there is anything I can say that would make you stop.”

  He didn’t pose it as a question. They both knew the answer anyway.

  “No, I see not.” He sighed heavily. “Come on, I’ll get you to your car.”

  Her car was only fifty feet away, but she let him play the overprotective, maybe-soon-brother-in-law. An odd thought entered her mind. If he did marry Phee, he would be her family, which oddly would make her then distantly related to the MacKennas given Declan’s mother was Tomas’ sister. Talk about a tangled family web…

  She drove straight home and was cognizant enough to watch to see if drunk Nicole might be tailing her. No one seemed to care who she was—she just encountered the few anonymous drivers of a late Baltimore evening.

  When she pulled into her parking lot, Carragh’s car idled in a spot near the one she always took. He’d left her a message earlier, saying he missed her. They’d planned—on purpose—not to see one another tonight. To say she was thrilled he showed up was an understatement.

  But then he stepped out of his car, his face a mask of shock.

  “What’s wrong?” she folded herself into his chest.

  “I just need you.”

  “Then stay with me tonight.” They never stayed at her place, but it was high time they got to go wherever they damned well felt like it. There was no need to bring up Nicole’s visit. The lines around his eyes were already deep enough for one night.

  Once inside, he simply pulled her to the couch and started talking. She learned about his father’s stroke and so many details about the moves he needed to make tomorrow she couldn’t keep them straight. But it dawned on her when the clock struck 4 a.m., she trusted Carragh more than any man she’d ever trusted in her life. In fact, she may have never fully trusted a man before him—not even Declan.

  30

  “A shame to hear about your father.” Patrick Monroe at least sounded sincere. He shook the ice in his glass. “So… you taking over now?”

  “My father will be fine, and yes.” Carragh twisted his glass of vodka, not having touched a drop. “But I’d like to take a look at our agreement letters again. Make sure I won’t…” How to phrase this?

  “Fuck anything up?” Patrick Monroe finished.

  “Hmmm.” It’d been a busy few days. His father had been transferred home with strict orders to rest. Carragh, however, couldn’t afford a single moment of downtime. He had to start with unraveling anything his father had started.

  The man stood, straightened his jacket. “Out of respect for your father, I’ll slow down. One week. Then we’ll need to make other arrangements.”

  Time—there was never enough of it. “Just business, right?”

  “Always.”

  They shook hands, stiff and just barely cordial. Patrick didn’t trust him. Well, he didn’t trust the man, either.

  As soon as Patrick left his father’s study, Sean rose from his lurking position in the co
rner. “You sure this slowdown is wise?”

  “Yes.”

  He scrubbed his hair. “He’s not going to wait forever, and your father would—”

  “Would what, Sean? You seem to have an awful lot of opinions on my choices.”

  “It’s just I don’t want to see things go south, that’s all. You’ve been a little distracted lately.”

  He had been, but not for reasons Sean could guess.

  Carragh just shook his head and stepped through the set of glass French doors.

  “I sure hope she’s worth it,” Sean mumbled.

  He pivoted. “What did you say?”

  “Not like you to overthrow everything over a girl. You—”

  “I what?”

  “Family first, that’s all I’m saying.” He held up his hands in surrender.

  “Exactly what I’m doing. Taking my rightful place as head of this family.” He got six inches from the guy’s face. “And if you’ve got a problem with it, state it now. Cousin.”

  “Jesus, no need to wave your testicles around.” He backed up, dropped his head a little. “I got you, okay?”

  “You better have.”

  “I do, man. I do.”

  They stood there for a long minute until one side of Sean’s face tugged up. “So, let’s go out. Celebrate. Drinks on me.” He slapped his shoulder.

  “It’s late, Sean. See you tomorrow.” A drink was the last thing he needed. What he needed was a certain redhead.

  31

  Luna grinned wide at the adorable couple nearest the stage. She was a petite brunette who had her arm looped through his. They smiled up at her but kept glancing back at one another. So much love passed between them her heart thumped inside her ribs.

  If she’d met Carragh under different circumstances, that could be them.

  A tickle arose in her throat a little as she pranced across the stage in long, confident strides, her leg peeping through her gown’s long slit. What was up with their filtration system? The air smelled strange.

  She raised her arms wide along with Nikki, who was gesturing wildly for more applause. They’d teamed up for this new routine—a cute little number where they tried to outdo one another in their ode to Marilyn Monroe. Nikki chose to wear the famous white halter dress and have it blow up around her ears. Luna donned a pink satin gown similar to the one Marilyn wore in “Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend.”

  People were rising and moving, their faces darting around. Loud shouts in the back could be heard over the trumpet blares of the music. That’s when she realized something in the club was wrong.

  There’s a saying that gets drilled into every performer: the show must go on, no matter what. You didn’t skip rehearsals—ever. You didn’t leave the stage unless you broke something serious, and even then, you’d stay on and smile.

  Stage lights warmed the air, some nights to the point she danced through what felt like a heatwave, but tonight they were too hot. Maybe the filters needed changing? Her body rocked, and her head swam, but she had to keep going.

  The crowd just needed a little more incentive to keep their eyes where they should be—on the stage. She turned and sent her fingers to the zipper of her long pink gown. Glass breaking sounded behind her. There went more of Declan’s beloved stemware. She coughed a little as an acrid smell invaded her nose.

  A loud, piercing alarm assaulted her ears, and someone screamed behind her. She pivoted quickly. The cigar smoke had changed to something sharper, more like acid, burning her throat. Her arm lifted to gesture to the crowd and her hand parted smoke, twisting and turning in front of her.

  Her shoe slipped on the stage, and her hand reached out to grasp the red curtain behind her. A loud rip rounded, and at the top, a gray mist blew through the hole.

  More cries and shouts came from the dark, and the loud piercing got louder. It nearly split her eardrums. Before she could register what was going on, someone cried “fire.” A bright orange glow shot up from the back, like angry arms rising to the sky. And then the flames were everywhere. They climbed the walls so fast, almost like liquid.

  Her hand flew to her throat, and her vision grew hazy. Wet. A mist was falling from the ceiling—all over the patrons who were pushing and shoving their way to the back. They ducked their heads like they’d stepped outside into the rain.

  The garage doors flew up on the side. Someone had opened it, and the smoke streamed for the exit. Poison. The air tasted like poison.

  God, she was so dizzy. The floor began to tilt, and she fell to the warm floorboards of the stage.

  Nikki jetted past her, but she couldn’t move. She couldn’t see; the room had filled up with dark, gray clouds. Then everything was alive with flames—the dining tables, chairs, walls.

  She pulled in a reedy breath and little dots formed in her eyes. The curtain fringe curled up and turned black. Someone was pulling on her. Dragging her legs.

  Crackles and hissing and shouts began to fade as she stumbled into the concrete hallway. People were heading out the exit door. She lost someone’s hand. Cherry’s?

  Men were shouting just outside the door.

  A huge roll of smoke overtook the hallway, and the floor rose up and caught her as she slid down the side of the wall, the gravelly surface cutting her cheek.

  As Carragh took the highway exit, the sunset came into view. The sky was a beautiful bright orange. In fact, it looked alive. Look at him, noticing sunsets.

  He’d had enough hiding. He was collecting Luna, taking her to his bed, and he didn’t give a fuck who saw it all happen.

  His car stopped at a stoplight, and the sounds of sirens and the honks of fire trucks filled the air. So typically Baltimore. He peered out the windshield. Man, the sky was incredible. The light changed, and he rounded the corner. Blue flashing lights of a cop car spun in front of him so fast, he had to nail his brakes.

  He turned yet another corner and his brain froze. It couldn’t be.

  His body lurched forward as he slammed his car into park, angled in the street. Abandoning it, his feet pounded the pavement. But then the sound was lost by the rumbles of firetruck engines and the roar from the flames. Shakedown was engulfed in pure hellfire.

  Red and blue lights flashed through the air as the firemen held firehoses aimed at the roof. A few others were shouting at people to stay back.

  Jesus, the fire was so loud.

  Figures silhouetted in an orange glow huddled together between the trucks and cars. Some were walking aimlessly about. Some gaped at the building being consumed. Other’s faces were streamed with tears, the wet reflecting firelight.

  Shouts and loud hacking at the back door on the side of the building unstuck his legs. He moved closer until he hit a wall. The heat—God, the heat from even 100 feet away was an invisible barrier he couldn’t seem to push through. His lungs constricted from the smoke that hung in the air like thick curtains.

  A loud crack and glass burst onto the front walk; the front door had nearly exploded from the heat and pressure. The front of the building was nearly unrecognizable. The awning, long engulfed by fire, was nothing but wire sticks that sagged to the side.

  Luna. He scanned the crowd, which was futile. She wasn’t yet out of the building. He didn’t know how he knew it. Call it a sixth sense. Call it some primal tether she had on him. But she was inside.

  Fury threatened to choke his throat. “Luna?” he shouted into the blaze. His shout was lost in the roar.

  Fuck the hell raining down on the earth right now. It could scorch his skin off his body, melt his bones, but he was going inside. She might be alone, scared witless.

  With his mouth and nose in his elbow, he advanced anyway into the overwhelming putrid smoke and firestorm. Muffled shouts rang all around him. The skin on his face scorched and his eyebrows seemed on fire. His legs still moved—at least until arms banded around him, dragging him backward.

  He shouted her name again and again while he bucked out of the hold and landed a hard
blow on whoever dared to keep him from going in.

  A loud crash brought down the back part of the roof, and a bellow of ash and smoke rose to the sky.

  No time left. Fuck this demon raging in front of him. He made a laser dash to the exit door, a giant crease down the middle like it’d buckled in the heat.

  More firemen; huge yellow-clad arms were around him again, yanking him back. A rough voice screamed in his ear, “Get back.”

  Like hell. They’d have to shoot him to stop him. They still managed to yank him back a few feet. The exit door clanged to the side, and through a huge cloud of smoke, Luna’s red hair dripped over a fireman’s arm. Then Declan was being dragged between two others.

  He stumbled forward, put his hand on her head, and came away with blood. He followed them to the open door of an EMT vehicle. They had an oxygen mask on her in seconds, and someone was tugging on his hands.

  “Sir, sir, let me see.”

  He’d nearly melted the skin off his face from his attempt to get inside. The fire demon consuming what was left of Shakedown would have had to bring more than that to have stopped him. It could have melted his bones down to ash—he’d still have gone in for her.

  “Luna,” he rasped out. She blinked red-rimmed eyes up at him and reached her hand out for him.

  A loud crack sounded, and a male voice shouted to get back. He turned just in time to see flames climb the sky thirty feet out of the back of the building, and the last of the roof collapsed in a fiery crackle.

  Shakedown was gone.

  32

  Another fucking hospital. Carragh hated the smell, the squeaks of shoes on floors, the incessant sniffling and beeps. Worse, he hated knowing Luna was asleep in a room down the hall. She shouldn’t be here at all.

  After making sure she slept soundly with Sean watching over her, he strode to a different room—Declan’s. His throat still burned, he had minor burns on his face, and his left hand was numb and engulfed in bandages, but fuck it. His right hurt like a son of a bitch, but it was at least relatively free with just three striped bandages over the worst of the burns. He wouldn’t let them do more.