Page 41 of Beautiful Rush
And yet, a part of me still couldn’t bear the thought of my father, a man I used to adore and worship, behind bars. In a prison-issued jumpsuit. His freedom revoked. His world confined to four walls. Where was my mother? I had no idea. I had given her my new cell phone number, but she hadn’t called me. She probably never would. A few weeks ago, I tried to call her on her birthday, but she’d changed her number without bothering to let me know. Maggie Shaughnessy was no longer reachable.
If my father served his full sentence, he wouldn’t get out of prison until he was eighty-eight years old.Eighty-eight.
“Where? Where’s the prison?” I asked, knowing that he’d been held in a federal prison in Atlanta, awaiting his sentencing. I tried to picture him being transported to another facility with other prisoners, but I couldn’t. In my mind, he was still wearing a suit, smoking his Cuban cigars and drinking whiskey from a crystal tumbler.
“Virginia,” Killian said.
“Virginia,” I repeated. What did it matter where he was? It wasn’t like I’d ever visit him in prison.
I stood up, intent on getting out of this park and putting this whole thing behind me. All I wanted to do was get back to work and buff that ‘Cuda until it shone. Make the outside of that car so perfect that nobody would ever guess it had been riddled with rust spots. “I need to get back to work. Thanks for stopping by to let me know.”
“Keira…” Connor said, his voice filled with concern. He and Killian fell in step with me. I wanted to sprint, but they acted like they were out for a Friday morning stroll and they had all the time in the world.
“I’m okay. Really. It’s not like we didn’t expect this. We were all there in that courtroom.”
“I know. But thinking something and hearing the reality of it are two different things.”
“It’s all good.” I flashed them a smile, not fooling either of them for a minute. “I’m going to be okay. I promise.”
“I know you will,” Killian said, giving my shoulder a little squeeze.
After they hugged me goodbye and left me outside Atlas Motors, I slid my phone out of my pocket and responded to Z’s text message.
Keira: Count me in. I’ll be there tonight.
* * *
Deacon
“Thirty-four years,” Dmitri said, tossing the newspaper onto the bench next to me. He lit a cigarette and blew smoke out his nose like a tyrannical dragon while Leon stood with his arms crossed, his dark shadow blocking my sun.
I picked up the newspaper and pretended to read the article while I drank my coffee. I’d already read about it on my phone earlier. A photo of Ronan Shaughnessy was splashed across the front page of the New York Times. Either it was a slow news day, or his notoriety merited that kind of exposure. Everyone loved to read about the fall of beautiful, dangerous people who had lived glamorous lives. Most likely he’d made it into the headlines because of his ties to New York City, and the bigwigs he’d had in his back pocket when he ran a nightclub in Hell’s Kitchen. Back then, Seamus Vincent had been working the beat in Hell’s Kitchen, taking kickbacks from Ronan Shaughnessy. He sold his soul to the devil and the devil ran off with his wife. Karma, what a bitch. My eyes skimmed the words, but my mind was on Keira. I needed to see her, needed to know how she was taking this. My gut feeling told me she wasnotokay.
I set down the newspaper as Dmitri ground out his cigarette and lit another one.
An elderly woman took a seat on the bench next to mine and Dmitri jerked his chin, indicating that we should walk. As we passed one of the steel-and-glass waterfront buildings, I caught my reflection in the glass. In a wifebeater and black athletic shorts with scruff on my jaw and the longer hair, I barely recognized myself. That was happening more often now. I’d become Kosta, a two-bit drug dealer. A guy with a shaky moral compass and nothing to lose. If the Ramsey’s hadn’t adopted me, this could have been my life.
Dmitri, Leon and I walked to the end of the pier, the smoke from his cigarette hanging in the heavy air. The sunshine was burning through the clouds and the temperature was in the nineties, the kind of day when people confined to concrete jungles were prone to madness.
“We have a mole,” he said, his voice low and steely.
My heart skipped a beat, but I leaned against the railing, my pose relaxed as he stared at me from behind his black sunglasses.
I laughed. “You need to stop reading the news. You said the same thing when that rapper got sentenced. Leon, tell him to chill out.”
Leon grunted, failing to see the humor. Tree trunk arms crossed, his eyes bored into mine, trying to get a read on me. I was too good at lying. He’d never get an accurate read. My life depended on it.
“What makes you think we have a mole?” I asked Dmitri, deliberately choosing the word ‘we,’ a reminder that we were on the same team. “We haven’t had any problems. Unless there’s something you’re not telling me,” I accused.
Lie, deny, and counter-accuse.
He took a deep drag of his cigarette, smoking it to the filter before he tossed it into the East River.Asshole. “I ain’t going to prison. No fucking way.”
Your ass is going to prison. I can guarantee it.
“You might want to think about making some changes to your lifestyle,” I offered helpfully. “Ditch the Lambo. It’s a cop magnet. You don’t need to draw that kind of attention to yourself.”
Dmitri was flashy and flaunted his ill-gotten wealth. It was his tragic flaw, the reason he’d come onto our radar. He also talked too much. Great for me and the field team, but not a smart move for a criminal trying to keep a low profile.
