Vote Then Read: Volume I

by Carly Phillips

  Her gaze followed its glide. “I bet you could sleep ten on that one.”

  “It'd be a tight squeeze. Looks can be deceiving. Six of us spent a week during spring break on one of those boats. I’m shocked we didn't throw each other overboard by the end.”

  He hadn't thought about that in so long. His life had been divided in two—before incarceration and after. “Before” was a blurred Monet painting, overwritten with the hard, dis-jointed lines of a Picasso.

  “When was that?” She hooked her hand in his arm as they made their way down the long dock.

  The touch was unexpected and genuine and lit up his insides like a Fourth of July celebration. “Long time ago. University of Maryland.”

  “Oh, right, mechanical engineering. Must have been nice there.”

  He liked that she remembered that detail about him. “Yeah. Hey, let's sit at the end.” He held up the picnic she'd put together in a small duffel bag. Next time, he'd take her to one of those cafes across the thin waterway. She wore a pretty sundress, and she'd look good sitting in one of those little café chairs sipping an iced tea. Like a model.

  “It must be ten degrees cooler here than Baltimore.” Starr twisted her hair up into a messy knotted bun. “I swear I could live here, by the water. Baltimore's harbor is nice, but ...”

  “Nothing like this one, huh?”

  They let their feet dangle off the edge of the dock and put the picnic stuff between them.

  “Thanks for coming with me, Nathan.” She threw him one of her signature smiles, and his chest threatened to bloom damn hearts and roses like those stupid cartoons. Since they'd kissed, he couldn't stop thinking about her lips, which, just like her hands, were softer than anything he'd touched in years.

  She squinted out over the inlet. “I like watching the boats. Wondering where they've been, where they're going.”

  “Around the marina. Rich people don't want to be too far away from their assets.”

  She bumped his shoulder with her own. “So cynical.”

  “Nah, just been around.”

  “Well, if I had all the money in the world, I'd live on a sailboat.” She arched her back, her face raised to the sky.

  He could see it. Starr wearing tight little shorts and a tee-shirt, hoisting up a line with enthusiasm, the strands of her hair, red, now streaked with gold in the bright sun, twirling in the breeze—like it did now.

  “With a lot of sunscreen, of course.” She pressed a finger into her arm and watched the brief impression pink up.

  “Need more?” He pulled out a bottle tucked into the side of the bag.

  “Nope, I'm good. The SPF 100 is doing its job.” She sighed. “I'll bet if I sailed around the world, I'd finally get a tan, though Phee says it'd just be my freckles blurring together.”

  A strange sound bubbled up in his throat. Oh, a laugh. “That's one thing I haven't had trouble with.”

  “See? Men get it all. They tan. They age better than we do.” She pulled the bag closer and unzipped it. “And they can eat twice as much as we can. Hungry?”

  “Starving.”

  “See what I mean?” She mock-punched him in the arm.

  Being with her on a date wasn't exactly like he'd imagined. It was better, more relaxed. She handed him a sandwich on white bread with a telltale piece of yellow cheese and ham sticking out. Yeah, normal. None of those three-bean-quinoa-crap salads and artisanal bread he’d seen behind glass cases on his one-and-only trip to the Gourmet Foods Market.

  He bit into the sandwich. “This is good.”

  “Not gourmet, but …” She shrugged.

  “I’m more of a white bread and Velveeta cheese guy anyway.”

  She pulled out a little Tupperware container. “You don't like sweet relish in your potato salad, do you?” She raised an eyebrow at him as she handed over the container.

  “Uh, no.” Honestly, he couldn't remember. “Haven't had any in a while but it sounds great.”

  “Oh, good, then I can see you again. Why anyone wants to make potatoes sweet, I'll never know.” She fished around for two forks and some napkins.

  After the first spoonful, he decided to add potato salad to his food list and get off his fast-food diet. They ate in silence, gazing over the water. The slapping of the oily, salty water against the dock beams was calming—soothing even.

  She brushed her hands together. “Can I tell you a secret?

  The woman changed the subject like no one’s business. “Sure.”

  “Promise not to tell Phee or Luna?”

  “Promise.” He barely talked to the girls anyway.

  “Good. I feel like I need to tell someone. I got into the University of Maryland, but I didn't go, and I never told my sisters.”

  His mind whirled, trying to do the math. How old was Starr anyway? Could they have been there together? If he'd met her, would things have been different for both of them? “Why not?”

  “If they'd known, they'd have made me go. I couldn't leave them.”

  “You're close.”

  “Yes.” Her eyes softened as she gazed out at the horizon. “Our mom died young. Dad couldn't handle it, and he got abusive. We had to protect one another.”

  His protective instincts did what they always did around her—raised their fists.

  “I’ve done a lot to keep us together. Even paid off my dad once to stay away.”

  His hands curled around the end of the dock so they’d have something to do. If a woman had to pay a man to fuck off … Well, he wasn’t a man. He was a parasite. Nathan shook his head, not knowing what to say.

  “Still can’t believe he took it.” Her legs swung off the edge. “They don’t know all the details, and I need to keep it like that. They have enough on their shoulders with our history. But now Luna has gone and hired a private investigator—”

  “She did what?” Man, that was one ballsy move.

  “Yeah. And Stan—he’s the P.I.—actually found him. He’s in rehab in Rockville. We went to see him.”

  “You did what?”

  She cringed because, of course, he’d practically yelled. “Sorry.” He hung his head a little, curled his fingers into the wood even more. “You’re not going back, are you?” It took some effort to soften his voice.

  “No way. So, there, you have a secret of mine.”

  “Your secret is safe with me. Thanks for telling me.” He meant it. Even knowing more about her past, it only made him want to curl her body into him more.

  She looked over at him. “Would you tell me something? A secret, I mean.”

  He scratched at his beard, the one he hadn't shaved today because, hell, yeah, he was going to grow it back out. Starr liked it. “Sure.”

  “About you going to prison. I mean ... how it happened.”

  Just like that, his appetite and good mood deserted him because he liked this girl, and he was now going to have to tell her the worst about his life. Her anger he could handle. Hell, even hate. But, her fearing him?

  He glanced over at her, read in her eyes that she really wanted an answer. Shit, his back began to ache, and he stretched his neck as if that would buy a few seconds. He ripped a piece of his sandwich off, threw it into the water, where two ducks paddled furiously to fight over the scrap.

  “This stuff doesn't scare me.” She stared at him so hard he felt it in his bones. “My father went to prison.”

  An invisible boa constrictor started on his ribs. This woman should be around good men, not guys like that.

  “And, it's not like I haven't been friends with people who've landed there, too. For God's sake, Shakedown is ...” her voice trailed off. She faced the water, shoulders nearly up to her ears.

  “Shit,” he muttered. “Starr ...” What would he tell her? “I'm a murderer” didn't exactly roll off the tongue. He'd killed a man, for Christ's sake, and he, himself, might die given the stampede starting inside his chest. The scars on his skin he could live with, but these humiliating anxiety attacks? Worse.
r />   She squinted in the sun. “You said Ruark MacKenna wasn't a good man, so that means the brother was—”

  “Worse. They're . . .” Fuck, his heart thrashed inside his chest. “The worst kind of people,” his throat managed to get out. “Look, I went to prison for a long time. I did something I wish didn’t happen, and it was nine years of never being able to let my guard down, so I have trouble dealing with shit sometimes.”

  He threw his last bite of a sandwich into the water; his appetite vanished along with his earlier peaceful mood. He jumped to his feet, needing to stand.

  She scrambled to her feet, her dress catching a slight breeze. “Maybe I could help.”

  Help. What could she do, really? He couldn’t really take care of her, couldn’t get her one of those boats that kept sailing by, which was exactly what she deserved.

  “I only asked because Ruark MacKenna felt I should know. I understand how men work. Always trying to one-up one another. Well, I thought, you telling me, and me showing you it doesn’t matter, sticks it to him a little, ya know?”

  A stupid laugh broke from his throat. “You are one of a kind, Starr.” Because, honestly? It would feel better to be the one to tell her.

  “I don't like being in the dark. That's all.” She moved closer to him. “And, I want to help. I really like you.”

  He cleared his throat, more to punch down the rising tightness. “I’ve liked you since I first saw you.”

  “But?” She raised an eyebrow.

  “But I couldn’t act on it because I’ve still got stuff to deal with, stuff that makes it hard to see a way forward with someone as respectable as you. I get these anxiety attacks. And I want you safe …”

  She inched even closer, her scent reaching his nostrils. “I just thought you were shy. But you should know I don’t scare easily.”

  He huffed out a little air at that. “I won’t involve you in my mess.”

  “Or you don’t want to get involved at all.”

  No, he didn’t, because the more she knew, the more she’d get drawn toward the darkness that the MacKennas brought.

  She broke eye contact and gazed out at the water. “Sorry, Nathan. It's just been a crappy week, and I tend to push when I feel control slipping ... I don't know. Just sorry. Forget it.”

  He only wished he could forget. She helped there, reminding him of who he used to be—concerned more about passing grades and getting laid and how to get out of Sunday dinners at his folks. Stupid matters. Peaceful things.

  Shit, he’d give anything to be that guy again—mostly for her.

  Instead, he stood on a dock holding himself together, knowing he was just a few words away from unleashing a firestorm in him. He didn’t want to admit this weakness—not to this woman who stood there all clean and full of sunshine and who, quite frankly, needed him to be strong. But truth was, if there ever was a time to man up, this was it. So he just let it out. “I was working for Declan while at school. Daniel MacKenna, he ...” There, he’d said his name.

  She tilted her head at him.

  “He and his family got into business with Declan. You know he used to sell antiques, high-end shit? He was kind of famous for it. I moved crates for him, basic stuff. One day, a crate busted open. The MacKennas did import-export, only what they were importing and exporting—”

  “Drugs?”

  She caught on quickly. “Declan just about blew a gasket when I told him. Using his precious vases and lamps as shipping containers for heroin wasn't exactly the partnership he had in mind. And, then …”

  He was going to have to keep going, or he might never be able to tell this story again. “One Saturday night, I was in the back.” He could almost smell the sawdust and raw wood crates in the air and feel the weight of the metal crowbar in his hand, cold and solid. “I was opening crates when I heard men shouting. It was Declan and Daniel. Fighting about something. Thought I should go and check it out. When I rounded the corner, Declan was on the floor.”

  He rubbed his sternum as if that would ease any of the tightness, and open up some room for more air. “Daniel stood over him, adjusting his cheap-ass suit coat.” Just like Ruark’s.

  Nathan ran his fingers through his hair. The dock pitched, swayed. Starr's hand reached out as he tried to right himself. “I intervened. Daniel ...”

  God he needed to ground himself before the next part. He counted four ducks. Tuned into the rhythmic slap-slap-slap of the water mixed with the din of diners across the channel. Sucked in the salty air mixed with boat fuel. He would not dissolve into the out of control animal that took over his body and mind with ungoverned anger. He could do this—he could confide in this woman.

  She squared herself to face him, her eyes wide, those red curls floating in the breeze. “Nathan.” Her voice mixed with the slap of water against boats, seagulls, and wind rushing in his ears. “Nathan, don’t. You don’t have to talk about it.” Her hand wrapped around his bicep.

  Her touch was all it took for the past to break through.

  Memories rained down so hard, he nearly drowned in them. Still, his damned mouth wouldn't stop. “Declan was on the floor unconscious, and Daniel just kept hitting him and hitting him. I tried to stop him. He fell and hit his head.” Yeah, after the crowbar in his hand had done its work. “The MacKennas cried murder and ...” A crazy laugh bubbled up in his throat.

  There was so much blood on the concrete floor, he'd nearly slipped.

  “A few weeks later, I was wearing orange in federal prison.”

  A hand tightened on his arm, and he stumbled backward. It's just Starr, he told himself. Just Starr. No one’s about to jump his ass, and even if they did, he could take them. That had been the problem—he’d fought back every beat down he’d gotten in prison, and that only made them try harder to kill him.

  “I spent a lot of time in the prison hospital because the MacKennas made sure I paid, even on the inside.”

  She sucked in a sharp breath. “Are they the Irish Mafia or something?” she asked lightly—awkwardly—as if trying to lighten up the mood.

  “Worse.” His arms and legs started to ache at the memory of the regular, surprise beatings, and sudden solitary confinements. “The MacKennas paid to have me beaten just short of death, gave me time to recover, and then did it again—for nine years. Well, their plan to inflict as much damage as possible worked. I am damaged.” Was he ever, his skin was laced with scars from knives, surgeries on his face, his shoulders, his knees, and his back.

  She'd grown still, and her beautiful blue eyes shone in the sunlight. Look at those eyes, he told his brain. Forget the hammering in his heart, the rush in his blood drowning everything else out. Slow his breathing. He would not fall apart in front of this woman.

  “You tried to stop him from beating up Declan, and they sent you to prison where you got beaten up? Those fuckers.”

  His chest ripped open, and with it, the truth. “Because, to them, I’m a murderer.” Technically, what he'd done might have been classified as self-defense, and with a better lawyer, he might have made his case, but with the entire MacKenna family pushing for the murder charge ... Well, a man would have had to have been a Rockefeller to go up against that clan's attorneys.

  “You saved Declan.”

  He swallowed hard. “I wasn’t prepared and ...” How did he say “I was too young and stupid to understand relying on a public defender only meant one thing—jail time” because even thinking it fed the tornado twisting inside his body. He shrugged. “Hey, at least I didn't get the death sentence.”

  He turned away from her. The madness in his chest was trying to pull him down. He would not let it—not here, not with her.

  “But Declan. Didn't he—”

  “Try to turn it around? Yeah, except he was in a hospital. Medically induced coma.”

  “He could have saved you. Testified.” Her voice was vehement, pained.

  “No one could have saved me from the MacKennas.”

  “But when you w
ere inside, Declan—”

  “Never knew what went down on the inside.” He didn’t involve the man because what could he have done? Instead, he’d shut down, gone blank, and fought back as hard as he could. His bones had healed. His mind—not so much.

  The boards under his feet creaked and groaned. He stood silently, fighting for control, as Starr hurriedly gathered sandwich wrappers and containers and stuffed them into the small bag.

  “Let’s go.” She grasped his hand and tugged gently. She coaxed him away from the end of the pier, not really seeing where they were going. But did it really matter?

  19

  Starr climbed into the driver's seat. No way this man could drive. “Nathan, let's go to your place.”

  “Can't do that.”

  No one could breathe this hard and be okay, and his eyes—God, his eyes—glazed over with wild agony and fury. He shook with whole-body tremors, and sweat ran down his forehead as if he was fighting a battle with himself.

  She'd caused this. She'd resurrected his pain because she couldn't stand a little mystery. She’d just had to push. She'd had a crappy week with her sisters, and she let it influence her judgment. She was too impatient, always wanting more, right now. Well, she did want something more. She wanted this man, this very good man, to have some peace.

  She scooted over to his side and straddled him, cradled his face. “Nathan. Nathan. Is this an anxiety attack?”

  He nodded stiffly as his fists curled into the seat edge. “Let me be.”

  “Hey, look at me. I'm right here.” She didn't know if that would help, but he looked like he might explode. What did they say about people about to launch into anxiety? Touching could help, so she touched one of the parts of him she’d thought about the most.

  She brought her lips to his, his five o'clock shadow roughening her skin. His breath pushed into her mouth. His lips didn’t respond to her kiss, but what else could she do?

  “What are ... you ... doing?” His voice halted, the ferocious thundercloud behind his eyes growing.

  “If you say you don't want me, I won't believe you, and you promised you only say what you mean.” She'd do anything to bring him back to the present, including stripping everything off, right here in daylight, in the middle of the marina parking lot. Make him feel whole—that’s what he needed.