Except Rush?
Oh hell, she wasn’t going to think about him or about what had happened in that VIP room. Most definitely, absolutely not.
She pulled the corner of the throw, smoothing it out.
Her father never thanked her for looking after him, but she knew he appreciated it. Knew he appreciated the fact that she hadn’t moved away from home when she’d gotten older, that she’d stayed to keep him company. She could see it in his brown eyes sometimes, a certain softness. And in the way he stayed up late to make sure she was home safe.
He’d hated that she’d become a cop, and he’d put just about every obstacle he could in her path to make her change her mind. But she was stubborn when it came to getting something she wanted. And she wanted to be a cop. Beginning and end of story.
Her father jolted suddenly in his chair, even though she hadn’t made a noise, and his eyes opened, blinking as he stared at her, obviously wondering just what on earth was going on. Then the confusion cleared.
“Oh,” he said gruffly. “You’re back.”
She gave him a rueful smile. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
He shrugged, then looked down at the throw across his knees and scowled. “Hell. Why did you put that on me? I’m not that much of an old man.”
Ava bit her lip, wanting to remind him that he was pretty much acting like one right now—and a grumpy one at that. But her father didn’t respond well to teasing, especially when he was tired. “How was your evening?” she asked instead.
“Same as it always is.” He took his glasses off and folded them up, placing them on the table beside his whisky glass. Then he pushed himself out of his chair. “Right. I’d better get to bed.”
He gave her a nod—which was the Ian St. George equivalent of a warm hug—then walked over to the mantelpiece where the picture of her mother stood, reaching out and minutely adjusting it, something he did every single night. Then he turned and walked out of the room.
Ava sighed.
One night—just one—she’d like it if he asked how her shift went. What she was doing and whether she was enjoying it. But he never did. He’d been holding on to his grudge about her insisting on being a cop for the last ten years, and he’d probably keep holding on to it until he died. He hadn’t been able to stop her joining the police force, so instead he’d chosen to ignore the fact that she had.
It didn’t hurt. It really didn’t. She was used to it by now. She knew her dad loved her; she didn’t need any more validation.
Anyway, it was probably a good thing he hadn’t asked her about her shift tonight. Because then she would have had to lie to him, and he could smell a lie from a mile away. He’d have a conniption if he knew she was planning on investigating Jimmy Troy on her own. In fact, if he knew, he’d probably fire her.
He wouldn’t be wrong.
Picking up the throw, Ava began to fold it carefully.
No, he wouldn’t be wrong. Doing this on her own was stupid, reckless, she knew that, and the very antithesis of what she herself believed in. She was totally by the book, like any good cop, because that was the right way to do things, and what she was getting herself into now was definitely not the right way to do things.
But she had no choice.
Until she knew for certain that Troy had had her mother killed, she couldn’t take this to her father. She couldn’t take it to anyone. As far as the rest of the world was concerned, Lauren St. George had been shot and killed by the drug dealer she’d been in the process of arresting, and that dealer had gone to jail for his crimes, case closed. Telling people she’d had a tip-off about new information was only going to reopen old wounds, and she couldn’t do that, not on the basis of one phone call.
Laying the folded throw carefully over the arm of the couch, she glanced over at the mantelpiece and the photo sitting in pride of place, directly in the center.
Lauren St. George, with the distinctive red hair Ava had inherited pulled back under her police cap. One hand resting on the butt of her weapon, the other on her hip, she smiled for the camera. Bright, warm, open.
A week after the photo was taken, she’d been dead.
An old grief turned in Ava’s heart. She’d been seven when her mother had died, but even now, fifteen years later, the edges of that grief were still sharp. And she still remembered the terrible day when her father had come to school to get her, to give her the bad news.
His face had been gray, his brown eyes black. His smiles had always been rare, the ones he’d given only for her mother or for her.
But he’d lost his smiles altogether that day, and they had never come back.
Slowly Ava walked over to the mantelpiece and stared down at her mother’s photo. At her mother’s bright smile. She remembered that smile too and felt the loss of it every day.
If it had been Jimmy Troy who’d ordered Lauren St. George taken out, then Ava was going to make him pay. And if Rush Redmond wasn’t going to help her track that bastard down, then she’d have to try something else.
She didn’t know quite what that was going to be just yet, but give her time. She’d figure it out.
Ava reached out and touched the glass protecting the photo. “Don’t worry, Mom,” she said softly into the silence of the room. “I’ll catch him. Whoever did this to you, I’ll catch him.”
Chapter 4
Rush reached up to the shelves behind the bar, grabbing the half-empty bottle of bourbon from its position next to the small silver box that contained the last earthly remains of Joseph Redmond, aka his father. Unscrewing the cap, he sloshed some of the alcohol into a tumbler he’d put on the bar in readiness, then put the bottle down with a thump. He picked up the tumbler and held it high toward the box.
“Your very good health, you old fucker,” he muttered viciously under his breath, then threw back his head and downed the lot.
He took a certain amount of perverse pleasure in having Joe’s ashes in a box on a shelf behind the bar at Lone Star Bounty. Mainly due to the fact that he could still drink and his father couldn’t, something that would never have happened while his father was alive.
He also took pleasure in the fact that his massively built, imposing father was now the size of a tiny box and that Rush could hurl abuse at the prick whenever he liked.
Which was often.
Joseph Redmond was the reason he’d gone to jail, and Joseph Redmond was the reason he’d stayed there, forgotten by seemingly everyone in the entire goddamn universe. His father had promised he’d do everything in his power to get Rush out, but he hadn’t. He’d lied. He’d left Rush there to rot.
Not surprising, all things considered, but still, it rankled.
Rush leaned back against the bar, glowering at the box on the shelf as he poured himself another bourbon. Then he raised the glass again. “Here’s to you, you lying prick. Hope you’re having fun in hell.”
Knocking back the liquor, he closed his eyes, relishing the burn down the back of his throat and the heat glowing in his gut.
He’d never gotten to say his goodbyes to his old man; none of them had. Not his older brother, Quinn, or his younger brother, Zane. Quinn and Zane had both been in the military when Joe had died unexpectedly, while Rush had been in prison.
Rush wasn’t sorry about that. He’d run out of things to say to his father years ago.
In fact, pretty much about the time his mother had gotten so sick, eventually telling Rush a secret that had explained his father’s behavior toward him completely.
But you kept running back to him all the same. You wanted his attention, you dipshit.
“What the hell are you doing?” Quinn’s deep voice said from behind him. “Please don’t tell me you’re actually brooding.”
Rush didn’t turn around, keeping his gaze on the silver box and his hold on the tumbler of bourbon. “I’m not brooding. I’m getting trashed. There’s a difference.”
“I was going to ask you why you’re getting trashed in the mi
ddle of the day when there’s work to do, but I guess it’s a day ending in y.”
Tension gripped tight between Rush’s shoulder blades, but he ignored it. The bourbon should deal with that, just like it should deal with the pissy mood he’d been carting around with him for the last two days.
Pretty much ever since Ava goddamn St. George had left him in Sugar Daddy’s, in a pair of handcuffs with a massive hard-on, and the horrible, dirty feeling that he’d done something right for a change.
Christ, he hated doing something right. Especially when he could have done so many things wrong. Things that would have been a lot more pleasurable and way more comfortable than telling her he wasn’t going to give her his list of contacts had been.
What? Like having her give you a blow job?
Rush lifted the tumbler and took another swallow of the bourbon, trying not to think about stuff like Ava giving him a blow job. Because that was all kinds of wrong, whichever way you looked at it.
He’d never considered her as a woman he wanted to fuck, and the mere thought of it made him—
Hard. She makes you hard.
“You’re doing it again,” Quinn said.
Rush scowled, downed the rest of his bourbon, and slammed the tumbler onto the bar. Then he got rid of the scowl, plastered a fuck-you grin over his face, and turned around.
His older brother was standing at the bar, a manila folder in one hand, intense green eyes looking at him in much the same way as a bomb disposal expert looks at a suspicious package in need of being blown up.
It irritated Rush for absolutely no good reason, but he pretended he didn’t give a fuck. Because he didn’t. Absolutely no fucks were going to be given at this time. Not a single one.
“Big bro,” Rush said genially. “What the hell can I do you for today?”
Quinn didn’t grin back, almost like he knew just how much bullshit Rush was full of. “Got a job for you.”
The irritation inside Rush gathered steam. His whole life had been screwed by this goddamn job, and he didn’t want to do it anymore. Unfortunately, he’d promised the sheriff, not to mention his parole officer, that he was going to stick with it for another ten months, so he pretty much had to be here.
Of course, there was one other reason he didn’t just flip everyone the bird and get the hell out of town: Jimmy Troy and the small matter of a little grade-A revenge.
“A job.” He grinned maniacally. “How exciting.” Since he couldn’t actually be a licensed fugitive recovery agent, not with a record, not in Texas, and in order to fulfill his obligations to the sheriff, he’d been stuck with menial tasks such as answering the phones and doing paperwork. Shit work, basically.
Another bloom to add to the flower garden that was his life.
“What do you want me to do this time? Get your dry cleaning? Make your coffee? Put on a pencil skirt and pick up your pen so you can get a look at my ass? Or no, wait, you’ve already got Duchess for that, haven’t you?”
Quinn said nothing, his expression neutral. This was a game they’d been playing ever since Rush had gotten out of jail. Rush would try poking at him to get a reaction, while Quinn would try not giving him one. They’d had a different relationship as boys, with Rush trying to emulate his big brother in every way, looking up to him as only a younger brother could.
Until their mother had died and Rush learned her secret.
Until Charlie had died and he’d gone to jail.
Everything had changed after that.
Now Quinn was the douche who’d only visited him a couple of times in all the years Rush had been inside. Hell, Quinn was the reason he was in there in the first place. Quinn and his father.
Quinn, who wasn’t even his brother.
Joe Redmond, who wasn’t even his father.
“I need you for some under-the-table work,” Quinn said flatly.
Ah, okay. That was different. Quinn’s under-the-table work usually involved Rush having to use his outlaw contacts in order to track a bail skipper. Rush couldn’t take in a skip himself—hell, he wasn’t even supposed to be carrying a weapon—but it wasn’t the first time his being on the wrong side of the law worked in Lone Star Bounty’s favor.
Although he enjoyed actually doing something for a change instead of sitting around with his thumb in his ass, he still resented the fact that Quinn only gave him a job when he’d exhausted all other avenues. Almost as if Rush were more useful to him as an ex-felon than he was without a rap sheet.
It was especially enraging that Rush hadn’t even done anything wrong to get that rap sheet in the first place. No, the only reason he had a record was because he’d thought protecting his father and his big brother was the right thing to do.
Even though one man was only half related to him and the other wasn’t related to him at all and never had been.
Yeah, he’d bought his father’s “family loyalty” bullshit hook, line, and sinker. Only to find out it was precisely that. Bullshit.
“Under-the-table work,” he echoed. “Even better. You know how I love consorting with criminals. Makes me feel right at home.”
Quinn put the folder down on the bar and folded his arms. “You got a problem, Rush?”
“Nope. Just thought I’d be an asshole today.”
“You’re an asshole every day.”
Rush lifted a brow. “So why are you asking me what the problem is?”
The other man was silent, his gaze direct in a way that made Rush uncomfortable. “You seem pissed.”
“Well, it’s one of two things. It’s either that I’ve just gotten out of jail for a crime I didn’t commit…” He reached for the bottle and poured himself a third glass of bourbon. “Or it’s that we’ve run out of milk so I can’t have my usual latte.” He picked up the glass and gave Quinn another grin. “I’ll let you decide which one it is.”
There was another silence as Quinn looked at him from beneath his straight black brows, absolutely expressionless. Then before Rush could move, Quinn’s hand flicked out and knocked the tumbler out of his hand.
Bourbon flew everywhere, the tumbler shattering as it bounced off the bar and landed on the floor in a shower of broken glass.
Like a hungry lion being released from its case, anger roared up inside Rush, bolting the length of his spine, demanding an outlet. Demanding he leap over the bar, get his fingers around Quinn’s throat, and choke him. Or smash his fucking face in.
It was so quick and so sudden, it took everything he’d learned in his eight years in prison to wrestle it back into its cage and get it under control again, to ignore his clenched fingers and tight muscles, to fight down the howl of rage. To not give in to it.
Instead he looked down at the pool of alcohol and glass on the floor and laughed. “You crazy fucker,” he said. “That was good bourbon you just wasted.”
“I don’t give a shit.” Quinn’s voice was a growl. “I don’t want to see you getting wasted in the middle of the day, understand?”
Rush put his hands flat on the bar top so he didn’t reach over and throttle the self-righteous prick, then leaned on them, injecting as much give-no-fucks into his voice as he could. “Three glasses of bourbon is hardly getting wasted. Relax, bro. Dad’s in that box behind me, remember? I’m not him.”
Something flashed in Quinn’s eyes, something furious, and every muscle in Rush’s body tensed in readiness for an attack. But then Quinn blinked and the green spark of fury vanished. He pushed the folder across the bar toward Rush with a sharp, precise movement. “We need to find out where this asshole is,” he said flatly. “The usual sources are coming up with nothing. Someone’s hiding him, from the looks of things, which is where you come in.”
Rush glanced down at the folder. Anger sat heavy and acidic in his gut, mixing uncomfortably with the bourbon, making him want to pick up the fucking folder and rip it in half. Instead he flipped it open and took a quick look at the files inside.
The skip was nobody major, a low-level crim fro
m the looks of things. Except for the fact that some of his known associates were people connected to…Jimmy Troy.
Well, well, well. This could be…useful.
Because the problem wasn’t so much in tracking Troy down as it was getting close to him. The guy’s security was locked up tighter than Fort Knox, which meant if Rush wanted to confront the asshole, and he definitely wanted to confront the asshole, he was going to have to get creative about it.
“What makes you think I can find this guy?” he asked, staring down at the files.
“I thought you could always find the guy,” Quinn said. “Though if I’m wrong about you, then I guess I’ll have to figure out something else.” He reached for the file to pull it away.
“Wait.” Rush put his hand on it, holding it down. “I didn’t say I couldn’t.”
Quinn muttered something under his breath, then said, louder, “Fine. Once you get confirmation about where the skip is, let me know and Zane and I will come get him.”
His brother left without another word, and Rush was greatly tempted to grab another glass and pour himself some more bourbon just to spite the asshole.
But he didn’t. Instead he stared at the file on the bar, his brain already running through his list of contacts.
Prison had sucked, no two ways about it, especially when he’d realized after about two years that no one was going to get him out. He’d been left with a choice then: he either sat around crying into his crappy cellblock coffee and feeling sorry for himself or he stopped being a whiny bitch and found himself something to do.
Since being a whiny bitch wasn’t in his nature, he’d found himself something to do, which had been to slowly become the prison’s go-to guy for information. He’d made friends with everyone, from the low-level scum to the warden himself, through a combination of easygoing charm, brazen cockiness, and—when the situation required—cheerful and violent aggression.
Take Me Harder Page 5
