Ruthless King

by Meghan March

  I took it one day at a time, making sure all the bills got paid, and settled Brett’s affairs. With the big payday from the fundraising event coming soon, I thought we would finally have some room to breathe.

  But no.

  Now things are even worse.

  My fingers itch to pick up the phone and call my dad for guidance, but I know I can’t. If what Brett did would give Dad a heart attack, what Mount suggested would cause heart failure. And if it didn’t, he would show up with a shotgun and try to hunt Mount down, and based on Magnolia’s information, we’d all be dead.

  So, I will not be telling my parents, and I sure as hell won’t be telling my little sisters. Imogen is finishing her PhD, and Jury is partying it up somewhere exotic, working behind or on top of a bar somewhere, just enough to fund her playgirl lifestyle.

  My decision is clear—my family can never know about any of this.

  I drop my bag on the worn blue velvet chair in my living area and stride toward the kitchen, intent on finding another bottle of whiskey since I left the other with Magnolia.

  I’m halfway across the tile floor when I freeze.

  A copy of the promissory note is on the counter. I know it’s a copy because the original is in my bag.

  He was here.

  Torn between making a run for it, but remembering the car parked outside, I snatch the document off the chipped Formica. Something metal pings off the tile as another piece of paper floats to the floor.

  I scan the faded tile and stained grout, not seeing anything but the note with two words written in a bold hand I recognize immediately.

  * * *

  Six days.

  * * *

  I leave the note where it is, fighting another shiver of fear as I drop to my knees to search for whatever else he left.

  I crawl toward the coffee table and something glints in the afternoon sunlight near the edge of one leg. I dive for it, but my fingers shake so violently I can barely pick it up.

  No way. Impossible. It can’t be.

  I hold the circle of gold up to the light and read the inscription inside my dead husband’s wedding band. Ice water takes the place of blood in my veins.

  How? Why?

  I bolt for the chair, grab my bag, and lunge for the door. When I’ve finally unbolted it, it swings open and I’m ready to sprint for my car.

  Until I crash into a solid male body.

  I look up, expecting to see Mount, but it’s not. Why would he bother with such a menial task if he’s busy running an empire?

  Instead, it’s my super, Phil.

  “Everything okay, Keira?”

  I want to scream nothing is okay, but I shake my head and mumble, “Fine. Great. Thought I forgot to lock my car. Gotta go check it.”

  Phil nods. “Can’t be too careful in this neighborhood.”

  He moves on down the hall and I lock my door behind me, although part of my brain is wondering why I do it when it’s clear locks aren’t a deterrent to Mount or whoever he sent.

  When I burst out of the building, my gaze shoots across the street. The black BMW is gone, and in its spot is a silver Prius.

  Was it Mount in the BMW? Or someone who reported to him?

  The words on the note flash in my head.

  Six days.

  The only thing I’m going to figure out in six days is how to drive myself completely crazy.

  Once I lock myself in my car and jam the key in the ignition, I inhale deeply and release the breath slowly, attempting to calm my hammering heart.

  My instincts scream at me to run, but where the hell do I go?

  Mount was in my office at the distillery. He was in my apartment. Nothing feels safe anymore.

  Maybe that’s part of his plan? He wants me helpless, like I have no options. Weak. Powerless. Under his control.

  You’ve underestimated me, Mount. You might get me, but I won’t come cowering before you.

  In my shitty Honda Civic, I make a vow to myself.

  I will not run. I will not hide. And I sure as hell won’t put anyone else I care about in danger by bringing that monster to their doorstep.

  I yank the key out of the ignition and get out of my car and lock it again, retracing my steps, feeling steadier with each moment. Once I’m inside, I find a bottle of Seven Sinner’s single barrel in the cabinet and a glass. I set everything—both versions of the promissory note, Brett’s wedding band, and my six-day warning—out in front of me.

  Tonight, I’m going to reread every word of my death sentence, and then I’m getting drunk.

  Keira

  Going to work with a hangover sucks, especially when you’re the boss. In this case, I had no option. Passing out was the only way I was getting any sleep last night. It took a bottle and a half of whiskey to do the trick. High tolerance and all.

  As I go through the motions, my employees pretend not to notice that something’s off with me. Even Temperance gives me a wide berth and doesn’t mention anything about the fundraiser.

  By lunchtime, I feel like I might finally be able to stomach food, and I climb the stairs to the top floor of the distillery where we have an incredible restaurant whose fare is surpassed only by the excellent 360-degree view of the city. I designed the remodel after I saw pictures of the Gravity Bar at the Guinness Storehouse in Dublin, not that I’ve had the pleasure to go there myself.

  With Brett’s debt and Mount’s threats hanging over me, maybe now I never will.

  The lunch crowd in the restaurant is light. I nod at a trio of businessmen, and make small talk for a few minutes with a couple of ladies who ask about my mom and how my folks are liking it in Florida.

  “They say they’re never coming back, but we’ll see.”

  “Living the good life. It’s so wonderful they were able to keep the business in the family and still retire. It’s tough to manage that these days.”

  “It really is.” I force a smile onto my face. “Have a wonderful lunch.”

  When I duck into the kitchen and smile at Odile, our head chef, she shakes her head.

  “I’ll have someone run your regular down to your office. No reason for you to wait in my hot kitchen while I make it. You got me catering to whatever those fancy rich people want for their event; no reason I shouldn’t be catering to you too.”

  “You are a goddess, and those fancy rich people keep us all employed.”

  She responds with a pshhh. “You do that by force of will alone. It’s that stubborn Irish in you. Now, you need to learn how to use the phone and call up to place an order like I would expect the CEO to do.”

  I can’t tell her I had to get out of my office because Mount’s scent still hangs in the air, and every time I close my eyes, I picture him sitting behind my desk or trapping me in the corner.

  “Tomorrow. I swear.”

  I skip the elevator again in favor of the stairs. It’s basically the only exercise I get, and the elevator takes me longer to get back to the basement.

  I’m not sure about other distilleries, but in my family, the basement office signifies that the CEO learned the business from the bottom up, and serves as a reminder to always stay humble and grounded.

  I’ve always loved the basement for that reason, down to the faint scent of mildew that clings to the old wooden beams. But now it feels foreign and forbidding.

  When I reach my office, I feign my familiar confidence as I reach for the doorknob, telling myself there’s no reason to fear going inside. But as soon as I open the door, I’m proven wrong.

  My desk lamp was off when I left, and now it’s on. In the pool of light is another note.

  * * *

  Five days.

  * * *

  Beneath it is the framed picture of my sisters and me that normally hangs on the wall behind the desk.

  My instinct is to freeze in terror again, but instead I force out a declaration from between gritted teeth.

  “You don’t scare me, Mount. I refuse to cower.”

 
This time, there’s no answer from the darkness.

  * * *

  The notes keep coming.

  Four days, with a picture of Magnolia and me from Sacred Heart taken in ninth grade. It was left on the front seat of my locked car.

  Three days, with a copy of the picture of my employees and me from our company newsletter. This one is rolled up and stuffed in my employee mailbox.

  Two days, with a snapshot of me in my own freaking restaurant, tacked onto a box of copy paper in the storeroom across from my office.

  One day, with a photo taken from a distance of my parents on the golf course wearing the same clothes they’d had on in the selfie they posted on Facebook yesterday. I found it in my purse, which I keep in the locked drawer of my filing cabinet, when I needed my credit card earlier.

  Mount made his point, and I’m about to go crazy waiting for whatever is going to come next.

  I throw down my pen, unable to concentrate on a damn thing, even wistfully reading the itinerary of the Global Whiskey and Spirits Convention I won’t be going to next week in Dublin because Seven Sinners can’t afford extra pens, let alone such an outrageous expense. Maybe next year. If I’m still alive.

  I’m sick of waiting. Sick of wondering. I pick up my phone and call the only person I can talk to about this disaster. “How do I find him?”

  It’s not a request, it’s a demand, and Magnolia is quick to reply.

  “You don’t find him, Ke-ke. He finds you.”

  “But he sent me a picture of my parents that was taken yesterday.”

  “I told you this guy doesn’t fuck around.” Her voice is quiet.

  “Well, I’m sick and tired of waiting. I’m done. Done. If he wants me, then he’s going to get me, and I promise he’s going to wish he hadn’t.”

  Silence hangs in the air for a few beats. “You need to simmer down with that redheaded temper you got going on, girl. This isn’t a game where you get to make the rules. I told you how it works. He calls the shots or—”

  “Or people die,” I say, interrupting her. “I get it. He made his point, and I’m done. I want it over with. Just tell me where the hell I can find him.”

  “Ke-ke—”

  “Don’t tell me you have no idea, because I won’t believe you.”

  Her sigh is long and put-upon. “I don’t know for sure, and that’s not a lie. But I have heard if you go to a very specific bar on Bourbon and you give a very specific code word, someone will vet you and you might be taken to him—if he wants to see you. It’s like the queen of England; you can’t just demand an audience.”

  “He better want to see me. That’s what he wants right? Me?”

  “Think about this before you do something stupid. The bar and code-word shit is all rumor and hearsay, and for the record, I wouldn’t try it if I were you. Just wait. You’ve got one more day and he’ll make his move.”

  It’s like Magnolia hasn’t known me since I was ten. Patience has never been my strong suit.

  “No. No more waiting. I’m going on the offensive. Tell me where I need to go and what I need to say.”

  “This is a bad idea, Ke-ke.”

  My heart pounds as a lump rises in my throat, almost blocking the words. Maybe it’s my common sense trying to intervene. Too bad. I swallow and make my demand one more time.

  “Just tell me, Mags.”

  For a few beats, I don’t think she’s going to tell me, but she finally rattles off the information.

  “Think about what you’re doing, girl. This isn’t a bear you want to poke. You have a lot of people on the line here, and I’m not saying that to be selfish. I’m prepared to meet my maker any day of the week, but I’d just as soon prefer it not be today.”

  I suck in a deep breath and exhale slowly. “I’ll let you know what I decide.” I disconnect the call before she can try to talk me out of it again.

  Lowering my cell to the desk, I stare down at the promissory note that has ruled my every moment for the last six days. The promissory note that will make me into a whore to pay my cheating bastard of a dead husband’s debt.

  A gurgle of hysterical laughter escapes my throat. It sounds so ridiculous. I never bought into the bullshit concept that life is supposed to be fair, but how is it right that this was dished out on my plate? I think back to the time I heard Mount’s voice, when he was in this very office speaking with Brett. It wasn’t the date they signed the note, that’s for certain. It was after.

  Maybe they argued about payment?

  I wish I’d been a better eavesdropper for once in my life, because maybe I’d have some kind of ammunition for when I face the devil in his lair.

  All I can remember is the murmur of Brett’s voice and the anger in the stranger’s tone. That doesn’t help me at all. So, now I have the name of a bar and a secret password. Practically speakeasy-style straight out of New Orleans during Prohibition when my great-granddaddy was selling bootleg whiskey to keep the family fed.

  Kilgores have always done whatever it takes to survive, and that trait carried through to me.

  But does survival mean waiting one more day, or going to track him down?

  I heft my purse over my shoulder and walk out of my office, still uncertain of my course of action.

  Keira

  I decide to wait a day before doing anything crazy. After that, all bets are off because it’s D-Day. Due day.

  “You want me to tattoo what exactly on your ass?” The bearded giant stares at me with more shock in his eyes than I would have expected for a New Orleans tattoo parlor by the name of Voodoo Ink.

  “It’s not like you care, is it?”

  He leans forward, resting his thick, inked forearms on the counter. “Look, lady, for starters, I’m booked out for the next six months solid.”

  I cross my arms and stare at him like I’m not impressed, but I actually am. Who knew this place was so good?

  “It can’t take you more than fifteen minutes to do it. You have to be able to fit that into your busy schedule.”

  Someone laughs from the back, and heels click against the black-and-white checkered floor toward the front of the shop. A gorgeous woman with Bettie Page bangs dyed bright blue assesses me.

  “The only reason a woman wants Property of No Man tattooed on her ass is because of a bad breakup.”

  “The kind of breakup that ends with a cheating husband dead in a burned-out car in the Ninth Ward?” I eye them both, my chest twinging to put it out there so heartlessly, but facts are facts.

  The man pushes off the counter, and the woman’s eyes widen. Their changed demeanors make me think they know exactly who I am now. Brett’s death definitely made the eleven o’clock news.

  “I’m afraid we won’t be able to help you today, and I have a feeling most of the other shops in town are going to give you the same response,” he says, his rough voice a little softer.

  The woman steps around the counter. “How about we go grab a cup of coffee next door, and you can do that ‘spilling your guts to a perfect stranger’ thing to get it off your chest without making a terrible mistake of getting a bad tattoo you’ll regret for the rest of your life.”

  It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her the rest of my life probably won’t be very long, but instead I follow the swish of her retro pink dress, with black crinoline peeking out from beneath the skirt, as she leads me out of the tattoo shop.

  The coffee place next door is really a donut shop called Your Favorite Hole. I’ve never stopped there because every donut I eat goes straight to the ass I wanted tattooed, and it’s already a tight fit in most of my jeans.

  The woman orders for both of us, not bothering to ask me what I want. The barista whips into action, serving up the drinks in record time with a bag of donut holes.

  “That one’s for you.” She nods down at one cup and takes the other and the donuts to a table.

  I pick up my drink and follow her.

  “I’m Delilah, by the way,” she says, holding out h
er free hand.

  “Keira.”

  “Kilgore, right? I figured after your story. Not many people can duplicate that mess. But, honestly, I thought I recognized you before. You make bomb-ass whiskey. I love the single malt, and that cocktail you make with lemonade and a sprig of mint. Seriously, to die for.” She pauses. “And for the record, I’m really sorry for your loss. No matter what, that sucked.”

  For some reason, the latent urge to cry rises, but I shove it back down. Brett has already gotten more than enough of my tears.

  Instead, I simply say, “You have no idea how much.”

  She takes a sip of coffee before lowering it to the table. “I believe you. So, are you going to tell me what spawned the tattoo idea? Because you’d be surprised by how many good stories I could tell you that start with us refusing to tattoo someone’s ass.”

  For a single moment, I consider spilling the story to her of the disaster I’m in, but I can’t risk dragging another innocent person into the fray. Or more accurately, the killing zone.

  “Maybe I just feel the need to declare my independence,” I say vaguely.

  “Which implies you feel like someone is trying to take it from you.”

  I shoot her a sharp look for her astute observation. “Are you a tattoo artist or a counselor?”

  She laughs and digs into the bag for a donut hole. And good Lord, do they smell delicious. Cinnamon and sugar and all that delicious pastry. I’m tempted to grab one, but hold myself back by sipping the coffee. It tastes a lot like the smell of the donuts.

  “I’m a little of both most days. I’ve seen a lot of shit. Heard a lot more shit.” She scans the room as though checking to make sure no one is eavesdropping before she continues. “I know you don’t know me, but I’m going to give you a piece of advice. I’m assuming you’ve found yourself in a not-so-good situation, especially given the car with the blacked-out windows parked across the street, and the guy who’s pretending not to watch you.”