Ciaran (Bourbon & Blood) Read online

  Ciaran

  Bourbon & Blood, Book 1.5

  Seraphina Donavan

  Contents

  Title

  Untitled

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  CIARAN

  A Bourbon & Blood Novella

  by

  Seraphina Donavan

  Copyright © 2015 Seraphina Donavan

  * * *

  This material may not be duplicated or distributed to others without express permission of the author. E-books are nontransferable and cannot be sold, shared or given away, as those actions are copyright infringement. This book is a work of fiction and any similarity to persons living or dead, or events real or fictional, is purely coincidental.

  Prologue

  Neon lights advertising check cashing, female dancers, and adult novelties winked from the dirty windows of the rundown buildings that lined the street. The unmarked police vehicle pulled up outside the dingy bar off Winchester Road, and people scattered like cockroaches. Even without the flashing lights and logo, the vehicle’s origins were obvious. The blacked-out windows and flashing neon panties that adorned the building gave little doubt as to what sort of establishment it was and the fact that the car clearly did not belong. Lexington, Kentucky wasn't the biggest city, but it had it's fair share of crime, most of it drug related.

  He did not want to be there. It was too risky, too damned dirty, and too close for comfort. If someone saw him, he was screwed. Cops, even dirty ones, had images to uphold. Getting out of the car, he approached the door and the sketchy doorman. “I need to see Sergei.”

  “Ten dollars,” the doorman replied, his thick Russian accent difficult to decipher.

  Grabbing the man by the jacket, he hauled him up until they were nose to nose. “Do I look stupid to you? Walk in and get caught on camera? Not fucking likely, genius. Get Sergei out here or, so help me God, I’ll knock every goddamn rotten tooth out of your head.”

  He released the man abruptly, sending him sprawling onto the pavement. Without a backward glance, he headed to the small alley between the club and the seedy auto service next door. At the very least, he wouldn’t be out in the open where any asshole could recognize him. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he produced a pack of cigarettes and lit one of them. He took a deep draw and then coughed. The things were killing him, but something had to.

  After several minutes had passed, the back door of the bar opened, and a tall, thin man emerged into the alley and walked toward him. “You’re not supposed to be here,” he said, his accent still thick but less pronounced than the doorman’s.

  “We’ve got problems,” he replied. “Crawford busted your mule and he sang like a damn bird.”

  Sergei shrugged. “He’s unimportant.”

  The cop rolled his eyes. “He was until he sold out Grigori. Yeah. That fucker is in custody now, and your supply chain went to shit…not to mention the obvious fact that Grigori is connected to me. They dig too much on this and we all go to hell. Clearing it up any for you?”

  The man uttered a curse in Russian. “Does he know about you? If he does, it’s too late. We’re fucked.”

  “Not yet, but if we don’t do something, he will soon enough.”

  “How do you suggest we distract him?”

  The cop leaned back against the block wall of the building. “There’s only one thing that asshole cares about more than he cares about being a cop…that’s his bitch of a sister.”

  The Russian chuckled. “She turned you down?”

  She had, but that was beside the point. “Whatever it takes. We need to divert his attention. Handle her. She’s the distraction we need!”

  “Define handle,” Sergei demanded.

  “Use your fucking imagination! This ain’t kindergarten, and I’m not holding your goddamn hand! Jesus, even the fucking criminals lack initiative these days!” He punctuated his diatribe by tossing his cigarette to the ground and crushing it under the heel of his shoe.

  Sergei shook his head. “You want me to kidnap her? Where the hell am I supposed to hide a cop’s sister? Here? You’re crazy.”

  “I never said kidnapping, or killing. That stays on the back burner for now. Just hurt her enough to distract him and to let him know she’s not safe as long as he keeps playing boy-scout.”

  “You want her shot, stabbed, beaten, raped? You wanted to the boss here, be the fucking boss and issue an order,” Sergei snapped. “Chertovski mudak!”

  “Call me a fucking asshole again and I’ll rip your damn throat out,” he said. “Yeah. I might not speak Russian, but I been around you fuckers enough to have picked up a few words. I didn’t say how, Sergie, and I don’t fucking care. Make it happen, or we all go down together.”

  He didn’t wait for the Russian’s answer but walked away, back to his unmarked car. He had an alibi to establish.

  1

  Loralei Crawford sighed wearily as she turned off the lights in her small and on-the-verge-of-failing boutique. Expensive and exclusive, she’d opened at the right time to hit all the traffic of people coming into town for the equestrian games. She’d gotten too cocky during the boom phase, and now she was dealing with the bust.

  A heavy sigh escaped her and filled the small space. It was eight o’clock on the dot, and all she wanted was to get home to her dog and a DVR-ed episode of The Walking Dead. She could lust over Daryl’s arms and forget about the real world for a bit.

  It had been a long, slow day, and other than a few online inquiries, she’d sold not a single thing. The situation wasn’t dire yet. She’d done well enough during derby and prom season to get through the lean, late summer months. Fall and winter would be slower still, with the possible exception of a boost around New Year’s Eve and Valentine’s Day. Then two more brutal months until prom season started again.

  To say the very least, it was an eye opener about the pitfalls of owning one’s own business. She’d spent the day scrolling through Facebook and playing Candy Crush. If she were honest with herself, she’d admit it wasn’t the slow sales that had her down. It was him. Two months since she’d seen him or heard from him. No calls, no texts. It was like he’d just dropped off the face of the planet. It pissed her off that she couldn’t get him out of her head, even though she’d told herself a hundred times it was for the best. She’d never really believed it would work out. He’d been too charming, too sexy, and just too much. Ciaran Darcy was the perfect man to have an affair with, but not a relationship.

  It might have been two months since she’d even laid eyes on him, but she was no closer to getting over him than she had been the day he just walked out. Their relationship hadn’t been a particularly long one, but the three months they’d been together had been enough for her to know that he was The One. He made her feel like no one else ever had, but it had apparently been one-sided. He’d left without a backward glance.

  Disheartened, Loralei wanted nothing more than to get home, put on a pair of yoga pants, and dive headfirst into a tub of Graeter’s mint chocolate chip ice cream. It wouldn’t improve the situation, but it would do a hell of a lot for her mood. Since she could do all of that while cuddling her behaviorally challenged pug, Churchill, it would be a win for them both.

  Backing through the door, juggling bags and keys, Loralei didn’t see the man who emerged from the white van parked in the alley. It wasn’t until she felt the force of the blow at her shoulder, a blow that sent her stumbling back into the shop to sprawl on the floor, that she even realized something was wrong.

/>   Rolling onto her back, stunned and disoriented, Loralei looked up at the strange man who had forced his way into the shop. His long blond hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and he had intricate tattoos on his neck, though she couldn’t see what they were behind his collar.

  Details. She took in the leather jacket he wore, the rings and chains, the exaggerated bone structure. All this was running through her mind, her brother, Matt’s, lessons and lectures about being a good witness drilled into her over the years, as she scrambled backwards.

  Her hand landed on the key ring she’d dropped a moment earlier. Keys wouldn’t be the most effective weapon, but at least they were something. Gripping them, allowing the sharp points to protrude between her fingers, she knew she would only have one opportunity and it would have to count. When her back pressed up against the counter, she braced herself for what was coming.

  The man stood over her and pulled a wicked-looking knife from his belt. “I have a message for your brother.” He had a thick accent from somewhere in Eastern Europe, though she’d never be able to narrow it down beyond that.

  Loralei clutched the keys tighter, feeling them dig into her own hand. “Well, he isn’t here, asshole!”

  “It is okay. You will be the message,” the man said with a chuckle. The sound was terrifying. It might have been about “business”, but it was clear to her then that he enjoyed his work.

  He was on her in an instant, but Loralei hadn’t grown up on a horse farm, wrestling with her brother and his best friend, Grant, for nothing. She brought her knees up, catching him in the gut and sending the first pass of the blade wide. It sliced into her shoulder, the burning pain exploding when he pulled it free. With her empty hand, Loralei reached up, clawing at his eyes.

  Even when his fist connected again, slamming into her, she didn’t give up. Temporarily blinded by her fingernails, he didn’t see the keys clutched in her other hand until they connected with his face. Blood spewed from his nose, and one of the keys had split his lip. His fist slammed into her face, and stars exploded before her eyes. Darkness threatened, hovering around the edges of her vision.

  She fought against it, struggling to hold onto consciousness just as she struggled against him. He wasn’t very big, but he was strong. Still, they were the same height, and she probably outweighed him by a good fifty pounds. Manhandling her wasn’t the easiest thing for him to do. Somehow, Loralei managed to put a few feet between them. He lunged with the knife, the blade glancing off her ankle bone as Loralei tumbled into a display of necklaces.

  The cement replica of the Venus de Milo that she used to display jewelry tumbled to the ground. It was small, but weighed around ten pounds. She hadn’t set the alarm yet, but the windows were wired to trigger it automatically if the glass was broken.. Reaching for the statue, Loralei threw it with all her might, sending it crashing into the nearest window. The glass broke, and when it did, the sound of the alarm rang out through the shop. The phone began to ring immediately, the security company calling to verify the situation.

  “Fat fucking bitch!” he screamed at her. The knife came down again, but she managed to roll away so that it only glanced off her thigh.

  Loralei grabbed at the debris that littered the floor and threw whatever she could get her hands on at him. The necklaces and display stands weren’t the most effective weapons, but they slowed him down. After a few seconds, when the first wail of sirens sounded in the distance, he cursed again and made for the door.

  Bleeding, hurting, trembling with adrenaline and fear, Loralei lay there, waiting for him to return, waiting for him to come back and finish her off. She was still waiting for him when the flashing blue lights from the patrol cars spilled through the broken window and the first uniformed officer entered through the door. Only then did she give into the tears.

  “It always surprises me how much all barns smell the same.”

  Ciaran Darcy looked up from the tack he was cleaning and cursed. His Irish brogue was heavy with exhaustion and the whiskey that had been his companion for the better part of the evening. To see Grant Ashworth walking in as if he already owned the place; lock, stock, and barrel; had him spoiling for a fight.

  The two of them were neighbors, but that was all they had in common. Grant was part of the same silver spoon set that Loralei had been born into, and it rubbed him a little raw. Sure, Grant had always treated her like a little sister, and Loralei’s affection for the other man could only ever have been described as familial, but it had still bugged the hell out of him because he’d felt excluded. Whose fault was that, you shite?

  The all-too-honest voice in his head only pissed Ciaran off more, so he turned the full force of his shitty mood on the man who’d just intruded. “Get the fuck out of my barn. You don’t own it yet, you right bastard!”

  Grant pulled his hands from his pockets and left them clenched at his sides. With his feet spread wide and his jaw clenched, it was clear Ciaran wasn’t the only one looking to burn off some steam. “I’ll go when I’m ‘fooking’ ready.”

  “You’ve a piss-poor imitation of an Irishman,” Ciaran declared and rose to his feet. With his hands planted on his lean hips, he faced off with the other man. Grant outweighed him by a stone and had at least two inches on him in height, but both of them knew, if it came to blows, Ciaran would walk away the winner. “Say what you want and get out.”

  Grant clearly hadn’t anticipated the invitation. He rocked back on his heels and shook his head. “I want to hire you.”

  “It’ll be a cold day in hell. I’ll not take a pittance from you to run a farm that’s my own.” Ciaran bit the words out angrily. He was struggling to keep it afloat, fighting off foreclosure with tooth and claw. Grant wanted the land because it was adjacent to his. If their situations were reversed, Ciaran knew he’d want the same, but it didn’t make it any easier to swallow. The mix of anger and whiskey that burned in his gut was heady, and he could feel his control as it started to slip.

  Grant shook his head. “You’ll never let a man speak, will you? Always rushing to conclusions and assuming the world is out to get you! I’ve come here to make you an offer, Darcy…and if you’d shut your damn mouth long enough to listen to it, you’d realize that it just might save your ass!”

  “Then get on with it!” Ciaran demanded.

  “It’s security.”

  Ciaran shook his head, a knee-jerk reaction. “I don’t do that anymore.”

  Grant leveled an assessing stare at him. “Even for Loralei?”

  The name was like a punch in the gut. “What does she need with security?” He couldn’t quite bring himself to say her name. That scar was a little too fresh to be picked at.

  Grant eyed the bottle of whiskey. “The story’d be a little easier to tell if you were inclined to share some of that.”

  “I only drink with friends,” Ciaran replied sharply. “But if it will shrink the distance between you and the point you’re rambling on to, help yourself.”

  Grant stepped forward and picked up the bottle. A glance at the label would tell anyone that it wasn’t sipping whiskey. He tipped the bottle back and took a healthy swallow before he came up coughing. “God above! I’d rather drink gasoline.”

  “Not all of us can afford your rarified spirits,” Ciaran said, dark amusement tinting his voice. He enjoyed watching Grant squirm. It was nice to get a little of his own back. “If you want to make an offer, you best make it before I run out of patience.”

  “I’ll pay the mortgage on this farm, and you can use Ghengis for stud for one year…if you look after Loralei.”

  That was a hell of an offer. It was so good in fact that Ciaran knew instantly something was very wrong. “What the hell has she gotten herself into?”

  Grant took another long draw from the whiskey bottle. “It isn’t what she got into. Matt made a drug bust, and it’s gone sideways. They want to teach him a lesson, and they’re willing to use her to do it.”

  Ciaran grabbed the bottle and t
ook a swig. “You’re gonna have to run that by me one more time.”

  Grant moved toward a hay bale and eased himself down onto it. He shook his head as if to clear it. “Jesus! That stuff will rot your brain before it rots your gut!”

  “Get on with it, Ashworth!” Ciaran said. “Where is Loralei, and is she safe right now?”

  Grant nodded. “She’s at UK. Bastard cut her up a bit, but it’s not serious. They were more worried about the knock on the head when she fell and about how clean the damned knife was.”

  Ciaran sat down on the hay bale facing him. “The fucker is dead. I get my hands on him, and he’s a goddamn corpse. You tell her asshole brother that, will you? He can arrest me if he likes.”

  “I think he’d be more inclined to thank you for it. She gave the cops a description of him. They’re on the lookout.”

  “And they’ll expect her to testify in court against him, no doubt. Let’s just paint a fucking target on her while we’re at it!” Cold fury bubbled inside Ciaran. Loralei was too good for her own good. The police asked for a description, and she provided one because that’s what good citizens did. Never once did any of those bastards tell her that speaking out against a drug dealer’s hit man was as good as signing her own death warrant. “Why didn’t Matt stop her?”

  Grant shook his head, clearly befuddled by just how fucked up the day had become. “He didn’t know. The dispatcher was new, and when the call came through from the security company it was routed to someone else. It wasn’t until one of the patrolmen recognized her that anyone even called him.”

  Ciaran shook his head. “Someone will get their arse handed to them over that.”

  Grant nodded. “You have the skills, Ciaran. I love her like my own sister, and there’s no one better qualified to keep her safe…even if you are the last person she’d want to lay eyes on.”