Ruthless King (Mount Trilogy #1)

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 her 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.”

I start to turn my head in the direction of the front windows, but she stops me by tossing a donut hole at my face. It bounces off my forehead and distracts me.

“What the hell?”

“Don’t look.”

My head starts to pound, so I suck down more of the caffeine, hoping it’ll kill the brewing headache.

“Okay, fine. What’s your advice?” I ask as I set my coffee back on the table between us.

“While you might want to assert your independence, or perhaps send a very strong message to someone, I’d suggest finding another way to do it that’s a little less permanent than an ass tattoo. I’m not kidding when I say you’re going to regret it forever otherwise.”

Even though she told me not to look, I nonchalantly lift my coffee again and knock over the bag of donut holes so they spill onto the table. With Delilah distracted, I take a peek.

Sure enough, there’s a man in a suit leaning against a lamppost with a newspaper tucked under his arm. A black BMW is parked in the spot in front of him.

Delilah catches on to my game. “I said don’t look.”

“Does it really matter?”

“That you’re being followed and now you know, and he knows you know?” She shrugs. “I don’t know. Depends on who you’re dealing with.”

I drop my gaze to the lid of my coffee, playing with the flap on the cup.

“Shit. It’s bad, isn’t it?”

All I can do is nod.

“How backed into a corner are you?” she asks.

I pin her with a stare. “Why do you care?”

“We tend to pick up strays at Voodoo, and while I would never consider Keira Kilgore of Seven Sinners Whiskey a stray, today you seem a little less composed than I would’ve expected given your reputation. But if there’s anything I can do to help, just tell me.”

“There’s nothing anyone can do to help. I mean, unless you’re independently wealthy with boatloads of extra liquid capital.” I grab a donut hole and shove it in my mouth to stop myself from saying any more.

As I chew, Delilah studies me again. “Fine, don’t tell me, but if you really want to do this, I can recommend a good henna artist only two blocks away.”



* * *



I leave the henna shop feeling like I regained a shred of control over my life.

Debt or no debt, at least it’s clear now—semi-permanently—that I’ll never be any man’s property. That wisp of positivity carries me all the way home, only to be doused by a cold rush of fear when I open my bedroom door and find a box on the bed.

No insignia or logo, just a big, shiny black box that’s the perfect size to hold an assortment of severed limbs.

Good God. When did I start thinking like this?

My inner voice doesn’t bother to respond because the answer is obvious. It’s not like there’s any doubt in my mind as to who it’s from.

I grab my phone and call Magnolia.

“Please tell me you didn’t do anything stupid,” she says in lieu of a greeting.

“Nothing irreparably stupid.”

Her sigh of relief comes through my speaker. “You didn’t go try to find him?”

“No, but I’m staring at a box on my bed that he or his people clearly left.”

“What’s in it?”

“I haven’t opened it.”

“What the hell are you waiting for, girl?”

“What if there are body parts inside?”

She’s silent for a beat. “You haven’t tried to run. You haven’t done anything stupid. There’s no way he’s sending you body parts. Open the damn box, Ke-ke.”

That she so matter-of-factly lists those circumstances as being the reason I haven’t received body parts reminds me just how serious my situation is. My little jaunt to the henna shop seems beyond ridiculous now. At least they wouldn’t tattoo me at Voodoo . . .

“I don’t want to open it.” My tone sounds stubborn and willful, like a child who won’t eat her vegetables.

“Don’t make me come over there and do it myself because your stubborn little Irish ass won’t. Put me on speaker, put the phone down, and open the damn box.”

“Okay, fine.” I toss the phone with the speaker engaged on my gray-and-white coverlet and reach for the top of the box to lift it off.