Blow

  Copyright © 2015 by Kim Karr

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 978–0-9889419–2-2

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

  Editor:

  Mary-Theresa Hussey, Good Stories Told Well

  Interior Design and Formatting:

  Christine Borgford, Perfectly Publishable

  Cover designer:

  Hang Le, By Hang Le

  Cover model:

  Cyril Mourali

  Photographer:

  Brice Hardelin, Brice Hardelin Photography

  Table of Contents

  BLOW

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Pre-order Crush Now

  Acknowledgments

  Other Books by Kim Karr

  About the Author

  For the reader

  A First Look Inside Crush

  FOUR MONTHS BEFORE

  LOGAN

  Mile after mile, I ran. Faster, feet pounding against the broken asphalt, breath crystalizing in the air. I’d been fleeing along the edge of the road for what seemed like eternity. Trucks zoomed past me, taillights fading in the distance, and still there were no sirens.

  The moon slipped behind a cloud and left me moving blindly. Finally, a whistle filled the darkness. It was what I’d been waiting for.

  Let’s see how bad they want this.

  I spun in the opposite direction and spotted the familiar red and blue lights. With a quick jump, I vaulted over the damaged guardrail and found myself tumbling down a steep ravine.

  Landing on my stomach, blood dripped from my nose, and the taste of rust flooded my mouth. I didn’t take the time to wipe it away. I had to keep moving. I’d started this game and I was going to finish it.

  Quickly, I leapt to my feet and began to run again. When a sharp burning and throbbing pulsated in my right ankle, I knew my speed would be impaired. I must have twisted it in the fall. With everything I had, I tried to ignore the pain.

  Adrenaline pumped through my bloodstream, making my heart race and giving me the strength I needed. I was no longer on the pavement and my terrain was harder to navigate. Trees, broken branches, and the sickening smell of the stagnant river surrounded me. I pushed onward.

  It could have been worse—at least there wasn’t any ice.

  Still, it was fucking freezing out here. Snow fell around me. Chilled to the bone, I tugged my hat farther down over my ears.

  I didn’t stop, though—I had to keep going.

  When my eyes were streaming from the cold and my leg muscles began to seize up, I knew my body needed a break. I’d find cover and play the wait-and-see game.

  The dilapidated abandoned warehouse a few yards away seemed like my best choice. The hinges were rusted and appeared broken, but when I yanked on the door, it wouldn’t open.

  With a sigh, I stomped my salt-stained shoes in the slush I was standing in and looked around.

  No sign of them, yet.

  They’d be here soon enough.

  My lungs burned as I bent over with my hands on my thighs in an attempt to catch my breath.

  Poised to move in any direction, I thought about my decision to bait them.

  Smart?

  Stupid?

  I couldn’t believe the game of cat and mouse I had entered into—with the Boston Police Department nonetheless.

  But I’d had enough. They’d been following me around for almost a week. Their more-than-obvious tail was bordering on harassment. Pushed to the limit, today I’d decided it was time to find out what it was all about. I was going to force their move. I left my vehicle and took off. They were tracking me, but what they were waiting for to approach me, I had no idea. At this point I had two choices—approach them or keep going. Since I didn’t want to make it easy, I kept running.

  Time seemed to be at a standstill as I looked around again. I knew they were close. Yet, as I searched my surroundings, there were no signs of life; everything around me was dark except for the golden glow from the cables of the Zakim Bridge.

  The bridge.

  I couldn’t believe I’d ended up on the West End. That was more than a slight hike from the tip of the South End, where I’d started all this.

  What time was it anyway?

  Before I could look at my watch—the one my grandfather had given me, the one worth more than most of the houses in the surrounding area, the pretentious Patek Philippe with an authentic enamel dial and custom-made rubber watchband, the one almost a match for his own—a yellow beam of light shined down on me.

  I guess the BPD finally decided to make their move.

  A heavily Boston-accented voice carried through the wind. “Put your hands in the air where we can see them.”

  “Fuck me. Really? You’re going to arrest me? For what?” My gaze scoured the area until they came into sight.

  There were three of them and one of me. I didn’t plan to keep running. I didn’t need to, but even if I wanted to, there was nowhere to go. The riverbank was on one side and they were on the other. The trio moved closer and drew their weapons. I responded with equanimity and raised my palms. Still, not a single one of them lowered a gun. Step by step, they moved toward me. When they were about five feet away, I decided to help them out and face them, but before I could, the tallest figure lunged for me.

  He pinned me to the wall. “I just wanted to talk. I wasn’t going to arrest you until you assaulted me. But thanks for giving me a reason.”

  “I was putting my hands behind my back, asshole,” I grunted.

  “Right,” he snickered.

  Nostrils flaring, the fatter one grabbed me by my collar and yanked me to him. “Stop resisting.”

  What the fuck?

  A quick punch to the gut and a kick to my leg had me belly down in a matter of seconds.

  Most men would have been scared shitless, but not me. I grew up living in two very different worlds, the only similarity being power and greed. To look at me, you wouldn’t believe I was capable of doing the things I had done. Born with a silver spoon in my mouth, I was the grandson of one of the wealthiest men in New York City.

  It wasn’t my trust fund background that anyone had to worry about, though. I was also the grandson of the former head of Boston’s Blue Hill Gang—a piece of me I had tried to renounce. That I wanted to escape. But my family ties kept me bound. The Irish Mob might have changed since my father’s father ran things
, but there were some things that never changed.

  I’d been raised in both worlds and these cops knew it. They were counting on the Blue Hill Gang part of me to greet them. That’s not what they were going to get. “What exactly do you want with me?” I asked calmly, exuding that civility I’d been reared in. When no one answered, I pressed on. “Why have you been following me?” Although I knew my heavy breathing was starting to betray my calm façade, I didn’t care. And besides, in the mood they were in, I doubted they noticed my breathing at all.

  When one of them ground my face into the icy concrete, I knew he was more than aware of my forced calmness, and he didn’t like it. He was trying to rattle me. Which cop it was, I couldn’t tell. But then he muttered, “Did I tell you to talk?” with that thick accent of his and I knew who it was.

  The reserve I’d been holding on to faded as soon as the coppery taste of blood seeped into my mouth for the second time tonight. Unable to restrain myself, my jaw tightened and I spoke through my teeth. “Do you know who I am?”

  His laugh was cold, mirthless. “Do you think I give a shit?”

  A large boot stepped forward and a voice of authority drew their attention. “Not here, not now.”

  Spit landed near my head as cuffs were slapped on me.

  The cuffs were clenched good and tight around my wrists and I winced. There was no hiding the fact that I felt pain. My skin scraped mercilessly against the metal when I was yanked to my feet and I knew my wrists were already raw. Regaining my stability, it no longer seemed so dark. The neon green of the TD Garden billboards lit up their faces. And the sight wasn’t pretty.

  Anger.

  Hatred.

  Disgust.

  The fatter one glowered at me with narrowed eyes. “Wearing a five-thousand-dollar suit doesn’t make you any less of a piece of shit.”

  “Fuck you.”

  A shot to the jaw—my head swung and my face ached.

  A jab or three to the stomach—it felt like every fist in the world was punching me.

  The sock to my gut had my lungs swinging from my rib cage.

  A club to the back of my knees took me to the ground like a pussy.

  But it was the swift kick in the ribs that had me swallowing hard and gasping for air. “Fuckkk.”

  I looked up.

  There was one.

  Two.

  Or all three of them on me—I wasn’t sure.

  “Get up,” one of the men barked.

  Blood was still dripping from my mouth, but this time I couldn’t wipe it off even if I wanted to. One of them attempted to pull me up, but I shrugged off his help. I could get myself up.

  Fuck you very much.

  When I was on my feet again, I squared my shoulders and looked each of them in the eye, memorizing their faces should our paths ever cross again.

  “Who’s putting that shit on our streets?” one of them asked from the shadows.

  The fatter one took a step closer. “Who’s running the operation? Who’s involved?”

  I stared at him blankly and said nothing.

  He moved even closer and barked, “When’s the next shipment arriving? Who’s it coming from? Where’s it landing?” I could smell coffee on his breath.

  A tirade of questions I couldn’t answer.

  Trying to tame my emotions, I lowered my eyes to study the ground. “I don’t have a fucking clue what you’re talking about.”

  Hissing loudly, he lurched forward, drew his gun, and pointed it in my face.

  Shock arrested me.

  What the fuck was this?

  What was obviously the more sensible cop pushed the guy’s arm down and muttered, “Follow procedure. Eyes are on us. We aren’t even supposed to be the ones asking the questions.”

  Abruptly, the one with the gun still in his hand moved back, but his dark, cold eyes never left mine as he holstered his weapon and zipped up his police-issued brown leather jacket. “Just bring him to the car.”

  At his words, the flashlight shined again. “With the trouble you caused me tonight, you’re fucking lucky someone else wants you.”

  “Who wants me?”

  My only answer was three smiles.

  “Wants me for what?” I pressed.

  The yellow glow of his flashlight pointed toward an unmarked car with the back door swung wide open. Someone was waiting inside. Not just someone. A woman. Long red hair, long legs, and red high heels that matched the color of her lipstick.

  “Who the fuck is she?”

  “Blanchet,” one of them mumbled under his breath with a snicker.

  Another of the pricks shoved me her way. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do may be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to consult an attorney before speaking to the police and to have an attorney present during questioning now or in the future. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you before any questioning, if you wish. If you decide to answer any questions now, without an attorney present, you will still have the right to stop answering at any time until you talk to an attorney.”

  I turned to face the cop before getting into the back of the car. “I know my rights. I am a fucking attorney.”

  DAY 1

  ELLE

  Imprinting, according to folklore, begins when you are gravitationally pulled toward another. When this occurs, your connections to everyone else become secondary. You’ll do whatever it takes to protect the one you love. Keeping that person safe is the only thing that matters.

  Imprinting doesn’t only apply to romantic love interests. I imprinted on Clementine the moment I laid eyes on her.

  At first sight, she took my heart.

  Her lips were so pink.

  Her skin was so soft.

  Her big blue eyes so beautiful.

  And her heart-shaped face was perfect.

  The minute I saw her, I knew I loved her—that I’d do anything for her.

  Now, her little hands patted my cheeks as she babbled on. I took one of them and kissed it. “Ready to see Daddy?”

  Clementine’s legs started kicking against my hips and her entire body quaked with glee.

  She loved her daddy.

  It was the first day of spring and I might have been a little too anxious for the warm weather. I attempted to take Clementine to the small playground around the corner from Michael’s office to watch the kids play, but the wind was too much for her.

  Due to our early departure, it was closer to five o’clock than six when we entered the reception area of the Michael O’Shea Law Firm. Michael had fired his secretary this past Monday, and he had yet to replace her. And the paralegals left promptly at four thirty every Friday. So as I’d expected, the office was empty.

  Michael’s door was closed as usual. I removed our jackets and hung them on the iron coat tree before knocking lightly.

  “Come in,” he called.

  I opened the old wooden door and it creaked loudly enough to make me cringe.

  Michael looked different than usual. His dark hair was sticking up everywhere and when he raised his gaze from the yellow legal pad beside the stack of papers on his desk, I could see how tired he was.

  “I hope you don’t mind that we’re a little early?” I asked.

  He glanced at his watch. “I’m expecting a call from someone anytime now. Can you just bring her home and I’ll meet you there?”

  He seemed more distracted than usual, too.

  Clementine held her tiny arms out and cooed, “Daddy.”

  “How’s my girl?” he beamed as he stood. His suit was neatly pressed, his tie in place, his shoes shined. But his thirty-five years were showing. Lines creased his brow and there were bags under his eyes. For the first time, I could see the toll the past three months had taken on him.

  “Sure,” I answered him, and then I set Clementine down. “Just let her say hi and we’ll go.”

  Clementine turned one last month, and took her first step shortly a
fter that. Ever since, she doesn’t like to be restrained. She toddled toward Michael in her hot-pink patent leather shoes and I couldn’t help but smile.

  Suddenly, the front door burst open. The echoing sound of the doorknob slamming against the wall made me whip around. A man stood in the doorway, anger and hatred shooting through his eyes, looking like whatever he wanted was personal. Michael’s office was located in an old brownstone in Boston’s South End, and I considered the neighborhood relatively safe.

  Until then.

  Instantly, fear flowed through my veins. Horrified, I froze. My purse. My purse was all the way on the other side of the room. Clementine. All the air seeped from my lungs as terror ripped through me. I had to get to her. My head spun back around to calculate just how far away from me she was.

  Not that far. My rubbery legs inched backward. She was between Michael and me.

  The crazed man didn’t seem to notice me, though. His eyes were on Michael, who was standing in the doorway to his office beside me. As soon as their stares locked, his voice boomed. “O’Shea, what kind of game do you think you’re playing?”

  His Boston accent was thick like Michael’s, but his words were crystal clear. My heart stopped at the malice in his tone.

  Fury covered Michael’s face. “Sean, I’m not playing any game.”

  Michael knew the man?

  The man’s face screwed into a different position and his stance remained dominating, although his demeanor seemed to ease slightly.

  Pitter-patter.

  No, Clementine, stay in Daddy’s office, I thought.

  Pitter-patter.

  The two men continued to stare at each other.

  Taking the opportunity, I twisted and bent to scoop up Clementine, but Michael had beaten me to it. He enfolded her in his arms.

  Thank God.

  Thinking more clearly than me, he turned her away from the madman.

  Voice gruff, the man asked, “Then what exactly are you up to?”

  This had to be about her.

  “We talked about this earlier. I told you everything I knew. There’s no need for an outburst.” Michael spoke curtly, somehow managing to keep his composure even in the face of potential danger.

  Had he done this before?

  Even though the man’s anger seemed to have dissipated, my terror wasn’t pacified in the least. The only thing I could think of was getting Clementine out of here and into safety. I began to assess the situation. My purse was with my coat on the rack over near the stairs, right next to Sean. That was out. I knew Michael kept a gun in his desk drawer, but as soon as I left the doorway, it would alert Sean. That was out too.