Rouge: Act 3 – Scene 22

Kian

I had a feeling Lacey wouldn’t answer this morning, but it doesn’t make her silent treatment any easier. Even though I wasn’t ecstatic to hear I won’t be having any wee strawberry-blond McKennons running around anytime soon, I’d love for her period to be the only reason she’s grown more distant the past few days. I’m worried her refusal to respond to my third call in a row has confirmed my fears.

Lacey’s lost hope, which means I’m losing Lacey.

Guilt tinges my thoughts as I sit impatiently in the jail’s parking lot. If it were up to me, I’d get her the hell out of Monroe’s suite in a heartbeat. But she’s right. If I stole her back, I’d be starting a war with Monroe, her family, and any member of the Garde loyal to either of them.

I’ll admit that when I married her, I was acting partly on impulse. But the way I feel about Lacey has raised the stakes, especially with what I know now. I can’t have my wife hating me for the rest of our lives because my actions sent her father to prison, and I’d never forgive myself if she got hurt in the fallout.

Even today, I didn’t have the bollocks to disclose my plans because I didn’t want to tell her why my meeting was delayed for nearly two weeks. The administrative assistant was vague on the details, but the little I do know would crush Lacey.

Life in the Garde means that prison is always a possibility, but we’ve all got something on someone, so the likelihood of that happening is slim to none. If I ever wind up in a cell, though, I’m taking out every motherfucker who put me in there before the bars slam shut.

As soon as the clock on my mobile rolls over to the next hour, I sigh and adjust my garnet silk tie in the rearview mirror, grab my leather briefcase prop, and step out of my Audi without waiting another minute. This time of year, the air is brisk and dry as always, but that unbearable heat of summer doesn’t slam into you when you go outside. I expect the cooler air to greet me now, but my skin is flushed with apprehension.

The jail’s tinted glass doors act as a mirror as I stride toward them. My back is straight, one hand in my pocket while the other holds my briefcase loosely at my side, and unlike usual, not an auburn hair is out of place. On the outside, I’m playing the part.

But on the inside, my heart thumps, my mind races, and my fingers grip the chip in my pocket tighter and tighter the closer I get to the doors. Walking into the prison, a place I’ve killed to stay out of, feels like a death sentence of its own, and my gait slows with every sluggish step.

A year ago, I was a captive to my vices and I still fight every day to stay free. Trapped in this hellhole—cramped rooms, never getting to smell the fresh air or have a moment of freedom—would be my worst nightmare. Is that how Lacey feels in her gilded cage?

I have to get her the feck out of there.

I try not to think about how naked I feel without a weapon as I empty my pockets into a tray, go through the metal detectors, and sign in. Once I’ve finished, I snatch my chip up and press it into my palm so hard I’m sure the number is indented into my skin.

The prison guard escorts me to a private room, just like I requested when I made the appointment. It’s a small, windowless space with painted cinder block walls that makes my skin crawl with claustrophobia. The only furniture to speak of is a metal table with a chair on each side.

As I pull out the chair facing the door, the legs scrape the concrete with an awfully harsh racket that claws my nerves. Doing my best to ignore the feeling, I plop into the seat, lay my briefcase beside me, and prop my feet on the table before I pretend to play a game on my mobile.

The squeak of metal on metal brings my attention to the door. I lean back and balance on two legs of my chair before lacing my fingers behind my head to further my devil-may-care charade. But once I see my “client,” all pretenses slip away.

“Charlie?” My rough voice is nearly swallowed by the clamor my chair makes as it crashes to the ground and my eyes widen at the sight of the man filling the now-open door.

Our Keeper, Charlie O’Shea, is a shadow of the Garde king he once was, wearing a dingy gray hospital smock and baggy orange pants. A chain wraps around his waist, connected to cuffs on his feet and bandaged hands, making it hard for him to shuffle inside. But it’s not the new outfit that has me so shocked.

One of Charlie’s sharp dark-blue eyes narrows at me, while the other is swollen shut. His brown curly hair and thick beard have been shaved to the skin and his strong jaw is slightly crooked as if it’s been broken. Pride hardens his perceptive scowl, even as he limps and his shackled hands tremble.

“You and your lawyer have thirty minutes,” the guard shouts and slams the door behind him, making Charlie jolt where he stands.

I dip my hand into my pocket and rub my chip as soon as the door closes, trying to remind myself why I’m here and not to lose my shite. But at the stark reminder of who I could become one day, goddamn, it’s sobering in the worst way.

Charlie gingerly sits in the hard metal seat across from me and I try to play it cool with a smile I’m sure is barely more than a grimace.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, you look a mess, Charlie. No wonder they said I couldn’t see you for two weeks.”

“I was in the infirmary. I’ve gotten caught in the middle of a couple fights.” His voice is more gravelly than I remember, but he levels me with his signature glare. One I’ve now seen on his very own daughter. The thought makes me smirk and my body relaxes in the familiarity.

“I can show you an uppercut or two if you need.”

He clears his throat, but the hoarse timbre doesn’t change. “Are you the new associate?”

“What?” I ask, my brow furrowed.

“Since you’re my lawyer… I’ve met all the associates at the firm. You must be new, I take it?”

His careful delivery finally registers.

“Ah, the room’s not bugged. No need to keep that bit up.”

I turn my mobile around to show the green “CLEAR” indicator on the security app I’d been fiddling with before he came in.

He slouches with relief. “You never know in places like this.”

“Speaking of…” I point to his shiner. “What gives? I thought you were getting the white-collar treatment in here. Modified work release, fancy catered meals, contraband devices… the shite all the high-powered feckers get.”

He huffs. “Not anymore. Things went south recently. It must’ve gotten really bad if the wild ace has come to call on me. What’s the McKennon heir doing here, hmm? Has someone finally given you the king of spades?”

“No one’s sent me your card to put you out of your misery yet.”

“So who sent you?”

“Well, in a way, our queen of diamonds did.”

His sickly pale face reddens. “What are you talking about? What have you done with my daughter?”

“Relax, Keeper. Whatever danger she’s in is not my fault, I can promise you that.”

“Kian, where the fuck is Lacey?”

My fingers tap the metal table, giving a low, ominous echo as I contemplate how I want to play this.

“Monroe Baron has locked Lacey away in one of his suites.”

“She’s…” His face works through the information. “She’s with her fiancé, then? Big deal. That’s where I thought she was. She’s fine. I’ve spoken with her.”

“Oh, you’ve spoken with her, have you?” My brow rises. “I have it on good authority that the last time you spoke with her was in front of Monroe himself. Not exactly a father-daughter heart-to-heart, now is it? She’s been trapped for the past two weeks for simply dancing on stage during her bachelorette party at Rouge.”

“She, um…” He shifts in his seat. “Her mother and I didn’t think she could get into so much trouble at our own establishment, but she embarrassed Monroe from what I understand.”

I nearly burst out laughing. “Funnily enough, neither of you knows half the trouble she got into. But now she’s miserable.”

He frowns. “She’s safe in a penthouse suite. What more could a Garde woman want?”

I tug my hair in frustration. “Safe? Fecking hell, Keeper, you don’t know a bloody thing, do you? How can you be the leader of a society without knowing a fecking thing that goes on in it?”

“Watch it,” Charlie growls.

“Not only is Monroe himself a dangerous, abusive loose cannon of a bastard, a girl like Lacey can’t be kept in a high tower all by herself like that. She’s not a fecking fairy-tale princess. The girl needs to move about and be around the people she loves. Your so-called Red Camellia is wilting.”

He cocks his head to the side and studies me.

“You know my daughter well, then, do you?”

Shite. I’ve shown my hand too quickly.

I bite my tongue, not sure if I should answer.

“Kian, look, I don’t know what you want me to say. I see no harm in her being protected.”

“She’s not being protected. She’s being jailed. You and I both know the difference. The gobshite wants to keep her there until their sham of a wedding day.”

“And that’s a problem because?”

I huff out a breath and decide to place my bet.

“Because she’s already married, Mr. O’Shea. Or should I call you Dad?”