Tough Break (The Shakedown Series Book 2)

by Elizabeth SaFleur

  Just as he was about to lurch his car into drive, his gaze fell on a black limousine idling near the parking lot exit. Not a usual sight in this part of town. Hell, not a usual sight in Baltimore at all.

  The window was down. Carragh MacKenna was easy to spot sitting in the back. His ice-blue eyes shone through the dark. Declan had been followed, or perhaps the man was back for a second offer to Henry. Neither possibility was good.

  Turns out he was wrong on both accounts because when he strode over to confront the man, Carragh cracked open his door and gestured for him to join him. “You got a second, Declan? Get in.”

  4

  When dancing, there was sometimes a moment when the music took over Phoenix's body. Some nights it took a while to get blessedly lost in the movement and music. Sometimes it didn't happen at all, and she would have to tap into every ounce of her dance experience to give off that effortless air. On rare evenings, total immersion happened as soon as she stepped through the heavy velvet curtain onto the stage and the spotlight warmed her skin.

  Tonight was not that night—and not because it was her last hurrah at Shakedown. A gun—not allowed in the burlesque club—peeked out of a man's suit jacket as he splayed himself out in a chair close to the stage.

  At seeing her step on stage, the man cocked his head toward the guy sitting next to him. Their shoulders and arms nearly burst the seams of their suit coats. Their size was menacing enough, but their dark and assessing eyes turned her blood to ice.

  Please, not tonight. It was a futile prayer.

  The two men's gazes trailed her body as if they were picking which part they'd try to own first. A familiar sneer across their face was next, its message clear. Don't disappoint me.

  Adrenaline pumped through her body hard, too hard to be useful. Instead, a familiar nausea crept up her throat. An even more familiar urge to run, throw off her heels and make a break for it, threatened on the edge of her consciousness. God, it angered her to the core that the man, the scum, could have any effect on her.

  He took a lazy sip of his drink, eyes trained on her over the rim of the glass. When he pulled the glass away from his lips, the scuzzball licked the edge. Itchy heat prickled her skin as an instinctual alarm hummed in the background of her mind. His hand reached down under the table, and his body shifted a little in his chair as if the guy was rearranging his balls. Then the hound winked at her.

  Her insides clamped shut.

  She loved that something as simple as a leg kick or smile would light up the audience. Sometimes they crossed a line, however, where their need for fantasy morphed into their need for her submission—like those two guys’ attitudes.

  Only her years of dancing experience kept her legs from marching her off the stage. She was a professional and wouldn't run. Instead, she gazed into the darkness that shrouded the audience.

  Body shapes moved and flashes of diamond bracelets broke through the dark. A slight pang hit her chest at the thought of leaving Shakedown, even if it was the right thing to do. Declan's club wasn't a cheap night out, and for that, she was ever-thankful. No sweaty palms filled with dollar bills approached the stage. Here, patrons laid down platinum American Express cards to pay for bottles of Macallan and rare wines Declan found.

  Where the hell was he, anyway? Was he not here? He'd never let armed reprobates waltz in and take the best seat in the house. How did they get past security with guns? Her eyes, the traitors they were, lifted and searched for Declan at his usual place—leaning casually against the end of the polished wood bar, the brass rail gleaming under pendulum lights. Not seeing him, her nerves threatened to break through what little courage she had to keep dancing.

  She pranced across the thirty-foot stage and tried to forget all about men with guns and mob relations and what happened to Starr mere months ago.

  She spun in a series of three-point turns, the beaded fringe banging against her thighs. The crowd cheered, and an intense, intoxicating power filled all her limbs at the sound. The feeling soon vanished as she was back at stage right in front of those two barbarians again.

  The last horn notes of the song crashed over her and she caught the end of the boa in a final rainbow toss over her head. For a brief second, the ensuing applause cooled her unwelcomed fear.

  The guy's hand still curled around his tumbler, his gaze still running up and down her body. Her own gaze seemed to have a mind of its own, like telling yourself not to look at a car accident you passed but being unable to divert your eyes. The guy lifted his tumbler to his mouth and licked the edge once more, slowly and deliberately.

  A memory surfaced. She'd seen those two men before—outside the hospital where they took Starr after Ruark MacKenna attempted to kill her. The men were with Tomas MacKenna, the head of the MacKenna clan.

  Their presence only meant one thing. Declan was in serious trouble, which meant she and her sisters were, too. In fact, what was she doing still standing in front of him like a deer caught in headlights?

  Maybe it was because she knew she was soon leaving, or maybe her stand with Declan emboldened her, but a flicker of some inner mettle sparked. Letting men get away with this kind of shit only meant they'd do it again to someone else.

  Cherry stepped from behind the curtain and hooked her arm into Phee’s. She urged the crowd to clap louder, harder for Phee's routine. Such a good emcee—and blind as hell since she must not have seen that guy's gesture. Cherry didn't take kindly to gross behavior either. Neither of the men clapped but rather toyed with their empty glasses. Phee got off the stage as quickly as she could.

  As fast as her heels could take her, she got to the main floor. She hunted down Max, who was standing in the back on the handicapped ramp. Her message was simple. “Two guys, front row, guns. What the fuck?” She hated herself for that last question, but the man was usually more vigilant than this. He tossed people out left and right if given the chance.

  Max nodded once and darted to the floor in a flash. One quick glance up by the stage and she saw both men had vanished. Maybe them being here was a blessing in disguise. They solidified her decision to leave Shakedown.

  “Oh, man, you're great,” a male voice boomed behind her.

  She recoiled and the black curtain separating the main floor from the hallway leading to the back rooms caught on part of her costume. She froze as the man exhaled liquor breath over her face. She fumbled but managed to split the curtain and get on the other side of it. She slapped her hand over her chest as she wobbled a little on her heels down the hall. Adrenaline thrummed through her body.

  It was one thing to dance on stage, an invisible wall between her and the audience. It was something entirely different to be within a foot of someone, liquored up and eyeing her like she was a doll that could be played with. It made her understand why pregnant women got so miffed when people reached out to pat their round bellies as if their body was somehow now part of the public domain.

  The dressing room door was wide open and laughter from her two sisters spilled into the hallway. She dashed for it then gently closed the door behind her and leaned against it. One long second passed as she caught her breath.

  “What?” Luna stood. “What happened out there?” Of course, she read Phee's face. The three of them had been inside each other's heads since birth.

  She pushed off the door. “I quit Shakedown tonight.”

  Starr slowly swiveled her head and put down her lipstick on her makeup stand. “You did what?”

  “You heard me.” She unclipped the metal hooks of her corset—maybe for the last time—and sucked in another long breath. “It's not safe here. Not even a bit.”

  She raised her hand before Starr could voice the objections that shone across her face. She needed a second to re-center and then she'd convince them. She had to.

  And, if she wasn’t here, Declan could find someone who didn't flinch every time he got near. He was a good man who deserved a good woman.

  5

  Declan was a fool
to slip into the back of Carragh's limo at midnight, but the second someone showed fear, the MacKennas pounced.

  A blond woman with a dress hiked up to her crotch had one leg draped over Carragh. Her thick, fake eyelashes dipped down as she ran her gaze over Declan.

  The man drew her face to him and brushed hair off her cheek. “Sweetheart, give us a minute.”

  She looked aghast. “You want me to get out?”

  “Go sit with Sean.”

  When she didn't move, his eyes narrowed. She slipped off him, cracked open the door, and got into the passenger seat up front. The privacy screen raised immediately.

  “You're going to pay for that move later.” Declan adjusted his overcoat.

  “She doesn't care enough.” Carragh lifted a vodka bottle his way in offering, which Declan shrugged off.

  “Having women trouble?”

  “Once a woman is trouble, she's no longer my concern.”

  What a prick. The limo lurched, and they were off to God knew where. He kept one eye out the window to keep his bearings. “Want to tell me where we're going?” Declan wasn't here to discuss women.

  Carragh poured himself a healthy portion of the Grey Goose. “Around the block. We need to talk and this might be the most privacy we'll ever get.” He set the bottle back in its holder.

  “Then out with it.”

  “I appreciate a man who cuts to the chase.” He adjusted his suit coat and took a sip of his drink. “Regarding our potential business dealings…”

  Declan raised his hand. “Let me stop you there. There is no 'our.’”

  “That's because you believe we are proposing an older business model.”

  “Is that what we're calling dealing drugs now? An older business model?”

  He had the gall to smirk. “My father has new interests. Nothing illegal—”

  “Bullshit.” The limo turned right, he noted.

  “Stand down, Declan, and listen.” The man sighed. “He's out of the drug game. Now, he wants to be more into legitimate businesses. At my urging, I'll add.”

  “You done quoting the Godfather to me? Because I have a few things to say. One, my club isn't for sale. Two, I know what legitimate is, and your father isn't it. I know that, and my mother knew that. The man doesn't deserve to be near any woman ever, and certainly not my dancers.”

  “You think we'd hurt our assets?”

  Such a MacKenna saying. “And therein lies the heart of it. You consider my employees 'assets.’”

  “Most businesses do.” Carragh took a sip of his drink, the ice clinking against the glass.

  “They're people. With real lives.”

  “Who will continue to have real lives. With more protection—”

  “From what? You?”

  Carragh took in another long lungful of air and blew it out, which was patronizing as shit as if he steeled himself to explain something to a toddler.

  “Trying your patience, am I?” Declan asked. Another right-hand turn. Perhaps they were going around the block.

  “Protection from the vagaries of the entertainment world. Times are changing.” Carragh swirled the liquid in his glass. “One recession, one shift in the market demand, and your little Phoenix there—oh, yes, I know all about your obsession with her—is back stripping at Maxim's.”

  Hearing Carragh say her name lit up his spine. And how the hell did he know about Maxim's, anyway? He wouldn't give the man any satisfaction at seeing his words had an effect, however. “My dancers can get gigs anywhere—far from you. And nothing is recession-proof. Not even the mob.”

  The man raised his eyebrows. “And therein lies your problem, Declan. You don't see us as we are. We're a family that owns many businesses—a family business—with the management acumen to weather any storm. And believe me, things are going to be run differently from now on.”

  “Tomas finally giving up his crown?”

  “Let's just say I know how to make him come around.”

  “I seriously doubt that, and I have no interest in being folded into the family.”

  Carragh ran his finger over his top lip. “I'm very sorry to hear of your mother's passing. I regret we never met.”

  “She didn't.”

  He chuffed a little. “No, I suppose not, given she disappeared for, what, forty-some years?”

  It would have been longer if it weren't for an overzealous obituary writer in Kansas City. Some kid trying to make a name for himself connected the dots that Declan’s mother, Kate MacKenna Phillips, was related to a family that had recently gone through an expensive and fruitless money laundering case that captured headlines. The most innocuous detail—a traffic violation—uncovered her given name. It didn't take long for the MacKennas to find Declan, the long-lost nephew of Tomas MacKenna, who had some pathological need to know where every ounce of his DNA had settled.

  “It was damned impressive, though, that she stayed hidden with a son for so long.” The ice in his glass clinked too loudly. “Damned impressive, indeed.”

  “Jealous?”

  A sliver of something flashed across his eyes. Maybe Carragh was jealous. Being born into the MacKenna family couldn't be fabulous. They had mapped his future out for him since birth. They’d done the same for Declan's mother, which she vehemently rebelled against. Getting cancer and dying at age 62 was the icing on the shit cake of her life. She may be dead and buried, but she'd saved Declan from the family, getting him away before he was even born. He wouldn't let her sacrifice go to waste.

  Carragh examined the contents of his glass. “Consider having a discussion—with me. That's all I'm asking.”

  “I already have.”

  He raised his gaze to Declan. “No, you balked the second any idea was brought up. I realize my brother, Ruark, was a bit heavy-handed in delivering the original offer but—”

  “Heavy-handed? Is that what we're calling kidnapping and assault now?”

  “The incident with Mr. Baldwin and Miss O'Malley was unfortunate. It won't happen again. Ruark is doing time, for God's sake.”

  “As he should. But you're right. It won't happen again.” He'd take a bullet before he'd let any one of them near the O'Malley sisters—or any of his Shakedown family.

  “Time, Declan. Just asking for time.”

  Something wasn't right here, but he'd be damned if he spent another nanosecond ferreting out what Carragh was up to. None of it would be good, anyway. “Let me out,” he called. The limo had made another right-hand turn. So, Carragh at least told the truth about going around the block. It was likely the only truth Decland had heard since seating himself in the pretentious vehicle.

  The limo lurched to a stop. “I don't need time, Carragh. I need you to forget you know me.”

  Carragh shook his head. “You can't deny your own blood. The more you keep denying it, the more this family is going to want to grow close.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “Consider it a heads-up. That's one area where I agree with my father. Family is important.”

  Declan cracked open the door. They were done here. He slammed the door shut before the man could say another word.

  He wasn't kidding. He owed his mother to fulfill her last dying wish—to remain independent of her family. He strode up the street swinging his cane, just one block from where they'd started. He didn't give a single backward glance at the limo.

  Perhaps the walk would give him time to figure out how to keep Phoenix close to him because one, he was in love with the she-devil, and two, it was the only way to keep her safe, even if she believed the opposite. He was burning that napkin.

  6

  Luna's eyes widened like twin moons. “You can't quit. You have the matador act to do in fifteen minutes.”

  “No one cares.” She waved her hand and leaned down to pick up a dress that lay in a puddle at her feet. It was probably Starr's. She was such a slob.

  “Everyone cares.” Luna crossed her arms. “What happened out there tonight? Something most
definitely did.”

  She lowered her voice so only her sisters could hear. No reason to scare Aspen, who sat ten feet away at her makeup table. “Two guys. Guns. Front row. It's only the beginning.” She hung the dress on the garment rack.

  “Did you tell Max because he'd—”

  “They're already gone. Now we need to be. Don't worry, I will figure something out for all three of us.”

  Starr's eyes darted to Aspen, who pressed her finger against her false eyelash and blinked at herself in the mirror. “Hey, Aspen, you able to fill in for Phee in fifteen?”

  The girl shrugged. “Sure.” She rose. “Not getting in between you three. I'll be in the kitchen.”

  “Thanks.” Phee nodded at her. Their fellow dancer understood something important was going down.

  After Aspen had closed the door behind her, Starr's tell-tale left eyebrow rose as it always did when she wasn't buying whatever was being sold. “And where, pray tell, are you expecting us to go? Burlesque clubs aren't exactly de rigueur on the entertainment scene anymore.”

  “Does it matter?”

  Luna's hand landed on her forearm. “This is about Declan, isn't it? And what you heard? I, for one, am not surprised about it.”

  “Why aren't you?” She shrugged off her sister's touch. They'd reported what they'd learned about Declan to Luna. Her response? A shrug.

  “It might make things easier.”

  “Easier? You're kidding, right?”

  Luna cocked her head in disapproval. “Phee, like I said this afternoon, Declan can't help it if Tomas MacKenna wants to buy him out. But Declan would never let anything happen to us. He's proven that.”

  “Like he'd never let anything happen to Starr?” That blind trust led to her being kidnapped a few short months ago. Sure, Nathan, her fiancé, was probably more at blame for that one given he was the one in the MacKennas’ sights, but still…