Tough Break (The Shakedown Series Book 2)

by Elizabeth SaFleur

  Phee couldn't stop now. She'd have to risk Jones noticing her—or worse, recognizing her. She leaned over and cranked the window down, the glass stuttering as it lowered. “Hey, need a ride?”

  “Lady, whoever you are…” The girl raised her hand. “But I don't swing that way.” She furiously marched up the sidewalk, swiping water off her forehead. At least the girl had some sense of self-preservation. Not all of them did.

  Phee let the car drift and follow her up the road. “I'm not picking you up. I'm offering to drop you off at your house. I, uh, used to dance for Jones there.” She cocked her head backward toward Maxim's.

  The girl stopped and nervously looked around as if weighing her options—which Phee knew weren't many. She and her sisters had been where this young woman was too many times to count.

  She came over and settled her forearms on the doorframe, now wet with rain. “Who'd you say you were?” She was pretty with long blond hair, but she would be. Jones didn't hire women unless he was sure his patrons would be desperate to stuff dollar bills into their G-strings—and ejaculate in their pants on sight.

  Phee held out her hand. “Phoenix. I'm a dancer at Shakedown.” Or was, until tonight.

  “Never heard of it.” She ignored Phee's offered handshake.

  Phee picked out her business card, ones she had made up for these occasions, and held it out. The girl took the card and eyed it suspiciously. “Huh.” She scanned Phoenix's name and phone number. “You one of those religious types who go around trying to save people or something?”

  “No. I can't save anyone or anything. You want that ride?” Jesus, girl, make up your mind and fast.

  The girl eyed her and shrugged. “Okay.” She got in and Phoenix pulled away before the girl even had clicked the door shut. In her rear-view mirror, the reflection of Jones' black Cadillac pulling up to the front of the club made her shudder.

  With every few feet between her and Maxim's, more adrenaline fanned out through her limbs until a giddiness thrummed through her whole body. Score one for her, one loss for Jones because she was going to make certain this girl never returned.

  “So, Uber not working for you?” Phee ignored the water seeping into her seats. The girl was soaked from head to foot.

  “No credit card.”

  “So, where to then?”

  The girl dumped her bag between her feet. “Oh, I gotta wait a while. I'm crashing at this friend's house and she let me know she's got company. You can drop me off at the Motel 6 up there.” She pointed up the street. “Or…” She swiveled her head. “…it's back that way?” She hitched her thumb to the back. “I dunno. Man, my head is messed up tonight.” The girl slurred her words.

  Phee tried not to stare at the bruises coloring the girl's neck. “What's your name?”

  “Desha-biller.”

  “I mean your actual name.”

  The girl rolled her head to the side, wet strands of hair sticking to her cheek. “Does it matter?”

  Honestly, it didn't. “Tell you what. How about I show you my club? It's a nice place and no one will bother you if you want to crash. We have laundry services and you can at least get your clothes dry.” Every office had a couch at Shakedown and she could get the girl out before anyone arrived. None of the staff showed until noon anyway, and she still had her keys. “There's food, too.”

  The girl chewed her fingernail again. “Can't. Jones says I gotta lose weight before I can have another night.”

  Yet a stiff wind could blow this girl over. “Okay, there's a bar.” Where she'd brew coffee for her. “And the owner is nice. He won't care.” She wasn't lying about either.

  Her face swung in Phee's direction. “They looking for new dancers?”

  Now she had the girl's interest. “Maybe.” It wasn't a total lie, but it'd keep her off the streets, at least for a few hours. Plus, once she saw Shakedown, perhaps she'd see there was more to life than stripping. At least, that was the first thing Phee had thought when Declan gave her and her sisters a tour of the warehouse he was turning into a club. He'd been passionate about his vision, waxing on about real velvet curtains and stage lights. She'd bought into the entire vision, his words on how Shakedown could be their sanctuary. Now? She needed to find new shelter—once this girl was cleaned up.

  9

  Phee shoved the door open with her shoulder. Damn back door always stuck.

  “You sure you work here?” Naomi gave her the side-eye. It hadn't taken Phee long to find out her real name and that she'd been crashing on one of Maxim's bartender's couches for the last three weeks, not yet finding her own place—one that dealt in cash only and didn't mind dealing with an unemancipated seventeen-year-old.

  “Positive. You'll see, come on.” She hadn't brought any of the girls she'd pulled from Maxim's street to Shakedown or to her home before, but this girl was in rougher shape than expected. She wasn't only drunk. She was high on something and needed water at least. Crashing for a few hours on the cot in the staff lounge would do her well. Phee couldn't take her back to her apartment, not with her sisters there.

  Once the door unjammed, she flicked on lights in the long hallway and urged the girl to follow. Hesitation crossed the girl's eyes but she followed.

  Concrete dust, cinnamon, and lemon furniture polish grew stronger as they approached the black curtain separating the unimpressive cinder-block hallway and the main floor. She swiped the curtain back, gestured for Naomi to enter.

  “Wow.” Naomi stopped short. Her eyes widened. “You weren't shittin' me.”

  “Look.” She pointed at the long row of oil paintings along the back handicapped ramp. “The owner used to deal in antiques, so he commissioned portraits of all his lead dancers. That's Cherry. Aspen. Cortelana. Nicholas-slash-Nikki. And that one is me.” Declan and his romantic notions. “Those are my sisters.”

  “They look like you.”

  “My sisters and I are triplets.”

  “Get out.” The girl jutted her chin back. “I've never met a triplet before.”

  “Most people haven't.” She turned to face the stage. “That's where we dance.” Now that she really looked, Shakedown was impressive with its heavy red curtains, velvet booths, white tablecloths, and high-end lighting. When had she lost her awe?

  “Where are the poles?”

  “No poles. We dance more like cabaret and burlesque.”

  “Oh, great movie. That Christina chick can belt them out. So, you sing?”

  “I don't, but Cherry, the emcee does, and some of the other performers, too. Come on, I got coffee, soda, whatever you want.” She headed to the bar, clicking on the espresso machine.

  Naomi slid onto a barstool. “I'll have Jack.” She pointed to a bottle of Jack Daniels.

  “No.” Declan's voice rang in the air.

  Phee’s nerves crackled at his sharp bark. Of all the times, the man was pulling an all-nighter. The tiniest tremble ran through her fingers as she gripped the bar edge. A dose of adrenaline from the male intrusion, that was all.

  Naomi swiveled around and held up her hands in surrender. “Look man, she made me come here.” She stood. “I don't want no trouble.”

  Phee pulled out two espresso cups from under the counter. “Don't worry. He's just the owner.”

  Terror crossed Naomi's face. “Fuck, what did you get me into?” She would be scared. Jones, as an owner, was the polar opposite of Declan. In fact, those bruises on the girl’s neck had deepened over the last forty-five minutes. Phee brushed her fingertips over her own throat, the small muscles there remembering the grip of a hand wrapping around it.

  The coffee machine hissed, snapping her back to reality. “Want an espresso?” She glared at Declan.

  One side of his mouth inched up. “Don't mind if I do.” He sauntered over, swinging his cane. The young girl eyed the thing as if it were a taser.

  He held out his hand. “Hello, I'm Declan Phillips. I run Shakedown. And you are?”

  She didn't return the gesture—anot
her familiar sign. Naomi wasn't about to be yanked toward him and groped, though Declan would never do such a thing.

  He dropped his arm, seemingly unbothered by Naomi's suspicions.

  “He's not going to hurt you,” Phee said over the hiss of steam. “I would know. I've been here for six years.”

  The muscles around Naomi’s eyes relaxed. “I'm happy to audition. My name's Desha-biller.” She inched closer, ran her eyes up and down his torso.

  He smiled down at her. “Well, Desha-biller—”

  “Her name is Naomi.”

  The ungrateful woman sliced her eyes toward Phee. The girl would learn Phee was not her enemy—eventually.

  “Naomi.” He cleared his throat and grasped her wrists before her hands landed on his chest. “We don't audition acts like that here. Our dancers do their work on stage—and only on the stage. Here, take a seat. You look like you could use that coffee.” He helped her up on a stool. “Hungry?”

  “Shit, Phoenix here was right. You are a gentleman.”

  He cut his eyes to Phee. “Is that what she said about me?”

  Damn his smug smile. “Don't let it get to you.” She set a small espresso in front of him. “I still meant what I wrote.”

  “Ah, yes, the napkin.” He pulled it out of his suit coat pocket and placed it on the bar.

  The girl glanced at the tiny espresso cup. “How much you charge for these tiny things?”

  Declan chuckled. “A lot.”

  She took a sip and wrinkled her nose a little but gulped the whole thing down.

  Phoenix inclined her head to the end of the bar. “Got a second, Declan?”

  He pocketed her napkin note, took his espresso, and followed her to the end of the bar, his gaze trained on her face over the rim of the cup as he took a leisurely sip. “Decent espresso. A second calling, perhaps?”

  “Perhaps.”

  He set it down, his eyes never leaving hers. “Let me guess where you found her.”

  Declan knew very well where she had found Naomi. When Phee first worked for Declan, she often urged girls from Maxim's to audition at Shakedown. “It doesn't matter.”

  “I told you never to go back there.”

  Jesus, could the man look any more stern? “You don't get to tell me what to do. I don't work here anymore.”

  He glanced over at Naomi, who had laid her head on the bar, and then back at Phee. “Tell you what.” He reached into his suit jacket, pulling out the napkin. “If you do work here, she can stay.”

  Blackmail? Over her dead body. “To serve espressos?”

  “To dance.”

  They both glanced over at Naomi, who'd let out a slight moan as she settled into dozing, her face pressed against the bar. Jesus.

  He laid her resignation on the bar before her. “Where else is she going to go? Back to Maxim's? You know that place better than anyone.”

  She scowled. “You would bring that up.” He'd once brought a girl back here before—three of them actually: her, Starr, and Luna, two days after they'd met Declan. Back then, Shakedown didn't look like this—it had been more like an abandoned warehouse filled with Declan's dreams of turning it into the swankiest music hall in Baltimore.

  “You put yourself in danger like that again and—”

  “And what, you don't bring danger?” It felt good to spit that out.

  His jaw tensed. He lifted the napkin again. “I burn this. She can stay.”

  A string of expletives waiting to be unleashed sat on her tongue. She choked them back. “Fine. But only until I find someplace else for us to go.” She could find a better club than this place.

  “Come on. I'll put her in my office.” Declan moved to the sleeping girl. “Okay, beauty, time for rest.” She slipped into his arms so easily, just folded into him. With one hand on his cane, the other arm full of Naomi, he eased her toward the back rooms.

  “Mmm, smell good.” Naomi murmured against his jacket—a vintage Ralph Lauren if Phee wasn't mistaken. She mentally curled a fist around her desire to take a strong inhale of his scent. Her willpower squeezed the life out of it. Damn Declan and his impeccable taste.

  She followed them to his office. Declan laid Naomi on his couch and pulled the blanket that always hung off the end over her. She didn't visit Declan's office often, yet she'd always noticed that worn red and blue plaid blanket. She'd wondered if it was sentimental in some way.

  When he straightened, he appraised Phee. She squeezed her heart shut in case that warmth in his eyes reached her. She had to stay the course and keep that blood-pumping organ where it belonged—under lock and key. If she didn't, she'd bleed out.

  “I'll fill her in when she wakes. Try to place her.”

  A stab of sorrow arrowed through her chest anyway at his kindness, his immediate acceptance of responsibility for the lost girl.

  He gestured to the hallway. “Now, we talk.”

  “Tomorrow.”

  He pointed to his door. “Now.”

  10

  Declan shut his office door, and they faced each other in the corridor.

  “Starr or Luna know you've started up again? Trying to save the world one stripper at a time?” For the life of him, he could not figure out why she'd throw herself before the lion's den again. Her self-destructive pattern couldn't solely be because of what was going down at Shakedown.

  “Isn't that what you do?”

  “Apparently not.” He shifted a little, leaning on his cane. “I mean, I'm a mobster, right?”

  “Yes, you are, and I'll be back early to get her.” Her response wasn't unexpected. If he said the ocean was blue, she'd say it was green.

  They both knew the truth. Getting Naomi out of Maxim's was futile. The girl would hear how much money she could make at Shakedown washing dishes or waitressing compared to stripping, and she'd be out the door. That was the problem, wasn't it? The girls were promised a lot of money stripping—and the occupation delivered. What the club owners don't tell you is the price for such a wage. There was a 90 percent chance Naomi would end up back at Maxim's, prostituting herself behind closed doors.

  He leaned against the cinderblock wall. Phoenix wasn't running for the exit. Rather, her brow wrinkled in thought as she examined the floor beneath her. The soft plink-plink of a dripping pipe echoed from somewhere, each ting as loud as a church bell in the thick silence.

  He couldn't stand the hush like a calm before a raging storm. “Then I'll see you Tuesday? You'll be back to work?” He might as well throw it out there.

  She peeked up at him with nostrils flared, which was adorable. “Why do you care if I work here, Declan?” An exasperated sigh floated between them. “A hundred girls can take my spot. You're worried about Starr and Luna leaving, too? Well, I have news for you. Starr's getting married, so splitting up the act is inevitable anyway.”

  “Ah.” He tapped his cane on the inside of his foot. Now all this ratcheted-up attitude made sense. This woman standing before him was staring down at her worst nightmare. The sisters splitting up had to be terrifying. If only she could see staying here would get her what she wanted—stability. “You told me in no uncertain terms long ago you were a package deal. But now… not so much?”

  Her chin rose in bravado. “No one will pull us apart.”

  “But almost losing Starr to Ruark MacKenna, and now she's getting married, well, it's a lot to handle. And Luna finding your father…” He softened his voice, though he wanted nothing more than to either handcuff her to the first thing he saw to keep her here—or kiss the hell out of her. “You'll always have a home here. All three of you. But don't you think it's time to end the bitchy attitude? I'm not trying to cage you.”

  She stilled, and her exquisite throat moved in a swallow. “Look, I apologize. I just…”

  “Just what? You want me to fire you, don't you? It'd make things so much easier. Then maybe you could walk away from me.” Arrogant. But he knew the truth. The minute a man showed interest, she panicked. She only danced with h
er sisters—primarily for his very male-heavy clientele—because she didn't want to ever be severed from them again as they had been as kids. Of course, Starr getting married would push her over a new ledge. But then this woman had so fucking many ledges to jump off of.

  Steel entered her voice though her gaze dropped, defeated. “You can't fire someone who's already quit. I'm sorry for being so strident. But you won't stop, and I don't think of you… that way.”

  Her lashes, like silk, lifted so slowly he could almost hear the air move. He wanted to kiss them, to lay claim to every last detail of her. Then maybe, just maybe, he could stamp out the anguish of her past with it—the misery that drove her to such self-sabotaging behavior.

  Her back went straight. “Stop trying to date me.”

  He stepped forward, and she blanched. She did that whenever anyone got close. In fact, he'd never seen her touch or hug another person other than her two sisters—and even that was rare. She didn't hate him—not even a little. She was petrified of him and presumably of all men.

  “I have no interest in dating you, Phoenix.”

  The bewilderment on her face was priceless.

  “There can't be more for us,” she insisted.

  Bullshit, but whatever. His plans for Phoenix Rising were so much grander than a date. “Okay, but I won't let you throw your life away based on the past. You don't want to dance for me. Fine. It's a right-to-work state. But whatever you're running from is going to follow you.”

  “The MacKennas. Great.”

  “Yourself.” She had a heart as big as Canada with no one other than her sisters to care for it. She'd been abused beyond understanding, and yet she kept getting in her own way—refusing to move forward. Leaving Shakedown wasn't progress. It was fleeing, and the only thing she knew how to do thanks to that loser father—the man Declan would have put in the ground if he’d glanced in her direction.