Tough Break (The Shakedown Series Book 2)

by Elizabeth SaFleur

  Declan let a few seconds pass, let her absorb where he was going with this conversation. “Now, ask me what’s on the tip of your tongue. Why am I so patient with you? Why do I want you here?”

  “You don't get to pity me, Declan Phillips.”

  “Nothing I do for you or anyone here comes from pity. It comes from an understanding.”

  “Is this the part where you say because you're an ex-con, you know what it's like? I see all the new bouncers you have working here. And I'm tired of being around people who have the deck stacked against them, who are hunted, who are broken, who are—”

  “Like you? Is that why you started going back to Maxim's? To save the broken? I know all about your trips there the first year you danced for me. Girls showing up here, saying there was a red-headed girl talking about a place where they could be safe and dance. I knew it was you from the start.”

  Her chin lifted. “I thought you were trying to build up the business.”

  “No, you were trying to end Maxim's. And, in the process, put yourself in danger to help others.”

  “Those girls deserve more. There's nothing wrong with stripping—provided that's all you're asked to do. It's when the line gets crossed.”

  “Jones’ specialty. I know. He's a front for prostitution. Learned that the first time I walked in. They took one look at me—my leg—and they thought I was an easy mark. Talk about being pitied.” He settled both hands on his cane. “They said a certain redhead would do anything I wanted. They were trying to break in—”

  “Me.” Her delicate throat tensed. “He offered me.”

  “Their words, not mine.” Yes, they should have had this conversation long ago. Instead, they'd glossed over a lot. Years passed so quickly. Now, with the MacKennas breathing down his throat, he had no more room or time for secrets or bullshit.

  “I wasn't a hooker,” she spat. “I made that clear.”

  “And they punished you for it, didn't they?” He lifted his hand, hesitated, but then fingered a piece of her hair. Miraculously, she let him—for about three seconds—and then she pulled back.

  She crossed her arms. “Is Naomi going to be okay here?”

  Phoenix knew this girl for, what? Three hours? Already she worried. “I'd cut a man's arm off of whoever raised a hand to anyone here.”

  Her throat moved once more in a swallow. “What will it take for that not being necessary? Because you don't need to.”

  She wanted him to predict other's behaviors? This woman's need for certainty knew no end. “You can't stop people from making foolish decisions, like a woman quitting a job where she is safer than she knows.” No matter she wanted to stay in a box only she designed for herself, she had to understand she would not be better off elsewhere.

  “You only say that because you feel guilty about what happened… that last night at Maxim's.” When she'd been beaten up because she did something kind for Declan. Shit, he wasn't trying to make her relive her past, but there it was.

  “I made a promise to you, and I plan on keeping it.”

  She raised her hands in exasperation. “Keep me safe, keep us all safe.”

  “Yes, but I'm talking about my first promise. Do you remember it?”

  She knew what he referred to. “That last night at Maxim's. You said a man wouldn't raise his hand to me ever again. Shouted it from the street, if I recall.”

  It was ridiculous, a man in torn jeans and a blue work shirt looking far older than his then-thirty-eight years. Hard times aged a person, and he'd barely recognized himself in the mirror when he got out of prison. “After I got thrown out—literally—on my ass. Not my finest look.”

  “But you'd come back for us.”

  “You looked surprised. But not as much as me. Saw that black eye on you from across the club.”

  She shrugged. “Didn't think I'd ever see you again. Do you have any idea how many men have promised me things? Diamonds if I only gave them that blow job. Trips, a house, all if I did one little—” she pinched her fingers together “—tiny thing for them.”

  The crude words out of her mouth sent a chill through him. “Those aren't little things. No man should ever believe the favor of your company can be bought.”

  “Is that why you bought me a car?” She rolled her eyes.

  He chuckled. “That wasn't a bribe. If Allegra broke down, you'd be late and I'd have an angry mob on my hands waiting for you to take the stage.” Naming her car was cute. The possibility of her breaking down while going through West Baltimore was not.

  “No one cares that much.”

  “You think that little of yourself.” His brow pinched.

  She drew in a stuttered breath. “No.” It came out like a whisper. “And thank you for never asking for a return favor.” Her voice grew stronger. “But stop trying to coddle me.” She turned away and spoke to the wall. “Six years ago I was the stripper who gave you a free lap dance and then got punched in the face for my generosity. It's time we let each other go.”

  She couldn't even look at him when she uttered those words. So broken, so beautiful.

  An ocean of feelings rose and swamped him. “You did more for me that night, and when you're ready to hear what it was, I'll tell you.” She had no idea how much she'd changed his life. He couldn't let her walk away without something in return. Giving her a job was one thing, but he'd hoped to give her a better life. Now, he saw she'd merely been treading water—as if she was waiting out her life, not living it. “Phoenix…” Her hand flew up in a proverbial stop sign. They were getting nowhere. He sighed. “Come on. I'll drive you home.”

  “No, I have my car.”

  “Letting you go this late in that old relic?”

  “She's vintage, which I thought you loved. Besides, you have to convince sleeping beauty inside your office she is better than what Maxim's has to offer.”

  “Because that's what I did for you.”

  She looked so sad at that moment, he'd nearly breached that shield she kept around her just to hold her.

  “It's time you stop trying to…” She waved her hand. “… save me. What's done is done.”

  Yet this woman couldn't stop trying to save others. The irony was almost too much to bear.

  11

  Declan swiveled in his chair, watching the young girl’s chest rise and fall, her face pressed into his Cheshire couch.

  He shifted and a long groan from his chair cracked the stillness of the empty building. Not even the usual morning sounds—the beep, beep, beep of a backing up trash truck or a far-off ship’s horn—could be heard. One quick glance at the clock showed 10 a.m. He’d been staring at paperwork for hours, not getting anything accomplished. Rather, he’d scoured all the waterfront properties on the market and considered making a move of his own. What would that accomplish, though? Nothing.

  He stood and moved closer to Naomi. Four slight bruises lined the side of her neck as if fingers had pressed against her flesh there. He recognized the pattern, had seen it many times. The first was on Phoenix Rising six years ago.

  It’s time you stop trying to save me. What’s done is done. Her words formed the saddest declaration he’d ever heard. She didn’t think she or her life could change. She was right about one thing, however. She didn’t need saving. She needed reassembling.

  If she’d started up luring Jones’ girls away from him again—she’d gone through a spate a few years ago—she was not okay. Giving her space hadn’t worked, so a different tact would be required.

  Naomi flopped to her back, her arm dangling off the edge of the couch. A long line of spittle ran down her cheek. The ability to sleep that soundly was wasted on the young. Then again, had he ever slept that hard? He hadn’t since his world turned upside down more than a decade ago when he’d been found by Tomas MacKenna himself. His mother’s pleas the night she died—“no funeral, no obituary, promise me, promise me”—had been for naught. An obit appeared in the paper anyway, thanks to a zealous reporter. The MacKennas, people h
e didn’t even realize he was related to, showed up next, not three weeks after Declan laid her in the ground.

  He hadn’t been about to let Tomas direct his life. Instead, a certain redhead had, hadn’t she?

  She may believe her past damaged her beyond repair, but he wasn't going to let her continue to believe that. He'd started this club to do the opposite, give people a chance at a productive, safe life—and he'd make good on that promise.

  A rap on his door frame nearly had him come out of his skin.

  “Hey, you pull an all-nighter?” Nathan's eyes glanced toward the sleeping girl.

  She stirred. He strode to Nathan, motioned him to the hallway. He closed the door behind him. “That's Naomi in there. It's a long story and not what you think.”

  “Not thinking anything. Starr had me up half the night worrying about where the hell Phee had gotten to.”

  So, Phee had lied to her sisters? Things were worse than he realized. “Phoenix get home alright?” She hadn't answered his one text asking.

  “Yeah, like 5 a.m.”

  “She brought Naomi here—” he inclined his head toward his office door “—early this morning. The girl needed a temporary place to crash. She's…” He didn't want to say it.

  Nathan held up his hand. “No need to go into it.”

  Nathan had a sixth sense where trouble lay. He would, however, given his ex-con history. Prison made you hyper-aware of your surroundings.

  He debated for a few seconds on whether or not to tell Nathan about Carragh's appearance last night but opted against it. What could the man do? Nathan was finally was happy, and this was Declan's situation, not his.

  Declan eyed the man, who seemed restless. “You're in early.”

  “Yeah, want to get a jump on that shipment that came in yesterday. But also…” Nathan rubbed under his chin. “Was, uh, kinda hoping to talk to you before people arrive later. I want to ask you something.”

  “Sure.”

  The guy shifted from foot to foot. “So, you know Starr and I, well, we're getting married. It's going to be small, just family and a few friends.”

  “You want to hold it here at the club?”

  “Starr wants us to do it outside somewhere. Like on the water. She's got a thing for boats. In fact, we're thinking of going on a sailing honeymoon. Not my idea, but as long as it makes her happy.” The guy flushed and stiffly ran a hand over his chin again. “So, uh, I was hoping maybe you'd stand up with me. I mean, best man stuff. Max already has called dibs on Luna. You know how they have to be walked up the aisle? So, that means…”

  “I get it.” He'd walk with Phoenix. He didn't mind one bit. “Yes, I'd be honored.”

  “And… I don't get involved in the sister stuff, but Starr's worried about Phoenix. Said she's been acting weird lately. Thought you should know.”

  “Since I'll be walking her down the aisle?”

  The man wisely just nodded. Everyone knew how he felt about the woman. If Starr was sending out smoke signals through Nathan, he'd been missing other signs with Phoenix. Perhaps she'd been waiting for a reason to quit—and he'd given her one by revealing his family relations with the MacKennas.

  “Hey, can I get another one of those shots of coffee again?” Naomi leaned on the doorframe. Mascara lined her eyes, and her hair was tangled.

  “Sure.” He tipped his head toward Nathan. “This is Nathan. He works here.”

  “Oh?” Her eyes cleared a little of the sleep. “This who I'm auditioning for?”

  “No.”

  “Shame. I'd do you on the house.” Her lips inched up into a lopsided smile.

  Nathan eyed Declan and raised his hands. “I don't want to know.”

  “Naomi, after I get your espresso, we're going to talk about your options. None of which involve you 'doing' anyone.”

  She rubbed her nose vigorously. “That right?”

  Nathan chuckled and shook his head. “See ya, Declan.”

  Of course, nothing Declan said or offered made a difference to Naomi. She drank her coffee in one shot, bummed forty dollars from him for a cab, and was gone. The entire morning exchange took less than twenty minutes. That meant Phoenix might go through with her napkin threat.

  He'd bided his time for six years with that woman—and it was time to stop. Phee needed more from him than she knew. She needed a friend—the one fucking thing he hadn't tried. To be her friend, however, required a little tough love. He headed to his office. He was going to give her what she asked for—he would let her go. At least in one way.

  12

  Phee inspected the exquisite, painstaking detail on the Victorian coral pin. The filigree casing sparkled in the shop's overhead light.

  “It's stunning, isn't it?” Blair smiled at her from the other side of the counter. The owner of Stich-n-Time knew her stuff. The shop burst with women's clothing and accessories from the mid-1940s to the 1970s.

  “You have the best eye, Blair. You can't find workmanship like this anymore.” Phee held it up to her neck, which is where she'd pair it with her new Hermes scarf snagged from eBay—an elegant pattern depicting a Paris fair.

  She could devote hours to trying on the dozens of garments hung like art against the wall—so many pretty dresses with cowl necklines and A-line silhouettes begging for crinolines. Cowboy boots and silk clutch purses lined the far wall shelf while tea partyish hats and gorgeous belts of all colors and eras hung on pegs. She'd once scored a Hermes Kelly bag from the ‘40s here.

  Starr sidled up to her. “What's that?”

  “My new purchase. I'll take it.” She handed the brooch back to Blair, who winked.

  “Readying yourself for a date or something?”

  Phee rolled her eyes.

  Luna peeked around a rack of high-waisted pants fit for the 1940s. “You have a date? Tell me it's with Declicious.”

  “If only she'd be that smart,” stressed Starr. “You know how many women are after that man? One is going to eventually catch him.”

  “Leave it, you two.” She grinned at the two of them. They never wasted a chance to needle her over Declan's obvious crush on her.

  “I saw he texted you yesterday.” Starr stared at her hard. “What? You left your phone on the kitchen counter and it kept buzzing. I just peeked. Who is Naomi? He hiring a new act and you're the only one he told?”

  “No.” Declan's text from yesterday flashed in her mind.

  <>

  See? The man was fucking perfect—and presumptuous if he thought she was coming back. She'd only agreed to continue if Naomi stayed.

  She'd texted him back immediately. <>

  <>

  His response was unexpected and, truth told, nipped at her pride a bit. Yet she'd set up the rules so it was time to abide by them. She still hadn't replied. She'd show up, of course. Until she found a new gig, she couldn't afford to stop cold turkey.

  Phee ran her finger along the glass countertop, admiring the cameos lined up like perfect Victorian ladies on their velvet trays. “Naomi was a girl I gave a ride to Saturday night—or Sunday morning, depending on how you look at it.”

  She could almost hear the dust motes moving in the air from the stillness that came next.

  Starr broke the silence first. “And where did you find her?”

  “On a street corner when I was out driving around. She was by herself. In the rain. I gave her a ride. End of story.”

  “How did Declan get involved in this? Was he with you?”

  Phee was going to have to tell them, wasn't she? “No, I brought her to Shakedown. She was drunk.” And high.

  “You found her outside Maxim's.” It wasn't a question, and Starr's eyes filled with accusations.

  “What? So what if I did?”

  “But, that place—”

  “Hence, me scooping her up and taking her to Shakedown.”

 
; “You took her from a place we never wanted to see again to a place you quit.” Starr measured her words carefully as if trying to understand them like she had over breakfast when the three of them had continued to discuss Phee's withdrawal from Shakedown. Why did everything have to be so hard?

  Luna moved forward first. “I'm sorry. This is my fault. Finding Dad—”

  “What's that got to do with anything?” Phee shook her head as if that would stop the exchange altogether.

  “Everything,” Starr scoffed.

  “I should have never looked for him,” Luna exhaled.

  “Oh, God, here we go again.” Her father could rot in hell. Why did they have to keep resurrecting him? Leave him there where he belonged.

  Luna's weepy gaze zeroed in on her. “I just thought being able to say what you needed to say to him would help you move on. I mean Starr—”

  “Is moving on?” Phee raised her hand. “Stop. Both of you.” She may have been a splintered mess on the inside but talking only sharpened the edges. They did nothing to stop the cuts.

  “We're worried about you.” Luna's phone buzzed but she ignored it. “I mean, first, trying to leave Shakedown and then going back to Maxim's?”

  “I wasn't going to Maxim's. And for the record, I wasn't trying to quit. I did. And only until I find us a better place. I won't leave you in the lurch. I struck a deal.” Sort of. One that was null and void but whatever. Declan would give her at least two weeks. That was a standard notice period, wasn't it? “Once I find a new gig, that's when we all can ‘move on’, as you say.”

  “A deal…” Starr repeated and glanced at Luna. “Thought you were sick of those.”

  Luna eyed her. “Or maybe it's because this deal is with Declan.” A smile worthy of a cat spread across her cheeks.

  Phee gave her sister a sideways glance. “You really do take ‘wishing will make it so’ to a new level, L.”

  “Without dreams, we're lost,” she sang.

  Phee didn't dream anymore, only the occasional nightmare. Her mind had shut down long ago, and it was better that way. No disappointments were set up.