Tough Break (The Shakedown Series Book 2)

by Elizabeth SaFleur

  After paying for her brooch, they headed down the narrow stairs to the street level.

  “By the way, Phee.” Starr turned to her as soon as they got to Starr's car. “And I'm only telling you so you're not in the dark—but L. and I saw Dad this morning when you were sleeping in.”

  “Okay.” She clamped down the familiar anger that arose at the thought he was anywhere near them.

  “He asked about you.” Starr immediately raised her hands. “Told him you were fine, and we dropped it.”

  “Good.” The least amount of information given to that man, the better. She tugged open the car door and climbed in. “Let's go.”

  Starr put her keys in the ignition. “He's not well.”

  Jesus, her sisters would not drop the topic of their father already. “Of course, he's not.” Abusing one's body for decades with alcohol and ending up in a coma this last time—and God knew what else—would do that to a person.

  “Well, it's worse than that.” Luna, sitting in the front passenger seat, glanced at Starr. They gave each other an odd look.

  “What? Just out with it.” Phee was so done with all this heavy talk.

  The vinyl squeaked under Luna as she turned to face the windshield. “He's got early-onset Alzheimer's.”

  How does one prepare themselves for such a revelation? Be shocked? Smug? Angry that he got to forget and she didn't? Phoenix chose her most honest reaction. “I don't care.”

  Luna pulled out her phone, which had been buzzing incessantly since they left the shop. “You should. Once he succumbs, that's it. No more answers.”

  The man had no answers for her. He only brought misery.

  Luna sucked in a long breath. “Oh, my God.” She furiously tapped on her phone. “Oh, wow. Oooooh, God. Remember Sally, that dancer from the charity show?” Luna held up her phone to Starr's face. “She texted me a listing on Backstage.” Her mouth fell open, and she swiveled to stare at Phee. “Are we fired?”

  Phee leaned forward. “What are you talking about?”

  Her sister held up her screen. “It's an ad on the Backstage online portal.”

  The inside of her throat went dry. “Son of a bitch.” So, Declan was doing exactly what she'd instructed him to do—move on—because the ad was clear: Auditions at Club Shakedown. Baltimore, Maryland. Tomorrow at noon.

  13

  Phoenix eased the car into her designated parking spot. A line of at least thirty men and women snaked from Shakedown's entrance down the front sidewalk and into the parking lot.

  “Touché, Declan,” she mumbled and killed the ignition.

  As soon as they’d arrived home from shopping yesterday, Luna tracked down more Shakedown advertisements for variety and cabaret acts on both CircusTalk and Backstage. It wasn't unexpected people would show up for a chance to join Declan's roster of entertainers. His club's reputation had long ago been established as a premier gig. He offered health care insurance, decent hours, and a decent wage—unheard of in the dance scene. Phoenix hadn't foreseen so many familiar faces showing up, however.

  Starr turned to her. “You sure you want to do this?”

  “Positive.” Phee cracked open the door.

  She'd placed calls of her own yesterday to clubs and theatres seeking a new place to land and discovered very few people were hiring. Once they found out her offer didn't involve her sisters, they'd balked altogether. She had to move to Plan B—whatever the hell that was.

  She implored her sisters to call Trick instead of Declan to uncover their boss' plans. He reported Shakedown was merely in the market for additional acts and told them “not to worry.” Yeah, right. Not telling your headline acts you're hiring more dancers? This move was Declan's cannon shot across the bow.

  Her head had filled with imaginary, pointed conversations with him all night.

  You bastard.

  I want to stay.

  I hate you.

  I'll help you.

  Okay, not conversation. More like things she'd wanted to lob herself.

  She’d run every scenario in her head about how to get a handle on this situation until the answer thunked down from the sky. Declan wouldn't intimidate her with this play. She'd remain at Shakedown until she could be replaced, and she'd help him vet the potential new acts. She'd be a professional.

  Luna hurried over to some people she knew. “Jezebel, oh, my God, where have you been?”

  “Everywhere.” The woman in a fake leopard jacket sporting bright orange lipstick jumped out of line and hugged her. “God, you are a sight for sore eyes.” She playfully slapped her arm. “Luna, you didn't tell me Shakedown was hiring. I got on the first train here from New York. Oh, to work for Mr. Phillips would be a dream.” She flicked her eyes toward Declan and Trick, who stood in the doorway.

  “Well, glad to see you here.”

  Trick's voice rose. “Ladies and gentlemen, can I have your attention, please? We'll start auditions at noon. Please, have your resumés and headshots available. We will take you in the order you lined up.”

  “Declan,” Phoenix skirted by him to get out from the cold and into the entranceway. “Can we talk for a minute?”

  He nodded once. “Trick, let everyone in. It's freezing outside. Give them coffee, tea, water, no liquor. I'll be out there in a second.”

  A sly smile stretched across Trick’s lips, which he directed at her. So, perhaps he was in on this reverse psychology move? Well, it wasn't going to work.

  Once inside Declan's office, she closed his office door. “So, auditions.”

  “After Naomi left, your text said our deal was null and void.” He glanced at a newspaper on his desk.

  “I won't leave a hole in the show. I'll still be here until I can find another place.” Phee swallowed. Being honest seemed on point for this fresh development.

  He raised his gaze and let a long minute pass between them as he appraised her. “Sure,” he finally said. “You can still dance here. I'll allow that.”

  It was a dick male move to toss that in her face but also fair play. Her intellectual brain told her it was his prerogative to do whatever he wanted. She had quit, after all.

  She forced herself to stop picking at her cuticle. “Well, thank you. For trying with Naomi, I mean.”

  “I didn't think you could say that.”

  “You think that little of me?”

  “I think a lot of you.”

  He did that with her—started out stern and then softened, almost like dealing with a misbehaving child, which galled her to her bones.

  She drew in a long breath. “I can help you audition them. I have a bit of experience, you know. What are you hoping for in a new act?”

  Surprise lit in his eyes. Good. It was okay for him to be taken off guard by her.

  “It's going to be tough. I need someone as good as you.”

  She forced a smile, trying to make light of the matter. “Good luck.”

  “I could say the same to you.”

  Touché, indeed.

  14

  Declan held back the black curtain and paused in the archway leading onto the main floor. At least eighty performers, more than he could have hoped for, crowded the space. Bags and coats were strewn about chairs and the floor.

  The burlesque scene had shrunk considerably in recent years, and Shakedown was one of the few clubs left on the East Coast that promoted that type of entertainment. Given the size, depth, and breadth of the crowd, perhaps opening up a second club somewhere could work. He had the funding for it, and the MacKennas seemed hell-bent on taking over the waterfront. It might be wise to spread his interests a bit.

  Two women nudged each other as they stared at Phoenix talking with another dancer on the other side of the club. He also had the best act in the country—the O'Malley triplets, some of the best-known dancers of their time. Or rather, he’d had a triplet act. If he knew anything about those three, they stick together so anything might happen in coming months, like losing Luna and Starr. He'd hoped Phoen
ix wouldn't make good on her promise to leave, but hope was for fools.

  “Well, you move fast.” The female voice sounded amused. Declan swiveled to face Starr, who had sidled up to him. She leaned closer and whispered, “I want points for not bombarding you with messages for the last 24 hours asking if we're fired.”

  “Fired? Of course not. You three are my most popular act, and I'm not losing you to another club despite Phoenix's declaration.” He glanced up at Phoenix, who stood about ten feet away chatting with Carina Rose, an old friend of the two of them. Carina pulled Phoenix into a hug.

  “Oh, I don't believe she's leaving. Like I always said, her bark is worse than her bite. Still, good move on getting Carina here.” Starr winked and moved to join Luna, who sat with Trick, by the looks of it helping him organize the headshots and resumes.

  His “move” had been a stroke of good luck, as Phoenix loved Carina, and the retired dancer was available.

  Shakedown's email account had been bombarded with messages yesterday so he'd asked Carina, once the nation's most celebrated burlesque dancer of her day, to help bring some fresh blood to the local scene. He hadn't expected the O'Malley triplets to parachute in to help—certainly not Phoenix.

  Carina broke her hug of Phee but held her hands and gazed into her eyes. The woman's forehead wrinkled and she placed a hand alongside Phee's cheek. Phoenix cocked her head, pressing into Carina's hand. That infinitesimal movement meant something—something big. Phoenix rarely showed vulnerability. Then again, Carina had a way of bringing out the truth in people. She saw more than most. She'd lost her hearing about the same age Phoenix was now, though thanks to cochlear implants had regained much of it.

  Declan made a mental note to ask Carina what she'd seen in Phee. Despite his earlier words about giving Phoenix whatever space she required, he'd ensure her safety and comfort for the rest of his life. For now, however, he had some insurance to hire—as that's what he deemed hiring new acts would mean.

  He joined Trick and Luna, who peered up at him immediately. “Declan, I see you've expanded your ideas for the show.” She held up a stack of the headshots left with her.

  Trick chuckled. “Luna's got some organizational skills. She grouped the acts into type within ten minutes. We've got dancers, an opera singer, a blind juggler, comedians…”

  He could see that variety splayed all around him. The dancers were easy to spot as they stretched their legs on the floor and used the brass rail lining the bar as a ballet barre. A few groups appeared fit for a Renaissance festival, a husband and wife acrobat team sported matching, impressive biceps, and a few drag queens and male impersonators chatted up Cherry in the corner.

  “By the looks of things, everyone wants to work here.” Luna flipped through a series of photographs.

  “Unexpected vacancies will do that.” He winked at her.

  Her mouth twitched upward. “Not everyone. Though you can count on Starr and me being here as long as you want us.”

  A comfortable warmth spread across his chest at her little white lie. They would never let Phoenix be alone for long. “Given Phoenix and I have reached an understanding, I'm hoping the O'Malley triplets headline Shakedown for many more years to come.” He could roll with that fairytale.

  Her shoulders rose and fell in a long exhale. “For the record, I don't believe Carragh MacKenna is going to do anything to this club.”

  What an odd thing to raise, and his gut lurched at hearing the name. “He is not one to ever underestimate, Luna.” He stared at her hard.

  She didn't break his gaze. “I don't trust him. But I believe there is more to the story of him, isn't there?”

  “Who do you want to see first?” Trick interrupted them—a welcomed interference. Declan wasn't discussing with her the depth of sociopath DNA Carragh inherited.

  “Comedians. A little humor would do everyone some good.” Declan yanked out a chair. At the last minute, he'd checked the box on “Comedy & Improv” on the submission form asking what kind of talent he sought, and he was glad. Laughter would relax the crowd provided the acts were any good.

  They listened to the six comedians who showed up, but it was the last man, a tall, thin black man named Delight and sporting an Orioles baseball cap, who had him considering hiring such an act. The man riffed well off the audience—the other acts sitting around the small cocktail rounds waiting their turn.

  He labeled the crowd “the playland of misfit toys and boys.” He asked one particularly busty blond woman about her act and she answered, “Fire dance.” His response? “You ran with scissors as a child, didn't you? And that was a slow day?” Semi-cheesy, but the crowd laughed, which is all that mattered. Maybe it was time to expand Shakedown's offerings. He liked the audience participation angle the man brought.

  “Thank you, Delight,” Trick called to the comedian now leaving the stage. Trick leaned down to Declan. “Who do you want to see next?”

  He picked up the photo on top. “Dancers.”

  “Mona?”

  A Rubenesque brunette with an amazing smile rose from her seat. “Mona Jean Harlow,” she purred. She swept off her trench coat and revealed her tight dress cascaded with pearls and fringe. It was two sizes too small and her breasts threatened to burst forth at any minute. “I like to audition in full costume. For the full effect.” She winked at him and proceeded to the stage.

  Phoenix rose from her seat a few tables away and came over to him. She yanked out the chair next to him and sat. “You have a score sheet set up for the dancers?”

  “No.”

  She let out a thank-God-I’m-here sigh. “Mind if I do?”

  “Not at all, Miss O'Malley.”

  Phoenix reached into her bag and pulled out a notebook. One glance revealed she'd already set up a grid with some categories, the details of which he didn't catch. She'd come prepared. Now that he thought about it, it was a shame they hadn't talked about her helping him audition in advance.

  Mona Jean turned out to be an old-timey burlesque dancer—slow, reserved, prancing across the stage, taking ten minutes to remove nothing but gloves and her dress down to a second, more transparent dress. After she was through, the woman looked expectantly at him. He gave her a polite smile. Years ago, he'd have hired her in a heartbeat, but Mona had none of Phoenix's fire or enthusiasm.

  Phoenix showed him her pad of paper. She was dead-on in her assessment. Perfect for Shakedown—ten years ago. He nodded his agreement. He'd been watching Phoenix and her sisters dance for six years. His bar of what constituted good had elevated to an uncompromising level, and therein lay the problem for today.

  No one had what Phoenix had, not even her sisters. Phoenix Rising glided and swayed with a violent passion so unexpected from such a delicate frame. It took people off guard to the point they couldn't rip their gaze from her. He'd seen hundreds of his patrons riveted every night to his stage simply because she flounced across it. She didn't entertain. She captured… and released. She shut down as fast as she rose up, not unlike a derecho.

  He rose. “Thank you, Mona. I'm not sure when we'll need a vintage act.”

  The woman swallowed, her face a slack mask of disappointment.

  Phee tossed him an admonishing look—which was rich—and then turned to Mona. “Bad choice of words. Your act is wonderful and you will be given full consideration. Shakedown is seeking someone to replace me. Isn't that right, Declan?”

  The woman's face paled further. “Why?”

  Yes, why would she? Oh, perhaps because she was a stubborn, damaged, fleeing ostrich.

  “It's time.” Phoenix smiled at her.

  The woman's eyes darted to Declan and then back to her.

  Phee cocked her head as if understanding some secret language the woman conveyed in her body language. “He's a good boss. You'd be happy here.”

  If he could siphon off the unhappiness in her voice, he would. “Phoenix was made for bigger things.”

  “Than here? Oh, are you going to Broadway? You
could totally do it.”

  “I might. I might do a lot of things.”

  “She could.” As Mona exited the stage, he texted Phoenix.

  <>

  She glanced at her phone, then at him. The sadness coating her face was going to kill him. “It's better this way.” She turned her eyes to the group of performers. “Sally Mae, you ready?”

  He stared at Phoenix’s delicate profile, her lashes jutting out like a canopy, her nose a perfect slope, her lips pouting with insolence. Perhaps he'd overplayed his hand with this audition move. It certainly didn't seem to thwart her resolve to run.

  It was time to engage Plan C—or was it Z? He only had one move left. He was going to have to stop dancing with her altogether. He'd have to tell her the truth around why he wanted her here so badly—and all of it.

  15

  Phee's arms and legs vibrated with electricity as she curtsied toward the applauding audience. On a whim, Phee had abandoned choreography in part of her dance and improvised, because why not? It was fun, and her time here was limited.

  For the first time in months, she'd locked into the music and glided across the stage as if dancing on air. She grabbed a fistful of dusty velvet curtain and kicked to the ceiling. She shimmied across the stage, arms out and fingers gesturing for the crowd to get louder, clap harder. Then, stood in the center of the stage, she pivoted and unhooked her bra only to model-turn back to the stage and throw it off, revealing her Swarovski crystal pasties.

  She sucked in a lungful of cigar-filled air. She felt good.

  She'd slept well after yesterday's auditions. Perhaps it was because her involvement with Shakedown and Declan was determined—no more ambivalence, no more dancing around one another. Or perhaps her adrenaline surge was because Declan wasn't telling her who he was thinking about hiring. He said he'd decide by tonight's end.