Tough Break (The Shakedown Series Book 2)

by Elizabeth SaFleur

  She ground her teeth together. He knew the answer to his question. She'd failed spectacularly at convincing them to go with her. She had to dangle a bigger and better carrot for them—once she found it. She lifted her chin.

  He sobered. “I wouldn't let anything happen to them—or you. I would eviscerate someone before I'd allow them to touch a beautiful hair on your head or anyone here.” He widened his stance. “Remember, I'm the man in love with you. You'll be safer here because no one else will feel as strongly about protecting you as I will.” His voice softened a shade. “But I get it. You don't love me back, and you want to move on.”

  Her heart hurt in an odd way, and her throat burned. “I have to.”

  “Okay. So, consider me your friend. That's what I'll be to you.”

  Her brows furrowed. Friends? After what he declared?

  “Isn't that what you'd rather have?”

  They froze for a second—looking at each other. Her mind couldn't conjure up one coherent thought about this strange conversation. It was so… bald. Brutal, in a way.

  “Of course,” she finally said. “And I'll stay until my sisters don't need me anymore.”

  “Fair enough.” He gently took her by the arm and escorted her to the door.

  As soon as she stepped through, a loud click sounded behind her. It was the first time he'd ever shut her out. It was also the second—third?—time he'd touched her in a very, very long time. That couldn't be right, could it? Yes, he didn't get physically close to her often, and now he did it just to shuffle her out to the hallway.

  After telling her he loved her.

  After he said he'd settle for being her friend.

  She should be happy. She really, really should be.

  18

  Phoenix yanked her car into park and glanced around. Naomi's text had been short and to the point.

  <>

  She hoped that “s” in dancing had been merely a typo, though she'd met plenty of girls who hadn't even finished eighth grade and probably hadn't cracked a book they weren't forced to read in English class.

  She tapped the steering wheel. She was a few minutes early, unable to sit still in her apartment anymore. After Declan's “I love you” declaration, her limbs coursed with an odd adrenaline. Then, this morning, Starr announced Ruark MacKenna might get out soon. Naomi's text was a Godsend, really. It was like the Universe telling her to go out and do something useful, even if it did mean she had to be on this street again.

  Of all the places to meet, Naomi had suggested the coffee shop a block from Maxim’s. Phee should have suggested a different place, but here she was. A glutton for punishment.

  Through the windshield wiper furiously trying to keep up with the pounding rain outside, she stared so hard at Maxim's front door her blood vessels might have burst in her eyes. In the gray afternoon, the place looked like trash—peeling paint, a ripped awning. How had she ever thought it once looked cool? Because she'd been a stupid eighteen-year-old—that's how.

  Her hand reached for her car handle when the tip of an umbrella emerged from the front door of Maxim's. It burst open and one of Jones' henchmen stepped out, holding it over Naomi. She smiled up at him. The guy didn't return the smile but growled down at her. What the eff was going on?

  The guy didn't follow Naomi as she jogged down the steps but rather stood there looking out over the street. Phoenix huddled down behind the steering wheel to avoid being seen.

  Naomi glanced up and down the street, then seemed to recognize Phee's car. A vintage VW is easy to spot, she supposed.

  She jogged over and rapped on the car window. “Coming out?” she mouthed.

  Phee would if the goon who still stood at the top of the landing with his umbrella would go back inside Maxim's. Instead, he stood there. The guy didn't seem to be looking her way—plus, it wasn't like he knew her so, okay then, she'd get out.

  Phee grabbed her umbrella and stepped out into a river of water rushing down the street. If they were smart, they'd have stayed inside the car. Instead, she found herself jogging to catch up with Naomi, who ran pretty damned fast in her sparkly converse sneakers

  She shook the umbrella out as soon as she stepped inside. She glanced around, logging each detail of the room in her mind, an automatic reaction. A couple sat in the corner booth, and two older men sat at stools at the old-fashioned lunch counter sipping coffee. The exit sign cast a red halo. She marked in her mind that it was to the right.

  Naomi sat in the back.

  Phee scooted into the narrow booth across from Naomi, who was already reading the menu. “Hey, you got any money?” The girl didn't even look up.

  “Hungry?”

  “Starving. But I can only have a salad. Make sure I don't get the burger, okay?” The girl dramatically slapped her menu shut.

  “Still trying to lose weight?” If she did, her ribs would show in her back.

  “Aren't we all?”

  “So, about dancing. You had questions?”

  “You want me to work at Shakedown, right?” Naomi fidgeted with her blouse.

  Okay, this girl got straight to the point. “Well, it's a good starting off point. And, if you have an act—”

  “Nope. Don't have one of those.”

  “Well, enroll in classes—”

  “I got no money to take classes. Or time. What's the shortcut?”

  “There isn't one.” Phee glanced through the window toward Maxim's. “You aren't making money at Maxim's?”

  “They aren't giving me enough nights. I mean, two nights I can pull…” She pursed her lips. “Maybe $1,000 a week? Jones has doubled up on girls so I'm trying… but…” She shrugged one shoulder and pulled out some napkins.

  She knew the drill. Make the girls compete for their marks and still take sixty percent of the night's earnings. Still, for working two nights a week, she looked haggard. She had dark circles under her eyes and her skin had a gray tinge.

  “But isn't that enough to get into a community college or something?”

  “College? Why would I do that?” Naomi spat her gum in one of the napkins. “So I can spend ten years making a thousand a week after logging sixty hours a week? I work two nights and make that.”

  “What can I get you ladies?” A waitress had magically appeared.

  “She's paying.” Naomi pointed at Phee.

  Phoenix smiled up at her. “I'll take a Diet Coke. Naomi here wants a salad… and what else?” She eyed the girl.

  “Diet Coke. And add a side of fries.”

  Phee leaned back and tamped down a little laugh. “Look, if you really want to dance—”

  “I want to make money.” Naomi crossed her arms. “So, this cabaret stuff you do? It looks like it might be working. You look like you're doing alright. The Coach purse and all.”

  It had been a gift from Declan last Christmas, but something told her she shouldn't reveal that tidbit to Naomi, who didn't look above attempting to turn any man into a sugar daddy for herself.

  “There's more to life than money. Like self-respect. If you waitress for Declan—”

  “I'm not doing that shit.”

  “Why not?”

  The girl dropped her chin and glared. “You don't.”

  “I have before. Now, I don't.”

  The bell over the door sounded, and out of habit, Phee glanced up. A large man shook out an umbrella and then swiped a mop of black hair off his forehead. He looked so familiar, but he was across the room and had turned away before she could get a good look.

  “How are you dancing at Maxim's if you're only 17, Naomi?”

  The girl stilled. “Maybe I'm really twenty-one.”

  “You got ID?”

  The girl then turned to stone. “Look. You know and I know how this game is played—”

  “Oh? And how is that?” Phoenix slipped the paper off her straw as the waitress set a Diet Coke before both of them. Naomi reached into her purse, and without
a single glance around pulled out a small flask, uncapped it, and poured the liquid into her soft drink.

  “Hair of the dog?” Phee asked.

  “Hair of what?” The girl capped her flask and put it back into her oversized hobo bag.

  “Never mind. Let me ask you something. How did you end up at Maxim's, anyway?”

  A cold stillness settled into her features. Her jaw slackened, her eyes grew distant. “The usual way. You said you used to work for Jones. How did you end up there?”

  “The usual way.” When she and her sisters been released from the state, they had few choices. They waitressed. They tried to get office jobs. They had no money, no real skills, and no one suggested community college to them, though how could they have afforded that back then? They still couldn't scrape up enough to live together. Even a one-bedroom and one bath in a safe neighborhood was close to three grand a month in Baltimore, and going somewhere else would just cost more money they didn’t have. They just knew they had to go together, and then a chance encounter with one of Jones' strippers led them to Maxim's.

  Phee sat back, fiddling with a spoon that had a tiny morsel encrusted on it. She dropped it. “Where's your family?”

  Naomi scoffed. “Not going back there.”

  “Why not?”

  Naomi raised her eyebrows “Guess.”

  She didn't have to. That's the thing about being abused. It made you hyper-aware of others who'd been as well.

  The food arrived and Naomi polished off her french fries in record time. The salad went untouched. As soon as the last fry was gobbled up, Naomi took a long sip of her Diet Coke.

  “So, about your club. I guess it's not happening?”

  “We have actual acts. You'd have to—”

  “Forget it. I get it.” Naomi slid across the seat and headed toward the ladies’ room.

  She felt bad for the girl, she really did. But what else she could do for her? Why was she trying to convince this girl to try waitressing at Shakedown? Why was she here at all? Declan may have been right to let her go her own way.

  Phee paid the bill, and when Naomi hadn't returned after ten minutes, she went looking for her.

  She wasn't in the ladies' room or anywhere else she could find. Phee moved to the front of the coffee shop, glanced out the window, and caught Naomi slipping into the front entrance of Maxim's. The guy still stood out there with an umbrella as if he was waiting for someone.

  Naomi hadn't even said thank you or good-bye. But then, when no one gave you anything in life but grief, perhaps she didn't realize it was necessary when someone was trying to be kind to you.

  On the tip of her brain, something lined up—something about Declan. He was kind, always trying to do things for people.

  It's not the same she told herself, grabbing her umbrella from the stand. She stepped out into the late afternoon. At least the rain had stopped, though the streets still resembled a creek. She stepped into the street, and by the grace of God, managed to look up at the entrance of Maxim's again. Jones was getting out of a black Cadillac, the goon holding the umbrella over him. Jones caught her eyes. She froze. He cocked his head in recognition, his eyes squinching as if trying to place her

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  Her car was between them, about 100 yards away. She popped open her umbrella to shield herself, and if she hurried could get there before he did, couldn't she? Stupid her, she peeked around her umbrella, and Jones was gesturing to the bodyguard, who glanced her way. Was he coming for her?

  She began to run. Jones had recognized her. Holy fuck. Her heart might give out at that possibility.

  Phee instantly cursed wearing suede heels. They were already ruined and didn't make good running shoes—which they proved when she lost her balance and found herself on her ass on the wet concrete, a torrent of dirty rainwater rushing by her as the sidewalk slanted downhill.

  A huge form lorded over her, holding an enormous golf umbrella. “You okay?”

  She looked up into the face of Carragh MacKenna.

  19

  “Now, you wait here, honey.” The nurse clicked on the brake of the wheelchair. They needn't make such a fuss over a sprained ankle.

  Phee's sister, Luna, crossed her arms. “Not your best look.”

  “It's this godawful, light blue-green scrub thing.” Phoenix pulled at the top the nurse had given her. Her clothes had been soaked from the rain, and the nurse insisted she change into the horrible hospital top.

  Luna glanced at Declan and then back to her. “He's taking care of the paperwork.”

  His broad back stood at the half-moon-shaped information desk.

  “Probably charming the pants off those nurses,” she scoffed. They smiled and that petite blond kept cocking her head as if hanging on his every word. A distinguished middle-aged man with no ring on his finger? He might as well roll in catnip and lie down on the nurse's station desk in offering.

  She rubbed her head. Drugs messed with her brain. “You called him, huh?”

  “No,” Luna leaned down and whispered. “I think Carragh did.” The smile on her face was ridiculous. “It was nice of him to bring you—in a limo! He was in the waiting room when I arrived.”

  Phee adjusted the ice strapped to her sprained ankle, now wrapped in white gauze. “Don't be so easy. He's just trying to get under Declan's skin.” Not to mention pushy as hell.

  Carragh had lifted her up from the rain and she'd nearly come out of her skin. She must have gone into shock because somehow, she ended up inside his limo, shrunk into a ball in a corner of the enormous vehicle. She recalled nodding when the words Emergency Room floated in the air because that was a public place. He'd pulled up, she'd scrambled her way out, and tumbled right into an orderly.

  Phee's head throbbed. Did she hit it, too? “And don't tell Starr I ran into him, L.”

  “But—”

  “I mean it. She has enough on her plate.” Picking out high heels for her wedding dress but whatever.

  “I won't, but what were you doing anyway—running in heels in the rain? And on that street?” She cocked an eyebrow.

  “Shopping. For Rachel's baby shower.” Liar, liar, ass on fire.

  “Well, good thing he was there.”

  “Luna, you're being too calm about Carragh coincidentally showing up.” And Declan's family ties. And the fact Ruark was hitting the streets again—soon.

  She shrugged. “If it was such a big deal, wouldn't things be a lot worse? And I thought we were going to go shopping together. I know the best baby store.” She clasped her hands together in enthusiasm.

  She ignored her sister's enthusiasm. “Calm before the storm.”

  “Well, Carragh's left, and Declan is driving us home.” She rose.

  “Okay.” She lifted her ruined heel that had been resting in her lap. “Because this won't get me home.”

  “Do I detect a sense of humor?”

  “It's the muscle relaxants.”

  “Whatever it is, let's get a year's supply.”

  “Ready to go, ladies?' Declan's voice broke into their conversation. “Insurance should cover everything, but if not, don't worry. I've got it covered.”

  Phee sighed and was about to protest—because she and her sisters would never again owe any man money—but her lips snapped shut as her wheelchair lurched forward. Declan had released the brakes and took control—as he always did.

  He leaned down to her ear. “And on the way home, you can tell me how Carragh MacKenna ended up landing you in an ER.”

  “Oh, he didn't do anything,” Luna chimed in. She grasped the heel from Phee's lap. “These did.”

  Declan's chuckle annoyed her.

  On the way home, Phee fought her eyelids that tried to sink to the floor. She shifted in the seat, her cheek against the soft leather, and fixed her gaze on Declan's profile. His temples had grown gray in recent years. She tried to roll to sitting up straight and failed. The drugs made her all rubbery and warm and, quite frankly, they raised up a
n odd melancholy inside her.

  “Declan?” Her throat could only form a whisper.

  “Hmm?” he murmured, never taking his eyes off the road.

  “Don't tell Starr, okay? About who dropped me off.”

  Declan gave her a sideways glance. “I won't, but Luna probably will.”

  “About Luna, make sure she's never alone, okay? She's being too cavalier about things.” Talking made her so tired. She might sleep all day tomorrow.

  “I promise.”

  Her eyelashes were made of lead, but she forced them to open. “And send me the ER bills.”

  “There won't be any.”

  “I'm sure there will be.” She managed to roll her head to face out the windshield. It took a supreme effort.

  “Now, you want to tell me why you were back at Maxim's? Or do you want to wait until tomorrow to tell me?”

  So, Carragh had told him what street she'd landed ass first on. Did this mean Luna knew, too? She didn't say so, did she? Her head hurt too much to puzzle it out.

  “It's not what you think.” Her breath fogged the window.

  “What do I think?”

  “That I make bad choices sometimes.” There, she'd said it. Drugs were truth serum.

  “Not exactly.”

  “Well, I do.” What else could it be? Her going back to Maxim's like a fool? Trying to help a girl who didn't understand the first thing about life? “Even more reason to stop trying with me.”

  “You're just scared.”

  A jolt of energy coursed through her limbs and her head rolled back to face him. “Don't say that. It pisses me off.”

  The corners of his mouth inched up. “You're scared, and I won't let you stay that way, or at least stay there alone. That's what friends do for one another. They keep each other company, even in the dark.” He reached over and took her hand. She glanced down, his large hand engulfing hers. It was now the third time he'd touched her in a week. His fingers were so tan against hers—and warm and strong.

  While his temples had begun to gray, his skin was almost perfect, and his eyes were framed in those dark lashes too thick to be wasted on a man. He was handsome, so she supposed the name Declicious fit. God, whatever drugs they gave her unearthed unwanted observations from her.