Tough Break (The Shakedown Series Book 2)

by Elizabeth SaFleur

“Nothing. Just watch your back because those warnings you gave me? They were on point.”

  So, someone was playing hardball. Now, to figure out which of his relatives—God, his gut roiled on that word—was responsible. The more he thought about it, Ruark may still be behind bars, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t pull some strings, make shit happen on the outside.

  And right there sat a thought worse than a crime family trying to get him into their folds. How about a family breaking apart, trying to outdo one another?

  That dinner he’d planned with Phee would have to wait.

  40

  Declan spent half the next day with Henry and his family. He’d left word at the club he had an errand to run and might not make it in. No reason to give any other details that would worry them unnecessarily, especially Phee. He wouldn’t risk dinging her trust in him.

  Still, he had a shit ton of people who did need to worry, like other friends in the industry, and then some to keep out of the growing mess. Like Trick with his very pregnant wife. And Max, who had to be fresh for the parole hearing babysitting job. Nathan and Starr? They had enough emotional turmoil going on with Ruark’s sudden hearing. At least Nathan texted him with the only good news of the day—Phoenix was not attending Ruark’s hearing, which was nothing more than a political sham. He had his hands full with one potentially emotional woman in Starr.

  A few hours on the phone and one visit to Henry, who refused his help in some misguided attempt to keep Declan free from trouble—if only the man knew—Declan was finally free to see Phee. He darted home for a quick shower and then decided to just show up at her place.

  He grabbed his keys off the side console and his rain jacket because the storms showed no sign of letting up and swung open his front door.

  Phoenix’s blue eyes stared up at him, her thin arms wrapped around her body. Water streamed off the stonework around his door frame.

  “Phoenix, how long have you been out here?” He swung his gaze to his doorbell to make sure the small light glowed indicating it worked.

  “Not long. A minute. Maybe.”

  Phee’s hair hung heavy with water, her eyes bloodshot as if she’d been crying. Damnit, he’d seen those blue eyes rimmed in red far too often of late.

  He waved at the security guy who’d probably followed her here. The man would get a raise for that bit of extra attention. He pulled her inside, an instant puddle forming under her feet.

  “She’s going without me. She didn’t want me to go, she said. Just Nathan.” She huffed and dropped her purse. “And Max. Jesus. If you need Max, you need me.” She punched her chest with her index finger. “God, that sounded stupid.”

  “Not at all. Come on, let’s go.” If she needed to attend so badly, he’d escort her. “If we hurry—”

  “No.” She shook her head violently. “She asked me not to, and I have to…” Her lips turned down in a grimace and a choked sound came from her throat. “She’s really moving on. Really doing it.”

  Interesting choice of words, given Phoenix was going to quit Shakedown at one point. “And you were leaving Shakedown, weren’t you?”

  Her eyes grew wide. “I was never leaving without them. Never.” She launched herself into him. He held the shivering, wet woman until his shirt and pants were soaked, too.

  “Where’s Luna?” he asked into her hair.

  Phee sniffed. “She said she had to… go out. By the way, your other security guy followed her, too.”

  Ah, so she had noticed the extra precautions. At least she wasn’t fuming angry about them. But shit. Luna was likely headed to the hearing. Well, at least Max was there. Nathan, too, who’d go back to prison for a third time if it meant any of his family were hurt.

  He grabbed two towels from the powder room and dried off her hair. She hadn’t moved, staring down at the floor as if her mind was whirling.

  “Come on, let’s get you some dry clothes.”

  She raised her face to him. “Have a bunch of women’s clothes lying around?”

  He chuckled. “One of my T-shirts will fit like a dress on you and it’ll give me a chance to throw those in the dryer.” He pointed at her sopping wet jeans.

  He found her the largest T-shirt he could find—an old sports jersey. After slipping it on, she insisted on being shown the laundry room where she handled her clothes. The woman was impeccable—setting the dryer to low for her jeans and socks and hanging her top and jacket on hangers. He left her in peace, but not before he caught a glimpse of her laying an ivory satin bra on top of the dryer. He thickened at the sight because he was a man, after all.

  She joined him in the living room, her arms crossed over her in an odd modesty. There was no need—his shirt swallowed her. Was he really that much larger than she was? She seemed so formidable when really she was a delicate thing. His body lit up remembering how well she fit inside his arms last night.

  “What can I get you? Something to drink?”

  “No, I’m fine. I wanted you to know I’m staying. I mean, if you’ll have me.”

  Not running? Progress, indeed. “That’s good news.”

  “So, need another waltz lesson?” she asked nervously.

  “Always.”

  “Maybe again to My Sweet and Tender Beast. I’ll play the part of the beast.”

  “You could never be that.”

  She scoffed. “Sure.”

  “Neither of us are.” He sucked in a long breath. “If the world was ending, your face is the last one I would want to see. Even with that look you are giving me. You didn’t know you have different looks, did you?” He rose from his chair. “There’s the one when you’re watching your sisters.” He took a step forward. “There’s the one when someone gets too close to the stage.” He closed the final distance between them. “And then there’s the one when you see me.”

  Her lips parted. “What do you see when I look at you?”

  “Fear.” Her eyes held all her imagination, all the things that could happen to her that would hurt.

  “I’m sorry. I really am.” She stared at his chest.

  “What would it take for you to look at me differently?”

  Her lashes lifted. “I wish I knew.”

  Oh, but he did. “I do. Say your piece to your father.”

  Every muscle in her body froze.

  “And before you balk, know that I will kill him before I let him get within ten feet of you. You need to say everything you’ve ever wanted to say to that man—from a safe distance but to his face. If you don’t want to do it, fine. But if you do, I’ll stand right next to you the whole time.”

  The resignation in her eyes held strong. She lifted her arms. “Dance with me instead.”

  He circled her waist and took her outstretched right hand. “Always.” She wasn’t ready to do something so drastic as confront her father.

  “Good, because I have a question.” Her arm shook a little as he lifted it high in the traditional ballroom stance.

  “What, Sunset?”

  She smiled a little at his nickname for her. She peered up at him, the blue there as clear as a spring morning. “Can we start over?”

  “We already have.” He twirled her to some imaginary music. He didn’t want to stop to put on a record.

  “But I mean really start over.”

  “Not afraid of me?”

  She swallowed. “You may be the only man I’m not afraid of.”

  No more dancing. He took her back to his bed.

  41

  He hovered over her. She meant what she’d said about him. She wasn’t exactly fearful, even if her heartbeat ran as fast as a hummingbird’s. Could he feel it? His whole body pressed down on her, still in his shirt and trousers, and she only half-clothed in panties and his jersey. This adrenaline surge may have come from someplace else—something just out of her grasp. She understood why she reacted the way she did to such intimate moments. Perhaps Declan would help her get it under control.

  His hands rested on eithe
r side of her face. “I want to say your real name. Out loud.”

  Seriously? She hadn’t heard her legal name in so long her mind had to adjust for a second, to really think. Damn tax records that revealed her true identity.

  “I’ve never liked it.” She’d have never used that name again if it wasn’t ridiculous to legally change it to Phoenix Rising.

  “I’ve always found your name—both of them—uncommonly beautiful. Your real name means ancient. Humane. Sensitive. May I?”

  Time for her to prove her new bravery. She nodded once.

  “Elizaveta.” He spoke in a hushed whisper, both tender and nearly reverent in its tone.

  A scoff flew from her throat. “My mom and her Russian fantasies.”

  “Is that why you enjoy so many Russian composers?”

  She’d never thought of the reason like that, but her mother had a proclivity for Tchaikovsky and Stravinsky. The only music she couldn’t listen to was Gnossiere. Too sad, she’d said.

  His hips rolled a little and he nestled his length between her legs, though they stayed mostly closed.

  “I haven’t… much.” She flushed. Her lack of sexual experience was embarrassing.

  “Or at all?”

  “Oh, no, I have but wished I hadn’t.”

  “I see.” His eyes hardened. “Is there someone I need to kill?”

  She laughed. “No. You can just imagine killing him like I do.” She swallowed. “I mean, I consented. It wasn’t fun. He was rougher than I expected.”

  His eyes slanted. “Or wanted.” He took her mouth, strongly but not with a scary edge.

  His kiss loosened, but his lips didn’t disconnect fully. Warm breath mixed with hers, and her heart rate slowed. “I only desire you to want me, Elizaveta. And then I’ll give you anything you want.”

  He’d give to her? That’s all he did when it came to her. His generosity was baffling and seductive. Perhaps that’s why resisting him was beyond futile. Staying angry around him proved difficult at best. He raised up something she hadn’t indulged in years—hope for feeling different, maybe being different, all because he believed she could.

  More possibility floated to the surface—to feel the skin of another man on hers after all these years. There went her heartbeat again. She could have propelled them to the moon with its power. “I’m not sure what I want.”

  “I can imagine enough for both of us.”

  “You imagine me…” She flushed anew at the thought she was the center of his fantasy. Another irony given her choice of profession. She sold fantasies five nights a week. But they were to strangers. Declan was no stranger.

  “All the time. I breathe you in my dreams, Sunset.”

  The man was poetry incarnate. “Can we go slow?”

  “I plan on it. Do you know where I’d like to start?”

  She did want to know. “Where?”

  His lips inched up, wickedly. He then crawled down her legs, split open her thighs, and pressed his mouth over the fabric of her panties. The contact was warm and so sudden, she sucked in air that was let out in a long moan.

  She eased up on her elbows and peered down at him.

  “I want to taste you. That’s all for tonight.”

  That was all? This man could not be for real. She found herself nodding anyway, and he whisked her panties down her legs. She flopped to her back. For at least a full minute, his hot breath ran over her most sensitive area. She had to be as red as a third-degree sunburn as he clearly studied her. His large hands held her thighs open, and then his lips and tongue were on her.

  Oh, God. The man not only knew how to kiss… he knew how to kiss.

  Deep, heavy breathing indicated Declan had fallen asleep. His arm draped heavy over her waist, but she managed to slip free without jostling the bed too much.

  She gently set her bag on the counter so as not to wake the man sleeping not 30 feet away. He must have retrieved it as she didn’t remember bringing it upstairs. The man was a thinker.

  Wow. Bathroom mirrors were not as forgiving as stage makeup mirrors. Little wrinkles lined her eyes and tiny grooves etched across her forehead.

  After splashing cold water on her face, she pressed her hand against the knot in her stomach. Her legs quivered a little—still. She’d had two orgasms that nearly plastered her to the ceiling. She hadn’t been touched down there in years. Then to have a man’s mouth work her over as he had? So much for Declan’s gentlemanly manners. There was nothing civil about the man’s oral skills. So why wasn’t she overjoyed?

  Declan didn’t do anything wrong to cause the anxiety that had settled so resolutely in her belly—or her inability to reciprocate. It was her—all her. The man didn’t ask for anything back. After she’d cried out a second time at the pure pleasure he’d provided, he’d crawled back up her body, encircled her with his arms, and told her to go sleep. Sleep.

  He should have demanded something back, right?

  What was wrong with her? Why couldn’t she give this man what he deserved—pure love without reservation or hesitation? She did that with Starr and Luna. Why was it so hard with him?

  She hadn’t lied about not being afraid of Declan. But her body? It couldn’t forget all the abuse it took in the past and how something that started out so wonderful could so easily turn to pain. She was damned sick of her twisted-up circuits inside.

  Her fingertip found that little dent and scar above her hairline over her left eye. Then her hand drew up the back of her neck to the scar left from thirteen stitches. Her fingers found the little dent in her forearm next. More injury badges laced her skin, but she’d vowed long ago to stop counting them. She just touched the three most important—and most recent. The ones that reminded her of the day she got between Robert O’Malley and Luna, that last day before the great state of Alabama decided to step in and intervene. She’d never seen him again, at least until her eyes took in his shrunken body in that chair at Sunset House after Luna had stupidly tracked him down.

  The bed creaked on the other side of the door. She opened the door a smidge. Declan had shifted but still lay asleep.

  She should be there with him. Lying next to him. Maybe waking him up by curling her hand around…

  Her body clapped back—hard. Her neck ached. Her thighs quivered. And that stupid muscle inside her chest that kept her alive thudded its fear as if to remind her she was no longer designed for such acts.

  But maybe she could be… Declan might be right about her father and the supposed healing nature of letting it all out to the man who’d caused the most hurt. Luna and Starr certainly thought so.

  What had Declan said that night at dinner about Tomas MacKenna? I'm not going to be in reaction to him any longer. If I did, I’d lose my own power. I prefer offense to defense.

  She picked up her bag and sank to the floor. With any luck, Declan’s bathroom wouldn’t echo too much and he wouldn’t hear the phone call she needed to make. With her eyes on Declan’s form covered in sheets, visible through the crack around the bathroom door, she dialed the one person who would understand the most, who would go with her to her father’s halfway house, and simply put the car into reverse and leave if Phee changed her mind on the street, which was a very real possibility.

  Cherry answered on the first ring.

  42

  “Doll, you do not need to go in there by yourself.” Cherry had twisted herself to lean against the driver’s side door of her Buick. “How about I go in with you but go flirt with the others in there? Keep them occupied while you go all Terminator on Robert’s ass.”

  “You want to eavesdrop.”

  “Oh, I’d be doing that, too.” She waggled her head at her. “Momma Cherry does not like being left out of anything where her children are involved.”

  Phoenix’s throat squeezed under her words, not because Cherry was being so gracious to her but rather because the queen believed every word. She had a way like that—made you believe you were chosen. Like Declan did.

&nbs
p; He wasn’t going to be happy she came here without him. She glanced up at the red door at the top of the concrete steps.

  Some doors you had to walk through yourself.

  “I’m not even sure he’s in there.” Her breath fogged the window.

  “Where else would he go? He got lucky, that one.” Cherry stared hard at the townhouse where Phee’s father lived, a halfway house for patients needing “memory care,” as she’d learned from Luna a few weeks ago during one of her please-visit-him begging sessions. Guess they worked, because here Phee sat, waiting to go in and… do what?

  She cracked open her door and stepped out before her maudlin internal talk took over. “He doesn’t deserve this chance.”

  “Oh, honey.” Cherry leaned over, her hand splayed on her seat, her red nails shiny in the sunlight. “This isn’t his chance. This is yours.”

  “I have no idea what to say.”

  “Something tells me you do. You just don’t want to say it.” Cherry sniffed. “Want some advice on that front? I have had the practice.”

  She had. Her own family disowned her years ago. How anyone couldn’t accept Cherry she would never understand. Phoenix didn’t answer her, though, because Cherry would dole out her prescription for this scenario anyway.

  Cherry’s lips thinned. “No one cares if he gets in a single word. Just let it fly. It’ll be cathartic.”

  Phoenix twisted her mouth into a half-smile. “I’m pretty good at that.”

  “Except maybe toward the one person who rightly deserved it and has yet to hear it.”

  Her belly rumbled in both recognition and fear. “I won’t be long.”

  “I got time. Science Friday is on NPR and I love that man’s voice.” She clicked on her radio dial just as Phee slammed the car door shut.

  Phoenix climbed the stone steps and rapped on the door. When no one answered, she tried the door, found it open, and stepped inside. Microwave popcorn—that was the first scent that wafted over her. The entranceway was tiny and sparse, with a rickety coat rack and a mirror hanging on the wall.