The young guy sniffed. “This amusing to you, bar monkey? I'll sue you, too.”
Whatever. Sure, he'd shoved the kid good, but when that idiot started half-crawling his scrawny body up toward Starr, well, his automatic pilot kicked on. Finally, he’d done something real other than stack liquor boxes and check I.D.s.
Declan held up the young man's driver's license to the streetlamp’s light. “We have a strict policy here, Richard Blake Carter. That your real name? This I.D. legal?”
“Fuck, yeah, that's my name. My father, Edward Carter, Esquire, is going to love learning who you are. He knows people who can make your life and that of everyone you know, hell.”
So outside prison walls, wasn't much different from the inside. Things were supposed to better out here, not filled with stand-offs with strutting peacocks.
“Did you see our sign?” Declan handed the I.D. back. “Hear the emcee point it out at the beginning of the show?”
Max's grin widened. “Touching any of our performers will result in the offender's permanent removal. Removal in one piece not guaranteed.”
“So what? I didn't hurt her.” The kid swayed a little on his feet, his words running together. “Jesus, they shake their tits at us. They have to be used to it.”
Nathan jerked straight, and Declan slapped his hand over Max's chest to prevent him from advancing, which probably saved the kid's life. He might have joined Max if they’d been alone and not being filmed. His gaze flicked to the little circular hole where the awning hid the camera. Now the kid’s stupidity was on video. Richard-the-simpleton's confirmation that he’d understood the club’s restrictions would make Declan's job easier. CCTV cameras covered every hallway and parking lot space for exactly this reason. “You assault our dancers and—”
“And what?”
One of his friends raised his iPhone, probably live-streaming this showdown. Man, life had changed in nine years. Everyone's business was now available for the world to watch. It was like everyone had become mad voyeurs—everyone’s business played out for the viewing pleasure of others.
Declan's jaw firmed. “You're banned. For life.”
“Like I'd want to come back to this dump.” He tucked his I.D. into his back pocket.
“Then, we've both won. Good night, gentlemen.”
The kid holding the cell phone smirked and pocketed his expensive phone.
By the way Max clenched his fists by his sides, Nathan wasn't sure he should leave the man alone with the college brats, but the place was busy as shit tonight, and Jackie must have been calling him all kinds of new names for neglecting to haul dirty dishes back to the kitchen.
“Thanks for getting the ladies off stage safely, Nathan.” Declan leaned against his cane. “You showed good restraint, not decking that kid.”
“He wouldn't have been worth it.”
Declan gave him a half-smile. “They never are.”
He’d have loved to have clocked the kid, but he reported to a parole officer twice a month, a hard-ass who barely tolerated him working at Shakedown. He had promised her and Declan, total, 24-7, sobriety, as a condition for his employment at the club. It wasn't so hard—kept him awake, aware of the hustle all around him just in case anyone got any bright ideas, like the delinquents now sauntering away as if the world belonged to them.
The frat boys threw themselves into a '65 Ford convertible. Probably didn't even realize the beauty of that iconic machine—the power and history they cruised around in thanks to Daddy's money. Some people just didn't get their own good fortune.
Max rejoined them. “Got to talk to you, Declan.” His eyes darted to Nathan, and then back to Declan.
Nathan could get a clue. “See you both inside.”
“Take Jackie some more scotch, will you?” Declan asked.
Nathan nodded. He stepped inside, and the punch of cedar and orange scents from the ventilation system hit in him the face, so different from the stale beer and smoke of most bars, but then a lot had changed over the nine years he'd been behind bars. Nathan swiped the black curtain back at the other end of the vestibule. Loud trumpet music, catcalling, and bright stage lights barreled over him as he hustled down the hall to the storeroom at the back of the club.
By the time he returned, the O’Malley triplets were back on stage, throwing around those giant fans composed of feathers. Nathan ducked under the waitress stand and set the box down with a thud, bottles clanking against one another. He shouted to Jackie over the music. “Got you more scotch. Need anything else?”
“Nah.” Jackie vigorously shook a martini shaker. She jerked her chin toward the stage. “Girls are on fire tonight. Final act.”
He leaned against the bar, focused on the stage. Flashes of light from all those crystals and bead things on the dancers’ costumes practically dared the audience not to watch them—three identical knockouts. He’d finally reached the point where he could tell Starr from the haughtier Phoenix and shy Luna.
Midnight Starr was a perfect name for the woman who turned his tongue to knots the few times he’d run into her. All the burlesque dancers at Shakedown were good—some pretty, some exotic, some just so flamboyant you couldn't look away, but Starr was in a constellation by herself. Something about her energy just lit up the world around him. She should be modeling in New York, not having obnoxious kids treating her like a stripper.
He stretched his neck—damned stiffness crept up on him if he stayed still for too long—and scanned the room in case anyone else got the bright idea to breach the stage. No matter how civilized most of the crowd usually proved to be, Saturdays were a human zoo.
Starr threw herself into the shimmy move he loved and cast her wide smile over the crowd. The horn beats grew louder until they crescendoed, and the three girls struck an ending pose—each different, each as still and perfect as a Greek statute. Then Starr looked straight in his direction. She raised her fingers to her lips and blew a kiss to him—or to someone in his direction. She couldn't have intended that gesture for him. Wall Street suits and senators swept women like Starr off their feet, not grunts like him. Still, he had to swallow his heart back down into his chest.
“I knew you were into her.” Jackie sidled up to him, her lips inching up.
“Not into anyone.”
Cherry Noir strutted on stage to begin her nightly thank you to the audience who didn't look like they were interested in leaving anytime soon.
“By the way, some guy just asked for you. Expensive suit. Big tipper.”
“Name?”
“Do I look like Western Union? He's over there.” She jerked her head toward the back handicapped ramp that overlooked the main floor. A guy leaned between two oil paintings Declan had commissioned of Shakedown's dancers. Shadows hid his figure, but his silhouette was familiar. Just as Nathan’s brain cells scrambled together a memory, the man stepped forward into the light. Tall, stocky, a head full of black hair, the man curled his large hands over the brass railing. Nathan stopped breathing until his diaphragm kicked into overdrive to force a sharp intake of air. Fuck, no.
The guy—his flesh and blood so familiar that every molecule in Nathan’s body did a double-take—clasped the brass rail as if trying to crush it. Daniel MacKenna? No, he couldn’t be. Daniel was six feet under. He should know. He put him there.
The guy shifted and locked eyes on him. He pushed off and strode down the ramp toward him. Nathan's neck turned to stone, and his heartbeat took on its own rhythm. Those eyes: small, slanted, icy blue, familiar, bore down on him.
“Ruark MacKenna.” Nathan steadied his voice as the spitting image of Ruark’s very dead brother widened his stance in front of him. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “What do you think?”
“I did my time.”
“Not good enough.”
“Your family rigged a jury and got me sent to prison for nine years.” Not to mention what happened inside prison. “I owe you nothing.”
<
br /> The last time he'd been this close to Ruark MacKenna was in a courtroom. He and half a dozen other MacKenna's, had sat behind Nathan in the gallery, staring daggers into his back as he stood waiting for the judge to end life as he knew it. In prison, it got worse. The MacKenna’s paid off his fellow inmates to regularly beat the shit out of him. His right shoulder, once dislocated, gave off a sharp pang of remembrance.
“You killed one of us. You think nine years was enough?” Ruark chuffed. “My brother—”
“Deserved it.” There he’d said it aloud. “You left out the part where he was beating the shit out of Declan.”
Ruark stepped so close he could smell his cheap aftershave. One more millimeter and their chests would bump. Nathan’s skin crawled at the thought. Punching the smugness off Ruark’s face would work, though.
The stage lights went black, and the house lights brightened, a not-so-subtle signal to the crowd that the club was closing. Their private conversation was about to become very public and brightly illuminated.
MacKenna’s eyes slanted toward the dozens of people rising from their seats, and then faced Nathan. “This isn’t over. Not by a long shot.” The man turned and strode away.
Nathan’s heart hammered against his ribs, and he began to move, even as his eyesight faltered, pricks of light getting in his way. He should be outside, helping Max with crowd control. Instead, his hand swatted at black velvet, the curtain separating the public area from the back. The hallway was as still as a grave compared to the mayhem on the floor, and every movement he made, every boot stomp across the concrete, echoed too loudly. He slammed his body against the cinderblock wall and laid his palms against the gritty surface.
He wanted to smash something—or someone. He slapped his pec and told his heart to stand the ever-loving fuck down for just one goddamned second.
Women’s laughter echoed further down the hallway. The dancers were getting off the stage, and he needed to move. He couldn’t let Starr or any of the other dancers see him like this—coming unglued and ready to pummel the first person who looked sideways at him.
By now, Declan had to know who he’d seen. Little happened in his club that Declan didn’t notice. The presence of a MacKenna would not have escaped him. Entering the man’s office, he didn't bother to knock. The general manager, Trick, was bent over Declan’s desk, pointing at papers.
“I've got something to tell you. It's going to sound crazy.” For once, words rushed to him.
Declan's dark eyes moved from the paper he held in his hand to him. “Like Ruark MacKenna being here tonight?”
Nathan's head swung to Trick and back to Declan, whose stony face told him everything he needed to know. The man fucking knew a MacKenna was back to screw him over again. Even after nine years, the MacKenna's had not forgotten that Nathan had killed their favorite son.
3
Starr tossed the last costume of the night over her stool. “I hate that thing.” The red sequined corset was hell on her inner arms, leaving crimson scratches on her skin.
“It'll heal by Tuesday.” Phee stuffed her shoes into her bag.
“You're only saying that because you love to wear red. Speaking of red… More roses? Third time this week.” She fingered a silky red rosebud from a huge bouquet on her make-up stand.
Phee shrugged. “Max must have delivered them while we were on.”
At least the roses beat the usual gifts, like chocolates, cheap bracelets from those accessory stores found in every mall around America, and grocery store bouquets of daisies and lilies peppered with baby's breath, most of which were down payments on something their giver hoped would happen. Like she'd crawl into some guy's lap because he deigned to spend twenty bucks? Think again.
“Where’s Luna?” Starr plucked the little card off the pitchfork stand nestled inside the flowers.
“Retrieving paychecks. She’s good at asking Declan for money.”
“Phee—”
“I’m not doing it, you know.”
She didn’t need to ask what “it” was. “For the record, I don’t want to see dear old Dad either, but you know L.” Or at least she thought she did. “Once an idea gets in her head…”
“Well, she can forget this one.”
Phee eyed the night's worth of costumes Starr had draped over one another on her make-up mirror and raised an eyebrow.
Starr huffed. “I know. I know.” Phee’s little neat freak self could chill. “I'll come in an hour early next week to clean up.” For now, she just wanted bed, a big glass of wine, and to avoid the Big Talk they really should have about Luna’s recent actions.
She slit open the little envelope and pulled out the note. “And where two raging fires meet together, they do consume the thing that feeds their fury. Huh.”
“Romeo and Juliet.”
Starr stared at Phee.
“What? Declan's got a lot of those books in his office. You know I read.” Phee returned to stuffing bras and stockings into her bag as if she hadn’t just referenced Shakespeare.
“I had no idea you liked Shakespeare. Well, whoever's sending these is a romantic, I guess. And, rich. Hedge and Rose again.” Baltimore's most hoity-toity florist shop was getting quite a workout from this secret admirer.
Bringing a bud to her nose, Starr inhaled the sweet scent. “Mmm, fresh.” She did love flowers, their silky petals and soft scents reminding her of warm outside air, a rarity in her world these days. For one brief second, she imagined who might be sending them. Someone warm and wonderful and protective … like, maybe, Nathan. Having Nathan as her secret admirer would be like a movie romance—tough guy watches girl from afar, whisks her away from marauding frat kids, but is afraid to ask her out, and then one day ...
Luna flounced through the door, waving three envelopes in her hand. “Got them. By the way, Declan feels really bad about what happened, Starr. Oh, more flowers.” She tossed the envelopes on Starr’s make-up stand and leaned down to inhale a rose. “Your secret admirer again?”
“I wish I knew who was sending them. It’s all too Phantom of the Opera-ish for me. Just say who you are.”
Phoenix fluffed her hair in the mirror. “Some people are into secrets. Especially ones that involve going behind your sisters' backs.” She glanced up at Luna with eyes that could have melted the paint off the walls.
“You’ll forgive me someday.” Luna drew a rose from the bouquet.
“You should be glad Maryland doesn't have a familial obligation law anymore because I'm not getting saddled with debt for whatever that P.I. finds.” She waggled her cell phone at her. “Yeah, I looked it up as soon as the word ‘dad’ left your mouth.”
“Money. That’s all you can think about?”
“No, actually. Involving Declan? Bad move. The minute a man gives you money, they think they own you, and that, my dear sister, is something I won’t tolerate. We don't owe Declan, or any other man, a thing. Especially Robert O'Malley, a man who is no father to me.”
Starr really had had enough of this—at least for tonight. “Look, we all have good reason to hate the man—”
“I don't hate him. I don't think about him at all.”
Luna's shoulders caved a little.
Starr sighed. “It's been a crappy night for everyone. We'll talk about it tomorrow.” She would not let them dissolve into another argument.
Luna's eyes brightened with hope. “So you'll consider going to meet with Stan? He's the investigator. He sounds really nice.”
What was up with her sister's new stubborn streak about this father-daughter reconciliation? For the life of her, Starr couldn't understand why it had been so important to find him. The last time she'd seen him, all he’d cared about was the bottle in his hand and whatever cash she’d had in hers. He'd literally asked her for money, the fricking loser. Thank God for Declan. He gave them a chance six years ago to dance in a nice place that paid them well. She wouldn’t let anything mess up their situation here.
She’d deal
with it tomorrow. She pulled out a long-stem rose from the bunch and turned for the door. “You two go on. I'll Uber home. I need a drink.” She was going to ask Nathan to join her to thank him. Not many men came to their rescue, at least none that didn’t want something in return.
4
Nathan widened his stance in front of Declan's desk.
“How long have you known Ruark MacKenna was coming to Shakedown?” He was beyond any small talk, never his strong suit anyway. They'd known each other a damned long time, long enough for Declan to have told him a former nemesis had shown up.
“A few months.” Declan lowered himself to his chair.
Nathan just might crawl out of his skin. “And you didn't think to mention the older brother of the man I killed was in the club?”
Declan sighed.
Swear to God if Declan started to patronize him ... “How'd they find you? Us?”
“I'm not sure how they found us. Baltimore's a small place.” Declan straightened his jacket and rounded the desk. “Thought we were done years ago, that we were off the radar screen, but they discovered I owned Shakedown. Three months ago, I got a visit. He wants us back in business together.”
“With you.”
“Of course I turned him down.”
“They deal in import-export. Now they want to go into entertainment?” Then again, the MacKenna family wanted in on anything successful up and down the East Coast, that much he’d learned from the newspapers. Not much to do in prison but read and workout and wait for the next surprise attack.
“If they want revenge, why'd they wait so long? I mean, I've been here for three months.” Then again, they hadn’t waited, had they? His joints ached at the memories—being dragged into a dark cell and pummeled by fists, being jumped in the men’s room, his head rammed against porcelain and tiles. He’d learned to fight back in any way he could, but he’d always been outnumbered. No wonder he walked around with a case of what his counselor had blasély referred to as “the usual PTSD” —humiliating anxiety attacks that left him irrationally enraged and prone to violence.
Tough Luck (The Shakedown Series Book 1) Page 2
