Tough Luck (The Shakedown Series Book 1)

by Elizabeth SaFleur

  “I don't care if it's next door.” Starr shoved papers back into the folder and tromped to a garbage bin.

  “Don't you dare!” Luna never shouted, but there it was. A couple across the parking lot stopped and stared at them.

  She turned. “Why did you dare?” Luna couldn't be this naive and cruel, could she?

  For once, their past, a life full of uncertainty and foster homes, had finally grown distant and dusty as if locked away somewhere. But then Luna had sprung open the box of betrayals by finding their father.

  She marched back to her sister.

  “How could you? How did you think it was going to go? Find him and go running into his arms? Start having family dinners every Sunday? Walks in the park?” Her chin quivered, and a shot of fear she might actually cry over this man bolted through her. She didn't break. None of them could afford to break.

  Luna grasped the folder. “I'll take it. You don’t need to see it again.” Her face colored, and a sheen of wet formed in her eyes. “I’ll go and see him by myself. You don’t have to come.”

  “You need to stop this, and don't you dare cry, L.”

  “I won't.” A tear escaped down her cheek.

  For the life of her, Starr could not understand why Luna wanted this reunion. “Why? Just tell me why?”

  “Because I don't want to be like him. I'm going to be better. And I want answers. Why did he leave us? Why was he so horrible? I want to know—” she glanced at the folder in her hands— “so I know how to help Phee.”

  Starr blinked. Oh. She bit her lip, hard, so she wouldn't say something stupid, like Luna could be right.

  “Sisters forever, friends always,” Luna whispered.

  Damnit, to raise the mantra they’d crafted to re-center themselves when things turned ugly was a low blow. It was true, however, Luna was better, while Phee was still crippled inside. They had all been crippled in different ways, but Phee had suffered the most traumas. She’d borne the worst of her father’s rages, ending up in the hospital. Then, at fourteen, when the system had kept the sisters split up, Phee’d been brutalized in one of her foster homes. She’d changed, had grown understandably cold, angry, distant, but she’d been allowed to stuff everything down for far too long. They’d enabled her to sweep everything under an iron rug.

  Starr sucked in a long breath. Shit. Now she was going to have to give this idea a go because sisters forever, friends always, wasn't just a saying. “Phee will come around. We just can’t push it too hard. In fact, it’s downright cruel to make her face him again.”

  Luna’s chin quivered. “The last thing I’m ever going to do is hurt Phee or you.” She drew in a long breath.

  This was the moment, wasn’t it? Where Starr finally confessed her own secret. “I need to fill you in on something. When we were seventeen, I found him.”

  Luna blinked. “What?”

  “Yeah. And it wasn’t good. He was holed up in an airport hotel, drunk, broke—needing money.”

  “Tell me you didn’t.”

  “I did. Three thousand dollars.”

  Luna gasped, her mouth formed an “O,” but she quickly snapped it shut. “He needs to pay you back.”

  Starr snorted. “Yeah, right. The man is a deadbeat.”

  “Who owes us in every way. So, let’s go and collect.” She crossed her arms.

  Starr arched her eyebrow.

  “At the least, Phee is owed an apology, if nothing else.” Luna lifted her arms and dropped them dramatically to her sides.

  “Words would never—”

  “I know, but she deserves to hear them anyway.”

  “She deserves for him to grovel on his hands and knees.”

  Luna squared herself to Starr, her face expectant and hopeful. “I agree. So you'll do it? Help me convince her to at least ask for it? Or even consider it?”

  Truth was, could any of them move on by ignoring the fact they’d been abandoned not just once but twice—once by a mother gone too soon and next by a father, absent by choice? Forget the money. Could any of them ever have a healthy relationship if they didn’t at least get some answers? She found herself saying words she never thought she would ever utter again when it came to their father. “Okay. I’ll consider it — but this is for Phee, no one else.”

  7

  Nathan's boots crunched over shattered glass as he rounded the concrete light pole to his car. The parking lot was dark, too dark, even for 2:00 a.m. on a Tuesday night. He peered up at the streetlight that should be shining down on his vehicle. Declan would be pissed that someone had used the overhead lamp for target practice.

  A streak of black crossed his peripheral vision, and his back hit the driver's side door. He cursed. It was just a stupid cat that hung around the parking lot every night. He crouched down. One golden eye peered at him from underneath a bush. He straightened, opened his car door, and reached for a scrunched-up McDonald's bag on the floorboard. He found a few cold fries at the bottom.

  “You like french fries, cat?” He squatted down and held one out.

  The thing eyed him but took a tentative step from under the bush. It sniffed at the fry, then grasped it in its teeth, and backed away.

  “Yeah, I guess you do.” Heaviness filled his chest at the scrawny feline feasting on scraps, something he understood too well. He dumped the remaining leftovers under the bush. Maybe he'd get a good night's sleep now. He'd done his good deed for the day.

  He’d hung around until closing hoping to see Starr again, but she must have slipped out of the back. He had a grand idea to maybe buy her another drink—something innocent, something a friend might do.

  “Nathan, got a second?”

  He bolted upright and raised his fists. His heart pounded so hard he thought his eardrums might explode.

  “Didn't mean to scare you.” Declan fingered a lit cigarette.

  He dropped his arms to his side.

  “Trying to quit, but well ...” Declan stabbed it out on a small rock in his palm.

  Damn, the man hadn’t flinched at him readying himself for a fight. How the hell had he missed Declan being there? Man, he was off his game.

  Declan pushed off the hood of his car and closed the few feet between them. His head fell back as he checked out the broken bulb overhead. “Looks like we've got a light out.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I'm glad you're here. Staying, I hope?”

  “Yeah, well, I figure if you're not worried, and I keep my head down ...” And not beat the crap out of someone. He still wasn’t sure it was the best course of action, but the truth was, he didn't know what else to do about this newfound situation. Ruark MacKenna hadn’t shown up tonight, but he was sure the bastard would crawl out from the sewer again. He wasn’t about to leave Declan, or anyone, for that matter, alone in Ruark MacKenna’s sights.

  “There's something else I need to talk to you about.” Declan lowered his gaze to stare directly at Nathan. “Not about Ruark, about the … other.”

  So now they were reverting to code? It wasn’t like Declan. “What's up?”

  “That kid from Saturday night. The one we threw out?”

  “College kid? Vintage convertible?”

  “That would be the one. We've been named in a civil suit. Assault charges. All bullshit. Nothing to worry about, but I wanted you to know.”

  He scrubbed his face. “That was fast.”

  “Having money means you can cut corners.” Declan studied him. “Let your parole officer know. They dislike surprises.”

  “So, I'm named.” He scratched under his chin. Of course, he was.

  “I’ve got it, Nathan. Don't worry about it. Remember, we’ve got cameras all over this joint. A lawyer's going to take one look at the footage and know what's going on.”

  “And Starr? She got him good with her heel.” So help him, if the justice system decided she didn’t have a right to defend herself, he was going to punch something.

  “Not involved. The kid's lawyers probably know
she had every right to defend herself.”

  “Good.” So there was that, at least.

  Declan fingered his cane, punched the ground with it a few times. “The kid's got no grounds. The truth will win out. But, tell Erin.”

  “Sure.” When had the truth had anything to do with the legal system? It was more like which technicalities were violated or not. Or in this case, who had a record and who didn't, and what your parole officer wanted to do or not do. He'd only been meeting with Erin for a few months. He still didn't know if she was on his side or on the side of the checklist that always sat in front of her. He wouldn't be surprised if his welfare ran a distant second to the report she filled out after every meeting.

  “See you tomorrow.” Declan pushed off his car.

  “You don’t deserve this legal bullshit coming down.” Declan had been convicted of vehicular manslaughter years ago. Then to get out and start a place like this—that hired ex-cons like him—the guy deserved a medal, not more difficulties.

  “Yeah, well, we’ve been through worse.” Declan got into his Jag, the thing creaking complaints.

  Nathan strode to his car, lowered himself into the driver's side, and by the grace of God, kept his adrenaline down over the news just delivered. He would not succumb to the PTSD bullshit that arose every time he let his guard down.

  Declan’s taillights disappeared down the street. The seconds ticked by as Nathan tuned into the distant traffic sounds, the lingering cigarette smoke scent from Declan's cig, and the shadows playing in the bushes swaying in the evening breeze. He didn’t know why he hesitated, just something felt … off.

  He reached for the ignition just as he glimpsed a man emerging from behind the line of trees and scraggly bushes that hid a chain-link fence across the street. The man stood in half-shadow, the glow of a cigarette at the end of his hand.

  Nathan wrapped his hands around his steering wheel and stared right back at the figure. The man, who had to be Ruark, brought the cigarette to his lips and cocked his head. Still in silhouette, but shit, the family resemblance to Daniel MacKenna was right there.

  He got out of the car, slammed the door hard, and strode toward Ruark. He was going to get some fucking answers for once. Instead, he found a pile of cigarette butts on the ground, one of them still smoking, and Ruark had vanished. The bushes and tree limbs swayed a little, and the lingering scent of smoke hung in the air. Ruark wasn’t done harassing him or Declan. He rubbed his sternum and told his heart to get a fucking grip.

  Any thought of leaving Shakedown vanished. He wasn’t going to leave the only people he called family. He strode back to his car. Let the MacKenna’s come for him. He’d not let them near Declan or anyone else at Shakedown.

  8

  Starr had never tripped on stage in her life, at least not until right then. The stupid strap on her favorite Capezio's went flying into the crowd as she kicked her leg forward. Two guys in the front row fought over it as if Babe Ruth himself had come back from the grave and sent a flyball into the stands. Well, let them have it because her shoe was done. Damnit.

  Oh, what the hell.

  She perched on the edge of the lyra dangling from the ceiling, tonight decorated to resemble a glowing half-moon, and reached for her other shoe. She raised her leg, fingered the delicate buckle, letting her lashes rise and fall to signal the crowd they should be watching. Good boys—those front-row patrons had their eyes locked on her leg. She reached down, slipped the shoe off, and stood.

  Bombs away, big boys.

  She stepped back and then threw it as far as she could send it. Her heel sailed over the heads of the patrons and straight behind the bar, knocking into several liquor bottles. Nothing broke, but the crowd went wild. Sunshine burst inside her at the crowd's roar.

  At the end of the bar, Declan dipped his chin, and his eyebrows shot up like a scolding father. Whatever.

  She shrugged at the front row of men in business suits and blinked. One of them blew her a kiss. How sweet. She granted him a return wink.

  Throwing a shoe brought some much-needed fun to the sucky Wednesday, her least favorite night to dance. The mid-week gig brought out the hardcore alcoholics and the cheap bastards who showed up to sling back the half-price drinks. If she’d had another shoe on, she'd have slung it into the crowd as well, just to hear their delighted applause. It would be a pleasant diversion from stewing over the envelope filled with fifteen pages of “how to forgive” advice that arrived from Sunset House this afternoon. L. just could not stop her quest, could she? Screw the enforced reconciliation nonsense—for that’s what it was—for the next five minutes anyway.

  She pranced around on tiptoes, her toes spreading and stretching deliciously. She stripped off her skirt, leaving on a silver G-string and rhinestone bra. The bra would stay put. The pasties that matched this outfit were crackling a little from overuse, and showing nipple would earn more than a scolding look from Declan.

  The music wound down, and Starr kicked her foot up in a parting move, split the thick red curtains, and disappeared into the darkened backstage. Another night down, another thousand dollars the three of them would split.

  Starr stopped in her tracks at the bottom of the stair.

  A strange man, all dark hair and piercing blue eyes, pushed off the wall. “Nice throw.” He dangled her shoe from his index finger.

  “Keep it. Souvenir.”

  “I'll get you a new pair.” With a slight smirk, he fingered the ruined heel.

  “Oh, no need.”

  “Well, the restaurant requires shoes.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Where you'll have dinner with me.”

  By the look of this guy—broad shoulders that strained his suit coat, the intense set of his mouth—he was used to ordering people around.

  “No, thanks.” She smiled politely and tried to walk away, but he grasped her arm. Her breath caught in her chest.

  “What does it take to get to a yes?”

  “You can start by letting go of her.”

  She welcomed the sound of Nathan’s voice. He was next to them in a second. He circled her waist and pulled her nearly behind him. Jesus, the man was a protective beast. She kind of liked it.

  “What the fuck are you doing back here?”

  Starr’s heart lurched a little at Nathan’s tone.

  The man shrugged and peered around Nathan. He whispered to Starr, “The muscle around here isn’t very polite.” He cocked his head and pointed at the camera trained on them from a corner. “Paranoid folks, huh?”

  “MacKenna.”

  The guy's smirk didn't waver in the face of Nathan’s angry face or size. Of course, if his suit was an indication, the man packed as much muscle as Nathan, who had quite the biceps now that she clung to one of them.

  “Got lost, that's all.” His eyes trailed down her body, and she shivered as if she'd been splashed with ice chips. “I'll be at the bar if you change your mind, Miss Midnight.” He then bent at the waist in an odd half-bow toward Starr and turned away.

  Nathan’s gaze followed the guy saunter down the hallway. Whoever that guy was, he kind of pissed her off.

  “Men.” Starr scooted around Nathan, so she found herself in front of him. “Why do they always think their declarations worked? You'll do this. You'll do that. Whatever happened to asking?”

  What would it take for someone nice, like Nathan, to ask her out? The scar, high on his cheek, and the tats on both arms indicated he’d lived a rough life, but he had kind, warm eyes, and didn’t push himself on her. The mix of having lived a hard life and yet being gentle gave him a subdued, quiet power. Well, except when he was pissed, like he seemed right now.

  “Nathan? I’m okay, you know?”

  A muscle in his jaw twitched, and the muscle ridges in his arms bulged a little as if he were caging something inside him. Maybe now wasn’t the right time for an interrogation.

  He finally gazed down at her. Without her heels, she lost a good five inches of he
ight.

  “That man—Ruark MacKenna—he’s no good.” He clenched and unclenched a fist.

  She curled her hand around it, and a tiny shiver ran through her at the tension—and strength—she felt there. “He definitely was bossy.”

  Nathan’s hand finally relaxed. “Tell me if he ever approaches you again, okay?”

  She wasn’t quite sure how to feel about Nathan’s sudden defensiveness. “I doubt I’ll ever see him again.” Men like that came and went when they didn’t get what they wanted.

  “Oh, he’ll be back. We have a history.”

  Okay then. “What kind of history?”

  “Hey, Nathan,” Max called from down the hall. “A little help out here?”

  “Coming.” Nathan then glanced down at Starr. “I’ll fill you in later. For now, you’ll be careful, right?”

  She shrugged. “Always. Thanks for rescuing me, again. Now I owe you a tequila shot.” She winked, hoping maybe he’d lighten up a bit.

  The tension in his shoulders remained, but the tiniest smile tried to form on his lips.

  He sobered. “Seriously. Let me know.”

  “Okay,” she drew out the word and turned toward the dressing room. How did she know his “history” with that guy wasn’t going to be any good?

  As soon as Starr entered the dressing room, Cherry Noir pounced.

  “Ooo girl, you have got a secret admirer for sure.” She raised a large glass bowl containing perfect white roses and yellow sunflowers. “The card says I have seen roses damask'd, red and white, But no such roses see I in her cheeks. Shakespeare. I googled it.”

  “Take them, especially since you opened a private note.” Starr blew her a kiss and winked.

  “Ain’t nothing private in this dressing room, girl. And” ⸺she turned away with the arrangement⸺ “I don't mind if I do.”

  Starr threw on her robe, peeled off her false eyelashes, set them in their case, and went to work scrubbing off her make-up. “I swear there's something in the air here this week. A guy was waiting for me in the hallway. Nathan intervened.” She dipped her fingers into the make-up remover cream.