Tough Luck (The Shakedown Series Book 1)

by Elizabeth SaFleur

  “I've been in this life since I was fifteen, girl. There's always something going on, and of course some guy followed you. I mean, look at your fine self.”

  She swirled the emulsion over her cheek. “But something feels ... different.” She’d been assaulted on stage, and then Luna had jerked her emotions around with her father-finding move. Follow that with the shoe guy in the hallway just now, the flowers that arrived every other day for the last two weeks, and she could only conclude the Universe was playing with her.

  “And, Nathan swooping in?” Cherry asked from behind the mirror. “He is another fine-looking specimen.”

  That, he was. “He sure is strong.”

  Cherry peeked around her make-up mirror. “You get in a feel?”

  Heat tickled at Starr’s neck—and other places. “A little bit. His arms are frickin’ huge.”

  “Mmmhmm. I’ve seen them.” She disappeared behind the mirror again. “Maybe you and Nathan should take a little vacay. You could use one. And, besides, when did things feeling different become bad?”

  “Good way to look at it, Cherry.” And, great idea about a vacation with a strong guy like Nathan.

  “Just call me Oprah. No, wait. On second thought, don't. Oprah should do Oprah, and Momma Cherry's gotta do Momma Cherry.”

  She swiped at her face with a cloth. “I love you, Momma.”

  “Love you more, daughter I'll never have.” The pop of a lipstick tube being pulled off sounded from behind the mirror.

  Starr's eyes pricked. She took a deep breath in and let it out, resettling a sudden emotional storm that began to whirl inside her. This week was too much, that was all. Time off to have a little fun would recharge her batteries. And, maybe a date with someone like Nathan.

  She rolled her shoulders, a slight ache starting in the arm she’d used to pitch her shoe into the crowd. She shook out her hair, and glitter showered down—fairy dust they’d called it as kids. Memories dropped all around her. They’d been doing so ever since the visit with the P.I. Visions popped into her mind at the oddest times, like when she’d picked up some dry cleaning. The scent of cotton brought the memory of Phoenix ironing her baby doll’s clothes on the living room carpet and leaving iron-shaped burns. Just before she stepped out on stage tonight, another memory had squeezed her heart—Luna dusting her décolletage with pink glitter and getting sent home from fourth grade by the gym teacher who didn't like having her basketball court “decorated with sparkly crap.”

  That was it. Tomorrow, she would force the three of them to talk. The last few days of passing each other in their tiny apartment making small talk, sucked, and she hated keeping a secret from Phee. They weren’t supposed to be doing that anymore, yet here they were.

  Then she'd go and buy a new pair of shoes, maybe throw another pair another night because she had to do something to cast off this negativity.

  After that? Maybe she’d try to get a date with Nathan.

  9

  Nathan glanced down at his cell phone. He had another few hours before he was due at his parole officer's. His brain ran through a list of time-wasting choices.

  The Baltimore aquarium with kids screaming everywhere was out. Orioles game? That meant people he didn’t know behind him, next to him, in front of him. After nine years of being perpetually on alert for physical attack, he didn’t turn his back to strangers—ever. Maybe he'd walk more or just show up early.

  He stretched his neck and sat his butt in the driver's seat of his car. Things could be worse—a helluva lot worse. He could be shuffling from an eight-by-ten-foot cell to a plate of dried out eggs in a mess hall with the only options were going to the gym, the yard, or the common room to watch reruns of Law and Order, all while waiting for the next beat down from his fellow inmates.

  His stomach growled just as he turned the ignition of his car. Okay, McDonald’s it was. Twenty minutes later, after wolfing down the first of two, quarter pounders and half his french fries, he rolled into the parking lot of the Parole and Probation Office of Regional Operations. Still early, but he ran through his speech to Erin about Saturday night's fight and the bullshit pending lawsuit. Rich kids, hell-bent on showing off. It's my job to make sure people aren't attacked. The kid threw punches. Yada. Yada.

  “Just do it,” he said to the windshield and cracked open his door. The news was pretty much going to light her hair on fire, so he might as well just march in, say the words, and get it over with.

  As soon as he entered the building, the comforting scent of Elmer's glue and old leather, just like his elementary school days, hit him. Strange how one clung to the barest of pleasant memories in an attempt to calm the eff down. Nathan rounded the corner and walked the twenty-eight steps to her open office door.

  Erin stood behind her desk, staring down at a stack of well-used folders. The one on top was his and bore a curling sticker because it overlaid some other guy’s name. Every time he stepped across this threshold, the same questions arose in his mind. Did the guy whose name sat under his move on? Was he even still alive?

  She didn't look up when he entered. “Nathan. On time as usual. I only want to hear good news today.” She gestured for him to sit.

  “I do have good news. I didn't start the fight.” He lowered himself to the child-sized metal chair that could numb a man's butt in two minutes.

  Her eyes shot to him. She sat and leaned back in her chair, her expression a pretty decent school marm impression. “Oh?”

  “A college kid got thrown out of Shakedown on Saturday night. Max got a punch in. Had to in order to stop the rich kid from assaulting one of the dancers.”

  She sighed. “Which one is Max again?”

  “Head of security.”

  Didn't she have all this written down somewhere? Oh, wait, he was a number, a case file, a nobody to her.

  “Yeah, yeah.” She waved him off. “You know, working in a bar where fights—”

  “Rarely occur.”

  “Mmhmm. You're not drinking, are you? Because my deal with Mr. Phillips was no alcohol, no drugs—”

  “No, none of that.”

  “And? What else?”

  “The kid that got clocked threatened legal action.”

  She slanted her eyes at him. “You named?”

  “Apparently.”

  “But you didn't fight with him.”

  “I might have shoved him.” He’d wanted to a hell of a lot more than that.

  “You know, I'm trying to save your ass. Do you understand this isn't good for you?”

  No shit, Sherlock. He'd been convicted of second-degree murder. The great State of Maryland had him labeled, and he wouldn't be surprised if hitting a squirrel could get him life.

  “Consider that strike one. No more trouble, Nathan.” She sighed dramatically and leaned forward, resting her elbows on the scattered papers across her desk. “You get in touch with your family?”

  Shit.

  “You know, parolees who are in touch with loved ones ...” she started, but he’d stopped listening. He let the buzzing in his ears rise, just like the cicadas in summer. When was the last time he'd heard that sound? So long ago. He searched his mind for something good to cling to, something other than the words she was throwing at him. Family. Matters. Support. They pinged inside his brain like gunfire. Family. What crap. No sense in dredging up what he'd lost, who he'd lost.

  His mind conjured up all kinds of things instead, like the sound of tree frogs and birds at his family's farm. Chugging beer by the lake with his friends. Pulling on last night's tee shirt to go to class. Breathing in bright flower scents in a girl's hair. Imagining red hair, Starr's hair.

  The room had grown still. Erin had stopped talking and was now staring at him with the what-the-fuck-is-wrong-with-you disdain he'd have to endure for another sixty-six times. Two years and eight months of these visits, and then maybe he'd feel some semblance of a future, because whatever this was—this not-being-in-prison-anymore—it wasn't freedom. It was limbo
, one level removed from Hell. One word from her could put him right back there. God… he couldn’t go back there.

  He rose to leave, and she didn't stop him. He'd done what he’d come for. He wasn’t going to sit one minute longer in this cesspool of realizations of how his life had gone to shit. He was an ex-con with a bounty on his head from a mob family who wouldn’t leave him alone and a real family who wanted nothing to do with him.

  On the way out, the hot air hit him like a sledgehammer—so hard, he couldn't breathe. He just needed a minute. He'd sit in his car; maybe listen to the radio for a bit. Only he didn't make it to his car. He doubled over the bushes on the lot's median and upchucked the gut bomb in his belly. At least his stomach calmed. He couldn't say so about any other part of him, and he was damned sick of it.

  10

  Starr placed her purse on the counter of the small coffee shop near the harbor. “I'll have an iced tea lemonade. Large.”

  “Hot or cold?”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Iced?”

  The young girl turned to make her drink, and Starr scanned the outdoor seating area. She had two hours, and the harbor's water glistened in the sunlight, calling her outside.

  “They don't really listen, do they?” a male voice remarked behind her.

  “What was that?” She turned to face the man. Ice blue eyes pierced the distance between them. It was the guy from the hallway at Shakedown, Mr. Shoe Catcher himself.

  He chuckled. “Just heard you give your order. I'm a Chai Creme Frappuccino kind of guy myself.”

  “Oh?” Her arms hung at her sides. She couldn’t pretend-flirt. There were two bachelor parties coming in tonight. She had no energy or time for anything that didn't make her smile without effort, and this guy had been downright rude to her.

  “I know it's considered girly, but you should try it,” he continued.

  “Maybe I will sometime.”

  He handed a credit card over to the girl. “I'll get hers, Brenda.”

  Her insides bristled, though she smiled pleasantly. “Oh, no, thank you.” She handed over a ten-dollar bill. The minute a man bought a woman something, they kept a running tally in their heads and knew exactly how they'd want to be repaid. “Keep the change.”

  She offered the guy a half-hearted smile and moved away from him to the other end of the counter to collect her drink. Without looking back, she headed outside. Oh, score. A couple was just leaving, and she quickly sat before anyone else could land the table. Metal scraped against the concrete as she positioned her chair toward the water. The heated iron was warm against her back and thighs, and the contrasting iced tea cooled her throat. She needed this moment, a break from thinking about what the hell to do about their father. She propped her feet up on the second chair, put on her sunglasses, and stared out over the choppy, dark gray harbor water.

  A shadow fell across her lap. “Did you like my flowers?”

  “Flowers?” So he'd sent the bouquets. Just great, because now she was going to have to deal with him. She looked up. Mr. Shoe Catcher eyed her up and down in the manner she'd grown far too accustomed to—like a poodle being assessed by Westminster dog show judges. Okay, ten minutes is what he'd get.

  “I'm Ruark.” He held out his hand. “Ruark MacKenna. We were rudely interrupted the other night.”

  “Thank you for the flowers. That was … kind.” She returned his handshake. When she tried to pull back, he didn’t let go.

  “Oh, don't get super polite on me now, Starr. May I?” He finally let go of her hand and gestured to the chair.

  God, she really didn't want to. Before she put her feet down, he yanked the chair back and settled in. Jesus, buddy.

  “It's rare I get to have coffee with a beautiful woman. I've seen your act. You're good. Very sexy.”

  Her belly tightened a little. “Thanks.” She swallowed what she wanted to say. Just because she was a dancer didn't mean she shouldn't be treated respectfully and not like a piece of meat.

  “So, tell me, Starr. That your real name?” He placed his hand on hers.

  And, there it was, the presumptuous attitude. “Maybe.” She pulled her hand free. “Is Ruark yours?”

  “Now, here I thought you had no sense of humor.”

  “What would give you that impression?”

  “That fiery Irish look you're giving me. I recognize it well from my aunts, sisters, and cousins.” He leaned back. “So, Miss Starr. Dinner. With me.”

  “I don't date customers.”

  He raised his Frappuccino to her in a toast. “Name your price.”

  “Price?” She scraped her chair backward and stood so rapidly the chair fell over. He appeared shocked. Good. “There is no price. There never has been. There never will be. I am not a prosti—”

  “Whoa, whoa.” He held up his hands. “Sit down. I wasn't proposing—”

  “Weren't you?”

  “No. I’m taking you to dinner. La Monde Joyeux, your next night off.” The smile that stretched across his face only made him creepier.

  “French food will make you fat.” She tried to turn, but he grasped her forearm, and man, he had some grip.

  “Let go of me,” she ground out.

  “This man bothering you?” A woman at the table next to them held up her cell phone. “Don't make me film this.”

  Starr nearly laughed, but the woman's backup was awesome ... and so appreciated.

  He let go of her and leaned back in his chair. “It's just a miscommunication. Entirely my fault.” He dipped his chin. “Please, sit. Enjoy your drink, and think of a hundred ways I can make it up to you. Let's just say your beauty brings out the beast in me.”

  She bit her tongue. He was a Shakedown customer, so she could be firm, but calling him all the beastly names for him that ran in her head wasn’t appropriate.

  “I know how to treat a woman.” His gaze rested on her breasts. “Dinner is just the beginning.”

  The woman at the next table shrugged. “I'd go out with him.”

  Seriously lady? Turncoat. With no taste.

  He turned his cold, blue eyes to the woman. “Thank you.”

  Confident and steady, Starr could tell this man was used to getting what he desired. He was handsome, but a quiet violence shimmered under his skin. She could practically scent it—the way his gaze now ran up and down her body, so slowly and with such intent, she’d felt violated.

  “No.” She picked up her drink and her purse.

  “So it’s a maybe.”

  “Oh, it’s a no,” she said without looking back.

  There was no harm in getting to Shakedown early, especially since those eyes kept drinking her in like he was just assessing where to pounce first. Something was off about this guy. She could tell. Where men were concerned, she and her sisters always could. Gee, thanks for that lesson, Dad.

  11

  “Hey, Nathan, can you help me move this thing?”

  “Fu ... me.” Nathan's heart nearly leaped out of his chest at the female voice that came from nowhere.

  Starr's head poked out from behind a long row of boxes in the back corner of the storeroom. “Sorry, didn't mean to take you off guard.”

  His heart skipped a few more beats, but he found his spine. “Just came to take some inventory. What do you need?” He stepped closer to where she stood. She wore no make-up, and her red curls were piled high on top of her head in a messy knot. She was still fricking gorgeous. It was a damned miracle his gaze didn't slide up and down her like a lecher every second he stood in her company, which now was exactly five times, with each time better than the last.

  “I need to roll out this cage so I can get to the mannequins.”

  He pushed three heavy boxes out of the way. How the hell did she wedge herself between them and that giant, mock birdcage? The girl had some strength. It took some effort on his part, and he had at least seventy-five pounds on her.

  She slapped dust from her hands. “Thanks for your help, Nathan. You always seem to b
e rescuing me.”

  Rescuing. How about he could bring her a load of danger if he wasn’t careful. Seeing Ruark with her in the hallway yesterday just about made his arteries explode. He understood why any man would be attracted to her, but MacKenna was the worst sort of man. If he could build an invisible shield around Starr so Ruark didn’t know she existed, he’d do it.

  The cage squeaked as he rolled it off to the side to get to the industrial laundry cart. Hands, thighs, and three heads rested on top of a pile of other disembodied mannequin parts.

  “Do I dare ask?”

  “I'm not designing a murder scene, if that's what you're thinking.” Her eyes flew open. “Oh, God, I'm sorry, Nathan.”

  Fuck him for real. She knew. He ripped his gaze from her sweet face. Seeing fear in another's eyes was one of the worst parts of having a record. How would she know she was safe back here with a convicted murderer?

  He searched her face for horror, fear, or worse—curiosity—where he’d finally have to confess to her why he ended up in prison. He clung to the beat of silence between them, prayers lighting up his body from the inside that she wouldn't ask him anything. She said she didn’t like mystery …

  Thank, hell. She clutched the edge of the cart, pulled, and didn't hit him with a barrage of questions, though they were sure to come soon. He’d stupidly let it slip yesterday about his and Ruark’s history.

  She wrestled with the squeaky cart for a few seconds until his limbs shook free from their invisible concrete, and he yanked it out from under her quivering arms.

  Her eyes widened. “Oh, you're strong.”

  Didn't that stoke his ego a little. “Moving boxes.”

  “I'll bet.” She peered up at him. “Hey, can I run something by you?”

  “Sure.”

  “We need a new group sister act. I'm so bored with everything we've got in the repertoire.” She picked up a mannequin arm. “I want to put these together, put one in army fatigues, another in safari gear and another in ... something. Haven't gotten that far. Anyway, make them hunters. We're the rare birds that come out of the jungle. They're hunting us.”