Tough Luck (The Shakedown Series Book 1)

by Elizabeth SaFleur

  Declan stood to the side, stone-faced, with arms crossed, his face only breaking its trance upon seeing him. “Nathan. Sorry to put you to work on your day off.” He marched to him and held out his hand.

  Nathan handed him the bag of mushrooms with an unspoken “good riddance.” “No problem. Looks like a lot of damage.”

  “You should have seen it four hours ago. Glass everywhere.”

  Oh, man. “He got the new front door, too.” Declan was proud of his custom door with an etched glass rendering of a burlesque dancer holding a feather fan.

  “I've got another coming, but we're going to have to make do with that monstrosity.” He pointed his cane toward a red wooden door.

  Nathan couldn't help but laugh at how a door meant so much to the man.

  “Having a few good days off?” Declan arched an eyebrow. “Hey, hey, easy on that,” he called up to a workman. “Nathan, you mind taking these inside to Trick? And wait in my office for me. Got to talk to you.” Declan shoved the bag of mushrooms back at him.

  He’d leave with pleasure, as a cop car had just pulled up, and he could probably sneak out the back. Just the sight of a uniform set him on edge.

  As soon as he stepped inside, a hint of cinnamon hit him. He really needed to get back to Starr. He stepped onto the main floor, and Trick looked up from a spreadsheet spread out over the bar. “You look happy. You finally get laid?”

  Yep, everyone here saw too damned much. Though, how would they really know?

  Nathan dropped the paper bag on the bar with a rustled plop. “Your expensive-ass mushrooms.”

  Trick straightened and took the bag. He opened it and took a long inhale. “Mmm. Pretty fresh, too.”

  Nathan blocked the bag from coming closer in a protest at the scent wafting closer to him.

  The man laughed. “Not a fan?”

  “You try driving around with those for an hour. Hey, listen, mind telling Declan that we’ll talk later?” He jerked a thumb toward the door. “I gotta go.”

  Declan angrily pushed through the vestibule's black curtain, a cloud of dust from the construction following him inside. “Nathan, my office.”

  Nathan sighed. Didn’t sound like good news.

  Declan sat at his desk and sighed. “We’ve got some information about who did this. It's not good.”

  His brain clicked the pieces together because “not good” mixed with “a talk” only meant one thing. The pit of his stomach knotted. “MacKenna.”

  “No. Someone else. But I have friends on the force. My contact here tells me the guy who ruined my custom-made portico got into a bit of trouble with the MacKenna's. The guy owed them money, but he got scared and told the police about their threats. It didn't go anywhere—”

  “But they found out.” Nathan scrubbed his scalp. “If he went after you, he'd be off the hook for his snitching.” He was well aware of the drill.

  “Someday, they'll slip up.”

  “Slip up? That means someone has to get hurt—”

  “I won’t let that happen.”

  “You’re damn straight. I’ll—”

  “No.” Declan’s eyes slanted. “You won’t do anything. We'll just keep each other informed. You got that?”

  He needed to do something more proactive. He’d love to go after Ruark himself. That was off the table, thanks to his parole status. No, he’d start asking around to see what they’d been doing for the last decade just in case he needed a bargaining chip. And, do what with it? Tattletale to his parole officer? Jesus, he needed better options, and swear to God if his heart didn’t stop this yammering he’d yank it out of his chest himself.

  “Nathan.”

  At Declan’s sharp tone, he snapped his attention back to the man in front of him.

  “You got that?” Declan injected seriousness in every word.

  He had great respect for the man, but he was entirely too optimistic about the options before any of them right now. “Yeah,” he said anyway. He rubbed his sternum until he was sure it was bruised.

  “You're one of us, and we take care of our own.”

  “That's exactly what the MacKenna's think they're doing.”

  “But we're on the right side, Nathan. Always the right side.”

  He wasn't sure if he knew what the right side was anymore because the truth was, he had something to lose now, and he wouldn't let them drag Declan, Starr, or anyone else down with him. He'd kill again before he'd let that happen.

  23

  “Okay then, Mr. Baldwin, that'll be $276.00 for the visit and $85.00 for the topical ointment.”

  Jesus, for a cat. He swallowed. His own medical visit, post-prison, hadn't cost that much—just a $75 check-up at the clinic down the street to appease his parole officer. Never mind his medical records read like a trauma manual.

  He pulled out his wallet and handed over his debit card to the cheery girl behind the counter.

  Starr held Moonlight lightly and cooed into her ear. The cat's eyes were half-lidded, its bandaged leg hanging over her arm. The vet had described Moonlight’s “issues,” as she’d called them, and then explained each and every one with startling complex medical terms and a seriousness that’d nearly made him laugh. When did pet care become such a ... thing?

  The receptionist then handed him a stack of papers and a small rectangular box with an official-looking prescription label. Big bald spots had been shaved all over Moonlight’s back and belly, where the $85.00 goop was supposed to go three times a day. Were they kidding him? He had a job to go to.

  “Is that a tattoo?”

  He glanced down at a little girl whose arms were so full of a fat orange tabby cat, Nathan was afraid she'd drop it any second, or squeeze the life out of it, given the look of her grip.

  “Yep.” He turned back to the cheery girl behind the counter.

  The little girl tugged on his leg. “Why?”

  “Julia, let the nice man get his kitty in peace.” The mother grabbed her arm and pulled her to the other side of her as if he were about to abduct the girl. At least he'd been saved from the “why” game.

  In the car, Moonlight curled on Starr's lap like the Queen of England. Thankfully, she didn't do her mournful howling thing like she had on the ride over. Instead, the cat dozed as Starr launched into talking about the new show she and her sisters were about to put on. It was better than having to tell her the latest MacKenna development.

  “So, what do you think?”

  He'd only been half-listening, as the damage to Shakedown's club kept intruding into his thoughts. How would he tell her without worrying her?

  “Sounds amazing. You girls plan all that in one afternoon?”

  “While I was waiting for the vet. Three-way call.” She scratched Moonlight's head. “Get the truffles okay? And how’s the car thing?”

  “Yeah, and for the record, truffles are disgusting. Declan's got the other stuff handled, but we’re not opening tonight. Tomorrow, we’ll be back.”

  Her mouth stretched into a half-smile. “Well, that’s good. I’d love to have another night off. Maybe we can get some more dance practice in.” She sucked her bottom lip into her mouth.

  He had some ideas about what they could do to pass the time, too, and none of it involved dancing upright.

  “Man, I should call Phee and Luna. I know they haven’t heard.” She reached over to get her phone, earning a disgruntled groan from Moonlight. She suddenly leaned back. “Unless Declan wants the excuse to call. Then again ... he wouldn't want to upset Phee. Nah, I’ll wait, see what he does.”

  His little Starr was a thinker that was for sure. He set his elbow on the window edge and ran his finger over his bottom lip. “The furball needs a lot of care. I was thinking. The cat—”

  “Moonlight.” Starr scratched her head, and the purring grew louder.

  “Yeah, well, she seems to need a lot.”

  “That's okay. It'll be easy. I can show you how to put the cream on so she won't object.”


  She would object? He laughed. “Yeah, well, ASPCA is up the street and ...”

  Starr's whole body swiveled to face him, and the cat meowed loudly in protest at being moved. “Nathan Baldwin, do not finish that sentence. We are not taking this cat to a shelter. Dropping it off like ...”

  She faced the windshield. The temperature in the car had dropped forty degrees.

  Shit.

  He tentatively reached out to touch one of the cat's paws, and wouldn't you know, it pulled back like he was the devil. He dropped his hand back to the console. “Sorry.” He wasn't exactly sure for what, but he'd say it.

  “No shelter.” Her whisper was hoarse, fierce even, “Just don't even think it.”

  God, her voice cracked. He took her hand and braced for her to pull back, too. By the grace of God, she didn't. He let a little silence sit between them, something he probably should have done from the get go, and prayed she wouldn't start crying for real.

  Another sniff. He saw in his periphery that she'd turned to glare out the side window. Oh, shit, she was going to cry, for real. His shoulders tensed, and his knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. He struggled to feed himself, let alone an animal. That $276.00 plus $85.00 for some medicated ointment was his food budget for a month. What was the big problem?

  The light he hadn't even realized he'd stopped at turned green. He eased into the intersection and struggled to say something to fill the heavy silence between them.

  Her leg squeaked a little on the seat as she finally turned to him. “I need to tell you.”

  “Tell me what?” He glanced her way.

  Her face had reddened. Tears rimmed her eyes.

  He had to look away.

  She adjusted a protesting Moonlight in her lap. “You told me your past. So, here's mine. And, no feeling sorry for us, okay?”

  His hands gripped the steering wheel, and he slowed down to ten miles under the speed limit.

  “When we were nine, our mom died.” She raised her hand to keep him from reaching out to her, an automatic reaction he might have for the rest of his life. His hands itched to touch her, hold her.

  “My dad tried. He really did. But he lost his job as a welder. We lived in Huntsville then. We went to school in dirty clothes, never had lunch money, and always seemed to be getting hurt. Well, we were. Dad had a short fuse and … anyway. Someone reported us to Child Protective Services. Social Services came, but it wasn’t until Phee landed in the hospital that they did anything about it. By the time we were eleven, we were in foster care.”

  Oh, fuck him. “I'm—”

  She held up her hand, shook her head. “Don't say I'm sorry.”

  He shouldn't have said anything. Hell, he should cut out his tongue. He was rarely on his game, but Jesus man, could he have been any denser? If he could swallow back his suggestion to drop off Moonlight at the equivalent of foster care, he'd do it. He hadn’t known the extent of her past.

  She huffed. “My dad was a full-blown alcoholic, and he wasn't equipped to take care of three girls even if he had been sober. He had these rages, and eventually, the booze became more important to him than us.”

  Her voice hitched, but her words didn't trail off. Maybe there was more to say. Of course there was. An alcoholic, single father with three girls? He managed to release one hand from the steering wheel to scrub his chin. “That should have never happened to you.”

  Damn. Where was the guy now? He’d better be dead and buried, or somewhere Nathan couldn’t get to him. If he was within driving distance, he might be tempted to go find him, which wouldn’t help either of them.

  She shrugged. “We lost touch with him—at least until recently. What was rough was that we weren't always placed together. Phee took it the hardest. After Luna and I were placed together for the second time without Phee ... well, that's when the cycle began. The family that had her was really bad. She ran away a lot. It wasn't until right before our seventeenth birthday that we finally got into a family together. By then it was too late.”

  “Too late?”

  “Phee was ...well, anyway ... You know L. found him, and our one and only visit didn't go well. Anyway, that's the story.” She nuzzled Moonlight's neck. The cat’s eyes remained glazed, and her purrs mixed with growls.

  Fuck him, the man was within reach, and he had an unexpected day off. He could … do what? Jet over to Rockville, punch the guy a few times, and land back in jail. Smarten your ass up, Baldwin.

  He lifted her hand up to his lips and pressed a kiss onto the back of her hand. She had the softest skin he’d ever felt on a human being, and something eased inside him, which was good given his protective instincts were on fire.

  “Now you know all my secrets.” Her eyes settled on his face.

  Trust—that's what he saw there.

  His chest ached from holding in his secrets. He hadn't told her everything about himself. Like he was once married and the MacKenna's wanted him dead. But, now wasn't the time. Making her feel better trumped clearing his conscience.

  The cat yawned, actually yawned. Starr pulled her hand out of his and rubbed Moonlight’s head.

  She seemed attached to the cat. He could do something for the cat. That might work to raise her spirits. “Hey, I have an idea. Let's go to one of those pet stores. Get it some toys.” He'd passed a whole store somewhere dedicated to pet supplies. How expensive could cat toys be?

  “Pet Land?” Her forehead smoothed a bit.

  “Yeah. Pet Land. Do that phone thing and ask Siri.”

  She moved to square herself more to him and laughed, swiping under her eyes. “Nathan, you take me to all the best places.” She grasped his wrist and brought it down from where he was rubbing his chin raw. “You'd make a great boyfriend.”

  His brain took a few seconds to catch on. He squeezed her fingers as he drove one-handed. Boyfriend. With a cat. He could do that.

  For a full minute, he forgot all about Ruark MacKenna. A full sixty seconds passed—the best time of his life.

  24

  Nathan pushed out the door of his apartment building, and a wave of heat smacked him in the face. Hades had nothing on August in Baltimore. He was running late, having unexpectedly slept in until Moonlight's plaintive cries jerked him awake. The thing was tearing at its bandaged leg like an alien was trying to invade her body. He figured if she got the stuff off, she deserved the win, so he'd left her to it.

  Starr had gone and had left him a cryptic note about needing to run home, a request to meet her there, and her cell phone number. The best part of the note? She’d signed off with an “XO.” He'd texted her immediately with an, “I’m on my way,” and deleted the part about how she should have woken him so they could have gone together. He wasn’t her warden.

  He rounded the corner that led to the parking lot.

  Ruark Fucking MacKenna leaned against Nathan's beat-up Toyota. He shouldn't have been surprised. MacKenna was bound to cross the line and invade his personal space. With any luck, rust from his beater would stain the guy's cheap-ass suit.

  “Why are you here?” He was so damned sick of taking his crap.

  “Visiting old friends.”

  “Sure you are.” He strode to the man, half hoping he'd get clocked so he could at least go to his parole officer with evidence he'd been mauled. Nathan crossed his arms as he stood four feet from him. “Still playing this game.”

  Ruark pushed off his car and closed the distance between them. “A game? Not a game, and I’m not playing.”

  “You sure you want to be caught harassing me?”

  Ruark dramatically swiveled his head from left to right at the empty parking lot, then turned his mug back to Nathan. “Caught by who?”

  “What the fuck, MacKenna? Want me back to prison? Not happening.”

  “Oh, no.” He chuckled. “That would be too easy. I want something far more than that.”

  “Pound of flesh?”

  “More than a pound, my friend. Way more than a pound,” Ruark c
alled as he sauntered toward his Porsche, illegally parked in the handicapped spot across the lot.

  He’d had enough. He had things to do, like placate Erin and go to see Starr. Fuck, Starr. Had MacKenna seen her exit his building? Alone? “Keep threatening—”

  “I don't make idle threats. You took something away from me. Get ready to lose everything, inmate number 167842FLN.”

  He spun on his heel and was inches away from Ruark in seconds. The guy smirked, and he snapped. Fuck this guy. Fuck his family. Fuck the consequences. Showing up here, acting like he knew everything about him?

  Ruark grasped his arm before he could land the punch sitting in his fist like an unlaunched rocket. Nathan jerked away from Ruark’s hold so violently, he nearly dislocated his arm, and stepped backward, his muscles twitching from head to toe.

  MacKenna's face didn't lose his smirk, but he released his grip and sauntered to the driver's side of his car. That's when Stu, his building manager, a short, squat guy with a shiny bald head, stepped out of the maintenance truck parked next to MacKenna's Porsche. Before lowering his sissy-suited ass into the front seat, starting his car and pulling out of the lot, Ruark gave the building manager a nod.

  “Hey, man. You got a minute?” Stu called to Nathan.

  “Sure.” Why not? He needed to calm down before seeing Starr anyway.

  “I hate to do this to you...” Stu began.

  Yeah, it could be worse. The man didn't need to say another word because he knew what was coming. “What's MacKenna got on you?”

  Stu scrubbed down his face. “I've tried to keep it straight and narrow since I got out. Can't go back in, man, but they threatened to have the place searched and ...”

  “They'd find something. Yeah, I get it.”

  “Sorry, guy, it's just. Fuck. You got messed up with the MacKenna's, and I don't want any trouble.”