Tough Luck (The Shakedown Series Book 1)

by Elizabeth SaFleur

  She stopped, cocked her head, and gazed down at the side of a massive two-story yacht. “Beauty's Secret.” She glanced up at him. “What do you think? His wife or mistress?”

  “Who says it's a man's boat?”

  She drew closer to him and laid her palms on his pecs. “Someday, I'll have one of these, and I'll name it Nathan's Star.” Her head fell back, and he caught her around the waist before she tipped backward.

  “Hey! Be careful. You could have fallen in.”

  She raised her head. “I knew you'd catch me.”

  Trusting and limp against his palms, he swung her. Her red hair shimmered like molten copper in the sun. His hands, full of her warm, toned body, itched to grab a fistful of all that red while he worked her rosebud mouth with his own and thrust inside her until she couldn't walk straight—until he couldn't walk straight. His desire to claim every bit of her luscious body grew with every second she let him hold her. She pulled herself up, her palms curling around his biceps. “I just love being outside. I'm indoors so much.”

  “Sunshine and fresh air are highly underrated.” He should know.

  “Hey, let's go sit on the end.” She broke free from his hold, and he followed closely, unwilling to be more than a foot apart from her, her familiar cinnamon scent mixing with the briny air.

  They sat at the end of the slip and let their feet dangle over the edge. Airplanes still powered overhead, but they were a distant second to the slap-slap-slap of the water against the pier mountings and the occasional squawking of a bird.

  “It must be fun to be the captain of a ship.” Starr leaned back on her palms. “I wonder, if things had been different, if my father hadn't been a drunk or my mother hadn't died, or if I'd gone to school—where I would be? Maybe I'd be on one of these boats” —she swung one arm in the air— “or one of those super deluxe yachts in Annapolis.”

  “I’d like to give you your dreams. I wish I could buy you a boat.”

  “You would?”

  “I would.”

  She bumped his shoulder with hers “What could I get you?”

  “To see a smile on your face would be enough.”

  A peach stain grew on her cheeks. “My smiles for you are free, and you’ll always have them.” She held his gaze, just as she had so many times. An overwhelming sense of being trusted filled him, as if this woman would stick with him no matter what.

  “Tell you what. I promise someday you'll have an entire fleet.” It wasn't a promise he should make, but why the hell not? With her by his side, maybe he could turn his life around, and in turn, hers. She'd had too much unkindness in her life.

  Her smiled returned. “And my first boat will be named Nathan's Star.”

  If goodness were tangible, it'd be the energy rolling off her right now. He inched closer, as if whatever she had could be absorbed into his own skin.

  “Generous of you to name your first boat after me. I mean, talk about pulling a Johnny Depp.” He laughed at the puzzled look she gave him. “You know. The actor who tattooed Winona Ryder's name on his skin before ...”

  Her face stilled as if he’d shocked her.

  Yeah, going down that particular trail was too soon. He got it.

  “Oh, don't you worry, Nathan Baldwin. I'd put a ring on it before I'd get the tattoo.”

  Okay, she shocked him more. A ring. He’d done that once—a hurried affair, picking out the cheapest gold band he could afford. His love for this woman, however, demanded a diamond someone could see from space.

  She unfolded her legs and let them dangle once more over the side of the pier.

  He could do it. Hell, he’d propose right this second if he had anything to offer except complications. This woman, however, deserved to feel wanted. “No, I’d put a ring on it.”

  She turned to face him and flashed him a wide smile.

  Suddenly, he could see himself bending on one knee before her, holding out a little black box. It had to happen someday because for once, he had someone he wanted who wanted him back.

  “Tell ya, what.” He got to his feet and held out his hand. “Next weekend, you and I are going out for a real date.” No more of this picnic stuff. Maybe he’d take her to that fancy French restaurant where he’d picked up those truffles. “Now, how about some lobster?”

  She took his hand and let him pull her up. She must have liked his date offer because her lips found his with such ferocity he couldn’t mistake her earlier meaning. If he asked her to marry him, she would say “yes.”

  For once, his heartbeat ratcheted up for something other than panic. This was what happiness felt like.

  40

  Light streamed in from Starr’s bedroom window, which should have woken him up. Instead, it was Starr’s hand curling around his hip and gripping his ever-present erection—the one that rose like a flagpole every time she was around. Her hand traced a greedy message into his flesh, and this was a message he could answer.

  He turned, twisting the thin sheet around his middle. It slipped down to her waist, exposing her breasts. Starr's body was a gift from God. He trailed fingertips from her rib cage to her waist and hip and indulged the movement a few more times just to feel the satin skin under his calloused index finger. “This might be my favorite part.”

  “What about here?” She took his hand and pushed it down her belly to between her thighs where his fingers met petal-soft folds shaved smooth. His finger traced the seam, lightly, reverently. Air ran ragged over his lips, and his face found its way into her neck. He had to scent her, breathe her in.

  His cock pressed painfully against his belly as it made contact with hers. Yesterday had been amazingly perfect. On their way back from the marina, somewhere between Virginia and Maryland, he’d even figured out a way to get MacKenna off their backs. He just had to get a voice recording of Ruark threatening him. That couldn’t be too hard. Where and when and how eluded him, but he’d do it even if it meant he had to hire his own P.I., to follow Ruark around. He wanted an infinite number of days to feel her skin like this.

  He pulled back enough for his Starr-seeking organ to find its place. He glided into her, and heard her soft moan rumble through her chest. Hell if his ego didn't take a rocket ride along with his lust.

  “Jesus, Starr,” he said into her neck. Not even air could circulate between his front and her back as he moved inside her, crushing her to the mattress.

  How'd he live before—without her? His love for her smothered all other emotions. The words, “I love you,” weren’t nearly sufficient to express all she’d awoken in him.

  His hand found her breast, and he rolled her nipple between thumb and forefinger until her soft pants grew into louder moans and little begging sounds. He began to thrust so hard she cried out.

  “Okay?” His word was nothing but a long, drawn-out pant

  “Mmmhmm. Good.”

  Her legs wound around his. Her hands grasped his ass and pulled and kneaded, and her mouth...Jesus, her mouth was so open and pliable. His mind split, half desperate for his cock to stay buried right where it was, half wanting to pull out and give her mouth a test.

  As if he'd said something aloud to that effect—hell, he might have because God knows what was coming out of his mouth—she inched backward. He got the signal. He was being too rough.

  “You sure you're—”

  “Shhh.” In some balletic move, she swung her legs free and pushed him back down to the mattress. When her lips met his cock, the raw, dirty, uninhibited way in which she just threw herself at him made his head explode—both of them. By the grace of God, he didn't come right away.

  She sucked him off for an eternity. She teased, pausing, and then starting, controlling his pleasure. He let her have that control because he got it. Prison had fooled him into believing he was barely a man, that nothing was in his control anymore. It was wrong. He could think. He could feel. His reactions were his own. She’d showed him that.

  Even as he was coming, she didn't stop with those de
vil-blessed lips and tongue of hers until he was spent.

  She laughed a little, probably at his throaty groans. “Glad to be of service.”

  He captured her chin in his hand. “You don't think we're done, do you? That's the last time I come before you, ever again.” He crawled down to her legs, split her thighs, and showed his someday future wife—for all doubts on that score had been erased—exactly how much he meant what he promised.

  41

  “I can't believe it's Tuesday already.” Starr yawned into her reflection in the make-up mirror.

  Luna popped open a lipstick. “Thank God we have a repertoire to rely on. I have no creativity left.”

  They both could have used more time off, given they’d just put on a show for charity and dealt with a sociopath’s insane gesture of a pig’s heart, but allowing what happened to interrupt their lives anymore was not happening. She wouldn’t let whoever sent that disgusting bouquet to dictate her life. She chalked up her resolve to Nathan and his insulating attention.

  The last few days had been a bizarre mix of rest and relaxation and waiting for the other shoe—or pig's heart—to drop. Nathan had been stellar at distracting her with a day trip out of town. He was also a willing participant when she did what “experts” said never to do. They tumbled into bed and went for each other’s bodies. Whoever said sex wasn't the answer wasn't getting any, at least not getting anything good, and Nathan was very, very good.

  He knew exactly how to settle her nerves. He let her set the pace but always left her desperate for a little. It was a delicious combination of respect and lust, which until him, she hadn’t realized had been missing in her life. Hell, it’d been missing for her sisters, too. They got one or the other, but she was never living without this magical combo again.

  In fact, God, please, let them be heading somewhere more permanent. She was not letting this man go, and if she had to drop to one knee and propose to him, she’d do it. Nathan still glanced around like someone was about to jump out at them, but they were surrounded by friends who wouldn’t let anything bad happen to them. She wished he could see that. Then again, he’d not had anyone watching his back for far too long.

  “Hey, let’s go and check out the set-up.” She grasped Luna’s hand. Their hunter act had been such a hit at the charity show, they’d decided to lead with that tonight.

  As soon as they entered the hallway, they ran into a familiar friend, a bouncer from the old days of one-night gigs in the clubs up and down the East Coast.

  “Amos!” Luna leaped at the heavy-set man who sported more tattoos than Max. “How have you been? How are you here?”

  “Right as rain, Miss Luna.” Amos gave her a head nod. “Dec called. Said he needed some temporary extra muscle, and when I heard you three were here, well …” He shrugged.

  See? Declan had things under control.

  They headed to the stage, which was a good thing because the male mannequins were all in the wrong order, and the camo pants were even on backward on one of them. The stagehands must have been messing with them.

  Phee plunked her bag down dramatically on the stage, startling her. “Jeez, Phee. You’re awfully late today.”

  “Yeah, well, Moonlight had a follow-up visit.”

  Starr suppressed a smile. Phee and Moonlight had bonded the second they’d brought her home. All of Phee’s protests about cat hair and cat litter smells vanished as soon as the cat curled up on her lap.

  “How’s she doing?” Starr asked.

  “Fine, and Nathan owes me $85 for more of her cortisone cream.”

  “We had a cat once, didn’t we?” Luna said thoughtfully.

  “Snow White, but Dad got rid of her.” Phee lifted a pair of red, satin pumps. “I picked these up to celebrate our new show. What? I needed them.”

  “Uh, huh.” Starr aimed a smile at her sister. It was okay by her—anything to make her happy. “Oh, I love this.” Phee swung her legs up on the stage and stood. She stepped slowly along the row of standing mirrors positioned behind the mannequins, a red shoe in each hand. “Makes the army look larger.”

  Luna waggled her eyebrows. “More men to capture?” Her phone rang. “Be back. This has to be Max. He’s supposed to bring us more dry ice.”

  When her sister headed off stage, Starr studied Phee. She looked good, lighter somehow. Perhaps now was a good time to bring up an idea she’d been mulling over. “So, what do you think of Moonlight living with us forever?”

  Phee glanced at her. “Like move in with us?”

  “Yeah. You like her. Or, rather, she really likes you.”

  She crossed her arms. The two shoes poked out of the side like misformed wings. Her sister was no dummy. She knew what Starr was getting at.

  “Why don’t you just come out with it and ask me. You want to move in with Nathan permanently, and his apartment can’t take cats.”

  No, let’s all get a house together. Something larger where we all can have a floor. There was one chink in her fantasies of marrying Nathan. Being with Nathan forever meant not living with her sisters.

  Luna’s stricken face appeared in the mirror between them. Phee and Starr turned her way.

  Her skin was too pale, her lips drawn too thin.

  “Hey, what’s wrong?”

  Luna's dazed eyes lifted from her phone. She took in a shuddering breath. “That was Mimi. Dad checked himself out.”

  For a long minute, Starr wasn't quite sure she’d heard Luna right. Starr stepped forward “What?”

  “They found him face down in an alley. Alcohol poisoning.”

  He didn’t. He couldn’t have. A twinge went off in her heart. She’d dismissed him so thoroughly at the show. No, she wouldn’t allow guilt to get a hold of her. He chose this. He did this. Her giving him the cold shoulder had nothing to do with his choices.

  “Phee?” Their sister stood too still. Her hands clutched around the red satin pumps, mashing the sides together. She turned, stopped at the mirror, and stared hard at her reflection.

  Jesus, was she having a breakdown or something?

  Luna stared at Phee’s back. She took one step forward, placed her hand on her sister’s shoulder. “Phee are you …”

  Phee lifted a red satin pump and smashed the pointed heel into the mirror, a million tiny spider cracks bursting on impact.

  L turned to Starr, and she didn’t need to say the words for her to get what she was thinking. He’d gotten drunk—and he’d known how to find them. He hadn’t come to them—but he could have.

  42

  Words from doctors and nurses floated into Starr’s ears and back out again. Critical condition. Blood alcohol content of .42. No corneal reflex. Breathing tube. Doctors, nurses, and technicians had thrown an encyclopedia of new words at them every twenty minutes for the last few hours as she and her sisters, along with Nathan and Declan, sat in a waiting room down the hall from an ICU Unit at Baltimore’s St. Joseph Hospital.

  They’d seen their father—twice. His shriveled body lay in a hospital bed, intubated, on a ventilator, with IV lines stuck in his arms. He looked like a science experiment.

  She had to stuff down a continuously rising and, quite frankly, irritating guilt for her cold responses to him these last few weeks. The flip side of that emotion—sympathy—wouldn’t work either. The man didn’t deserve her sympathy.

  The worst part was she couldn’t figure out why they hung around and listened to the rush of the respirator, and the constant beeps of the machines: all familiar, terrifying sounds. She couldn’t shake those sounds from her head even when sitting in the waiting room. The last time the three of them had stood in a hospital room like that was to say goodbye to their mother. No doctors had thrown big words at them then. In fact, no one had talked to them at all.

  Of course, there was the last time with Phee, who had refused to enter his hospital room and only agreed to come and sit in the waiting room with her and Luna.

  “Here.” Nathan handed her yet another cup of coff
ee. He didn’t know what else to do. Hell, none of them knew what to do but sit and wait.

  “Thanks.” She sipped the bitter coffee and glanced at Phee, who studied her manicure.

  L stood by the window, staring off into the parking lot. Declan hovered around her. He knew if anyone broke down, it would be her. After all, Luna had found their dad and then agreed to cut him off—all because Starr had asked her to.

  A man in a white lab coat, swinging an iPad in one hand, strode in. “Miss O’Malley?”

  She and Luna looked up to face him. He gave them a practiced smile at their identical movements. “I’m Dr. Broadstreet, the emergency psychiatrist on call.” He hugged the iPad to his chest. “Any reason to believe your father was trying to harm himself?”

  “Probably.” Starr’s tired whisper caused the man’s brow to knit.

  “Well, it’s just five times over the legal limit has us wondering if this was a—”

  “Call for help?” Phee rose to standing. “Trust me. He’s just a drunk.”

  “Stop. Please. Just stop.” Luna's face grayed.

  Starr pulled her top lip through her teeth and then sighed.

  “I see. Well, I’ll send a counselor by.” The doctor backed away, seemingly nonplussed by their reaction. He'd likely seen it all before anyway.

  Luna hugged the back of her arms. “You think he did it on purpose?”

  No one answered because no one could, just like they couldn’t give the hospital any insurance or billing information, or answer any health-related questions—except he’d been in rehab. It then occurred to her that the people who knew their father best were complete strangers to them, people paid to watch over him drying out. And they’d failed even at that.

  Phee picked up her bag and slung the strap over her shoulder. “This is pointless. I’m going home before they come looking for someone to pay the bill.”

  “I’ll take you.” Declan pushed up and grasped his cane.