by Anthology
“In the middle of the ocean, thanks to you.”
He sighed. “I'm driving you home,” he repeated.
“No. My ride is here.” She strode toward a blue Chevy pulling up to them.
Finding her stepbrother was his burning priority, but he’d learned that once his ex-fiancé pursed her lips into that familiar grimace, pushing her to talk followed the law of diminishing returns. He'd get nothing more from her—for now.
Chapter Five
Rachel stared out the window of the car, thankful her thousandth Uber driver since The Betrayal wasn't a talker. She wasn't getting into any vehicle with Trick Masters.
A coldness had seeped through her muscles at Trick's final questions about Jay. The idea that her stepbrother had anything to do with their disappearing trust fund was ridiculous. He didn't need to steal anything. At least half that money belonged to him.
Her mind sifted through the last three years. In the beginning Jay called every week. Then his calls got less frequent, which she'd hardly noticed as she’d been busy trying to piece her life back together. Next thing she knew, he was in the middle of the ocean somewhere where internet and cell service wasn't exactly de rigueur.
“Are you ever calling me back?” she asked the silent phone in her hand. Trick always did make her crazy—like speak to inanimate objects and have sex against a door with her embezzling ex-fiancé kind of crazy.
She hit speed dial number one again. By the grace of God, he answered.
“Hey—”
“Where have you been?” she cried into the phone.
“Jesus, Rachel. Take it down a notch. Whatever happened to hello?” Jay's voice sounded sleepy.
“Whatever happened to calling your sister back?”
“Was about to after your latest message. How the hell did Trick find you?”
“I have no idea.”
“Stay away from him, Rach.”
“I am.” Sort of. “Where are you?”
“Working.”
Was that a muffled woman’s voice? More than one woman, she thought.
“Who are you with?” she asked.
“No one.” A door closing sounded in the background. “Listen, Trick wants one thing. Revenge. Remember that.”
Was he peeing while they were on the phone? Men.
“Revenge?” she asked, trying not to listen to the tell-tale splash in the background. “What happened is not our fault. I've been reconsidering. I think it was Peter.”
“Rachel, let it go. We agreed to move on, remember?”
She sighed heavily at the flushing sound. “Seriously, Jay?”
“I mean it, Rach. Seeing Trick now—”
“I'm not seeing him.”
“Promise me.” His voice grew steely, which kind of pissed her off. She'd have yelled, but her therapist's voice rang in her brain. Stop sign. Jay was trying to help, after all.
“Have some faith in me, Jay. I think he's got money. He might be rolling in it, actually. His Hugo Boss suit wasn't cheap, and I recognized real antiques in his office.”
An exasperated sigh seared her ear. “Trick is a player, sis. Promise me you won’t go back to him. Now do the thing so I know you mean it.”
A laugh rumbled in her throat at the mention of their secret promise ritual. She made the sign of an X on her forehead and her heart and tapped her palm, a virtual safe to protect the sworn oath. “It's in the vault. Did you do it, too?”
“Of course. In the vault. In the meantime—”
“I know, I know. Stay away. Did you get my last transfer?” She'd been sending him money to the same PayPal address for the last three years. Not much, a hundred dollars here and there, but it made her feel better.
“Yeah, thanks. I appreciate it.”
“You know I'm here for you. That at least deserves a call now and again, right?”
“Of course.”
“How about a visit? My birthday is coming up.”
“I remember. Listen, can I call you later? I just got up and—”
“Sure.”
“Love ya, sis.” The phone line went dead before she had a chance to say another word. Her eyes pricked but she tamped down any potential tears. She knew it must have shamed Jay to take money from his sister.
Damn Trick Masters.
She raised an image of Trick to fuel the familiar anger toward him. It helped her retain that steel backbone. It galled her to no end to recall his expensive suit in his expensive-looking office. He also was still good at sex, which, while she had been a willing participant, royally pissed her off. He acted like he hadn't lost anything, like he was doing fine. Well, she hadn't been fine, and it was time to turn things around. She may be directionless, single, and poor, but she wasn't helpless. She was going to get their trust fund money from Trick. She'd then get Jay off that oil rig, because Lord, he sounded tired on the phone. She would go back to school. Or they would start over, even start that business she'd forgotten to bring up with Jay. Damn.
She redialed his number and got voice mail. Seriously? She hung up.
Next time she called Jay she'd have something worthy of him returning her call—real news.
“Hey,” she said to the Uber driver. “Can you turn around? I forgot something.”
The driver shrugged and put on his turn signal.
She'd been impulsive before. Now she was going to be smart. There was only one thing to do—steal the money back.
Chapter Six
As soon as Rachel left, Trick stormed into Declan Phillips’s office. The owner of Shakedown was a man with the contacts and resources to help. They’d met in prison when Declan saved him from a bathroom assault and taught him the ropes of life behind bars. The man was in on a bogus charge of vehicular manslaughter—the other driver, a teenager, had powerful parents. Declan hired Trick when he was released. Thank God. No one else would.
“Declan, I need Jay Grant found and brought here. I don’t care if it’s only his dead body.” Trick paced Declan's office.
“A little dramatic don't you think?” Declan asked.
“No.”
His friend straightened from leaning against his desk. “The first I can help you with,” Declan said evenly. “The latter? Dead bodies can be…problematic. The police always want to know how they got that way.”
Trick scrubbed his hair. “I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking.”
“Emotion does that to a person,” Declan said. “We'll find him. This Jay Grant got a cell phone? Bills have to be sent somewhere.”
“I'll get it from Rachel. Last known address. What else do you need?”
“That's a good start. So, Rachel, as in—”
“Yeah, that Rachel.”
Declan sat on the corner of his desk. “You found her.”
Trick sighed and sat in one of the large executive chairs by the desk. “She was where Max said she was. Talman's. Waitressing. Still can’t believe we both ended up in Baltimore. She thinks our meeting was a coincidence.”
Declan arched an eyebrow. “Is it wise to keep that from her?”
“I'll tell her eventually, when she trusts me more.”
“You do know it works the opposite way, right? Truth, then trust?”
“Yeah.” He scrubbed his face. “Jay wasn't with her, which surprised me. They were inseparable for years.” He was going to rub his chin raw at this point.
“Was he into anything? Gambling? Drugs? Women?” Declan asked.
“He gambled some. Smoked weed. Usual rich-boy crap.” He jumped up from the chair, restless as hell. “Damn it, I need more information, and Rachel is so damned stubborn . . .”
A rap on the door cut their conversation short. Nathan stood in the doorway, a broad smile across his face. “Your sparring partner is back.”
There was no mistaking who Nathan referred to.
Declan's face cracked into a smile. “Looks like you'll have no trouble getting more information.”
“She's up to something,” Trick said, headin
g for the door.
Across the room, a set of brown eyes confronted him. As he crossed the show floor, she uncrossed her mile-long legs and slid off the bar stool. “I changed my mind,” she said. “Hire me. You did say I’d make more money, and you owe me.”
“On one condition. Tell me how to reach Jay.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “I told you. He’s on an oil rig. I spoke with him twenty minutes ago.”
“You ask him about the money?”
“Why would I do that? Nobody goes to work on one of those things if they have three million.”
He wasn't so sure. Everyone had their blind spots, and Rachel's was her stepbrother. She'd lost her mother when she was twelve, and the only man she’d known as a father when she was eighteen. Clinging to the last of your family was understandable, but in Jay’s case, not wise. Then again, what he was about to do wasn't wise, either.
“Let me have his cell number,” he said.
“He won't answer you. I'd like to work six nights a week—”
“Five.”
“All right, for the first two weeks, until you can see I can handle myself, but then I get six.”
“Perhaps. You can start—”
“I need to start tomorrow. Talman's won't miss me—at least the other waitresses won't, and you won't be sorry you've hired me. I have good ideas. I work hard, and I—”
“You're hired.”
She blinked.
“See you tomorrow, Rachel.” He turned and strode away, knowing her inability to get the last word in would gall the shit out of her—something he was totally okay with. She was being too nice, too placating to trust. Yet, this is what he wanted, right? Keep a close on eye on her and find out where the hell her freeloading brother was? He suspected her sudden reappearance meant one thing. She was going to try to seduce him into giving her money that he never took. Fat chance. He was going to do one better. He’d bring the real criminal to justice, and he’d start by locating Jay Grant.
Chapter Seven
While Nathan shook a martini shaker, Rachel set the bar tray down and took a two-minute break to watch the dancer on stage.
Tonight, Shakedown’s two retractable walls were pulled back to accommodate the Saturday night show. The larger-than-normal crowd had come to see Phoenix Rising, the dancer who now sashayed across the stage in time with loud drumbeats, whistles, and piano chords—and a chorus of whoops and hollers. Crystals scattered across her emerald green corset sparkled and, like a disco ball, the tiny prisms refracted the spotlight into brilliant flashes. Her broad smile and Caribbean blue eyes examined the crowd with such confidence Rachel understood why the woman was Shakedown's most popular dancer. She owned the stage.
According to Trick, Phoenix Rising was one sister in a gang of three—identical triplets who danced both together and apart, finding that perfect balance of individuality and togetherness. Apparently this information was important, given how serious he looked when he’d delivered it. The three women, Phoenix Rising, Luna Belle, and Midnight Starr, were beautiful. Maybe he was dating one of them? Who knew? She'd barely seen him since that first, five-minute meeting that consisted of passing her off to Nathan, the bartender.
She took a deep cleansing breath and ran through her latest plan. She had to get Trick alone for a few minutes. She had questions. How was the club start-up funded? How had Declan Phillips decided to open a club like Shakedown in the first place? Both were innocent queries that would be natural for Trick Masters, the manager, to tell a new employee. In reality, they would start her investigation of Trick Masters, the con man. Her other questions could come later, like how the hell he afforded those suits—a different one every night—and the Mercedes he drove. Oh, and by the way, did he have any of her $3 million left?
She needed to find out the location of his office safe. He had always kept a stash of cash on hand in their home safe—a lot of it, if her memory served. She justified taking back whatever was left of her $3 million wasn't stealing, as she was merely returning the funds to their rightful owner.
On stage, Phoenix stripped off a long emerald-colored glove. Rachel had seen this move a hundred times in the last four nights. She turned her attention back to the bar where Nathan was mixing up a new drink, suggested by her, for booth number fifteen—the largest seating area that housed the most people, hence producing the most tips. Trick had been right about two things. Shakedown was not a strip club, as the dancers rarely took much off, and she'd make more money here than Talman's. Four nights of waitressing had already brought in as much money as eight nights at her old job.
“Booth three liked your jalapeño martinis, Nathan.” Speak of the devil. Trick sidled up to the bar.
“Rachel's idea,” Nathan said.
“Is that so?” Trick casually leaned against the brass rail and assessed her outfit—the exact reaction she'd hoped when she'd donned the ruched black dress and high heels he'd once called her come-fuck-me outfit.
“Your feet have to be killing you, Rachel,” he said and turned back to Nathan. “I'll have the usual.”
“They aren't, and since when did you have a usual?” She knew his game. He goaded her to cover up the truth of what he honestly felt. That lustful look on his face didn't lie, and eventually he'd invite her back to his office, the place she was going to start discovering his secrets—beginning with the safe.
Trick picked up the tumbler of brown liquid and brought it to his lips. His eyes remained glued to her. “Nice necklace,” he said into his glass.
“Thanks.” She ran her hands down the gold links that formed a lariat, a gift from Trick years ago. “A con man was once generous to me.”
She lifted the tray of finished martinis and walked away from his smirk. She put a little extra sway into her hips on purpose. She needed to leave a lasting impression.
She wove her way through the small cocktail rounds to get to the velvet-lined booths on the other side of the main floor. A man in a tuxedo and his Marilyn Monroe–lookalike date, complete with white halter dress, had ordered a third round of the jalapeno martinis she'd made up earlier. They'd requested something unusual and “different,” so she delivered in the form of vodka, simple syrup, and lemon topped with a jalapeno pepper.
She glanced back at Trick, who remained at the bar staring out at the crowd—at least until a tall blonde in a red dress barely longer than a t-shirt sidled up to him. One misstep and the woman's crotch would show.
By the time Rachel checked in with two more booths and gathered more drink orders, Blondie in her too-short dress and no sense of personal space had glued herself to Trick's side. Trick smiled down at her. He showed no sign the woman's hand now lying possessively on his pec bothered him.
As she neared the bar again, Rachel caught the usual oohing and ahing that women do when trying to capture a man. Oh, Trick this. Oh, Trick that. Nauseated, Rachel set her tray down with a bang.
“Three Cosmopolitans, one scotch on ice and one straight up,” she said to Nathan, ignoring Trick and Blondie, who hovered too close to the waitress station.
“Getting pretty fancy with the drinks,” Trick said to Nathan as the bartender put basil leaves on two tall, frosted glasses.
“Basil Vodka Chiller,” Nathan said. “Rachel's idea again.”
“Yeah, Rachel has never lacked for interesting ideas,” Trick said.
“You should get smaller martini glasses,” Rachel said. “Then fill them to the brim. It makes Shakedown look generous without actually serving more than normal—sorta like a woman who knows not to show too much.”
“Rachel's ideas are profitable, too,” Nathan said, his tone indicating he wished to de-escalate the building tension. “We've already sold more than twenty percent over last Saturday night.”
“She was on her way to getting a degree in hospitality management not too long ago,” Trick said.
“Yeah, until funds dried up,” she lobbed at him.
“Hi, Rachel.” Blondie held out her
hand. “I'm Vivi, a special friend of Trick's.”
“Rachel just joined Shakedown,” Trick said.
“My, my, this club does like to hire beautiful women. You two know each other long?”
“You could say that.”
Trick finally took Vivi's hand off his body. Was that an actual pout on Vivi's face? Jesus.
He picked up his drink and offered his arm to Vivi. “Let's talk in my office, love.”
A spike of jealousy hit Rachel square in the chest and she mentally yanked the spear free from her sternum. Stop sign! Her therapist had reminded her this morning of the mind trick, as if she needed reminding. Rachel lived in a virtual forest of stop signs these days, but it was a small price to pay to keep her eye on her ex-fiancé-slash-con man.
“Trick, when am I going to get that tour you promised me?” Rachel asked before he could scoot away.
“What? And tear you away from your fans?” he motioned with his chin toward a table of men trying to get her attention.
Vivi had the nerve to wink at Rachel as they strode away.
After thirty more minutes on the floor with no sign of Trick or Vivi, Rachel decided enough was enough. The back and forth of not wanting to see Trick, but also needing to see him for her plan to work, was driving her nuts.
“Hey, Georgette,” Rachel said to one of the other waitresses. “Do you mind watching my area so I can take a quick break? My feet are killing me.”
“Not at all.” The petite woman gave her a sweet smile. Unlike Talman's, the other waitresses here seemed genuinely friendly toward one another.
Rachel headed to the curtain through which Trick and Vivi had disappeared. She stepped through into the hall that led to the four offices: one for Trick, the second for a guy named Max with tattoos from wrist to bicep and whose job she'd yet to understand, a third for Nathan, the head bartender, and the last, larger office for Declan Phillips, the club owner.
Five days ago, in Declan's office, she'd signed an employment contract guaranteeing her a salary plus tips, health care benefits—the real shocker of this gig—and an assigned employee parking spot. Declan, a distinguished-looking man in his forties, had hired her with few questions asked. It was all handled too easily. So on top of wondering where Trick put her trust fund money, she wondered if this club was a front of something illicit, like drugs, prostitution, or gambling. By the way money was thrown around, something was afoot.