Tough Break (The Shakedown Series Book 2)

by Elizabeth SaFleur

  “That wasn't his fault.” Starr tapped her blusher against the countertop, spraying the top with tiny flecks of red. “Remember, Declan struck a deal with the MacKennas, too.”

  “Which I don't trust. It's probably time anyway, right? I mean…” Phee pointed to the bouquet on Starr's nightstand. Nathan had sent flowers complete with teddy bear and a balloon that read, “Just because I love you.” Her sister would soon be married and move out—something Phoenix should have been prepared for long ago. But how could she have understood the depth of that cavern forming behind her ribs? Not living with her two sisters? An odd twist formed in her belly.

  “Is that what this is about?” Starr rose from her stool. “Nathan and I haven't decided what we're going to do. It's not like we're moving overseas or something. We'll still be here in Baltimore.”

  “And I'm here.” Luna's taffeta bustle rustled as she drew closer. “And whatever happened to talking things out with us? Our pact?”

  Phee raised her eyebrows at her sister, who rolled her eyes in return. Luna got her message. Are you kidding me wasn't even close to how Phee felt about Luna's move this past year.

  Even though the three sisters forged an agreement years ago after they'd been separated across foster homes to always keep each other in the loop on all things that impacted all three of them, Luna had broken it spectacularly five months ago. She'd taken it upon herself behind Phee and Starr's backs to not only find their deadbeat father but to attempt a reconciliation. Fuck that. The hole in Phee’s chest deepened another inch.

  The man was in some halfway house for alcoholics, the address she'd never learned because no way was she visiting a man who landed her in a hospital at eleven years old.

  If she thought about it—really thought about it—she could raise up one molecule of understanding around Luna's motivations. Her sister wanted to give Phee an opportunity to confront him. Phee wanted more than that. She wanted him obliterated from her memories, her life, her body. She rubbed that place on her forearm, felt the little ridge in the bone there where the baseball bat had landed.

  Phee turned away from her sister and pulled out her matador costume. Someone—someone likely named Starr—had moved it to the yellow section of the garment rack. Phee thrust it back into its rightful place so it aligned with the other red dresses. She plunked her butt down and eased her stocking off. “Whatever happened to our dedication to safety? First, you find the deadbeat, then Declan turns out to be a MacKenna, and now you want to hang out here?”

  “Phee,” Starr's soft voice interjected. “I'm fine. We're going to be fine. Remember, Declan—”

  “God,” Her breath puffed out in a long moan. “Declan can't do anything!” The MacKennas may have called a tentative truce where Nathan was concerned, but that didn't stop the fact their boss was one of them. He also was a single man, not an army—not to mention a pure gentleman with manners and impeccable taste, neither of which would help in this situation.

  Jesus. Her eyes filled. She couldn't afford to fall apart now. “Frankly, you two are being far too cavalier about this whole affair.”

  Starr suddenly clutched her belly. “Ooof.”

  Phee swung her gaze to her. “What's wrong?”

  “Not feeling that great today, that's all.” Starr rolled her shoulders and groaned a little again.

  “Where is Declan, anyway?” Luna started toward the door. “He can sort this out.”

  “I don't need more talking. I need out.”

  Luna turned and glanced at Starr. They quieted. So, the sudden silent technique? They thought she'd rant and get it out of her system? They were sorely mistaken. On this topic, she was unmovable.

  “Declan's not here, L.” Starr kept her eyes trained on Phee. “So that’s why he left in such a huff. Nothing like having your lead dancer walk out on you. Leave your sisters holding up the entire show.”

  Oh, no, she wouldn't get away with that one. “This tough love thing will not work on me.”

  Starr's face paled. She pushed past Phee and jogged to the bathroom. Retching sounds echoed against the tiles.

  Luna and Phee stared at one another. “If she has the flu…” Luna's hand flew to her mouth. “Or…”

  “Or if she's pregnant?” The little potential bombshell landed square in the front of her brain probably because it'd be yet another horrible surprise of the day.

  “Already? I mean, I thought they wanted to wait.” So, Starr and L. had already been talking.

  “Is she?” Phoenix glared at her sister. “Pregnant?”

  Luna lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “I don't know.”

  Well, great. It was inevitable, though, wasn't it? One minute their sister was looking at bridal magazines, strewn across every surface of their apartment, and the next thing they knew they'd be picking out onesies and breast pumps.

  They both moved to the bathroom. Starr was on her knees, both hands on either side of the toilet seat. Beads of her corset clicked against the porcelain.

  “You okay?” Luna scooped hair off Starr's neck.

  Starr pushed back onto her heels, her mouth slack, her eyes half-mast. Phee pulled out some paper towels from the wall dispenser and wet them. She handed them to Starr. “Something going on?”

  “No. I'm not pregnant. We're not trying. Yeah, I overheard you.” She pushed to her feet, dropping the paper towels in a wet plop on the floor. “Though Cherry's going to be disappointed. It would add to her flock.” Starr lifted her eyes to Phee. “Sorry for scaring you.”

  “I'm not scared.” The sick knot in her belly twisted anew. What had Phee expected? She or Luna would never have children? Have their own life? Yes, actually. They'd be together forever.

  Starr pushed herself to standing. “It was bad Chinese food.”

  “You had salmon tonight.”

  “Yeah, with that disgusting truffle sauce you like so much.” She chuckled lightly.

  Phee wanted to return her laughter—she really, really did but couldn't.

  “Do you seriously want to leave Shakedown?” Starr always got right to the point.

  “All three of us need to.”

  “Why? And don't you dare say it's because of what Ruark MacKenna tried to do to me. You're not using him as an excuse to avoid falling in love with Declan. There, I said it.”

  Her damned eyes pricked. What was wrong with her? She didn't cry—ever.

  Starr swallowed. “Sorry. I'm being blunt because I love you and I'm worried you see all men as the enemy.”

  “The question is why don't you?” Phee's brain had no trouble regularly inventorying all the crap from her life—most of which Starr and Luna had lived through, too. It seemed like she was the only one of the three, though, that had her past rise like inflated balloons at the bottom of a lake every single day of her life.

  Finding their father had unearthed all kinds of things she'd buried deep. First, his alcoholic rages would arise in her mind, starting with the slamming of their bedroom door against the wall as he stormed inside and she being dragged to the floor for no reason. Next always came the foster home, the image of which she did a reasonable job squishing with a mental fist immediately. If not, she'd have considered a lobotomy to end those memories. Then Maxim's strip club rose again. That one was harder to quash, maybe because it was the most recent set of humiliations the three of them had endured.

  Starr shrugged. “I have Nathan now. Life is good.”

  Which is how you got in that mess to begin with she didn't say, but oh, so wanted to. Her sister's cavalier tone had to be some avoidance technique because the woman had nearly died at the hands of the sociopath Ruark. It was only a matter of time before Ruark was out on parole to exact his thwarted plans. And that would be fine by his family, right? Kill two birds with one stone—get rid of Nathan, rattle the owner of Shakedown until he sold to them. Then? They'd be slaves to a mob family that refused to let you go.

  “You don't hate Declan.” Starr smirked. “Ya know what Gabrielle called
him? Declicious. It fits, don't you think?”

  “Of course, I don't hate him.” Her sisters had never understood her feelings about Declan Phillips, the man who would not stop mooning over her. Yes, that's what he did. He mooned. She didn't hate it or him. He wanted her in all the ways a man wanted a woman, and she could not go there. Letting herself fall for Declan was simply futile.

  She turned away. Her makeup needed re-arranging. The lipsticks were not in the proper order. “And that's a ridiculous name, Declicious.” Ick. It was juvenile and undignified—especially for him. He'd be a Sir Declan if anything.

  In her periphery, Starr and Luna glanced at one another, then back at her, both sporting wide smiles. Ever since her sister got engaged to Nathan, Starr couldn't stop pushing everyone around her into romantic whatevers.

  Phee cocked her head toward them. “I see you're feeling better, Starr.”

  Starr shrugged, staring into the mirror, swiping under her eyes. “I bounce back pretty easily.”

  Of the three of them, she had. That's where she differed from her sisters. They all had scars inside and outside, but hers were etched in her DNA.

  “Tell you what.” Phee squared herself to them. “If I find a place for the three of us to dance, consider it. Sisters forever, friends always, remember?” She wasn't above pulling out their mantra. Starr and Luna had many times over the last few months.

  Starr crossed her arms. “Consider, yes. Believe it'd ever be better than what Declan offers?”

  “Unlikely.” Luna sang.

  Phee turned back to her mirror. “Good,” she said to her reflection. It was a start. “See you both at home.”

  “You seriously aren't going on?” Luna's mouth dropped to an O.

  “Seriously. I’m headed home and will feed Moonlight.” The cat Nathan had brought home was the only good thing that came out of that union, as far as she was concerned. Good thing she’d adopted the little one out from under them. Starr’s ability to hold a routine was nil.

  “Well, let's hope we don't get fired first,” Starr whispered under her breath.

  7

  “How?” Declan didn't stop to take off his coat when he posed the simple question to Trick and Max. As soon as he’d stepped outside of Henry's, one glance at his phone and a nightmare stared back at him.

  <>

  The two men followed Declan to his office because his face had to be wearing everything he felt about that message. Exposed. Provoked. But most of all? Fury. Phoenix spotting two men with guns was unacceptable. It should have been him. Instead, he'd been nursing a bruised ego at Henry's and pussyfooting around with Carragh in a goddamned limo.

  Max cracked his knuckles. “Their IDs didn't read MacKenna, so we're not sure.”

  “I didn't ask what their names were. I asked how the ever-loving fuck they got inside packing.”

  “Unless I frisk every man and woman who comes in…”

  “You can find flasks, you can find guns.” Declan stared down his most trusted doorman and bouncer. The man wasn't sloppy, so this made no sense, especially after what had gone down mere months ago with the MacKenna clan.

  Trick chuffed. “The guys likely had hidden their weapons until they could put them on display to the most vulnerable among us.” He didn't need to name who—the women on stage. Blinded by floodlights, wearing high heels, few clothes, and expecting happy patrons? They might as well have been wearing targets instead of corsets.

  “I want six new men hired by tomorrow.”

  “Your dime.” Max shrugged and walked out. The man had to be pissed at Declan's tone, but shit, they'd targeted Phoenix.

  Trick pushed off the wall he'd been holding up. “We always knew they'd be back.”

  Declan scrubbed his chin. “Carragh MacKenna isn't exactly playing by the rules we set a few months ago. Ran into the man tonight.” Which couldn't have been a coincidence. He likely sent those guys into Shakedown because Declan had left. That meant they watched him. “Every employee gets an escort to their car. And don't spare the show of weapons.”

  Trick nodded. “Anything else?”

  Declan threw down the Baltimore Sun newspaper and pointed. “Real estate section. That warehouse down the street went for $6 million in a bidding war. Anonymous buyer.”

  Trick picked up the paper. “Curious.”

  “That family is up to something, as usual.”

  “So much for the truce. They were to leave us alone and we leave them alone.” Trick dropped the paper. “But they haven't made a move here…” He stopped his words, likely from the look Declan was searing into his skin with his eyes. They'd been moving alright. Two guys with guns showing up when he was absent? It'd been planned.

  That family operated under one tenant—strategic takeovers. First, the MacKennas would shake up the environment by sending in people to merely appear menacing. Next, minor accidents would arise, like being run off the road. Then? A body would be found floating in the river right outside Shakedown.

  Declan wouldn't wait for things to happen. “Where's Phoenix? Dressing room?”

  Trick pursed his lips and shrugged. “Where she always is?”

  The woman would stick close to her sisters or Cherry, the only people she got near. He glanced at his watch. Everyone might have already gone home.

  He stormed to the dressing room wearing the wrong mood and the wrong words swimming on his tongue, wanting out. But there was no way he was letting any of his dancers near the parking lot without someone escorting them. Knowing her, she'd balk every step of the way. Tough.

  “She's left already,” L. reported once he made his way down there. “She texted.”

  He'd send someone to watch the apartment, pronto. “I suppose she told you what happened tonight.”

  Luna nodded.

  “I'm handling it.”

  “We know.” A kind smile spread across her face.

  “Please make sure Phoenix knows that.”

  She sucked in air. “I'll do my best.”

  “Now, let's get you and Starr to your cars.”

  Luna's forehead bunched in concern, but she didn't balk. At least one of the O'Malley sisters was reasonable. He’d made a promise years ago he'd take care of the three of them, and he intended on fulfilling it to his dying day.

  He drew out his phone and sent Phoenix a quick text. He debated whether to say something about the guys she'd encountered. What could he say, though?

  <>

  Three cascading dots appeared and then vanished. Words escaped her, too?

  They were at an impasse—as usual.

  8

  Phee didn't cry—ever. That sting behind her eyelids, a rising sentimentality at confronting Maxim's sign over the red door, wouldn't shift into actual tears. Or perhaps all this sudden emotion was because she'd taken the initial step for her and her sisters to move on, and they'd balked so resolutely. Or perhaps it was seeing that young girl standing on the curb, hugging the backs of her arms, stomping her feet in those ridiculous high heels as if trying to keep warm. Six years ago, Phee had been that girl.

  Phee should be back at her apartment. Her sisters would be pissed she wasn't home and for being out so late by herself. She'd needed to go for a drive to clear her head. Instead, she'd found herself parked in her VW on South Haven Street.

  The Girls Girls Girls sign blinked a pink hue onto the slick pavement. She hated this street, hated the Maxim strip club, hated her memories of her time spent here, but tonight, she'd had to counter the men-measuring-the-size-of their-balls energy by doing something useful. A peek at what Maxim's spit out at the end of the night was harmless. If she came across someone who required help, she'd help. If not, her actions were a harmless drive-by.

  The girl hopped a little to the left as she lost her balance. Jones didn't allow his strippers to turn down a drink with a customer—ever. She teetered on her heels, her face a slack mask. The women who stripped here often stumbled out of the clu
b drunk and sloppy. The girl didn't look around once—not a single time—to see if any of the strip club's clients might be lingering in the shadows of the alley a mere six feet from her. Yeah, she was either young or brand new to this scene. The new girls were the stupidest girls.

  Phee glanced at her dashboard clock. It read 3:52. If no one swung by to scoop her up by 3:55, Phee would swing her car around and offer her a lift.

  Rain tapped on the roof and windshield. The weather that week had pivoted—as so many things in life did. One minute they enjoyed a beautiful fall. The next? The Baltimore skies turned gray and unforgiving. One day you're dancing in a swanky burlesque club, the next you're dancing in a swanky burlesque club that is owned by a MacKenna.

  She curled her fingers tight around the steering wheel and mentally drew X's across the images of Declan in her mind—a trick to remove negative thoughts. Rachel, who used to work at the club, had shared the tip with her. They both had a need to constantly wipe their minds clean from memories pulling them down into a sinkhole. It was one of the very few things they had in common. Unlike Phee, however, Rachel was back at school getting her degree and about to have her first baby, two things Phoenix would never get to do.

  A cab turned the corner at the bottom of the street, the triangle sign on its hood lit up. The stupid girl turned her face away from the approaching taxi, cupping her palms around a cigarette to light it. The cab whizzed by. Her face shot up and her arm flailed, attempting to hail him. She mouthed a curse and hitched her purse strap higher onto her shoulder. Hurried glances up the street told Phee no one was coming for this woman.

  Phee had to move before Jones stepped out of the club and onto the concrete stoop, no doubt flanked by his two ponytail-sporting bodyguards. It was his pattern, anyway. The man couldn't resist an opportunity to abuse a damsel in distress.

  Phoenix shifted into first gear and swung her car around to stop in front of the girl just as the front door of Maxim's cracked open. Jones' porky frame filled the doorway. A shudder coursed through her limbs—which truly annoyed her. The man dramatically drew in a lungful of air and stepped onto the concrete stoop. His guys, both in black T-shirts topped with cheap sports coats, did the same.