Tough Break (The Shakedown Series Book 2)

by Elizabeth SaFleur

  “Sorry.” She refilled her glass with champagne. It was the closest bottle to her. “It’s been a long week.”

  “Well, try the mini red velvet cupcakes. They’re divine.” She lifted a tray of small, white-frosted confections. “Freshly baked this morning.”

  The woman was trying to be friendly, and she’d promised herself she’d try to stop thinking the worst at these such moments. “Your family from here?” Catherine asked.

  “No. Just my two sisters and I.”

  “Hang on to them.” She swiped at Phee’s arm. “Family is important.”

  She pulled back at the touch.

  “Oh, Mrs. Grant,” Rachel called and held up a basket filled with small stuffed teddy bears, bunnies, and elephants. “I love them!”

  “Oh, dear, it’s Mom to you.” The woman scooted closer to the gaggle of women.

  Phee bit down on the red velvet cupcake.

  Cherry moved to her. She was dressed in a men’s suit with minimal makeup, her closely cropped hair making her look like an androgynous Egyptian queen. She crossed her arms, a wine glass dangling from one hand. “How’s the momsy-in-law?” she whispered out of the side of her mouth. “Do we like her? Is she good enough for our Rachel there?”

  “She’ll be fine. I mean, Rachel got the high-end, stainless steel diaper genie out of her. She can bake, too.” She lifted what was left of her cupcake.

  They both burst out laughing. “Oh, girl, it’s good to see you laughing.” Cherry circled her shoulders and brought her closer. “Baby showers are a fascinating study in a certain subculture, don’t you think?”

  “How so?”

  “It makes me better understand Grimm’s fairy tales.”

  Phee slipped her hand into Cherry’s—a hand that was rough like Declan’s but so comforting because it was Cherry. “You should have a hundred children.”

  “Oh, I do. You’re at least two with that split personality of yours. Just don’t let it get in the way of love.”

  Oh, Jesus. Baby showers really did bring out the mother in everyone. “You worry too much.”

  “I worry about you, girl child, though I’m glad to see you and Declan seem to be getting along better.”

  Cherry did love her gossip. “I’m not a child anymore.”

  “You never were.”

  “Please, tell me we’re not going down that road.”

  Cherry waved her hand. “There’s not enough wine at this party for that road.” Cherry reached into her jacket and pulled out her phone that had begun to vibrate. Her eyes widened at seeing the screen. She frowned.

  Starr also reached down to her purse about the same time and drew out her phone. She looked up at Phee and mouthed What?

  Phoenix retrieved her cell from her bag.

  <>

  Starr fixed her eyes on Phee. Luna also stared at her phone screen. Something was up.

  “If another Crown Vic smashed Declan’s new door, I’m going to have some words to say.” Cherry pocketed her phone. “I was the inspiration for that mermaid etched in the glass.”

  “One second. I’ll find out what’s up.” Phee wasn’t waiting. She excused herself to the balcony.

  She dialed Declan’s number. He didn’t answer. She texted him back, privately.

  <>

  When she got nothing but radio silence, she grew antsy. She texted again.

  <>

  Again, no reply came. Maybe he had lost another door. A few months ago, Ruark MacKenna had blackmailed someone to drive a car into the entranceway. If only it could be that simple—which was ridiculous, given how a car smashing into Shakedown didn’t sound that bad to her right now.

  Starr and Luna joined her on the balcony. “What’d he say?”

  “Not answering his phone.”

  “I’m sure it’s fine. It could be a gas leak,” Luna offered.

  “He’d have said as much.”

  “Let’s go by,” Phee said.

  “He said to stay away.”

  “No, he said to take the night off.”

  “I’m with Miss Phoenix, ladies. It couldn’t hurt to do a drive-by. I’ll drive Phee’s car.” Cherry slipped through the sliding glass door. “What? I am no good in the dark.”

  But when they went by Shakedown, no one was there. It was as much of a ghost town as they’d ever seen. So, this is what it would be like if Shakedown didn’t exist. Then what would she be left with? Another of God’s denials. Fuck delays.

  “Do any of you know where Declan lives?” How had she not known? All this time?

  Cherry raised her hand and waggled her fingers. “I do. I make a point to know everything.”

  37

  Carragh’s words rang in Declan’s head. The man was right about one thing. He needed to think more, react less. Maybe he’d take a drive, clear his head. He found himself heading back to his home instead, and he was glad. Two cars idled in his driveway—the Mustang he’d bought Phoenix that Starr now drove, and a vintage VW. So much for telling his stubborn O’Malley sisters to stay away.

  Cherry unfolded herself from Phoenix’s VW—the driver’s side, he noted. “Cherry, ladies, what can I do for you?”

  “Oh, we’re doing a drive-by, seeing if there’s anything we can do to help.” Cherry then got into the back seat of the Mustang—not an easy feat for the six-foot-tall drag queen. Starr smiled at him from the windshield and then drove off after giving him a wave.

  Phoenix stood by her car, a grimace painted across her face. “You didn’t answer your text messages.” She held up her phone. The woman was pissed at him for not answering his phone? This woman had ignored him for six fucking years.

  He drew closer. She wobbled on her feet as if she’d been drinking.

  “What’s wrong?” He took her by the arm and led her toward his house. “Rachel’s baby shower was today, wasn’t it?” His keys jangled against his front door.

  “I didn’t know where you were.”

  He pushed open the door. “You were worried about me again.”

  The woman had most definitely had her share of alcohol. Her limbs were loose and floppy—plus, she was allowing him to handle her too easily.

  She stepped inside and her usual attitude instantly pounced on him. “You should have never kissed me!”

  Here they went again. “You look like you could use some coffee. Tell me you didn’t drive with this much alcohol in your system.”

  “No. Cherry did.” She peered around the entranceway. “Nice house. More books.” She pointed to his first edition classics lined up on a side table under the hall mirror. They should be under glass somewhere, but he rather liked seeing them every time he crossed his threshold.

  “You want to talk books?”

  “No. I want you to stop filling my head up with mystery.”

  “Like how it would be for me to kiss you right now?”

  The tiny flare of her nostrils was adorable. “Like why we’re closed when there’s a mob family on your tail and you don’t answer your phone. You didn’t want to have to tell me anything, did you? And Naomi didn’t show this morning for her audition. Why doesn’t anyone do what they say they’re going to do anymore?”

  She’d most definitely been drinking as he’d never heard her ramble so much. “Come. Coffee.” She also needed to be kissed more often.

  38

  Declan had the audacity to chortle—fucking laugh at her—when she spilled some coffee on herself. Jesus, her white shirt was never going to be the same.

  “So, that’s it?” she asked. “You’re not going to tell me why we’re closed tonight?”

  “I like that you said ‘we.’” He poured her another cup.

  “Coffee does little to counter the effect of alcohol, ya know. It only makes one a more wired and awake drunk.” She and her sisters had tried the caffeine trick with their father—and lost.

  He lea
ned back in the kitchen chair. “You’re not a drunk. You’re also drinking decaf right now.”

  “Well, that’s a waste,” she said into her cup.

  “Let’s go into the living room.” He held out his hand, which she stupidly took.

  They cut through a dining room that was lined with shelves filled with glass and ceramic pieces that were lit up behind the glass doors. A pastoral painting hung over a polished walnut credenza with tiny brass handles adorning each cupboard and drawer. In the living area, an old, cast iron Singer sewing machine in a dark walnut stand sat in one corner, and small Dutch paintings mixed with larger oil paintings of sea battles on the walls.

  The man did love his antiques. She made a 360-degree turn in the large room and took in the vintage farmhouse pieces living alongside Victorian English furniture. Somehow, it all worked, not unlike the various paradoxes of Declan himself.

  “Oh.” Her feet moved her to a Sheraton lamp table. “I haven’t seen a turntable in forever.”

  “There’s no sound like the analog of vinyl.”

  She cocked her head. “Let me guess. Classical?” She arched an eyebrow on purpose.

  “You know me so well.” He leaned down and ran his finger over the spines of a dozen vinyl records standing side-by-side under the table and selected one. He slipped it out and dropped it on the center spindle.

  The static-y drop of the needle onto the record raised up a memory. She and her sisters would sit for hours listening to her mother’s old records from the 1970s, especially Fleetwood Mac and Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers.

  Phee stared at the spinning disk. The first horn sounds rose in a familiar tune.

  “Tchaikovsky. Waltz of the Flowers from the Nutcracker. I loved that ballet.” She closed her eyes for a second and got lost in the harp cascades.

  Declan gripped her arm. Crap, she’d almost fallen over. Note to self—do not shut one’s eyes when a little tipsy.

  “You’ve seen it,” he said.

  “One of our foster mothers, the one who owned the dance studio, took us one Christmas.” She swayed to the oboe part playing with the French horns.

  “I have tickets, December 18, Baltimore Ballet. Come with me.”

  She stared at him. “You’re kidding.”

  ‘Until then,” he took her palm in his, “teach me how to dance.”

  “What?”

  “Show me something.”

  “Always wanted to learn to shimmy?”

  He placed her hand on his shoulder. “I never took the time to learn the basic waltz.”

  “No one waltzes anymore. I mean, where would you? It’s mostly west coast swing or salsa these days.”

  “That’s a pity. The waltz is so beautiful.”

  “It is.” His other hand had made its way around her waist. He grasped the hand dangling by her side and lifted it high. He then stepped forward and she had no choice but to follow his lead.

  Oh, come on. Teach him the waltz? His dance ability was apparent as he spun her.

  “You know how to waltz, don’t you?”

  He shrugged. “A tiny lie. Don’t hold it against me.”

  He moved her forward and back and then another sudden twirl. Within minutes, they had moved down the hallway and back into the kitchen. The swing, rise, and fall of the music pulled at her belly. It was bold and big and elegant. Like Declan. Her eyes filled and his face grew wavy.

  He had her back through another entranceway, through the dining area, and then back into the living room. The man was an incredible dancer.

  She snuffed up her nose, and her eyes cleared.

  If only men knew that a man who could dance impressed the hell out of most women. It was like their version of a home-cooked meal or lingerie. Total foreplay material.

  This man, with his impeccable lead, moved her around furniture as the music swelled in that great, rolling way she’d always loved. She’d wanted to dance ballet a long time ago, hadn’t she? Starr had wanted them to pull together a burlesque routine—more money and an immediate placement opportunity with Shakedown had her go along with her sister’s plans. Six years flew by so fast. So many years.

  Le Lac des Cygnes from Swan Lake, the Black Swan, her absolute favorite, began next. And then she was crying again. She stopped him. “I… I… ”, she stammered.

  “It is beautiful, isn’t it?” His eyes never left her face.

  She gave him a series of tight little nods. She couldn’t talk. Her throat had closed up. It was the music’s fault.

  “You’re beautiful.” He cupped her cheek.

  And wouldn’t you know it, his mouth captured hers. This time, as he kissed her, his hands didn’t stay still. They roamed her shoulders and her back as if exploring. Chills ran over her skin. She should pull back, not allow this… touching. She leaned into him instead.

  Time passed. His clock on his wall chimed. The needle on the record player sounded a tick-tick-tick against the center of the record. He finally broke the kiss—after his hands had been over every inch of her.

  “Can I hear more?” She needed more music.

  He led her over to the turntable. Without letting her go, he flipped the record with one hand and played the other side. My Sweet and Tender Beast by Eugen Doga played. His lips found hers once more, but this time he moved slower as if mirroring the music. They stood like that in front of an old-fashioned turntable listening to the music, their lips and tongues moving with each other.

  At some point, the music ended again. Without a single word, he scooped her up, and with halted, limping steps, took her upstairs to a large sleigh bed—his bed. He laid her down, pulled an old quilt over her, and set himself in the corner wing chair. “Sleep.”

  “Sleep with me.”

  “Are you sure?”

  No, she wasn’t. But could she do it? Would it be possible to let Declan lie next to her? She didn’t know. For now, she knew only one thing. She wasn’t leaving Shakedown.

  39

  Declan leaned against the bar in his usual spot, enthralled by what was unfolding on the stage.

  Phoenix raised both arms high and the sold-out audience roared. She was doing his favorite act, The Matador, with Carina Rose’s old mechanical bull lifting its head, tendrils of dried ice smoke snaking from the nostrils. Such fire. Her red hair glinting under lights. Her blue eyes squinted in that confident air only someone as talented as she could adopt.

  They had locked eyes once, but now she only cast those sparkling blue eyes over the crowd.

  It’d been a fantastic day thanks to last night’s developments, which elevated his mood to unprecedented levels. Perhaps it had been good for her as well.

  Phoenix had slept in his bed—with him. She’d stayed fully clothed, as did he, and nothing could have pleased him more. He’d curled his body around hers, his nose buried in her hair, inhaling all that warm, cinnamon scent.

  In the very early morning, even before the sun rose, Declan heard Phoenix leave his house, a soft, far-away click of his front door echoing in his hallway. Waking in rumpled clothes from the night before wasn’t usual for him, but he’d have had it no other way.

  Of course, he’d texted her about an hour after making sure she got home okay.

  He’d included a simple note. <>

  She’d responded immediately. <>

  <>

  <>

  Holy hell, they’d bantered. Their relationship most definitely had taken a turn.

  He’d arranged for a bouquet to be placed on her makeup stand when she arrived tonight. He’d spent a ridiculous amount of time discussing the options with the owner of Hedge and Rose flower shop, trying to find the right ones. Long-stemmed red roses would be too much, yet carnations and freeshia would be too ordinary. He’d settled on an arrangement of white hydrangeas, white roses tipped in pink, and peonies. The shop owner called it extravagantly elegant
, which was exactly what he was going for. This woman made him do so many things he never thought he would—like wait years for a kiss.

  Then tonight? She’d nodded at him in the hallway as she took to the stage, no traces of her earlier sprained ankle and no acknowledgment that they’d had a breakthrough in their relationship.

  The music died in a crash of cymbals. Phoenix split the curtains in a dramatic flourish and was off the stage in record time. If he hurried, he’d conveniently run into her in the hallway where he’d extend an invitation to a late dinner.

  Nathan stopped him. “Declan, sorry to spring this on you, but Ruark’s parole hearing? It’s tomorrow. Not next week.”

  So much for Carragh and him being on the same side. “They didn’t give you much notice, did they?”

  “No. Could use the day off—” he scrubbed his hair “—and maybe the night, depending on how it goes.”

  He slapped the man on the shoulder. “Take the time you need but tell me it’s not only going to be you and Starr.”

  “No, Max agreed to at least go to the hearing. Starr didn’t like the idea of walking in and Ruark seeing she felt she needed protection, but that’s the way it’s going down. I want him to see he’s outnumbered.”

  He was glad his friend was taking things seriously. He would scratch off worrying about Starr.

  “And the other two sisters?”

  Nathan shrugged. “I never get in between those three.”

  Declan smirked. “Wise man.” He, however, needed to know if Phoenix and Luna were also planning to go. If he had to shut down the club so he could escort Phee, he’d do it.

  He was headed to the back rooms when his phone rang with a familiar number.

  “Henry.”

  “Guess you heard the news.”

  “No, what?”

  “Someone tried to torch my club last night.”

  All air died in his lungs. “Tell me—”

  “Caught it before it took the whole place down, but I’ll be out of commission for a while. With any luck, I don’t have to tear it all down.”

  “What can I do?”