Tough Break (The Shakedown Series Book 2) Read online

  “Yeah, yeah. Take it outside.” He inclined his head. “This ain't your problem anymore.”

  “Listen—”

  “Get out,” the man said to Declan.

  No, he wouldn’t. He stayed between the ass and Phoenix, but two more bodyguards showed up and had no trouble yanking him out. Just as he was through the curtains, the sickening thud of a man's fist against flesh filled the air.

  Declan wrenched around, slipping from one of the guys’ grasp. Phoenix was crouched to the floor, hands against her cheek. All her red hair waterfalled over her perfect shoulders, hiding her eyes. Trace curled his hands into her hair and yanked her up. Declan had never wanted to pummel a man so badly.

  One of the goons who gripped his arm growled, “Leave it. She's used to it.”

  “I'll be back,” Declan said right into her gaze.

  The doorman took Phoenix by the arm, yanked her past him and toward another set of curtains.

  “Don't bother. We got better girls.” The bodyguard jerked him in the opposite direction.

  No, they didn't—and he would be back.

  Fate, kismet, whatever anyone wanted to call his visit, Declan wouldn't leave her here.

  He wasn't walking into that river.

  2

  Present Day

  I quit.

  The ink feathered and the cocktail napkin ripped at Phoenix's hurried writing, but the words were visible, which was all that mattered. No one was judging her penmanship, and no one could blame her for quitting Shakedown—immediately. Not even her sisters, who she'd convince to go with her, would argue. Any place was better than a burlesque club owned by someone with ties to a local crime family.

  She glanced around Declan's office until her eyes landed on the perfect spot to place her resignation letter. She propped the wilting napkin against a picture of the three of them—herself and her sisters, Starr and Luna.

  She tromped to the door just as Declan opened it.

  A mask of pure boredom dropped onto his face. “Have a seat.”

  “I'm leaving.” She stepped back to let him in—and her out.

  He entered but stopped in front of her and blocked her way. “Not going to let me explain?”

  “There's nothing to explain.” She crossed her arms. “You are a member of the MacKenna mob family—the family that almost killed my sister…” Jesus. Her voice had cracked. She pried her gaze from Declan's perfect silver-gray eyes framed by his perfect eyelashes—eyelashes that should never be gifted to a man.

  Declan's cane thumped once on the ground as if making a point. “I'd have killed them all before I let that happen. Take a seat and let me explain.” He moved closer to his desk, stared at her note.

  He lifted the napkin toward her. “Take. A. Seat. Phoenix.” His voice was pure iron, which was rich, given what she'd just learned about the man.

  After the year they'd had? Learning he was related to a mob family? Even she hadn't thought things could grow worse after one of the MacKennas almost killed Starr.

  Her sister had to fall in love with Nathan, an ex-con that started this complete mess. The MacKenna mob family wanted him dead. Starr got in their crosshairs and… stop, just stop. She rubbed her forehead as if that would erase the image of her sister curled up in a hospital bed that arose every time she even thought the name MacKenna. Her stomach roiled a little from the remembered antiseptic smell, a scent she'd grown familiar with at too young an age thanks to their deadbeat, alcoholic father who'd nearly killed her. Too many men throwing their weight around, using them as punching bags…

  “Six years, Declan. I've danced for you for six years.” She held up her fingers. “And you didn't think to tell us yourself that you… you…” Jesus, she might stop breathing. Her chest was going to explode. Her hand moved to over her heart. It ached, an honest-to-God pang even though she knew where heartache lived. Only the romantics believed pain lived in that blood-pumping organ. Anguish took up residence in your bones.

  He sighed and dropped to his chair that gave off a loud complaint. “It's not what it seems.” He rested his cane against the edge of the desk.

  “Oh, really? Did I not hear Nathan say the words on your loading dock ‘your MacKenna relatives’?” She and Starr had been rooting around the back looking for costumes and came upon Nathan and Declan chatting under the dock door. Nathan uttered those words and Declan did not deny them.

  “Well?” she gritted out.

  He studied her. “Are you going to wear a hole in my Oriental carpet next?”

  She halted in her tracks, placed both hands on his desk, and leaned forward. “You know why I can't stay. You know my past. I could dance here because it was safe. But now? You're related to the family that almost took my sister away from me.” She couldn't talk anymore. Her throat squeezed shut, maybe forever. Now if she could only keep the torrent of rage at bay.

  How could he have been someone she didn't really know? All this time? For so many years, she'd wondered what it'd be like to be with a man like Declan, someone who appeared perfect. She should have known better. Perfect lied.

  She stared at the little flowers and swirls woven into the carpet under her feet. Finally, more air entered her chest now that Declan's face wasn't in her sights.

  What would it take for she and her sisters to live a life that didn't involve being worried about anyone getting cut, punched, kidnapped, threatened, blackmailed, and any other crap that had gone on in their lives?

  It would take going far, far away.

  “Phoenix, please, look at me.”

  Her lids lifted, lured by the gentleness in his voice. He had that uncanny ability to do that—hook her by kindness and bring her back to him again and again. But it was time for them to break the pattern.

  Declan's eyes softened. “I'm related to them. I'm not like them, you of all people know that.”

  He spoke the truth. He wasn't like them—at all. “But they are dangerous.” Her words were barely a whisper.

  “They are.”

  “So, you'll have nothing to do with them?”

  His silence answered. He couldn't not deal with them—not when they were coming at this club and the people inside it with both barrels raised.

  Still, she had to hear the words straight from him. “So, they could be around…”

  “I'm working on making sure they're not.”

  “But they still want something from you. So, you're wondering why I'm leaving? I won't let them traumatize my sister anymore. I'm going to protect her from that.”

  “Like you always do.” His soft smile loaded with so much kindness her heart nearly cracked in two. She had to toughen up, curl that hard shell around her.

  She wheeled away from him once more, unable to look into his eyes anymore.

  A long sigh emitted behind her. “Do your sisters know you are quitting? Leaving them to hold the bag on the show tonight?”

  Her sisters shouldn't pay for his fuck-up, but she had to hold her ground. “I'll dance tonight, but then…” Her throat closed anew at the thought of really leaving.

  Shakedown had been her world, a safe place for her and her sisters to dance, the only thing they knew how to do. Declan had shown them a different kind of life than the one they'd been thrust into far too young—stripping and demeaning themselves to have something to eat. Now? This place was as dangerous as Maxim's, only instead of fists, she'd have to stand in front of bullets to keep Starr and Luna protected.

  Declan cleared his throat. “And then what? Where will you go?”

  She swallowed. That was the problem—she didn't have anywhere to go other than Shakedown.

  “Phoenix.”

  She couldn't face him or she'd lose control. His gentle ways would ensnare her, take over.

  She strode to the door. His hand fell to her arm, and she jerked herself against the door. God, he'd moved quickly. He'd been out from behind his desk, across the floor, and to the door in seconds, his cane barely making a sound across the thick Or
iental carpet.

  She'd reacted as she always did and how she always would when it came to being touched by surprise. She'd flinched. She'd always cringe, even from a man like Declan, because that's what survivors did when they'd had so many men abuse them. They stopped drinking from the well that poisoned them.

  He held up his hands in surrender. “I didn't mean to take you by surprise, but please, tell me you're going to be okay.”

  “I'm going to be okay.” Her words were truth because, honestly, what was okay, anyway?

  “Tell me you won't go back.” He wisely let his words die off. They both knew where “back” was—Maxim's strip club.

  “I'll never go back to anything like that again.” Thanks to him, she wouldn't. She'd also wise up.

  Perhaps now her illusions about their boss, the too-good-to-be-true gentleman, could finally take a rest. Declan Phillips was her constant the last six years—her perfect, out of reach fantasy she kept at bay. Declan wanted her in all the ways a man wants a woman, but such a relationship was impossible for her.

  Perhaps this recent development was God's way of calling the last shot. Because God knew Declan wouldn't have liked what he found once he'd wormed himself inside her.

  She yanked open his office door and jogged to the dressing room before that lump lodged in her throat broke loose.

  For now, she had her next move to play. Starr and Luna had to go with her so she had to find the right words to convince them of leaving. She'd wait until the show was over tonight. They'd fight it, but no way was she leaving without them and losing the only people who truly understood her. Declan would be fine without them, but Phoenix wouldn't be without her sisters. They were all she had, and if Starr and Luna wouldn't protect themselves, she would do it. She'd lay down her life for them. In fact, she already had more than once.

  3

  Declan's gaze softened as he tuned into the saxophone's wail. He couldn't get a lock on the music tonight—the melody, the harmony, or the beat.

  He should go. He should be back at his own club, Shakedown, and not hanging out at Henry's Jazz Café on a Saturday evening, of all things. His mood—and utter disinterest in hanging around his own place—was all that woman's fault. He'd needed time to think without seeing all her red-gold hair and wide blue eyes aiming utter disgust at him over what she'd learned about him.

  “Look what the fat cat dragged in.” Henry dropped into the chair next to him. “Shouldn't you be at your own place?”

  “Yes.” He jerked his chin toward the stage. “See you got someone new in.” The saxophonist was new and was taking improvisation turns every chance he got. To many people, jazz music sounded like a hot mess. While most people wanted the structure and pleasant progressions of pop or classical music, he rather enjoyed the unpredictability of jazz. It kept him alert.

  The man grinned. “Yeah, the kid's good. Can't seem to drag him off the stage.”

  Declan motioned to the waitress he'd take another cognac.

  For long minutes neither man said anything, just enjoyed the notes dancing in the surrounding air. The silence between them didn't last long because Henry couldn't ever leave well enough alone.

  Henry sucked in some air. “Okay, what'd she do?”

  “Who?”

  “Whenever you show up, I know your brain is full of The Sunset.”

  The problem was worse than that. His brain was always full of Phoenix Rising, the woman who once saved his life and didn't even know it. She danced for him, ignored him, and repeated the pattern five nights a week—well, until tonight, when she, his lead dancer and general pain-in-his-ass, quit. On a fucking napkin.

  Shit. Phoenix had been warming up to him when his past had to come rearing its ugly head. Finding out you were related—estranged as he was—to one Irish wannabe mob family like the MacKennas would turn any woman off to you forever.

  A fresh glass of cognac appeared in front of him. “What else can I get you, Declan?”

  The pretty, single, and available waitress, who also was Henry's niece, smiled down at him. He only knew her statuses because she repeatedly announced them. Her eyes trailed down his chest and back up to his face. This was a woman he should be involved with—not some overly dramatic hot-head like Phoenix.

  “We're good, Lady.” Henry gave her a wink.

  After she scooted away, the man resumed his study of Declan.

  “Go on. Say what you're dying to say.” Henry would eventually come out with unwanted advice, so he might as well get it over with.

  “When you gonna get off the duff and make it happen?”

  “Nothing to make happen.”

  The man chuckled. “Employee manual doesn't allow you dating her or something?”

  He should have never confided his obsession with Phoenix to his friend—a late-night boo-hoo-fest after a particularly lonely evening. He'd gone on about her and how she'd turned him down for the hundredth time. Dinner, coffee, a drink at Shakedown’s bar—she wouldn’t accept a single offer.

  Declan huffed and took a sip of cognac. “Came here to get away from my troubles. Not air them.”

  “Shit, man. Women are trouble whether you're with them or not.”

  Truth in spades. Managing a club of twelve regular dancers—most of them women, including three sisters who were identical triplets—meant he regularly found himself immersed in female energy that could swallow a man. Dealing in antiques a decade-and-a-half ago was much easier. Furniture and paintings didn't rebuff you.

  He'd tried everything he could think of with Phoenix. Avoiding her. Staying close to her. Giving her space. Slotting her in the employee box in his mind. Putting her out of his mind—fat lot that attempt did. He'd run out of boxes to shove her in. Any sane man would have shaken their obsession with someone like her by now.

  His hand found its way to his hair as if he could tug out memories of the last twenty-four hours so they no longer mattered.

  Henry scratched the divot above his top lip. “Hey, I'm still glad you stopped in. Got word on the street some guy is buying up clubs up and down the East Coast.”

  He swung his gaze to the man over the abrupt change in topic. “You get approached?”

  “Some guy named MacKenna. Made a very generous offer. Too generous, if you know what I mean.”

  Jesus. “Don't trust them. I don't.”

  “You, too, huh?”

  “Repeatedly.”

  Henry slanted his eyes. “How dangerous are we talkin'?”

  “Defcon one.” That family had a way of destroying everyone around them but walking away unscathed.

  Declan placed his elbows on the table, lowered his voice. “This is what I can tell you. They're buying up music halls, clubs, warehouses, anything they can get their hands on, all waterfront. For what purpose?” He shrugged an answer to his own question. “They specialize in import-export if you get my meaning.”

  Figuring out MacKenna's next move should be his focus, not how to make sure a certain woman worked for him so she could continue to torment him with her snubs.

  Henry stood, turned his chair, and straddled it. He dropped his voice to a whisper. “How much you muscling up over there?”

  “All of it.” Declan's attention split for a second to the man's nephew who guarded the door, a large black man who'd stretched the limits of his camo t-shirt, and then swung to several other men assessing the leftover crowd. He was glad his friend had bodyguard coverage, but it wouldn't be enough to go against a family who'd seen the Godfather movies too many times and took out their frustrations on people you cared about.

  His friend continued to assess him. “So, you know these guys.”

  “The MacKenna family and I don't get along… long story.” No need to share the familial bond. He himself didn't want to know those facts and blabbing about it would only raise hopes he could sway that bloodthirsty family. He couldn't. Instead, he had to hold his own ground and make sure Henry did the same.

  “Muscle up hard, Henry.” Dec
lan reached for his cane and pushed to standing. He drew out his billfold.

  “On the house.” Henry rose.

  Declan threw down two fifty-dollar bills. “Give it to your niece, then.” All of Henry's employees were family in some shape or another. It'd be a shame for him to lose his music hall but more so if he lost people he loved. Perhaps finding himself at Henry's Café tonight was a gift—one where he could alert his friend about MacKenna's plans.

  Henry held out his hand. “Thanks for the warning.”

  “Don't tell them we’re friends.” He returned his friend's handshake. “I won't be back anytime soon now that you've been approached. For your safety.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  “Watch your back, Henry.” He broke the man's grip and made his way to the exit, not knowing when he'd return. No way would he jeopardize his friend's club because of his fucked-up situation. If the MacKennas knew of his connections, they'd use them to put on more pressure.

  All his theories as to why the MacKenna family needed Henry's or Shakedown so badly proved worthy of the movies but not reality.

  Shakedown, like Henry's, was on the waterfront, so they wanted to pick up running drugs using the Patapsco river as their highway.

  Shakedown was profitable—very—so why not want it?

  Shakedown employed people with records so they'd be easily manipulated (they thought) and could be easily used in crime situations.

  None of it made sense, though, because his club was only successful for one reason—the entertainment was unparalleled on the East Coast. And just like that, Phoenix Rising's face—fuck, every detail about her, from her delicate feet to that red hair streaked with sunlight—breached his mind. If she quit, her sisters weren't far behind. Too bad moving locations wouldn't take them off the MacKenna’s radar screen.

  As soon as he got to the parking lot, he eased himself into the '57 Chevy Bel Air and goosed it some gas. While he waited for the engine to settle, he ran his hands over the steering wheel. They didn't make cars like this anymore. It'd been a little self-indulgent—and risky—taking her out tonight given the November weather was unpredictable as hell these days, but he'd needed something to remind himself of less-complicated times.