Tough Luck (The Shakedown Series Book 1) Read online

  “So you're the prey?”

  “Exactly. Except we best them. We blend in with the forest, and they can't see us. They end up dying in their own traps.”

  “Gruesome.”

  “Too much?”

  “It’s original. You going to show the men dying?” He meant to be supportive, not provoke the slightly horrified look on her face. “Except, people don't want to see any violence,” he added quickly. “Me, personally? I avoid it altogether, in case you're wondering.”

  “I wasn't wondering.”

  Sure she wasn’t.

  Her hand came down on his arm, and his eyes darted up to her. “I have an idea. We'll drop a mesh from the ceiling on them, and they'll be captured.” She stepped closer, her lips quirking up. “Then maybe we'll have our way with them.”

  A blanket of stupid cloaked his mind. He didn't know what to do with her words or her sudden proximity. When she tried to pull back, his hand rested on hers to keep it there. Man, her skin was like nothing he’d ever touched—pure heaven.

  “Good plan,” he said. “The audience will love it.”

  “Would you?”

  He swallowed and nodded. “Only if you’re the star.”

  She smiled wide. “Most definitely.” She pulled her hand back and picked up a mannequin arm. “But first, these need cleaning. They look like they've been through a jungle.” She blew on it. A cloud of dust hovered between them for a few seconds, and she coughed. “Or a desert.”

  “There are some wipes back here.” At least some part of his brain had reconnected. He headed to the cleaning supply area and pulled down a canister. “You shouldn't have to clean these, though. Or be back here by yourself.” What if someone made their way back here? He’d have to talk to Declan about securing this room better. Cracks of sunlight streamed across the floor from under slightly-raised loading dock doors.

  “I’m not alone. You’re here.”

  That he was. He ran a finger over his lips. “So, need help?”

  “Always. You wouldn't believe the things I've done for my art.” She examined the arm.

  “Is it tough being creative?”

  “If people only knew...” She looked around. “It's quiet here.” She leaned toward him. “I hear Trick and Rachel are back here frequently. Ya’ know ... to do the deed.” She did her flirty winking thing again and awoke the ever-present lust that flowed under his skin like a swollen river. Shit, he did not need an image of Trick and Rachel doing “the deed” in his head, which kept things in check in that department.

  She laughed a little. “You’re blushing.”

  “Am not.” Great, he’d reverted to being twelve.

  “What's this mean?” She touched the tattoo on his bicep, and he flinched. “Sorry. I shouldn't have pried.”

  “It's a dove. I got it for someone once.”

  “Oh.” She didn't press, rather returned her attention to her cart of fake body parts.

  She pushed on the cart with some effort. He immediately jumped in to help, because, damn, he just wanted to be next to her, do something for her. He gripped the side of the cart, taking it from her.

  She peered up at him. “You sure you have time for this?”

  “Always got time to help you.”

  A teenage-type giddiness crept upon him at her smile. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

  12

  One side of Nathan’s mouth inched up, and his neck flushed adorably. Oh, yeah, he liked her all right, and she liked that.

  She didn’t need help dousing a bunch of plastic legs and arms in the supply closet’s laundry sink, but having him around made her relax. He didn’t rush her, didn’t assume she was easy like so many men—men like that ice-eyed Ruark. Nathan had a rare tough and gentle combination that touched her in the softest places of her heart—plus it didn’t hurt he was one well-built, handsome man.

  He rolled the cart to the small utility closet and opened the door. No way would the cart fit, so she picked up a plastic leg and arm and stepped inside.

  Dirt dusted the front of her tee-shirt. “Wow, they’re dirtier seen in the light.” She cranked on the hot water and dumped them in. Nathan handed her three more.

  As the water rose, she scanned the shelves for soap. “Can you reach that detergent for me?” She pointed at the bottle of dish soap.

  He leaned over, his tee-shirt riding up as he reached to the highest shelf. Dark hair dusted his flat, hard abs, and she chewed the inside of her cheek. He really was a good-looking guy. How was he single? Even if he did just re-enter the world, surely he was on some woman’s radar screen.

  Their fingers brushed when he handed her the bottle, his callouses only making him more interesting. This man worked with his hands—the direct opposite of those frat kids the other night. “Can you hand me the others, too?” She pointed at the cart.

  He turned away, reached for the other body pieces. He had a nice butt. Checking him out so blatantly was hypocritical of her, but a quick glance couldn’t be that bad, and it was fair play. She certainly got checked out enough. His tee-shirt stretched thin over the ripped muscles in his back and shoulders, and those jeans fit him oh, so nicely. She cut her assessment of him short as soon as he righted and handed her a plastic male torso—a far cry from the real one standing in front of her.

  After dumping the pieces in the sink, he didn’t back up. In the small space, steam from the hot water clouded the air almost immediately. He stood so closely behind her, she could sense how their bodies might fit together, her butt against his crotch, his hard torso against her back, and her head, if she inclined it slightly, might nestle nicely into his neck, where his short beard would scratch against her.

  “Where do you want to start?” His low rumble did little to switch off her rising libido.

  “The legs.” Like wrap hers around him. Instead, she plunged her hands into warm soapy water. She’d squeezed the plastic parts into the sink so tightly they would barely fit.

  His arm brushed hers as he leaned around her and grabbed a leg part and started washing it using a rag that’d been hanging on the side of the sink. She did the same. They stood there, running the body parts under the water, wiping them down, rinsing them under the water again and again until they were clean. She tried not to watch how he handled the arms and legs, or how his large hands wrapped so thoroughly around the ankles and wrists. She failed at that attempt because sweet lord on high he was growing sexier by the minute. Those hands on her would feel so amazingly good. She could tell already.

  She pulled the chain holding the stopper. “Let’s leave them in here. Let them drain and dry.” She shook water from her hands. He tore off some paper towels, captured her hands with one to dry them. The gesture was so sweet, so caring, a flood of warmth in her heart mixed in with all her rising physical interest.

  He tossed the paper towel in the trashcan.

  “You got a little” —he wagged his finger toward his cheek— “dust there.”

  She crept closer. “I do?”

  His rough fingertip brushed her skin, and more interest awoke between her legs. “Yeah.”

  Oh, why not? She leaned into him, let her breasts sink against his hard chest, and what do you know? He didn’t pull back. Actually, he froze. She wasn’t normally this aggressive, but he was just so hesitant. How was she going to get this guy to ask her out?

  “Starr, I …” His words died, and he glanced down at where their bodies met.

  Oh, damn. “You don’t like me … like that.”

  “No. I mean yes…” He stepped backward. “Actually, yes, I do. It’s just …”

  “Your life is complicated. That doesn’t scare me.” It wouldn’t, after all she’d seen – police showing up at her house as a little girl, guys slinging back cheap beer as they sat in lawn chairs in the garage, urging her to get closer, and later, bikers hanging out in the parking lot waiting for her after a dance show. And, God, what she’d seen at that strip club they’d had the great misfortune of
working one year? He was the dead opposite of all that.

  “Does your complicated life have anything to do with this history you mentioned? With that guy, Ruark? I ran into him at a coffee shop yesterday, by the way.”

  He cursed and looked down at the floor.

  “Nathan?” She bent her knees so she could look up into his eyes.

  He looked up at her, and she straightened. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down, and his lips thinned. “It’s a long story. But you gotta believe me, Starr—”

  “I do. Ruark’s a bully, and you’re not. So, maybe you could fill me in sometime. Like over coffee … or dinner.” She inched closer. “You know, Nathan, if you asked me out, I’d say yes.”

  He remained mute but swallowed hard again. He wanted to kiss her. She could see it—the way his eyes kept returning to her lips, and the way he now leaned toward her.

  She licked her lips on purpose but didn’t slither closer. Scaring him off wasn’t her intention, and maybe he didn’t like such assertive women, though changing herself for a man wasn’t happening.

  Whistling sounded in the hallway, and then Max was standing in the doorway. “Oh, sorry, man.” He held up his hands. “We got a major spill at the bar.” He reached around the door jamb and grabbed the mop leaning there. He was gone, never looking back once.

  When she turned back, Nathan hadn’t moved.

  “I better go and see if Max needs help.” He cleared his throat. “And let me think about what we might do … together.”

  Score. She stepped back to allow him room to leave, but not so far he couldn’t brush against her again.

  He glanced down and then back up at her as he scooted by. Oh, so shy. She loved that about him, and it was about fricking time the seal broke on their unspoken interest in one another. For once, she had something good to look forward to.

  13

  Nathan stared up at the night sky. Still no stars, but at least the Shakedown parking lot was quiet, just a few rumbling truck sounds in the distance mixed with a far-off siren. It was a beautiful night. It was a great fucking night. Starr was interested in him, so he supposed miracles did exist.

  Maybe he'd go down to the water, eat the leftover chicken parmesan the cook let him snag, and figure out what to do about this newfound development. Jesus, he hadn’t been on a date in over a decade. He’d have to give some thought as to where to take her—someplace fancy, someplace worthy of her. Hell, he should not go down this road, but he’d be a worse fool, not taking her up on anything she offered.

  He got in his car, turned on the ignition, and lowered all four windows. He turned his phone back on. The thing instantly pinged at him like a harpy with messages he'd missed. Every time he turned it on, all kinds of issues he talked about or had looked up on his phone just showed up. His belly jolted again, just thinking about how everything had changed since his forced vacation: self-check-outs in grocery stores, all that app stuff, ATM machines that talked to you. He’d about jumped out of his skin the first time he encountered one of those.

  Raucous laughter echoed in the side alley around the corner. He put his car into drive and swung around to see who was loitering around the back entrance. His headlights spotlighted two kids who looked like they should be tucked into bed with Superman sheets under nightlights. One drew back his arm and released a beer bottle into the darkness. An animal screeched. The cat.

  “Ha-ha. Nailed him.” The kid high-fived his friend.

  The other delinquent pulled out another bottle from the six-pack carton at his feet. “Ten bucks, I can hit it again.”

  Nathan hit the accelerator, stopping only a few inches from where the two punks stood. His bumper got so close, one of them slapped his hood. The shorter of the two—what was he, fourteen?—flipped him the finger. The other kid laughed before he picked up another bottle and hauled it into the dark again.

  What had happened to the world? He wasn't allowed a single misstep, yet everyone around him could do whatever the hell they felt like. Nathan yanked open his door, his boots thudding onto the asphalt. He left the car running, lights shining on the two punk ass kids.

  One of the kid's eyes grew wide as Nathan stomped closer, but he didn't lose his stupid grin as he spun on his heel and took off. The second one was slower on the uptake. Punk Ass Two startled at seeing him. Nathan got a hold of the kid's dirty burgundy sweatshirt and yanked him closer, which earned a satisfying loud rip of fabric.

  The kid squirmed and bucked like a banshee. “Ow, get off me, man.”

  “What the fuck are you doing?”

  The pounding of his friend's sneakers on the pavement grew distant. Kids had no loyalty either.

  “Chill out, dude. We were just having some fun.”

  Nathan dragged him by the back of his sweatshirt into the alley. The mangy cat growled in the shadows, which only fueled his fury.

  “Wha-what are you doing?” The kid’s eyes grew larger.

  “Apologize.”

  He had the audacity to stare at Nathan like he was the crazy one. “Fuck you.”

  Nathan hauled the kid up so their faces were separated by a millimeter. “Now.”

  “Jesus. You're crazy man,” he spat.

  Nathan threw him to the ground. “Say it. To the cat.”

  “S-sorry.” The kid scrambled backward, jumped to his feet, and ducked around Nathan, but only because he let him.

  Nathan panted a little. Jesus. He’d almost pummeled that kid. For what? Going after a mangy cat? Or ruining the fricking good mood he’d been in?

  The animal's growling had dropped an octave. Shit, was it that hurt? He returned to his car for the food carton. When he got back to where the cat's angry sounds continued, he crouched down, opened the pack, and held it out.

  “Here, cat. We're not all bad.”

  He saw its one golden eye blink from behind the dumpster. It hissed.

  “Don't want it?” Great, now he was talking to an animal.

  A small head peeked out. Then slowly, the body curled around the corner. Was it limping? Shit, those kids.

  He dropped the container to the ground, stood, and stepped backward. It took less than a minute for the thing to give up its fear for food. It reached into the carton and pulled out a piece with its teeth and darted backward.

  He turned to go home but then turned to retrieve the carton. He couldn’t leave it sitting out like that, and did he see blood on the cat? He sat in his driver's seat and watched the mangy thing tear the piece of chicken bit by bit until it was gone. Yeah, this was one odd night. First his Starr encounter, and now it was just him, sitting with a one-eyed cat in an alley.

  When the thing was done and had sniffed around the container to make sure it hadn't left anything behind, the cat settled on its haunches and licked its paw like nothing had gone down.

  Okay, he was a tough guy. “See you tomorrow, cat.”

  A shadow moved to the side and then spoke. “Didn't know you had it in you.” A stab of anger jolted his spine, and he half crouched for a fight. He swung his gaze down the alley. “Ruark.”

  Ruark stepped forward into the light. He fingered one of Shakedown's tumblers that he’d just sauntered outside with, like he owned the place. It was such a damned MacKenna move.

  No matter how hard Nathan tried, his body would not stand down. Sweat pricked over his skin, and his jaw ached. Damn body reflexes warred inside him.

  “What do you want?” he ground out.

  Ruark drew closer as if trying to scare him. Too bad, asshole. There was nothing this man could do to him that he couldn’t deliver right back.

  “I repeat. What the hell do you want, MacKenna? I did my time.”

  Cold blue eyes assessed him. “And, now you're here.” He peered up the side of the building. “Checking I.D.s. Watching pretty girls strip.”

  “Dance,” he corrected.

  Ruark chuffed. “That what they call it now? You watch them. Closely. As if a loser like you could stand a shot?”

 
; Plenty of barbed words had been slung at him in prison—along with fists, pipes, shivs, and anything else the inmates could get their hands on—so MacKenna could go fuck himself if he thought he was lobbing anything that would do damage.

  Enough of this. Nathan angled toward his car, needing to be away from this guy.

  “Got to admit, the view every night here must help jerk yourself to sleep easier,” MacKenna called out. “Whores like that, shaking their goods all over the stage ...”

  Nathan stormed forward until he was a foot from Ruark's stone-cold face.

  MacKenna sneered. “There's the real guy. Jesus, you're easy, Nathan. Just like those girls. Especially the one they call Starr. She's the one you watch real close. And then there was that White Knight act you pulled when I was asking her out. And, believe me. She will go out with me, and then we’ll see how easy she is once I get her alone.”

  Nathan curled his fists until his fingernails dug crescents in his palm, and he'd keep doing that until they broke the skin and bled if it meant not throwing the punch he desperately wanted to. He wouldn’t let this asshole impact the direction of his life anymore—and a fight most certainly would. Starr was too smart to fall for this man, so he’d be too smart to fall for his bullshit.

  “You aren't fit to be in the same room as her.” Shit, and just like that, he’d given something away. He'd told the fucker exactly how he could wound him. “Leave all of them alone.” His jaw locked hard.

  “A parolee isn’t in a position to tell me to do anything.”

  This MacKenna and the rest of his lawyering-up, silver-spoon family could kiss his ass. “Careful. You could be accused of stalking. That would be your modus operandi, now wouldn't it? Sticking your nose in where it doesn't belong. Why are you here, really?”

  “You'll see.” Ruark sauntered off in the cocky way only men who've never had their freedom taken from them did.

  He'd given up on happiness long ago, but was it too much to ask for peace? Apparently so. For the first time in his life, he began to believe that saving Declan from being pummeled to death wasn't worth the price of never again having a normal life.