“I was just wondering. I'm sure people hook up here, I mean …” She cocked her head toward the brightly lit sign down the hallway that read Stage Entrance. “Come on.”
That once-smiling open face shut down.
Crap. Had she offended him? “I mean, they're so … beautiful. And regal in a way.”
“They are—and out of your league.” After a few seconds, one side of his mouth inched up. “Kidding. They’re nice, and you and Trick go ahead. You do you—isn't that what they say these days? I've been out of it, slang wise.”
She laughed. “I most definitely will do me. Trick does not, however. I mean … he doesn't do me.” No way would she have a repeat of the door sex—not unless it guaranteed her money back, and yes, she realized how prostitute-y that sounded, even in her own head. “What's behind that door?”
“Closet. Paper towels. TP. Brooms.” He opened it. Yep, a supply closet.
He then gave her the grand tour of closed doors she wasn't to enter.
The blue door? Jackie's, and that's all she needed to know, according to Nathan.
The green door? It was his, and he still only shrugged when she asked what he did there.
Trick's door? Don't ever go in. She'd nodded at Nathan in agreement, though her first order of business would most definitely involve going in. She'd daydreamed of slipping into his office, finding a safe behind some oil painting where the combination would be her birthday or maybe the anniversary of their meeting—June 3, 2016. She'd crack it open in less than thirty seconds and find evidence of his guilt, like stacks of money. Unlikely, but it made her feel better to think it was a possibility and she wasn’t being gaslighted in this whole situation. Despite everyone around her swearing they “weren’t the one,” someone was rolling in three million.
Nathan held back a huge black curtain, draping a double-wide opening at the very end of the hallway. “Storeroom.” One quick look inside revealed a cavernous space full of liquor, costumes, and obvious stage props like a giant birdcage and some not-so-obvious shapes under sheets.
They passed the door to the staff lounge, which she was free to enter at any time. As for the others, she really had hoped Nathan would be more forthcoming about this hallway of mystery. What went on in this club to earn such stern warnings?
“Now those doors over there? That set of carved mahogany ones? Declan's office. You find yourself walking through, make sure you have an invitation.” His eyes slanted dangerously.
Yeah, something was going on at this club. No wonder Trick fit right in—beautiful women, lots of closed doors to press female flesh against, and maybe questionable business dealings, given how many bills she saw being handed over on the floor. Perfect for an ex-con like him.
Nathan scratched his beard. “Listen, you okay to wait in the staff lounge for Gabrielle? I gotta get back to the front.”
“Sure. And thanks. For the tour.”
“Anytime.” He strode away quickly.
She turned to head to the staff lounge when one of Declan's office doors opened.
A tall, stocky man with a mop of black hair exited. Rachel found herself becoming one with the cold, gritty wall again. He stilled at seeing her. His piercing blue eyes landed on her chest then traveled her entire body. It was so obviously a check out, she nearly laughed, except a chill had frozen her throat. Trick and Declan stood behind him in the doorway, their eyes never leaving the man's back.
Mr. No Manners snorted and then turned back to face Declan. “I will never understand you. So much easy pussy lying around, and you live like a monk.”
“You don't need to understand a thing, Ruark.” Declan adjusted his grip on the end of a carved, wooden cane.
The man shook his head and then turned, his footfalls punishing the concrete under his feet.
A shudder ran through her as if shaking off the guy’s assessment. She pushed off the wall, but before she could utter a word, Trick and Declan turned their back on her, the solid doors clicking shut behind them. An angry voice spit out muffled words behind all that fancy carved wood. Something was going on.
She tiptoed forward and placed both her hands on the door. Her fingers met deep cuts in the wood, rougher than they appeared to the naked eye. She pressed her ear to the door. Trick had said she should observe, right? And Nathan said don't go in. So she wasn't.
“Why do I think this is bad?”
“I'll handle it.”
She pressed her ear closer to the door, which was most definitely going to leave marks on her face. Fabric rustles, or was that someone's shoes across carpet?
Someone cleared her throat down the hall. “Hear anything good?”
Shit. Rachel straightened and faced Gabrielle, who had her arms crossed over her chest, a half-smile playing on her lips.
“Yeah. I think Trick and Declan are in love.”
That response at least earned a half-laugh.
“Yeah, well, just don't let Declan catch you doing something like that.” She strode up to the lounge door and pushed open the door. “Come on, Harriet The Spy. Those drinks won't serve themselves.”
She swallowed down all the questions that arose. How did Declan open a club like Shakedown? Antiques to burlesque? Odd. How was the club funded? What did Trick really do here? Her investigation of con man Trick, which should have started years ago, had only just begun, and so far, she'd unearthed only more questions. Could his protests of being innocent be true? How could he afford those suits—a different one every night—and the Mercedes he drove? Oh, and by the way, anyone see three million lying around? Questions piled up like pixie sticks needing to be sorted.
8
Trick scanned the floor until his gaze found Rachel. She leaned over to talk to a man in Booth Three, showing not too much cleavage, just revealing enough to earn his smile. He hated to admit she was good at this job. She also wore her distrust around him like a shield, so he’d granted her space—for now.
He took a deep breath and stretched his neck. A few couples, visible through the opened retractable walls on the far side, milled about on the terrace, enjoying the budding summer air. Summer was once his favorite season—the emptier streets in Washington, D.C. as people fled to vacations, the weekends at Dewey Beach, and the memory of that particular one when he’d met Rachel.
He headed to the bar to check on things and maybe get a drink and catch a break from the loud music.
He lifted his chin toward Jackie. “How goes it?”
“Great night. Thanks to her.” Jackie cocked her head toward Rachel, who headed toward him, a tray full of empty tumblers and champagne flutes.
Rachel set her tray down at the end of the bar. “Booth Three liked your jalapeño martinis. They’ll have another round.”
“New drink?”
Jackie smiled at him. “Rachel's idea. Vodka, simple syrup, and lemon topped with a jalapeno pepper.”
“Is that so?” Trick casually leaned against the brass rail, and his gaze lazily traveled up and down Rachel's body, taking in the ruched black dress and high heels. “Your feet have to be killing you, Rachel.” He ripped his gaze from her and turned away. “Jackie, I'll have the usual.”