“Hey, why don't you take a break after this?” Jackie rubbed her hands on a bar towel. “Things seem to be slowing down.”
Gabrielle set her tray down next to her. “Yeah, stop making the rest of us look like slackers.” She gave her a friendly smile.
She had taken on more duties at Shakedown because why not? Their drink menu needed a serious upgrade and remapping their table set-up allowed three more cocktail rounds and more room for servers to traverse the expansive floor.
The hallway was blessedly quiet, the din of the show music muffled and distant. She paused, a wave of sorrow threatening to take over. That was another thing, these sudden bouts of grief like something crawling all over her skin wanting to suffocate her.
Then again, sadness was everywhere. Stories of the other Shakedown employees crowded in on her. Gabrielle was a mom left to raise two children alone. Her husband was doing time in Lorton Prison for robbery. Vivi showed up every night and sat at the bar only to stare at the show, eyes glazed and distant. Rachel stopped asking questions altogether as their tragedies reminded her of her own.
She pinched the bridge of her nose. Her eyes stung a bit from the cigar smoke and being assaulted by bright stage lights only to strain to make out figures and tables in the dark audience. Maybe she'd go see what was going on in the dressing room.
If she and Trick weren’t sexing it up in the back, she spent as much time behind the magic pink door as she could, talking about anything but what was wrong. Do these shoes work with this outfit, or did that new color lipstick match this skin tone? Nothing about the past, or what could have been, or what should be.
Wishes were too soft for Shakedown and its inhabitants.
Still, she stared at those beautiful women and wondered how they ended up on their particular career path in a club in Baltimore, Maryland. Nothing was wrong with Baltimore, but it was not exactly the burlesque Mecca of the world. Instead, she took make-up tips from Cherry, who said she never wore enough. She finally was getting the hang of that eyelash curler.
Declan's door cracked open. Trick motioned from the open doorway. “You got a minute?”
So now they were going to christen Declan's office? Why not? It’d stop the wave of sadness she rode whenever she had a minute to think.
19
“But, Mr. Phillips—” she began.
“Declan, please.”
Her fingers brushed the ends of Declan's desk, Trick standing to her right wearing a huge grin. “If you feel sorry for me, please, don't.”
“I assure you, offering you an assistant manager position is purely selfish on my behalf.” Declan wasn't exactly smiling, but he wasn't frowning, either. “You've made me more money since you've started than anyone—no offense, Trick.”
Trick raised his hand, seemingly unbothered by the man's compliment to her.
“But I never finished my degree.”
“I don't hold much stock in fancy college degrees. Most people who work here didn't finish high school.”
“Rachel.” Trick took her hand. “Declan started this club to give people a second chance. You and I deserve one of those now.”
Declan stood up. “I'd like you to start by launching a full-scale customer and services inventory.”
“Inventory,” she repeated.
“Assess our wait staff, bar staff, inventory selections, menu choices. Assess our customers. See what they like, don't like. Then tell me what's missing in our service.”
“Missing?”
Trick chuckled. “She can speak in complex sentences, Declan. I've heard it.”
She glared at Trick. “Details matter.”
“Yes, details are everything.” Declan straightened his suit coat and then grasped his cane. “I've observed you have a talent for hospitality, specifically anticipating people's needs.”
“She's great at that.” Trick was acting like a proud mother.
She shrugged. “Customers want to know they matter. It's pretty easy to make them feel special if you're paying attention.”
“Now, let's talk money. Most people don't like to, but good or bad, it matters.” Declan rounded the desk, cane in hand, and sat on the corner. “Let's say $50,000 to start.”
“Fifty?” His offer was too good to be true. She took a second, the ornate surroundings pressing in on her. The office smelled of leather, wood, and pipe smoke. Gilded-edged hardcover books lined shelves along one side, and two 19th-century Gillows leather library chairs sat in a little seating area off to the other side. The room looked like it belonged in a master's manor, not a burlesque club. “Nathan tells me you used to sell antiques.”
“Yes, I'm good at identifying diamonds in the rough.” Declan placed an unlit cigarette between his lips.
This was the moment, wasn't it? Life hands you them occasionally, and she could continue to cower in the mystery or finally get some clarity.
“I've meant to ask …” She looked at Trick and then back at Declan. “Well, please, tell me you're not a front for the mob or something.”
“Rachel.” Trick’s mouth screwed into a frown.
She sighed. “I'm sorry, it's just …”
Declan raised his hand. “It's an honest question, and you don't know who to trust anymore.”
“I've been trying, I have. How did you and Trick meet?”
Declan smiled. “Prison connection. I have no dealings with anything illegal. However, I do employ a great many ex-cons, as you already know. When I got out years ago, I started Shakedown to provide something not all places are willing to give—a fresh start, a clean new beginning.”
“This place is as straight up as they come, Rachel.” Trick was annoyed, but she really didn't care.
Declan's face turned stony. “You won't find anything illegal here. If you do, I will end it.”
“Then how is all this possible?” She wafted her hand through the air.
“I was an excellent antiques dealer.”
Was she crazy to take this job in a place full of people with criminal pasts? She'd be mad to leave fifty grand on the table. With benefits, she mentally added. She could go back to school on that kind of money plus loans.
She had few choices before her, but she vowed to keep one part of her plans in place: be smarter. “Thank you. I accept, and I do appreciate it.”
Declan’s face stretched into a smile, the first one she’d ever seen on him.
Trick walked out with her. He grabbed her wrist and tugged her into his office. “Come on. Let’s celebrate.”
20
As soon as she was behind his closed door, he plastered her against it. His eyes roamed her face, his gaze settling on her lips. “Move in with me.”
“What?” He had to be crazy. “I thought we were going to go slow.”
His eyes didn't flick up, didn't even register her refusal to launch headfirst into a domestic reunion. “I've been trying to give you time. Space. But …” He pushed off the door and stepped backward. “This is me going slow. Remember, I am the man who put a ring on that finger in three months. Maybe slow doesn’t suit me. I’m done wasting time.” Then he said the magic words. “I’m tired of living in limbo. Aren’t you?”