Chapter Seven
While Nathan shook a martini shaker, Rachel set the bar tray down and took a two-minute break to watch the dancer on stage.
Tonight, Shakedown’s two retractable walls were pulled back to accommodate the Saturday night show. The larger-than-normal crowd had come to see Phoenix Rising, the dancer who now sashayed across the stage in time with loud drumbeats, whistles, and piano chords—and a chorus of whoops and hollers. Crystals scattered across her emerald green corset sparkled and, like a disco ball, the tiny prisms refracted the spotlight into brilliant flashes. Her broad smile and Caribbean blue eyes examined the crowd with such confidence Rachel understood why the woman was Shakedown's most popular dancer. She owned the stage.
According to Trick, Phoenix Rising was one sister in a gang of three—identical triplets who danced both together and apart, finding that perfect balance of individuality and togetherness. Apparently this information was important, given how serious he looked when he’d delivered it. The three women, Phoenix Rising, Luna Belle, and Midnight Starr, were beautiful. Maybe he was dating one of them? Who knew? She'd barely seen him since that first, five-minute meeting that consisted of passing her off to Nathan, the bartender.
She took a deep cleansing breath and ran through her latest plan. She had to get Trick alone for a few minutes. She had questions. How was the club start-up funded? How had Declan Phillips decided to open a club like Shakedown in the first place? Both were innocent queries that would be natural for Trick Masters, the manager, to tell a new employee. In reality, they would start her investigation of Trick Masters, the con man. Her other questions could come later, like how the hell he afforded those suits—a different one every night—and the Mercedes he drove. Oh, and by the way, did he have any of her $3 million left?
She needed to find out the location of his office safe. He had always kept a stash of cash on hand in their home safe—a lot of it, if her memory served. She justified taking back whatever was left of her $3 million wasn't stealing, as she was merely returning the funds to their rightful owner.
On stage, Phoenix stripped off a long emerald-colored glove. Rachel had seen this move a hundred times in the last four nights. She turned her attention back to the bar where Nathan was mixing up a new drink, suggested by her, for booth number fifteen—the largest seating area that housed the most people, hence producing the most tips. Trick had been right about two things. Shakedown was not a strip club, as the dancers rarely took much off, and she'd make more money here than Talman's. Four nights of waitressing had already brought in as much money as eight nights at her old job.
“Booth three liked your jalapeño martinis, Nathan.” Speak of the devil. Trick sidled up to the bar.
“Rachel's idea,” Nathan said.
“Is that so?” Trick casually leaned against the brass rail and assessed her outfit—the exact reaction she'd hoped when she'd donned the ruched black dress and high heels he'd once called her come-fuck-me outfit.
“Your feet have to be killing you, Rachel,” he said and turned back to Nathan. “I'll have the usual.”
“They aren't, and since when did you have a usual?” She knew his game. He goaded her to cover up the truth of what he honestly felt. That lustful look on his face didn't lie, and eventually he'd invite her back to his office, the place she was going to start discovering his secrets—beginning with the safe.
Trick picked up the tumbler of brown liquid and brought it to his lips. His eyes remained glued to her. “Nice necklace,” he said into his glass.
“Thanks.” She ran her hands down the gold links that formed a lariat, a gift from Trick years ago. “A con man was once generous to me.”
She lifted the tray of finished martinis and walked away from his smirk. She put a little extra sway into her hips on purpose. She needed to leave a lasting impression.
She wove her way through the small cocktail rounds to get to the velvet-lined booths on the other side of the main floor. A man in a tuxedo and his Marilyn Monroe–lookalike date, complete with white halter dress, had ordered a third round of the jalapeno martinis she'd made up earlier. They'd requested something unusual and “different,” so she delivered in the form of vodka, simple syrup, and lemon topped with a jalapeno pepper.
She glanced back at Trick, who remained at the bar staring out at the crowd—at least until a tall blonde in a red dress barely longer than a t-shirt sidled up to him. One misstep and the woman's crotch would show.
By the time Rachel checked in with two more booths and gathered more drink orders, Blondie in her too-short dress and no sense of personal space had glued herself to Trick's side. Trick smiled down at her. He showed no sign the woman's hand now lying possessively on his pec bothered him.
As she neared the bar again, Rachel caught the usual oohing and ahing that women do when trying to capture a man. Oh, Trick this. Oh, Trick that. Nauseated, Rachel set her tray down with a bang.
“Three Cosmopolitans, one scotch on ice and one straight up,” she said to Nathan, ignoring Trick and Blondie, who hovered too close to the waitress station.
“Getting pretty fancy with the drinks,” Trick said to Nathan as the bartender put basil leaves on two tall, frosted glasses.
“Basil Vodka Chiller,” Nathan said. “Rachel's idea again.”
“Yeah, Rachel has never lacked for interesting ideas,” Trick said.
“You should get smaller martini glasses,” Rachel said. “Then fill them to the brim. It makes Shakedown look generous without actually serving more than normal—sorta like a woman who knows not to show too much.”
“Rachel's ideas are profitable, too,” Nathan said, his tone indicating he wished to de-escalate the building tension. “We've already sold more than twenty percent over last Saturday night.”
“She was on her way to getting a degree in hospitality management not too long ago,” Trick said.
“Yeah, until funds dried up,” she lobbed at him.
“Hi, Rachel.” Blondie held out her hand. “I'm Vivi, a special friend of Trick's.”
“Rachel just joined Shakedown,” Trick said.
“My, my, this club does like to hire beautiful women. You two know each other long?”
“You could say that.”
Trick finally took Vivi's hand off his body. Was that an actual pout on Vivi's face? Jesus.
He picked up his drink and offered his arm to Vivi. “Let's talk in my office, love.”
A spike of jealousy hit Rachel square in the chest and she mentally yanked the spear free from her sternum. Stop sign! Her therapist had reminded her this morning of the mind trick, as if she needed reminding. Rachel lived in a virtual forest of stop signs these days, but it was a small price to pay to keep her eye on her ex-fiancé-slash-con man.
“Trick, when am I going to get that tour you promised me?” Rachel asked before he could scoot away.
“What? And tear you away from your fans?” he motioned with his chin toward a table of men trying to get her attention.
Vivi had the nerve to wink at Rachel as they strode away.
After thirty more minutes on the floor with no sign of Trick or Vivi, Rachel decided enough was enough. The back and forth of not wanting to see Trick, but also needing to see him for her plan to work, was driving her nuts.
“Hey, Georgette,” Rachel said to one of the other waitresses. “Do you mind watching my area so I can take a quick break? My feet are killing me.”
“Not at all.” The petite woman gave her a sweet smile. Unlike Talman's, the other waitresses here seemed genuinely friendly toward one another.
Rachel headed to the curtain through which Trick and Vivi had disappeared. She stepped through into the hall that led to the four offices: one for Trick, the second for a guy named Max with tattoos from wrist to bicep and whose job she'd yet to understand, a third for Nathan, the head bartender, and the last, larger office for Declan Phillips, the club owner.
Five days ago, in Declan's office, she'd signed an employment contract guaranteeing her a salary plus tips, health care benefits—the real shocker of this gig—and an assigned employee parking spot. Declan, a distinguished-looking man in his forties, had hired her with few questions asked. It was all handled too easily. So on top of wondering where Trick put her trust fund money, she wondered if this club was a front of something illicit, like drugs, prostitution, or gambling. By the way money was thrown around, something was afoot.
Light laughter seeped through the crack in Trick’s office door.
“Hello?” she called as she pushed open the door to witness Trick embracing Vivi. Another spear of anger hit her square in the chest when Trick grinned down at Vivi with that same charming smile he'd used on her countless times.
They both looked up at Rachel as soon as the door hit the wall with a loud bang. She wasn't sorry.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Rachel said sweetly. “Nathan needs more tequila from the back storage area. Show me? I never got that promised tour.” She glared at Vivi, who didn't look a bit embarrassed, but rather amused.
“Catch me later, okay?” Vivi kissed Trick on the cheek. “Thanks again.” Her hand trailed down his arm to his hand, which she squeezed conspiratorially.
Rachel didn't yield an inch of floor space when Vivi scooted by her.
Trick shook his head and sighed. “What the hell was that, Rachel?”
“What was what?”
“You know what.” He passed her and stepped out into the hall. “You coming or not?”
She followed him out.