The Player's Club: Lincoln (22 page)

“Convincing a D.A. to throw the book at her and getting a judge to go along with it ought to help his rep as a hard-ass of the people, too,” George said. “Win-win, from my point of view.”

Lincoln stepped up to him, and George took a reflexive step backward. “You’re a worm. A cowardly worm.”

“I’m going to the police station in a few minutes,” George stammered, arms crossed. “If you beat me up now, I’ll make sure you’re thrown in jail, too!”

“If the police arrest me,” Lincoln growled, “it’ll be for murder.”

George’s eyes widened. “You’re threatening me!”

Finn stepped between them, his eyes expressing clearly:
settle down, Lincoln.
Then he turned back to his cowering cousin. “Do you really think my parents are going to let me go to jail, especially when I tell them you set me up?”

“It won’t be my fault.” George sniffed. “I’ve been letting them know you’re being brainwashed, that you’ve fallen in with a bunch of criminals....”

“While telling everybody else in the world that you started the club,” Finn spat out. “But listen to me—if you try to send me to jail, not only will our family’s lawyers guarantee that I
won’t
go to jail, I’ll see to it that you get cut off.”

Lincoln and George both stared at Finn with disbelief. Instead of his usual mellow, mischievous expression, Finn’s was steely determination. He was taking no prisoners.

Lincoln actually felt proud. Finn had never stood up to his cousin before.

“How long do you think you’d last without that fat trust fund?” Finn continued relentlessly. “Hell, how long do you think you’d hold on to this house?”

George paled. “You’re full of crap,” he said slowly. “You don’t have the balls.”

“Try me,” Finn said, his voice low. “Just try me.”

George cleared his throat, surveying Finn as though he’d never seen him before. “Guess somebody’s wearing his big-boy pants today,” he said, but the retort was ruined by the slight shake in his voice. “Still, I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“Fine.”

It wasn’t good enough for Lincoln. He’d love to see George punished, sure. But there was something more important at stake. “What do you want, George?” he asked quietly. “What will it take for you to drop the charges against Juliana?”

George turned to Lincoln, finally acknowledging him. He smiled a crafty, ugly smile. “You’re screwing her, aren’t you? No. You probably want to—” George’s smile broadened “—but I’ll bet she’s cock-teasing you, too. Bitch never puts out.”

Lincoln’s hand moved out more quickly than either Finn or George could have anticipated. He planted his fist right on George’s jaw, slamming him against a wall. Finn jumped in before Lincoln could tear the weaker man apart.

“Bastard!” George said, rubbing the blood away from the corner of his mouth.

“Don’t talk about Juliana that way.
Ever.
”

“Don’t worry. She might be a bitch, but she’s not a dumb one,” George said. “I’m not going to press charges…if she plays ball.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You knew she was going to be a producer, for a reality show,” George said. “Do the math. She was using your precious Player’s Club to cut a deal. Turns out the guy she was dealing with thinks she’s not shit, and won’t work with me if she’s not on the project. So if she agrees to let me be exec producer, I’ll be more than happy to drop the charges. I won’t even use the stupid footage. I’ll make my own club and film that. It’ll be even more popular than your lame, crappy-ass one. Especially when I drop the stupid secrecy rule. Hell, I’ll drop
all
your stupid rules!”

“You don’t get it,” Finn said, rubbing his temples. “Is that what the club was about for you? A popularity contest? God…I can’t believe we’re related.”

“Yeah, well, you two losers are over,” George spat out. “You, with your high-minded bullshit philosophy and total control freakishness—” he jerked his chin at Lincoln “—and you, Finn, with your stupid adrenaline fixation. You’re just a pair of twelve-year-old girls! You could have the hottest, most notorious secret society in the country, charge thousands…no, millions of dollars in membership fees and screw the hottest women on the planet. But no, you’re just forty or fifty idiots running around San Francisco. What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Every single member of the club answers the question,” Lincoln growled. “The one you think is so stupid. The one you never had the balls to answer, by the way.”

George flinched, then stepped up aggressively. “It’s pointless.”

“Everyone,” Lincoln continued, “answers what they’d do if they had one month to live. What
three things.
And then
they do it.
They put their dreams
first.
It’s
not about the money, or the thrills or impressing people. It’s about doing what you only dream about.”

He shook his head at George with disgust.

“And you
never
got it.”

“Yeah, well, we’ll see which club wins when I meet with Juliana, won’t we,” George shot back, seeming shaken. “See how loyal she feels after a night in lockup. Since we both know she’s broke she’ll—”

Lincoln couldn’t help his surprised expression, and George pounced on it.

“Yeah, I know she’s broke—my friend’s her banker. She’s going to lose her condo, they’re going to strip her of everything, and trust me, women like her don’t do poverty well. Do you really think she’s going to protect your dumb asses? Really?”

Finn’s anger was palpable. Lincoln, however, felt calmness descending.

“Yes,” he said, with complete sincerity. “Yes, she will.”

George’s face turned purple. “Get the hell out!” he shouted. “Just go!”

Lincoln strode to his car, Finn stalking after him. “Now what? I thought she’d gotten rid of the flash disk. If she’s got evidence that we did the graffiti, we could be in some trouble here.”

“Don’t worry. She’s not going to roll on us.”

“I didn’t know she was broke,” Finn said as he climbed into the passenger seat. “People do dumb stuff when they’ve got no money.”

“She won’t.”

“How do you know?” Finn asked, his frustration obvious.

Lincoln sighed. “I just do.”

They drove in silence. Then Finn said, “I’m still nailing my cousin to the wall.”

Lincoln grinned. “Oh, he’ll get his, I guarantee it.”

But first things first, he thought. He was going to call a few lawyers…and he was going to make damned sure that he was at the police station when and if Juliana got out.

BY THE TIME AN OFFICER dragged Juliana out of the holding cell and brought her up to the chief of police’s office, she felt as if everything was surreal. A hallucination brought on by a lot of stress mixed with no sleep. They’d arrested her for breaking and entering, and she’d endured the whole nine yards: handcuffs, a ride in the back of a police cruiser, signing reports and getting interrogated while drunks and pushers yelled and puked around her. She was in the women’s holding cell, at least, sharing benches with working girls and drunk college coeds.

It was possibly one of the most shameful, painful nights in her life…and given her “infamous” reputation, that was saying something.

She sat in one of the chief’s plush but uncomfortable office chairs, waiting for him to show. She assumed the other person sitting nearby was the district attorney, a well-dressed woman in her fifties who wore some snappy mules with a tailored navy pinstripe skirt suit. She sent Juliana a disparaging look.

“Juliana Mayfield,” the woman said with a sniff. “I’m surprised I haven’t seen you around here before.”

Juliana was too tired to either wince or cop an attitude. Apparently, her reputation preceded her. That probably didn’t bode well with the chief. She was too tired to care about that, as well.

“I’m surprised you didn’t use your phone call,” the D.A. snidely continued. “Why don’t you have a lawyer here?”

I can’t afford a lawyer.
“I haven’t been completely charged, or something,” Juliana said wearily. “Trust me, though, I’ll get a lawyer as soon as I know what exactly I’m dealing with. What’s your name, anyway?”

“Cecilia Sanchez,” the woman said, patting her glossy black hair in an apparent nervous gesture. “District attorney.”

“Well, duh,” Juliana heard herself say, and watched the woman’s eyebrows jump toward her hairline.

Unfortunately, Juliana remembered, she didn’t do well without at least three or four hours of sleep. This could get ugly.

“There are some mitigating factors,” the D.A. said. “We’re charging you with breaking and entering, certainly, and theft. But there’s a new wrinkle that—”

“Wait,” Juliana interrupted. “Theft? What theft?”

On that note, Chief of Police Harold Freedman entered, George trailing in his wake. The chief was a tall, almost skeletal man, who wore the navy blue uniform, complete with the stars that signified his rank.

He also wore a Rolex, she noticed. That probably wasn’t department issue.

“I really appreciate this, Harold,” George said, oozing snake-oil charm. Juliana noticed the D.A.’s eyebrows jumping up another notch. Calling the chief by his first name must not happen all that often.

“When your parents called me last night, and when you mentioned that the Player’s Club was involved,” the chief said, with some charm of his own, “of course I wanted to see to it personally. Those rich playboys have been doing whatever the hell they’ve wanted to in the city for too long, and I’m going to show them that justice doesn’t care how much money you have in your wallet.”

Juliana forced herself not to grimace at that sanctimonious statement. The guy was up for reelection, and there were rumors he was in several rich guys’ pockets. The fact that he was now aiming at “those rich playboys” was such a transparent pandering attempt at reelection, she was surprised it didn’t come with subtitles. Adding to it the detail that one of those very guys was pointing him at the Player’s Club? That pushed it past hypocritical and right smack into ironic.

“Never mentioned to him that you were one of the supposed founders of the Player’s Club, huh, George?” Juliana said. “Never had the guts to actually turn them in before. Or was that because they never did your stupid stunts? That was your crew…and that’s why they kicked you out?”

George stepped behind the chief’s desk as if he owned it. For all she knew, he did—or rather, his parents did. “Would it be all right if I spoke with Ms. Mayfield in private?” he asked, his eyes gleaming wickedly. “Before formally pressing charges, I’d like to see if she could simply return what she took, and perhaps explain why she did what she did.”

“Of course, of course,” the chief agreed. With an irritated huff, the sharply dressed Ms. Sanchez followed him. When the door closed, George’s unctuous smile turned fierce.

“I knew you guys would try something stupid,” he said. “But I didn’t think that you’d try this.”

“You were the one who stole the footage from Stephen Trainer’s office,” she shot back, getting to her feet. “By the way, he said you just kissed any chance of any production deal with him goodbye forever with that immature stunt.”

“I think he’ll work with me,” George said. “Especially if you tell him you’re going to work with me.”

She goggled at him. “Are you high?”

“Think about it,” George said, and she suspected he was trying to be both reasonable and persuasive. Both of which he sucked at. “I’ve got you breaking into my house. And I’ve got a chief who not only likes rich people, but he also wants to prove that rich people can’t just walk away—if they’ve done something wrong, he’s going to nail them, publicly. I don’t think you’re going to get four hours in county, sweetheart.”

She shuddered. “What do you want, George?”

He stepped closer to her, his voice lowering. Her skin crawled. “I want you to tell the chief all about the graffiti. I want you to tell him Lincoln and Finn were behind breaking into my house. And I want you to tell Stephen Trainer that you’ll do the production deal exactly the way I want it, and that I’m executive producer or you’ll walk.”