The Player's Club: Scott (17 page)

“I have to warn you,” he murmured against her ear, taking a quick nip on her earlobe. “The walls here are really thin.”

“I don’t care,” she breathed, tilting her head back and arching her hips to take him in even deeper. He clutched her ass, pulling her hard against him as he rocked with more insistent force inside her. She moaned softly, driving him wild. He could feel her squeezing around him, scooting to get closer to him, her legs wrapped around his waist, her hands clutching at his shoulders as she made those soft, incoherent mewling sounds of pleasure.

Soon, he could feel the building pressure of her orgasm as her body clenched around him, her breathing going fast and choppy. He moved quicker, with less finesse and more power. They kissed hard and hot and frenzied, their bodies so close together at times he couldn’t tell where he ended and she began, a cliché he’d heard but had never actually experienced until now. He didn’t care that they were in his office. They could’ve been on the fifty yard line of the Super Bowl—he only cared about the amazing, passionate woman who was driving him past the point of reason, burning him alive.

When she came, she let out a moan of pleasure, shuddering against him. Her pussy stroked his fully embedded cock, milking him, clutching around him like a fist, and he came like a shotgun, the pressure and intensity making his mind a complete blank. He trembled against her, his body shivering almost violently. He held her, the two of them kissing, stroking each other, as if they couldn’t bear to let go.

Slowly, he came to his senses. He got a good look at her.

“You’re all sweaty,” he remarked, pushing her now-damp bangs out of her eyes. “But beautiful.”

“They’re going to know what we did,” she murmured, with a rueful but still-mischievous grin. “Do you mind?”

He shrugged. “It’s about time they figured out who I really was, I guess.”

She kissed him, and he kissed her back, knowing that being with her had a huge amount to do with who he now felt he was.

But what if he didn’t make it into the Club? What if he couldn’t get her into the Club?

And the thought that kept him up nights—why would she care about him, if she knew what a boring,
normal
guy he was?

THAT EVENING, SCOTT WAS EAGER to get back to Amanda. To his surprise, he got a call first from George. Player’s business, he’d said. It surprised him because it was George and George was not exactly interested in business.

The fact they were meeting in a bar, even a classy place like Martuni’s, did not surprise him, since George was orchestrating it. When he got there and it was only the two of them, Scott knew he’d been duped.

What does he want with me?
Scott thought.

“Hey, man. Let me buy you a drink,” George said magnanimously from a bar stool, gesturing for Scott to join him. There wasn’t a big crowd, and Scott hoped he could get this over with quickly. “What’ll you have?”

“Club soda.”

“No, really. I’m buying,” George pushed, as if somehow Scott couldn’t afford something alcoholic.
What an idiot.
“Or maybe you don’t know anything about martinis. Tell you what, I’ll get you something.”

“No, I’m not—”

“Bartender, get this guy a dirty martini, Stoli.” His tone was peremptory, and he didn’t even look at the man behind the bar. Scott winced as the bartender gave George a second look. Scott hoped his own expression was apologetic enough to forgo anything the guy might do in retaliation—say, put something nasty in his drink.

He sat next to George. “You haven’t even pretended to like me,” he said, his voice flat. “You’ve been telling me I won’t make the cut, that I’m not fit to be a member. Then you call me up and say you’ve got something I need to know. What the hell, man?”

George blinked at him. “Couldn’t you have at least waited until… Okay, yeah, here’s your drink.” The now-surly bartender put the drink in front of Scott. “And hey, I need a refill.” George nudged an empty glass away from himself.

Scott rubbed at his temples. The sooner he could get away from this guy, the better.

“Now, what were we talking about?” George’s dull eyes sharpened a little, and his expression turned shrewd. “Oh, yeah. Hey, I was just messing with you. It’s hazing. It’s supposed to be like that, you know?”

“You’re supposed to be a dick?”

“Of
course
I am,” George said, as if Scott had proven his point. “That’s what drives me nuts about Lincoln. He makes it seem like some kind of boring, stupid nineteenth-century men’s club. When I joined up, I thought it was going to be a bunch of guys having a good time, you know? Doing crazy stuff, partying. Then Lincoln had to come up with a bunch of rules, and a
philosophy,
and next thing you know, we’re turning into a bunch of pussies, I swear.”

Scott decided to drink the martini. It burned at his throat, and tasted like ashes—hence the dirty, he surmised. It was probably a good martini if you weren’t a dedicated beer drinker. “Again, what did you need to tell me?”

“I need to see where you stand.” The bartender put George’s new drink in front of him, and he grabbed it blindly, taking a strong swig. “Lincoln’s driving the club into the ground, and it seems like every new recruit is just as wimpy as he is.”

“I don’t think running with the bulls is necessarily wimpy,” Scott said mildly, thinking,
Insane, yeah, but not wimpy.

George rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever. But I’m not looking to get killed every year. Especially not with a bunch of
guys,
you know?”

“Lincoln’s a friend,” Scott said, his voice icy.

George snickered. “Yeah, right.” His gray eyes narrowed. “What the hell do you know about him, anyway?”

Scott started to answer, then stopped abruptly.

Actually, he knew next to nothing about Lincoln. Or anybody else on the “crew,” for that matter. His brow furrowed.

“Exactly,” George said in a low voice. “You don’t know these people. They’re not really your friends. Lincoln’s got a past that nobody knows about. Hell, I used to think he was in some kind of witness protection program. I don’t think Lincoln’s even his real name.”

Scott blinked. “You’re crazy.”

George shook his head. “Seriously. You try looking into the guy’s past, see what
you
come up with.”

“Well, I know about Finn’s past,” Scott said, trying to deflect some of his new concerns. “He’s from a famous family, and…”

George’s guffaw cut him off. “Yeah. He’s from
my
family,” he said, and the bitterness in his voice was palpable. “You wouldn’t even recognize him. That’s why I thought we were on to something good. But Lincoln turned the thing into some kind of…self-help group. And Finn buys every damned word the bastard says.”

Scott shifted uncomfortably on the bar stool. He didn’t believe George—the guy was far too shady to be taken at face value. But the points he was bringing up did make him question, a little, what he was getting into.

“They could kick you out, you know. For breaking any one of their precious ‘rules.’ Talk shit about another member? They can say you’re holding a grudge, and boot you out. Don’t attend enough of their ‘adventure’ exercises? You’re not playing the game in the field, or the park, or whatever stupid-ass metaphor Lincoln’s come up with. And bam, they boot you out.”

“I don’t think it’s that easy,” Scott demurred.

“Oh, really?” George’s look was pure derision.

“No,” Scott continued, “or else they’d have gotten rid of you.”

“They can’t get rid of me,” George said scornfully, drinking the rest of his martini and gesturing to the bartender again. “I was there when there was only like five members, and I’m Finn’s cousin. They wouldn’t dare.”

“So, is this all the information you wanted to give me?” Scott said. “That Lincoln’s a wussy leader with a changed name and no past?”

“Doesn’t it bother you?”

Scott frowned. “I don’t see how it applies at all. This is just a club, for God’s sake. A
hobby.
It’s not that big a deal.”

George’s eyes glinted. “So you don’t care if you get kicked out or not? The Club means nothing to you?”

Scott tried to say yes, but found that he couldn’t.

“Jeez, you’re as pathetic as all the rest of them.” George sneered. “You think that this stupid club is going to make you a better man, some kind of frickin’ hero or something. Just by camping and hiking and jumping out of planes.”

“You’re right,” Scott said, his temper flaring. “It’s much better to nail a bunch of disposable broads and get hammered every night. Now
that
proves something.”

George’s face turned red, and a small vein throbbed in his temple. He didn’t know how old George was, but anger seemed to add about five years at least.

“Goddamned goody-goody. You, and the rest of them.” George threw his credit card down on the bar, and the bartender grabbed it quickly. “I should’ve known, but no, I thought I’d give you one last chance.”

“What difference does it make? Why do you think I’m such a threat?” Scott finally said. “You’ve gone out of your way to stop me from joining the Club. If I join, so what? Who really…”

Then, suddenly, a bunch of conversations clicked into place.

We haven’t had a new member in a while…

If he broke a rule, we’d be able to kick him out…

“You’ve been the one preventing new members from joining,” Scott said, snapping his fingers. “You think they’ve finally found a way to prove you’re breaking a rule and kicking you out. You’re afraid of being replaced as one of the big men on campus. And it’s eating you up. Isn’t it?”

“You don’t know anything,” George snarled. “They don’t have the balls to kick me out. And if they did, they’d be sorry.”

“I’ll just bet.” Scott stood up. “Thanks for the drink and for the utter waste of time. When I do become a Player, I can almost guarantee that I
will
look for a way to kick you out.”

George was too speechless to reply.

“Exactly,” Scott said. “Have a nice night.”

AMANDA WAS SITTING in her living room with her oldest friend, Jackie, and her newest, Tina. The two women got along better than she’d hoped: Jackie was more oriented toward mosh-pit violence than dancing, and Tina sounded as though she’d had enough dating advice to last her a lifetime, but the two found a common ground.

Namely, the fact that it was time for Amanda to move on from her booty call with Scott.

“It’s exciting, and all that, but now it’s starting to look a little…well, pathetic,” Jackie said, with her usual no-punches-pulled grace.

Tina shrugged. “He was no dancer. You got him into that party because he wanted to get in,” Tina said, sounding irritated—not at Amanda, but at Scott. “He’s got all the advantages, and you’re the one who jumps when he whistles.”

“Good grief.” Amanda rubbed her eyes. Flings were supposed to be fun, right? When did they institute a rule book? “We have sex. Great sex.”

“You,” Jackie said, pointing a finger at her,
“have cooked him dinner.”

Tina gasped, shooting Amanda a shocked, accusatory look.

Amanda let out a huff of indignation. “I just cooked
you
dinner, you twerps.”

Jackie ignored that point. Tina grinned sheepishly, taking another bite from her brie-and-caramelized-onion on homemade sourdough bread. “You
are
a great cook,” she said, smiling happily.

“You cook for a man, you might as well wear a T-shirt that says ‘Hi, I’m Interviewing for the Position of Wife.’ Honestly,” Jackie scoffed, “I ought to write a book.”

“You should,” Amanda said eagerly, hoping to change the subject.