The Player's Club: Scott (23 page)

“No, not
that
club,” Charlie said. “The Player’s Club!”

Scott gaped. “What?”

One of the guys, Peter, shut the door behind him. “It’s all over the internet, came out in the paper. How the
hell
did you get in?”

“And how can you get
me
in?” Charlie tacked on, laughing.

“Wait. Wait,” Scott said, feeling like a ball of lead was lodged in his stomach. “What are you talking about?”

Peter rolled his eyes. “Check out the
SF Zine
online.”

Scott quickly looked it up, his stomach growing increasingly more queasy. It only got worse as the top headline was Rich, Bored, Living on the Edge: Welcome to The Player’s Club.

“So that club you mentioned, Speakeasy,” Charlie said, “they’ve got a picture of that!”

“Oh, crap,” Scott breathed, scanning through the article as the other two idiots snickered.

Whoever had written the article obviously had some inside information. There were a couple of shots from Speakeasy, including one of a Bettie Page dancer. Thankfully, it wasn’t Amanda. It talked about the hazing, touched on the challenges, but mostly concentrated on the secrecy and the stunts, as well as the drinking, the parties and exclusivity.

It had
George
written all over it. Scott gritted his teeth. If this didn’t get him thrown out, then nothing…

Scott stopped as his gaze locked on a sentence in the article, then reread it several times to realize it was indeed there.

The source, a data analyst for a downtown tech firm who preferred to remain anonymous, had just joined the club after performing a series of challenges—

“Oh,
crap,
” Scott repeated.

It might’ve been George giving the interview, but whoever it was, was obviously setting him up.

“It is true,” Charlie said. “Man. You
gotta
get me in there. How much money do you need?”

“Those dancers looked hot,” Peter added. “Can you just bring people to tag along? I’m married, but I could sure use a way to blow off steam.”

“Not everybody needs to skydive, though, right?” Charlie asked, worried.

Before Scott could answer, or more to the point kick them out, his cell phone rang. Lincoln’s number popped up in the display. Scott answered without even a greeting. “I had nothing to do with this article. I swear.”

“Meet us tonight,” Lincoln said, his voice arctic. “Down on the wharf, you know the pier. Soon as possible. We’re having a meeting.”

“More like a lynch mob,” Scott surmised. “You know me, Lincoln.”

“Do I?”

“I swear. I wouldn’t—”

“Just show up.” Lincoln hung up on him.

Scott shut off his phone. “Sorry, I can’t do drinks tonight.”

Charlie and Peter were staring at him. “Was that…
them?
” Charlie asked eagerly.

“Can we come?” Peter begged.

“Okay. Get out!” Scott raged, then got up and grabbed his coat. He’d get over there, fast, and explain. How bad could it be?

And who did he think he was kidding?

THE CROWD AT THE IMPROMPTU meeting place—a massive yacht, of all things—showed that Scott wasn’t far off with the lynch mob suspicion. They glared at him as he boarded the boat and went into the passenger cabin.

“Let’s roll him,” one guy, with a tattoo across his throat, said in a growl.

“I’m thinking overboard, out in the Bay,” another guy in a business suit said, and bumped knuckles with the tattoo guy’s enthusiastic agreement.

Scott cleared his throat. The normally genial guys of The Player’s Club were now assembled around him like a kangaroo court, looking to Lincoln to give them the okay to tar and feather. Unfortunately, Lincoln’s grim expression suggested he might give the thumbs-up.

“I didn’t give the interview,” Scott said emphatically. “You don’t have any proof that it was me.”

“How many data analysts have joined recently?” Tucker asked caustically. “Oh, wait.
Just you.
”

“It’s a setup,” Scott retorted. “That wasn’t me!”

He waited to see if George would say anything, but for once, the guy was being wisely silent, almost preening with his smugness. George had to be the one behind this. George had never wanted him to join, never liked him—and if Scott became full-fledged, George would find himself with one more person itching to kick him out. It made sense.

Lincoln finally ran a hand over his short-trimmed hair in a frustrated gesture. “We’re not going to roll him or throw him overboard,” he said, then had to wait a few solid minutes for the furor to die down. “We’re not going to punish him.”

“What the hell?” a bull-necked guy from George’s crew protested. “What kind of wimps are we? We aren’t even going to make an example of him?”

“For who?” Lincoln said, and his voice lashed out like a bullwhip. The crowd finally quieted. “He doesn’t deserve to be in—I agree with that. I’ll make sure he can’t get into our databases, he won’t know any of our contacts. And I’ll put out the word. From here on out, he’s not getting in any club in the city. And before you ask,” Lincoln added, looking at Scott, “yeah. I can actually do that.”

Scott was momentarily stunned, wondering how the hell Lincoln could pull something like that off, but was put off stride when the bull-necked guy walked up to him.

“I’m not going to stand around while this guy breaks the rules,” he said, and before Scott could react, the guy’s fist was like a cannonball in his gut. He doubled over, gasping for air like a caught fish. He was just getting his breath back when the fist returned, slamming into his cheek and snapping his head to one side. He fell to his knees as pain exploded behind his eye.

He got up, adrenaline flooding him as he lunged at the enormous guy. Before he could land a punch, the Players got between them, Lincoln most prominent.

“This isn’t happening,”
he yelled with that intimidating tone of his. It stalled them, even if both Scott and the big guy struggled against the guys separating them. “Stow this or I swear, The Player’s Club disappears. You got that?”

They all turned to stare at him. “Linc?” the bull-necked guy said, sounding shocked.

“The websites, the challenges…the trips, the plans. All of it gone.” Lincoln sounded like thunder.

They settled down.

“Time for you to leave,” Lincoln said, and escorted Scott to the gang plank. “We’re setting sail in a second. Players only.”

As they walked toward the deck, Scott dropped his voice low. “How can you not believe me? It was George. It had to be George.”

“George doesn’t like me, or what we wanted for this club,” Lincoln said, “but even he’s not brave enough—or stupid enough—to bring in a reporter. He knows how I feel about it.”

Scott clenched his jaw. The side of his face was swelling, and his stomach still hurt. He stepped onto the deck. He stood, staring at Lincoln.

Lincoln simply shook his head. He soon disappeared, and the yacht started to pull away, then picked up speed. Scott watched until it was a dot, far off on the water.

He was hurt. He was pissed. And right now, there was only one person he wanted to talk to. Only one person he really, really needed.

He’d let it go on for too long. He needed to find Amanda, and make things right.

14

AFTER DRIVING BACK to the apartment building, Scott steeled himself, then headed up to her apartment. He heard her moving around, then unlatching and unlocking the various locks. When she opened the door, she didn’t look angry, at least. Her white-blond hair was in a ponytail, and she was wearing makeup that made her eyes look sultry. “Yes?”

Uh-oh. “Can we talk?”

She sighed. She looked good. No—she looked
great.
She was wearing a dress, something cute and sort of innocent looking, with a pink cardigan sweater. She looked beautiful, and his heart clenched.

“I don’t have time to— Oh, my God,” she interrupted herself. “What happened to your face?”

He touched his swollen face warily, then winced. “You should see the other guy.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. He looks like a goddamned tank,” Scott expanded. “Can I come in, please?”

She glanced at her watch. “Just for a second. I’ll make you an ice pack.”

He walked in. Her apartment smelled like heaven: coffee, cinnamon, chocolate, with the slightest hint of whatever she smelled like—some sexy flower thing. His body responded reflexively, before he could even stop it.

She was putting ice in a plastic bag, and he walked up behind her, stroking her waist, pressing a kiss on her neck even though the side of his lip hurt.

She leaned against him, just for a second. Then she sighed again, turning and handing him the enormous ice bag.

“Put this on,” she said. “And you should probably go see a doctor.”

“I miss you,” he said. He hadn’t meant to just blurt that out, but it was too late now.

“Scott, nothing’s changed,” she said, but her voice was more wistful than mad. “Maybe I overreacted, but honestly, I’m tired of being second place to a man’s interests. I wanted an adventure—I got one, and then some. I learned I was more exciting than I thought I was, and I thank you for that. But I’m not going to play second fiddle to The Player’s Club.”

“But you wouldn’t be.”

She paused, looking confused. Looking, he realized, hopeful. “You…you gave it up? You walked away?”

“Um…” He cleared his throat. “I’m not in the Club anymore.”

She tilted her head. He hadn’t lied, but he hadn’t exactly volunteered the full truth, either. And she homed in on that fact like a laser.

“What happened?”

“It’s not important,” he said, even though he wanted to tell her. He wanted nothing more than to talk to her, ask her opinion, just feel like someone was listening. When he was happy, or when he was unhappy, she was the only person in the world he wanted to talk to. She was sexy as hell, more gutsy and exciting than any ten women he’d met put together. And more than that, she was comfort, and understanding, and…love.

You love her, you idiot.

He blinked, and suddenly the punch in the gut was nothing compared to the tight, wind-knocked-out sensation he was experiencing.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and meant it. “I’m really sorry. For what I said. For how I acted.”

Her eyes got glassy with tears, and she crossed her arms. “You should be. But that doesn’t tell me what happened to you and the Club.”

He took a deep breath. “There was this newspaper article,” he said. “Somebody made it look like I’d talked about the Players.”

She stared at him for a long minute. “But you didn’t,” she said, and there was no doubt in her voice. It was, perhaps, the most gratifying thing he’d ever heard.

“No, I didn’t,” he said, then gathered her in his arms, holding her tight. “Thank you for believing me.”

She nudged him away, gently but firmly. He felt bereft.

“I know it, not just because I believe you, but because I know you wanted to be in that club more than you wanted anything,” she said, and there was a touch of bitterness. “You never would’ve jeopardized that just to brag.”

He grimaced. “I probably deserve that. But—”

“They kicked you out,” she said. “They think you betrayed them.
That’s
how you got punched.”

“Basically, yes.”

She looked at him, silent, then said, “So you’re not here to apologize. You’re here because you can’t be in the Club anymore, so you’re collecting your consolation gift.”