Protecting His Assets

by Cari Quinn

  Dedication

  For my mom, who thinks I’m brilliant, and to Taryn Elliott, who tells me I’m not, yet loves me anyway (most of the time).

  Chapter One

  Under an hour into his job as a bouncer, and so far Chase Dixon had been felt up, bribed and almost spit on. This job sucked.

  A red cord stretched along the sidewalk in front of The Platinum Club. At the head of the line stood a smart-assed jackoff with a cocky smile and eyes that rolled every time he looked back at his equally smirky companions. “Listen, man, me and my three buddies here are on the list. Mark Jacoby and associates. Trust me. Don’t we look like honorable guys?”

  “You’re not on the list, and I saw you cut in front of about two hundred people.” Chase gestured to the line that stretched all the way down the narrow sidewalk. That line contained a lot of women, most of them scantily dressed and wearing too much perfume. Then there were men like Mark, who’d doused in cologne before slipping into his uncreased jeans and unwrinkled tank top. Ones who had such big dicks they couldn’t feel the twenty-degree November temperature. “Go back to the end with your friends. You’ll be allowed in if there’s room.”

  “I can make this worth your while tonight, brother.” Mark opened his wallet and flashed what looked like a fifty. Chase tried not to choke on his laughter.

  “Sorry. Rules are rules.” And in about ten seconds, this guy was going to be escorted away from the club via a steel-toed boot in his ass.

  “Wait a second.” Mark’s voice sharpened. He pushed back his red skull cap to get a better look at Chase. “Yo, ain’t you Deuce Dixon?”

  “Get in line,” Chase snapped, unwilling to deal with the standard questions tonight. All he wanted was to get through an evening that didn’t involve him staring at the wall and cursing fate, wear himself out and go the fuck home. In that order.

  “You are. I knew it.” Mark elbowed the short, squat man at his side. “Check it out. It’s Deuce Dixon, in the fuckin’ flesh.”

  “Nah. A big time baseball player wouldn’t work this piece of shit gig,” his friend shot back. “Spring training’s not that far away.”

  It is in my world.

  Chase didn’t react to either of them. If they wanted to piss him off, they’d turned the right key. “One last time. Get at the back of the line or I’ll put you there.”

  “Oooh, big shot’s all talk.” Jabbing his friend in the gut again, Mark swaggered away. He glanced back at Chase and chomped his gum with a gleam in his eye that might’ve served as a warning in his hometown of Dicksville, USA.

  Chase cracked his neck. Jesus, he needed a beer. Why had he taken this job again? He wasn’t playing ball right now, but he didn’t have to waste his time dealing with every dickhead in Manhattan who wanted into The Platinum Club. He’d come to the city and temporarily sublet an apartment in Queens while he quietly pursued treatment from the best doctors for his busted pitching arm, and this club had always been on his radar as a place that catered to a relatively high-end clientele and featured some kick-ass musical acts. Its proximity to his apartment also weighed in heavily, since he damn well wouldn’t risk damaging his Escalade in New York traffic.

  He’d figured there were worse ways he could pass a few nights a week. Besides, this was good training for the new career he was considering if he couldn’t get back to ball. Not that he was giving up. Hell no. He was just covering his bases.

  Ha, a pun. His sense of humor hadn’t dried up entirely. Yet.

  Tonight’s act seemed to be bringing in the masses, though he couldn’t really figure out why. The country-folk singer on the roster didn’t fit the usual kind of entertainment The Platinum Club showcased, despite the wide variety of performers they tried to bring in. But a solo chick with a guitar? Even the picture on the posters all over the club was way more subtle than their clientele usually went for. She had her head down, hair partially covering her face, a secret smile tipping up her lips. The name Sunny Z reminded him of a pop princess, yet the names of her songs sounded like coffeehouse specials. At any rate she obviously had her finger on the pulse of the people, since the rambunctious crowd seemed rabid to see her and there was still an hour before showtime.

  Whatever. Get in, get it done. That was his motto for baseball and life. And for handling jerks who’d already started tying them on before they hit the club.

  The line bottomed out about forty-five minutes after the show was supposed to start. It had actually begun about fifteen minutes ago. Must be the country chick had trouble being on time, like the bulk of the spoiled brat music types he’d heard about over the years. Bursting from a sense of entitlement and a certainty the world would wait for their brilliance.

  Chase tipped back his bottle of ice water while he waited for Neil to finish up his stint at crowd control and relieve him at his post. The earpiece he’d been given to help facilitate communication with the security team hadn’t made it out of the owner’s office. Chase had begged off, claiming he had a recurring ear problem, which basically came down to he didn’t want dudes droning in his head all night long. The old-fashioned way worked for him.

  For all he knew, he might not even be back next week. He had half of his shift left, but they were taking turns monitoring the groupies and manning the door. Between his headache and crappy mood—not helped at all by that Mark creep—he was eager to be on bashing-skull patrol. That he still longed for a Molson with every breath he took of smoke and weed and spilled beer only added fuel to his fire.

  As the crowd started to cheer, he plugged a finger in one ear. It wouldn’t block out the melodramatic wail that was sure to follow. He would’ve grabbed some earplugs except they interfered with his ability to be aware of everything at all times. Still, he was tempted to risk it to avoid exacerbating his headache with some trailer twang.

  For a few moments, he didn’t hear anything except hooting, hollering and a fair amount of foot stomping. Yeah, this was a different kind of crowd than the club usually encouraged, that was for damn sure. Marilee and Chris, the owners, must be branching out. Or else the country queen had an in. Everyone did nowadays. Even him.

  He’d gotten his apartment short-term and with no notice because the Daggers team manager knew someone who knew someone. He’d nabbed the job at the club without even a background check because Chris thought Chase was one of the best pitchers in the major league. The Platinum Club’s owner had been trying to get Chase to visit the club for a while in the hopes his presence would land them in the news—as seemed to happen often when Chase partied hard. At least in the old days. Chris had never expected Chase would approach him for a job, but he’d needed another bouncer and believed Chase would up the club’s visibility, regardless of his function. Considering Chase’s reclusive tendencies lately, that remained to be seen. Still, it was all about greasing the right palm.

  Her voice cut through his thoughts like a blade through skin. Searing him to the bone and bringing an almost-sweet pain.

  Clutching his water bottle in his fist, Chase swung around toward the sound. Christ, the chick could sing.

  He’d started to move forward without even being fully aware of it, drawn toward her voice, when Neil strode up to him and slapped him on the back. “Sorry, Deuce. Crowd’s fricking amped. Couldn’t make it back here before now. Who is this babe? You heard of her?”

  Chase shook his head, wanting his co-worker to shut up and just take his damn post so he could listen. There was a soulful quality to the way she sang. Not traditional country, not typical folk or pop, but an amalgamation of all three. She sat on a stool under a spotlight on the stage, head bent as she played her guitar. Beside her another guy was playing a banjo, and together they made a great team, harmonizing perfectly. The
y smiled at each other while their voices combined and lifted, rising over the hum of the crowd. The melody filled his head, and his fingers tensed around his plastic bottle.

  Dammit, he knew that face. The defiant chin, those upturned lips, that curve of cheek partially hidden by a wild tangle of dark hair. Freed from its loose ponytail, her curls would almost reach her waist. Hair he’d never imagined driving his hands through until this very second.

  Her fingers wrapped around her microphone while she closed her eyes and let her body sway into the movement of the sensuous lover’s song. It told of missing someone and not knowing where they were. Caring even when it was clear you shouldn’t.

  Her vocals rang out over the crowd. They had stopped cheering and now held up lighters and catcalled their approval when she hit the high notes. Right now, they were all high notes. Her voice resonated inside him, buffing out the irritation he hadn’t been able to shake. Relaxing him more than the beer he no longer allowed himself to have could’ve ever done.

  Neil shouted something to him about taking the door, so Chase pushed through the undulating bodies to get closer to the stage. He couldn’t take long to ascertain his hunch was right, not when he had a mass of eager fans behind him all waiting to take a piece out of the pretty young thing. There was a cluster of guys near the stage where she sat strumming away, happily oblivious to the way they were leering and gesturing.

  Fuck, it was Mark and his crew. Chase hadn’t seen them come in the front, so they’d obviously found another way in.

  One of Mark’s friends called out to her in a lull of the song, something crude about wanting to fill the empty spaces she’d mentioned in her lyrics. She turned toward their group and flushed. Actually flushed as if she wasn’t up on stage in front of five hundred or more of her closest lecherous friends.

  Mark pushed his buddy out of the way and slapped a slip of paper on the stage at her feet. Probably his phone number. As if she’d call that loser. She smiled, her too-full lips parting around the words she seemed to croon to Mark. His buddies shoved him, laughing uproariously. Completely clueless fuckers, as Chase had thought.

  Chase took a step forward, intending to get everyone back from the stage. At the same moment Mark decided to get grabby and wrapped his fingers around her ankle. Though she didn’t falter, her already huge eyes widened long enough for Chase to realize he’d been correct.

  It was Summer, his baby sister Cassidy’s best friend. The woman he’d kissed a few months ago during a rare trip home before he’d sobered up and realized she was the little girl he’d lived next door to for a few months between high school and college.

  She wasn’t so little now.

  “Don’t fucking touch her,” Chase said, hauling Mark back by the arm. Mark swung at Chase with his beer hand, sending the glass flying and sloshing his beer onto the polished hardwood under Summer’s feet. She stared at the spreading liquid like it was an apparition and kept right on singing.

  Yeah, this putz was already three sheets to the wind. Maybe four.

  “Get your hands off me,” Mark bellowed. “I’ll sue, you bastard.”

  Right. He’d worry about that…oh, never. Chase locked Mark’s arms behind his back without trouble and only raised an eyebrow at the assorted misfits behind the douche who hurried to his defense. “That’s enough.” Chase motioned to Ted, one of the other security guys, his eyes never leaving Mark’s friends. “You’re not even supposed to be in here, remember?”

  Mark spat over his shoulder at him and missed. The woman he hit a few feet away wasn’t too impressed. “Yeah, and who the hell’s gonna stop me? You and your gimp arm, has-been?”

  Rage descended, obscuring Chase’s vision and swarming spots where Mark’s sneering face had been. Not because the jerk had tried to get a rise of him—hecklers were part of the game, and he was used to ignoring them—but now one of Mark’s friends was getting too close to Summer. Though Ted had gotten snagged by a scuffle that had broken out, more security guys were coming forward. Not fast enough.

  No one was going to freaking paw Summer right in front of him.

  Chase shoved Mark aside, sending him flying into the crowd amidst screams and squeals, and reached for Mark’s friend, hauling him back into a classic hold position. Chase stared up at the stage, meeting Summer’s eyes while she called out to her lover in the song, her volume rising with her unease. She was the consummate professional and didn’t falter, but he knew she was scared from the slight quaver in her voice.

  Her frantic expression seared into his brain, accompanied by the same recognition he’d felt moments earlier. Then he was the one being pulled back by his hair, and all he could think was thank God. He’d finally get to pound the shit out of someone, this time for all the right reasons.

  Bring it, assholes.

  In the middle of her first semi-major gig, an epic fight had to break out. Of course.

  Summer set aside her guitar and grabbed the arm of her startled accompanist, Kyle. They’d met at church and this kind of thing rarely happened during weekly services. Or at most civilized gatherings.

  It took no time for the melee in front of the stage to turn into a giant mess. Shouting, chairs being shoved aside, bodies flying. Chase Dixon in the center of it, getting his gorgeous face whaled on by the same jerk who’d tried to grope her leg.

  She didn’t think, just leaped off the stage. She bit her lip and bounced back and forth on her toes, waiting for that one second of opportunity. When it came, she charged forward and dragged back the arm of the guy hassling Chase, twisting his little finger hard enough to earn his screech of distress.

  A triumphant grin crossed her face at the punk’s outraged expression after he’d turned to see his assailant. Can’t take care of myself? Guess again.

  Brutal fingers ripped down Summer’s scalp, streaking pain across her skull. Her breath left her on a panicked scream. Somehow the sound reached Chase in the center of his two-on-one old-fashioned brawl, and he tossed the guys aside like they were no more than garbage. He launched himself at her and her unseen attacker, separating them long enough for her to see she’d been nailed by a girl who brandished a few strands of Summer’s hair like a trophy.

  A girl. Oh, heck no.

  “You’re done, slugger,” Chase said in Summer’s ear, pulling her aside so fast that she didn’t have a hope of slipping free of his iron-clad grip. She glimpsed Kyle gathering their instruments into their cases on stage before Chase lifted Summer over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry and carted her out of the club, seemingly oblivious to her shouts and flailing arms and legs. That she faced down toward his hot cross buns was a particularly cruel blow.

  “Put me down, you Neanderthal,” she shouted. Realizing she hoped to appear there again—hopefully with less disastrous results—she lowered her voice. Slightly. “I’m an adult, you jerk.”

  A jerk who’d rescued her from a bar fight, but still.

  He didn’t respond, continuing up the hallway while she pounded on his back. Forget back. It was like a wall, if walls had layers of toned muscle and retained enough heat to scorch her palms through his standard issue club jacket.

  Oh, sugar. Chase hadn’t merely been in the crowd. He worked there.

  Using one burly shoulder, he pushed open the back door and they burst out into the cold, moonless night. It was snowing, a fact she found out firsthand when he set her on her pathetically inadequate pumps and she immediately skidded on a patch of ice. He steadied her, silently and without reproach. Not counting his flat, all-too-knowing forest green eyes.

  Those eyes had been in a few of her fantasies, and that unsmiling mouth had played a part too. Though now, that mouth was pursed tight, aloofly judging her. In her fantasies, he’d been way too…busy for that.

  She was sorely tempted to rail at him for hauling her out of there like a bad child, but good manners won out as always. “Thank you for interceding. Though I could’ve taken that witch,” she added, huffing out a breath.

&n
bsp; No response.

  “So you work here? Since when? And what about baseball?”

  He grimaced, but gave her nothing.

  Summer pushed both hands through her hair, only remembering when her fingers got caught in the band that she’d tried to tie the crazy mass of curls out of her face. She yanked out the tie and flung it away, inexplicably annoyed when Chase’s gaze followed where it landed.

  Was he some kind of nature nut that hated litter? Or did he prefer to stare at the concrete rather than look at her?

  “Chase, say something. I know you’re dying to call Cass and tattle on me, so why don’t you? ‘Your dumb little friend, Summer, got herself in a bar fight, pretending she could sing—’”

  “Pretending?” His voice was so low she almost missed the question. “That’s what you call what I saw in there?”

  She frowned, shocked to feel her chin trembling. She wasn’t the kind of woman who got shaky and uncertain with guys, even huge, imposing ones with glacier eyes and cheeks that could’ve been carved from granite. So she’d kissed this particular one, for one exciting, incredible moment while she’d been filching the business card out of his wallet that had led her to this very place. So what?

  There she was, at her first gig where more than twenty people showed. Maybe some of them had even come to hear her rather than to load up for ladies’ night. And what happened? A disaster. Like always.

  She might as well change her stage name to that, since everyone thought Sunny Z was some kind of bubble gum princess. But her mom called her Sunny, and her middle name, Zoe, had been given to her for the grandma who’d died when she was a baby. Using those names made her feel closer to them, and besides, someone had probably already snagged Disaster Zone. It was perfect for a metal band or…her.

  She glared at Chase. “What would you call what I was doing then?” she challenged, relying on bravado as usual. She only hoped he didn’t see the tears pooling in her eyes.

  But how could he, when he was looking anywhere but at her?