The Player's Club: Scott

by Cathy Yardley

  Charlie left, and Scott focused on his work. Lately, he was either being a party animal or a workaholic, no middle ground. If he only stayed busy enough, maybe the Amanda-size ache in his chest would disappear.

  About an hour later, Charlie was back with a few of the other guys from Sales. Scott tried not to look as disgruntled as he felt. “What? You guys missing a report or something?”

  “Nah, this is about that club,” Charlie said, sounding excited.

  “Oh, right.” Scott sighed. “I forgot to look up the address.”

  “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.”

  “Damn it, that’s not it at all.”

  “I don’t have time for this,” she said, wiping carefully at her eyes with her fingertips. “I have to go. I have a date.”

  “We need to talk,” he said.

  “No, we don’t.” She moved past him, opening the front door. “The worst part is, if I hadn’t been so gung ho about this club, so intent on helping you and getting myself in, none of this might’ve happened. You were stupid, but I let you hurt me.”

  She gestured to the hallway. “I’m not letting you hurt me again.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said helplessly.

  “So am I,” she said. “But I’m also late. Good night, Scott.”

  15

  LATER THAT NIGHT AT DINNER, Amanda gritted her teeth before she took a sip of water. Getting back on the horse, getting back on the horse, she reminded herself. At least, that’s what Jackie and Tina had suggested she do, once she’d come home from Spain. She’d first decided to continue and explore Europe on her own. She’d had some delicious food, but instead of comforting her, it had only depressed her more.

  “So, what do you do for a living?” Rick, the journalist and coworker that Jackie dug up to be her get-back-on-the-horse date, said with a smile as he started cutting into his steak.

  “At the moment, nothing.” She poked at her filet mignon. He’d taken her to a steak house, very expensive, very chic. It seemed great. Too bad she wasn’t in a red meat frame of mind.

  “Nothing?” Rick asked, eyebrows going up. She got the feeling Jackie had been less than forthcoming with details, and he was now wondering if he was having dinner with a loser. Ugh. “Unemployed? Lot of that going around. How’s the search going?”

  “Lousy.” Not that she was actively searching for a job, but the fact that she was without purpose was still bugging her steadily. She ate her scallops. Overdone, she thought critically. If there was a next date with this guy, she would choose the restaurant. She knew a great place, hidden adjacent to Union Square, that would put this overpriced joint in the dust.

  “What, exactly, are you looking to do?”

  She laughed. “That’s sort of the problem. I don’t know.”

  “Oh.” He took a nervous gulp of his beer. “Hmm. This isn’t going very well, is it?”

  She frowned. “Sorry. I…just sort of went through a nasty breakup, and I’m trying to get my social skills back.”

  “Aha.” He smiled broadly, leaning back. Like he had her pegged. She went from contrite to annoyed in about five seconds. “Double whammy, huh? Lost your job, and you’ve got a bad ex-boyfriend. Common story. We write about it all the time, over at the paper.”

  “Really.”

  He had that gleam in his eyes, whenever he talked about the stories he worked on. He tried to at least make them entertaining, but they were really a sort of quiet bragging. “Although I write about a lot of fun stuff, too,” he continued in a smooth transition. “Did you read the article about The Player’s Club?”

  She shuddered. “No,” she said flatly. “But I heard about it.”

  “Must be nice, to have all that money to jet around the world, living that death-defying lifestyle,” he mused.

  She wasn’t going to ask, but next thing she knew, the question popped out of her mouth. “So you must’ve spent time at one of the parties or whatever, huh? Spent time with the guys? Did you do all the crazy stuff with them?”

  Now, he squirmed. “I did a lot of research,” he said quickly. “There was this other story, about a group of vigilante strippers…”

  “So you skydived with them, stuff like that?”

  He looked irritated at her persistence. “Well, no. I would’ve compromised the story if I had tried infiltrating them directly
. They’re a small group—I would’ve stuck out.”

  “You could have joined.”

  He shrugged. “The paper wouldn’t have agreed to that.”

  She nodded. Translation: they wouldn’t have you. Scott might have been a lousy liar, but at least he’d tried to avoid lying in the first place. “So you got all your information secondhand,” she clarified.

  “I had a great source,” he defended. “I mean, the guy provided me with pictures, gave me the whole background. I might as well have been there.”

  “Oh?” Amanda asked carefully, feeling a prickle of reluctant interest. He’d written the story. He knew who the real source was. “Why would he agree to talk to you? They’re pretty secretive. Did you bribe him or something?”

  “Are you kidding? He came to me,” he said, clearly offended. “He wanted this story done.”

  Amanda’s eyes narrowed. “Since secrecy is one of the top rules…why would he let you print what he did for a living? He had to know that the Club would put two and two together.”

  “I didn’t print his name,” Rick snapped. “I kept his anonymity. Besides, he made it sound like the Club was going in a new direction, and they won’t care as much about getting into the paper. He could feed me more information.”

  “I thought that only rich guys were in that club.” Amanda didn’t know why she was grilling Rick, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself. “Was this a rich guy?”

  Rick looked a little startled, shaking his head. “You know, I never would’ve pegged him for a data analyst, actually…not that I know what one looks like, per se. But this guy seemed loaded. Expensive watch, silk tie, the whole nine. I’ll bet he bought all that stuff after he joined the Club…” Rick mused, his eyes going hazy. “Well, I’m going to be following up, soon.”

  “What was his name?”

  Rick snapped out of his journalistic reverie. “I protect my sources,” he insisted. “Besides, why do you want to know? What’s with the police interrogation?”

  “I think he’s…an old neighbor of mine,” Amanda said carefully.