The blond man extended his hand to me.
“Ms. Ling?”
I met his handshake.
“Yes?”
“I’m Chip Weston, the club’s owner. Can we talk?”
I smiled. “Kicking us out already? I didn’t know my reputation had gotten that bad.”
He laughed.
“No, no. It’s a business matter.”
He motioned to the side. I looked to Derek.
“I’ll catch up with you,” I told him.
Derek nodded and started leading a path through the club, and my teammates went with him. I followed Chip to a dark corner of the club until we were pressed against a sidewall, as far away from the music and people as we could get. The bouncer, who’d trailed behind, now stood with his back to us. What the hell was the club’s owner about to offer me?
Chip rubbed his chin. “I was wondering if you would be interested in making appearances here on a regular basis. We could set up a schedule of what works for you. I’ll pay, obviously.”
Okay, nothing bad. Clearly, Chip walked around with a bouncer in tow to make himself look important and easy to spot in his own club. Either that, or my reputation had gotten that bad, and Chip was afraid I’d take him out with a single punch if he pissed me off. Secretly, I preferred the latter. Still, here it was. Another opportunity to make money.
Typically, we got free admission, free drinks, free everything. That was standard for pro gamers who showed their famous faces at a club in the Hollywood Hills, with or without a contract. But since the all-star tournament was under way, and the top teams from around the world had descended on L.A.’s nightlife, things were getting a little more serious. Club owners were dishing out top dollar for gamers to sign on the dotted line.
My gaze flicked to Rooke, across the club. He sat on a couch, surrounded by the team. Still, the expression in his eyes looked just a tad empty, as if he were sitting on the couch alone. How much exposure to these clubs could he handle? Tonight was damage control for the sake of our image. What about tomorrow? Was it smart to force him into this kind of environment, night after night? Still, if I didn’t have enough money to maintain the team in the first place, what was the point?
“How much?” I asked.
“Well, with the all-star tournament going on, that raises your rep a little. But I gotta tell you, that last matchup—”
“Everyone has a bad night.”
“Sure, sure. If it’s something you’re serious about, we can come up with a number. Really, it depends on your popularity throughout the year and how many appearances you’re willing to do.”
I nodded again, though I felt numb this time.
There was another way of wording this. How much was I willing to pimp out my team? I’d taken over as owner so no one would have to go out and make appearances if they didn’t want to. We weren’t milking machines or walking advertisements, and that was the point.
“I’ll have to think about it,” I told him.
“No problem. But I need an answer within the next few days, or I’m moving on to another team. That’s business. You understand.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I understand.”
Chip left, bodyguard in tow. I rested my head against the wall, folded my arms, and pushed a slow breath from my lips. The life of a team owner. Pimp out your team. Make more money. Do whatever you can to stay afloat.
Glamorous, wasn’t it?
I started pushing my way across the club, through the throngs of people, when the cell around my wrist buzzed. I glanced at it.
Vigorade, Inc.
Vigorade. The top sports drink for athletic gamers, and one of our sponsors. Brilliant.
I pulled the phone from my wrist and pressed it to my ear.
“Hello?” I shouted over the music.
“Ms. Ling, this is Frank Deckers, Head of Marketing. We need to talk.”
“I’m a little busy right now.”
“You’re in a club near Sunset and Vine. You can make time.”
It was rare that I was speechless, but just for a few seconds, all the words fell out of my mouth. How the hell did he know where I was? Eventually, my tongue started working again.
“How did you—”
“There are pictures on the Internet. A ton of them, mostly of you and that love interest of yours. They were uploaded just a few minutes ago. I can see the club’s name in the background.”
I gritted my teeth together so hard I bit the inside of my cheek. What was the Internet saying about Rooke now? I pushed it from my mind.
“Why are you calling?”
“You were short a player last round, and now the media feeds about your team are nothing but this drug issue—”
“I’m working on fixing it. This isn’t going to go away overnight.”
“If he hadn’t failed his drug test in the first place, this wouldn’t even be a problem.”
“I know,” I said firmly. “I’m working on that, too. He had a slip-up. It won’t happen again.”
“That’s not what I’m telling you,” he stressed. “If he hadn’t failed his drug test, we wouldn’t have this problem.”
It didn’t take a genius to pick up on the hint. He was telling me to falsify the report if it happened again. My hand clenched, and my cell threatened to collapse under the pressure. I took a breath and relaxed.
“Well,” I began, forcing a calm tone to my voice. “If his drug test comes back as failed, then I’m reporting it as such. What is it you expect me to do?”
Maybe if I could get him to straight out say it, I could take action in some way.
“Then maybe next season we’ll have to sponsor a team whose reports don’t come back negative,” he said.
That wasn’t enough. All he was saying was that my team used drugs, and maybe others wouldn’t. Damn it.
“Most teams can’t survive four-on-five matchups,” he continued. “It’s embarrassing, and we don’t want that as the face of our brand.” He paused for effect. “I’ll let you think about that. Good night, Ms. Ling.”
He hung up.
I pressed the phone to my forehead, despite the people in the club looking at me like it was a tinfoil hat instead. Ugh. We needed sponsors. Keeping the team afloat on prize money alone was never enough. Not unless you won every tournament you entered. So, really, money from the sponsors paid for our staff, housing bills, and ongoing costs. Problem was, sponsors tended to drop you after a season if you didn’t win or gain enough attention in the media to make up for it, which drove team owners to showcase their players like puppets for the masses.
Was that me now, too? I glanced down at myself, at the sleek designer outfit, all shades of gray and hints of nude. I touched a hand to my glasses. The softly glowing lines, endlessly dancing, played tag in my peripheral. I looked like a futuristic mercenary. Like I really had walked right out of a video game. How marketable.
How perfect.
I shook my head. No. That wasn’t me. I was doing this to get the heat off Rooke. That’s all.
I started weaving my way through the dancers again, pinballing my way through the crowd as I bounced off one person to the next. One walk through the club, and I already felt like I’d had the shit kicked out of me, and not just because of the dancers.
Finally, I made my way into the quieter and more secluded VIP area and surveyed the club for my teammates. Hannah and Lily danced together in the corner, and more than a few eyes were turned their way. Across the room, Derek was at his usual spot: at the bar with a cluster of ladies around him. On top of being one of the most recognized athletes in L.A., Derek was a charmer, with a perfect build and a million-dollar smile. He couldn’t walk two feet in public without getting swarmed like he’d stepped on a wasp’s nest. Judging by the grin currently on his face, he didn’t mind being stung.
“Did you hear the rumor about him?” some girl giggled behind me. She pointed toward Derek. “He slept with one of his fans and got her pregnant.”
My heart stopped. What ludicrous, bullshit rumor was the media feeding to the public now? I flicked through the phone on my wrist, surfing through the latest tabloid gossip feeds.
Another member of Defiance in hot water. Derek Cooper fathers a baby . . .
Damn it.
Damn it. Damn it. Damn it.
I stalked across the club toward Derek and forced my way through his crowd of groupies, ignoring their scowls and comments, most of which ended with the word “bitch.”
I grabbed his arm.
“I need to talk to you for a second,” I said between my teeth.
He grinned down at me. “Of course.” He lifted his head. “Ladies, if you’ll excuse me.” They all whined, but he assured them he’d return. Derek led the way to a secluded corner in the club. I felt the icy stares of his fans digging into the back of my skull the entire way there.
Once we’d cleared the mob, I faced him and crossed my arms.
“Anything you need to tell me?”
Derek glanced around, as if he were looking for the answer on the club’s walls. “Uh, no.”
“There’s a new Internet rumor.”
“About me?” He grinned. Great, he was proud of himself. “Let’s have it.”
I closed the gap between us and spoke through my teeth. “Did you get a woman pregnant?”
He laughed.
“What? No.”
Then he paused, as if the thought had passed through the filters of his brain into the area marked POSSIBLE. “Wait, what’s her name?”
“Jennifer.”
He rubbed his chin as he thought about that.
“I’m gonna need a last name.”
Great. He’d slept with more than one Jennifer.
“Talen,” I said.
He thought about it some more.
“. . . middle name?”
I smacked him repeatedly with an open palm. “You slept with more than one Jennifer Talen?”
“Ow— I’m joking— Ow. Stop.”
I pulled back from my assault, and Derek held up his hands in defense.
“Kali, relax. It’s just a joke.”
“But you did sleep with a woman named Jennifer Talen.”
He rubbed the back of his neck as he thought about it. “Yeah, I think.”
“How long ago?”
He shrugged. “Two months, maybe.”
My eyes went wide.
“Jesus, Kali. Put your eyes back in your head. It’s not true.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I might fool around a lot, but I wrap up the grand duke every time.”
“The grand duke?” I glanced at the area below his belt and shook my head. “I’m going to fast-forward right through that.” He grinned at me. All just a big joke to him. “Are you sure this isn’t true?”
“No. I mean, probably not.” He lightly smacked my arm with the back of his hand. “Since when do you care what other people are saying about us?”
Since my bank account depended on it. If the sponsors didn’t like what was being said about us, they could pull the plug, then I’d have nothing to fund the team. Still, it wasn’t fair to put that on Derek, especially if it all was a lie.
I took a step back. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have believed it.”
He shrugged. “It’s okay. Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .”
He slid past me and headed back to his group of ladies, who all grinned and giggled as he returned. I watched him go. It bothered me a little that he wasn’t taking this seriously, but maybe he was right. Maybe this was all just bullshit. What’s the point of worrying about stuff you can’t control, right?
Speaking of worrying about stuff I couldn’t control, Rooke appeared through the crowd and started making his way toward me.
I sat on the nearest couch and waited, knowing he was headed my way. I kept my gaze on a vacant corner as I felt my stomach begin to twist. Maybe it wouldn’t be that bad, and he was ready to start talking. Or maybe he was going to chew me out again. The couch sunk beside me. I braced myself and decided to speak first. If I was honest and let him know that I was beginning to see the other side of things as team owner, he might come around a little and open up with me, too.
“I still stand by my decisions, but I’m starting to see why owners are so prone to falsifying their drug test results,” I admitted. “Almost no one can survive a matchup with only four players, and the sponsors threaten to leave. Plus, it hurts the team. I mean, where’s the incentive to be honest?”
“Oh, is that why you lost?”
My breath hitched. That wasn’t Rooke’s voice. As I turned to look at the man seated next to me, my heart ground to a halt. Black tattoos. Ice-blue eyes. K-Rig. Or one of them, at least. After my initial shock receded, I recognized him as the one who’d taken me out of the fight. The one I’d told to make it count.
I looked to my side and found Rooke halfway to me, but conversing with Cole, of all people. Looked like Oblivion was here, too. They were deep in conversation and failed to glance my way. No one noticed that someone from K-Rig was sitting with me.
Was this even real?
I turned back to my couch mate. His gaze wandered over the room for a minute before he glanced at me.
“American clubs are interesting.”
I gawked at him, my jaw unhinging. A member of K-Rig was talking to me. This . . . this was unprecedented. I lifted a hand to my chin, snapped it shut, and rested there, as if it were planned. Smooth, Kali.
“You speak English now?” I asked.
He shrugged.
“Oh, I get it,” I continued. “Since you’ve destroyed my team and secured your dominance in the tournament, it’s okay to talk to me.”
“Actually, we haven’t spoken with anyone in the tournament. Or in any other tournament, really.”
“Is that so?” I asked, only half believing him. “Then why am I so lucky?”
He looked out over the club again and ran a hand over his mouth as he thought for a second. “Let’s just say that out of everyone we’ve ever faced off against, only one person tried to fight us with her eyes closed. Some people thought that was pretty impressive.”
Good thing my hand was already propping up my chin, or it would have hit my lap this time. I could tell they’d been impressed by me in the matchup, but I never thought they’d admit it out loud. Might as well take the opportunity to properly introduce myself since I didn’t get the chance at the all-star dinner.
“Kali Ling,” I said, extending my hand. Maybe he’d take it.
“Kim Jae.”
He met my eyes, but not my hand. After waiting with it extended for several seconds, I dropped my arm.
“What do you mean by ‘American clubs are interesting’?” I asked.
“Gamers in the States are like actors. This is . . . Hollywood to you.”
“Hollywood? How do you mean?”
“You work out, look good for the cameras. You put on a show. But at the end of the day, the actors go home. They don’t keep living and breathing their characters every single second.” He turned to look at me dead on and pointed at his face. “For us, the mask never comes off.”
I swallowed thick. Even when they weren’t in the arena, these guys were intimidating.
“So, if gamers in the States are just celebrities, what are you back home?”
“Gods,” he said. “Idols. Pop culture doesn’t exist unless we define it.”
I wasn’t entirely surprised. Competitive gaming had always been huge in Asia, especially South Korea. When eSports took off around the world, building with every passing year, the South Koreans started pumping out their gam
ers the same as they did their pop stars: manufactured pieces of perfection. Everything from the way they moved, talked, and breathed was rehearsed. The Korean influence was felt worldwide when other countries adopted their idea of gamers with image, though not quite to the same extreme. Still, I couldn’t help but wonder . . .
How good would I be if I’d been born over there?
“Is it just as intense in China?” I asked.
“Not quite, but almost. More than the States, for sure. Why?”
“Just wondering.”
He studied me for a minute as his gaze raked over my face a few times. “You have Chinese heritage.” He said it in such a way I wasn’t sure if it was a question or a statement. “And you’re wondering how your life would be different over there.”
He certainly pieced that together pretty quickly.
“Is mind reading listed under your special abilities?” I asked. “Or am I just that obvious?”
“Being number one in the world means understanding your opponent more than they understand themselves.”
Wow. So, K-Rig didn’t just practice martial arts and weapons.
“Technically, no one is number one in the world,” I reminded him.
“Yet.” A hint of smugness settled over his expression. “Being born or raised in China wouldn’t have changed anything. For you, at least. I think not having the support from family or loved ones made you want it more.” He looked me over. “You seem like the rebellious type.”
Well, I couldn’t argue with that.
Speaking of rebellion, my gaze dropped to the tattooed symbol on his chest. His team’s logo would be with him forever unless he went through the pain and cost of getting it removed.
Like he’d said, the mask didn’t come off.
I felt the heavy weight of his gaze and turned my eyes up to meet his. A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. He was entertained by watching me watching him.
“You’re wondering if it’s real,” he concluded, sweeping a hand from his eyes to his chest. I nodded. The grin gripping the corners of his lips slowly spread across his entire face. “Do you think it is?”
I looked at him again. Really looked. At the outskirts of his irises, searching for the edge of a contact lens. Nothing. Then to the goose bumps prickling the skin beneath the black ink of his tattoo. A light sheen of sweat coated his chest, and yet, nothing smeared. It had to be ink. Had to be laser.
Gauntlet Page 17
