"How is that possible in this day and age?" Nowadays you can find out anything on the internet.
He jerks the smelly cigar from his mouth and waggles it at me. "You get the answer to that question and every media organization in the country will be pounding on your door wanting to hire you."
"I'm not looking for another job, Mr. Bartlett." It's true. I like working for a small paper where I can hone my journalistic skills without the pressure of a big conglomerate.
He holds up a hand in the universal stop sign. "I know you just started working here, but you'd be a fool not to set your sights higher. And an interview with a quarterback whose past is shrouded in mystery would get you there. But things may be demanded you may not want to give. Ty Mathews plays hard both on and off the field. You get my drift?" Another down boom of his bushy eyebrows. Those things take up enough real estate to have their own zip code.
I cross my arms against my chest and give him a steady stare of my own. "He likes women. I get it." I would have been blind not to notice the way Ty Mathews looked at me. Like I was a great big ole turkey sandwich and he couldn't wait to gobble me up. Thing is I've been ogled my whole life. Been fighting off boys since I turned fourteen and grew into 36C cups with the hips to match. Granted none of those boys had been a famous football player with enough charm to melt the panties off any living, breathing female, but Ty Mathews does not impress me as the kind who won't take no for an answer. And, believe me, I won't be saying yes. No matter how much he flexes his muscles at me. "Don't worry, Mr. Bartlett, I can handle him."
He must be reassured by what he sees because he drops the cigar into an ashtray and drops into the chair behind his desk. "So when and where does this interview take place?"
"Monday, at a diner close to where he lives."
"In a public setting. That's good. Have your piece on my desk no later than Wednesday. If it passes muster, I'll include it in the Sunday edition."
"Yes, sir." I smile, thrilled about the possible inclusion of my first piece in the Sunday edition.
I float toward my cubbyhole in a cloud of glory only to get the stink eye from Randy when I pass by him. I don't know what he's got against me. He reports on the street beat scene; I cover the social issues. Maybe he's upset about the football interview. He shouldn't be. Mr. Bartlett asked me to talk to Ron Moss because the sports reporter and his backup both came down with the flu. I was the only reporter in the office when his call. If Randy had gotten to work on time, maybe Mr. Bartlett would have handed the assignment to him. So he's got no one to blame but himself.
By now it's late afternoon and beyond my quitting time, so I head home to my minuscule apartment in the Avondale section of the city. Not the best of neighborhoods, but it's all I can afford. As soon as I walk in the door, my cell rings with the special peal I've programmed for Marigold Thompson, my best friend and ex-college roommate. She's a school teacher who, just like me, is working her first job. We've been so busy, she teaching second graders, me at the newspaper, we haven't gotten together for two weeks. But it's Saturday night and she wants to cut loose.
An hour later, she shows up, wearing a tight, micro skirt, a see-thru white blouse with a black bra underneath and a pair of long, sparkling earrings. Not exactly the schoolmarm look she sports during school hours, but it's pure Marigold. Since I live only a short distance from one of the most popular clubs in town, we decide to walk, rather than cab it. On the way, I fill her in on the details of today's fiasco, leaving out the part about me touching a certain portion of Ron's anatomy.
"Can't believe you did that." She's not being judgmental. After four years in college, she knows me only too well. I never wear anything low cut or high rise, so yeah, today was out of character for me.
"I know. I was an idiot."
"Give yourself a break, MacKenna. You fell for a practical joke, that's all." She curls her arm through my elbow in a show of support. "So who were they?"
"I don't know. They didn't introduce themselves." And afterward, I'd been too embarrassed and angry to ask their names. But next time I see Ty Mathews, I'll ask him. I'll get even with those clowns if it's the last thing I do.
"So what did your boss say? Are you in trouble?" Clearly, she expects the worst.
"Well, another player volunteered to be interviewed so I think I'm going to be okay." I wrap my shawl tighter around me. It might be early September, but with the breeze blowing from Lake Michigan, the air's turned cool.
"Who?"
"Ty Mathews."
She comes to a dead stop in the middle of the sidewalk. "Shut-up!" Her screech almost deafens me. "The star quarterback of the Chicago Outlaws?" Marigold is what you might call a football fanatic, something she grew to appreciate from tutoring half the college football team.
"Yeah."
She clamps her hands on my shoulders and shakes me. "Girl, you just won the lottery. He never gives private interviews."
"So I heard." I squirm beneath the pressure of her hands. For a five-foot nothing, the girl's got a mighty grip. "Mar, let go." Once she releases me, I flex my arms to get the blood flowing again. We've reached the corner across from the nightclub, so I push the button to get the walk light. As busy as this intersection is, we'd be risking our lives if we mad dash it across the street.
"He talks to the press at the end of each game, but he doesn't do one on ones. So this is like huge. Bigger than huge. It's like . . . What's wrong?" She must have noticed me chewing my lip. One thing about Mar, she's tuned in to the universe. Comes from being raised by new age parents and living in a commune.
The 'Walk' light comes on. Not trusting Chicago drivers, I look both ways before crossing the boulevard. "Do you think he offered because . . . you know?"
"He wants to do the nasty with you? I think there's a big chance, yeah." Rather than walk, she beebops her way across the street.
I come to a dead stop on the island in the middle of the intersection. "You're supposed to make me feel better about doing this interview. Not worse."
She tugs at me. "Come on. We gotta get across." As we make the other side, she dismisses my objection with a wave of her hand. "You got nothing to worry about. He's got women lined up all over town begging him to screw them. That boy's a playah. And he never sleeps with the same woman twice."
"He doesn't?"
"Yep. So he doesn't need to screw a dewy-eyed virgin from the middle of nowhere Iowa."
"I'm not a virgin!" Granted, I've only done it three times, but once is all it takes to lose your V-card. Right?
"Guarantee he doesn't think so. Not with that purer-than-driven-snow vibe you put out. Honestly, MacKenna, you gotta get some and pronto."
Tired of being thought of as a goody-two-shoes, I blurt out. "I touched Ron Moss's ass."
"You did? No wonder he walked out on the interview. That wide receiver is about as straight as they come."
Marigold knows her jocks. Comes from tutoring so many of them in college. "And Ty Mathews called me a bold woman," I say with a note of pride in my voice.
"Woot!" She high fives me. "MacKenna Perkins, there might be some hope for you after all."
Her ebullient spirits make me feel better until we turn the corner and run into the block-long line in front of Platinum. We're not getting in. No way. No how.
Chapter 3
MacKenna
TOTALLY DISAPPOINTED, I whoosh out a breath. "We're never getting in." I didn't realize how much I wanted this, needed this, until now.
"O, ye of little faith," Marigold says, dragging me to the front of the line where a mountain of a man stands, a foot taller and a mile wider than us. Parking herself in front of the behemoth, she greets him with a, "Hey, you."
A smile breaks out on the mountain's lips. "Marigold." He picks her up like she's a toy doll, and, with her feet dangling, bear hugs her.
She bops him on the shoulder. "Oomph. Put me down, Beast."
Beast? It suits him, that name.
With the greatest of
care, he returns her to the ground. "How are you, Mar? Long time no see."
"Good. Graduated in June. I'm teaching second graders at Mayer Elementary now."
A wrinkle forms across his brow. "That's a dangerous area."
"Don't worry. I know how to take care of myself."
"Don't I know it." He rubs the top of his head. "I still have the bruise from the nookie you gave me when I didn't do my English homework."
Marigold knocks elbows with him. "That was just tough love, Todd. Listen, any chance we could get into the club?" She points toward me. "My friend here's just dying to see the inside of Platinum."
"Is she?" He gives me the once over. Not the leer I usually get from the men, but the look a security guy would do.
"Marigold, meet Todd Gryzinski. Todd, MacKenna Perkins."
"Nice to meet you, Todd." I stick out my hand and shake his paw.
"A pleasure, MacKenna." His grip is surprisingly gentle for such a huge man.
Unable to leave well enough alone, Marigold pipes up with, "She's a newspaper reporter, looking to do a piece on Platinum."
"Mar." I warn her beneath my breath. I don't do the street beat scene. That's Randy's job, and I'm not eager to step on his toes.
"Welcome to Platinum, ladies." Unclipping the black velvet rope holding back the masses waiting to get in, he turns to the man standing two feet away at the club's entrance. "Bruce?"
Only slightly smaller than Todd, the mini-mountain answers. "Yeah?"
"These ladies are my very special guests. Please see that they get a good table."
Bruce two-finger salutes Mar's friend. "Sure thing, boss."
"Thanks, Todd. You're the best." Marigold pulls him down for a quick kiss on his cheek.
Once he straightens out, he puts his paw size hand over his heart. "You've slain me, merry maiden."
"See, that Shakespeare homework came in handy after all."
He winks at her. "You don't know the half of it. The ladies love all that poetry mush." He nods toward the club's entrance. "Bruce will see you right. Have a great time, Mar. Nice to meet you, MacKenna."
As she waves goodbye to Todd, Mar hooks her other arm through mine. Together, we head toward the Platinum door, a black garish monstrosity with silver blinking lights. There's a momentary lull while the guard holds a conversation with yet another bouncer inside the door. Boy, this place has more security than Fort Knox. They truly don't let just anybody in.
While we wait for the go ahead, I turn to Mar. "That was pretty impressive, kiddo. I thought we wouldn't get in, not with that line. When did you tutor him?"
"My sophomore year. He was a junior and pretty well known around campus. Students fell all over themselves to talk to one of the college's star football players. So I tutored him at our apartment, rather than the library. Otherwise, we'd never get any work done. You don't remember him?"
I shake my head. "No. Not really." Busy as I was with school, a part-time job, and volunteering at the women's shelter, I was in our apartment only long enough to grab something to eat and fall into bed exhausted. Whenever I ran into one of the football players she tutored, I never paid much attention. They all looked pretty much the same—big, bulky, missing a couple of chromosomes. "No."
She shrugs. "If it hadn't been for me, he would have flunked his Literature class. He needed at least a C to stay on the football team."
"And now he's a bouncer?"
"Don't judge, MacKenna. He's part owner of the club."
"Sorry." One of my constant sins. I tend to make quick decisions about people before getting to know the real them. That doesn't jive with being a journalist, I know. But it's the reason I became one. Because I wanted to get to the truth. I've gotten better through the years, but there are times when I slip back. "You're right. But why isn't he playing football?"
"His first year in the pros, he blew out his knee. They had to let him go."
"He looks okay."
"Okay is not good enough for professional football. You have to be in tip top shape."
Bruce gives us the high sign and we follow him inside. The club is wall-to-wall people. A band's supposed to play tonight, but at the moment, a DJ is spinning music which blares from speakers hanging from the ceiling, poles, even the floor. The music is so loud, my body vibrates with it, which I guess is entirely the point.
Smoke machines are hard at work throughout the club. Guess they add to the mystique of the place. Or maybe they use it to cover up the bumping and grinding going on. We follow Bruce to a section that offers a prime view of the dance floor. Miraculously, a table opens up right in front of us and Bruce grabs it before somebody else does. The mini rounds are on raised platforms so that you can not only catch the goings on on the dance floor crowd, but take in the whole scene.
"Thanks, Bruce." Marigold blasts him with her most brilliant smile.
"You're welcome." He hands Marigold a card, and, over the loud music, he yells, "Free drinks, all night long."
"Thanks!" Mar doesn't drink much, and neither do I. But, hey, free drinks are free drinks. After I tell her what I want, Mar makes her way to the bar while I hold down the table. A couple of guys come hit on me, but I ignore them. Eventually, they get the message and drift away. By the time she returns with an Appletini for me, and a Mojito for her, the band has taken the stage.
"They're quite good," I yell.
"Yeah, that's why I wanted to come tonight," she screams back. "They just cut a record and they're getting great buzz."
Before I get a chance to comment, a commotion erupts by the front door. People cramming the entrance swerve back in a great big wave. At first I can't figure out what's causing all the brouhaha. But then the crowd parts, and I see HIM. My jaw drops as my mouth waters at the sight. God, if he was gorgeous all sweaty on the football field, he's a hundred times more stunning now. Dressed in dark trousers, dark shirt and black leather jacket, he exudes heart-pounding sex appeal. No wonder women flip over him. He's taller than just about everyone in the club, but not taller than the mountains around him. Some of his Chicago Outlaws' teammates, I bet. "Gah."
"What's wrong?" Mar asks.
I nod my head toward the front entrance.
"Well, well, well, small world, huh?"
"What?"
"What a coinkydink. Out of all the club joints in Chicago, Ty Mathews had to walk into this one."
"Misquoting Casablanca now? Really, Mar." And then I catch the man standing behind him. "Oh, God. Ron Moss is with him." I try to crawl under the table, but there's nowhere to hide.
"Where?" She's so short, she doesn't spot Ron.
"Behind Ty Mathews."
She grabs the edge of the table and boosts herself up. "Oh, yeah. I see him now." Dropping back to the floor, she says, "What's he doing in this den of sin? Although I do remember when he wasn't so uptight."
My gaze swerves to her. "You know him?" I'd never heard about this.
"Yeah. We went to the same high school. I was a freshman, he was a senior."
Given my disastrous interview with Ron Moss, I need to ask her about him. But I'm so focused on Ty Mathews, I can't think about anything else right now. "Shouldn't they be, I don't know, resting up for the game tomorrow?"
"Oh, honey." She pats my hand. "This is what they do to 'rest up.' If they party too much, they'll have plenty of time to recuperate. It's a Sunday night game." She sips on her Appletini. "I can't get over Ronnie being here. This is not his type of thing. Not these days."
"Maybe he wants to feel like he's a part of the team?" I volunteer.
"Yeah, maybe."
Someone shows up to escort the Chicago Outlaws to the VIP section on the other side of the club. When Ron goes along, not once glancing our direction, I breathe a sigh of relief. Ron did not catch sight of me.
After the excitement by the front door dies down, a guy I've never met before comes up to our table. Turns out Mar knows him. After a quick check in with me, she goes off to do her boogy thing. Soon she'
s on the dance floor, letting her freak flag fly.
A stranger I've never met walks up to the table and asks me to dance. Even though he's polite about it, I give him the brush off. Mar's the dancing queen Me? I like to observe. Hopeless, I know.
While I sip my drink, my gaze wanders toward the VIP section. Located up a flight of steps, it's not so high I can't tell what's going on. And what's going on is plenty. The Outlaws are spread out over several open booths. On the left, two of the players are putting on quite a show, groping, open mouth kissing a couple of blondes, and a brunette. On the right Ron Moss sits with a couple of other players, but no women. Well, except for the waitress who's bending forward flashing a pair of impressive breasts at him. Honey, that's not going to work. Sure enough, he says something, squeezes out of the booth and heads toward the back of the exclusive area. Now that I know him better, I feel bad for him. This has to be hard for someone who doesn't enjoy these types of recreational activities. Maybe I should go talk to him and apologize for what happened today on the field.
While I'm debating the wisdom of doing that, my gaze wanders to the middle of the VIP section where Ty's holding court, front and center. The blonde on his right is rubbing his chest, kissing his jaw. When she tries to kiss him on the mouth, he jerks away and says something. She pouts before taking on a new tack and nibbling his ear. The brunette on his left smirks, presumably at the blonde's lack of success. She pushes her breasts right against his bicep and whispers something in his ear. When he nods, she crawls under the table, between his knees.
It's so smoky in the place at first I have a hard time seeing what's going on. But suddenly the mist dissipates long enough for me to catch a gander of what she's doing. Her head's bobbing up and down right between his legs. Holy shit! Is she going down on him, right here in front of God and everyone?
He bares his teeth as his hips move in tune to her rhythm. Is anyone else seeing what I'm seeing? Yep. Many at the raised tables around me have their gazes glued to Ty and his floozy. He'll get into trouble, won't he? Anyone could complain to the cops about the lewd PDA. But the audience doesn't look shocked. Going by the snickers and the laughter, they're titillated, excited, but not shocked. They came to see a show and they're getting one. Besides, who'd be stupid enough to report the god almighty quarterback of the Chicago Outlaws the night before game day?
Dirty Filthy Boy (Chicago Outlaws #1) Page 2
