The Player's Club: Scott

by Cathy Yardley

  “No problem.”

  Amanda looked apologetic. “I guess I blew your cover.”

  “My cover?” Scott said, confused.

  “They actually think you’re boring.” Amanda chuckled.

  “Imagine that.” Scott cleared his throat.

  “They don’t know you at all, do they?” She sounded fascinated. “Not about the Club, obviously. But they don’t even have any idea what you’re really like.”

  “Amanda, I’m not really all that exciting.”

  She blinked at him. “Are you serious?”

  He shrugged, feeling a little relief as he tugged her to his desk. She leaned on it, and he held her shoulders. “As far as they’re concerned, I’m just an analyst, Amanda. I didn’t date a whole lot…”

  “Yeah, but I saw who you dated,” she interjected, rolling her eyes.

  She had a point there: Kayla was a lot to take in on first meeting. “My life sounds exciting, but it’s really no big deal.”

  She stopped him impatiently. “Okay. Were you or were you not skulking around on my fire escape at three o’clock in the morning when we first officially met?”

  “That was different.”

  “And have you or have you not gone skydiving?”

  “Well, yes…”

  “Did we practically have sex in a stairwell at a rave?”

  He felt heat at the memory. “Definitely. But—”

  “Did you get a lap dance on stage at a ten-thousand-dollar-a-ticket party?”

  He grinned.

  She leaned back against his desk. “Did you break into an arboretum at Golden Gate Park and have sex with me against a tree?”

  He straightened a little. “Absolutely,” he said, moving a little closer.

  “Do any of those things sound boring?”

  “No,” he remarked, feeling both triumphant and like an idiot. “I mean, when you put it that way.”

  She smiled, and then her eyes turned mischievous. She hopped up, sitting on his desk. “Does your door have a lock?”

  “What?”

  “Your office door,” she purred, her hands gliding down his shirt and lingering on the button of his fly. “Does it lock?”

  He smiled, then took a step away from her, locking his door with a soft click. He stepped back into her embrace, noticing that she’d worn a relatively prim knee-length skirt. He eased the hemline up onto her thighs.

  She wasn’t wearing underwear. He went fully hard in a rush.

  “You’re the most exciting woman I’ve ever met,” he said hoarsely as she undid his pants, unzipping the fly and nudging the waistband of his pants and boxers down. His cock sprang from the constraining fabric. She parted her legs wider, and he stepped between them, easing himself into her tight, wet passage. She sighed, long and loud, shivering against him when he buried himself fully.

  “You’re amazing,” he whispered, nipping her jawline as he eased himself out a little, then pressed forward with a strong, gliding motion.

  “Shh,” she murmured, her thighs clamping against his hips. “You feel so good…”

  They clung to each other, his hips moving in a slow, maddening rhythm against her as his cock slid in and out of her, withdrawing almost fully before delving deep. She gasped every time their bodies connected. He reached between them, stroking her hard, erect clit, and she cried out softly.

  “I have to warn you,” he murmured against her ear, taking a quick nip on her earlobe. “The walls here are really thin.”

  “I don’t care,” she breathed, tilting her head back and arching her hips to take him in even deeper. He clutched her ass, pulling her hard against him as he rocked with more insistent force inside her. She moaned softly, driving him wild. He could feel her squeezing around him, scooting to get closer to him, her legs wrapped around his waist, her hands clutching at his shoulders as she made those soft, incoherent mewling sounds of pleasure.

  Soon, he could feel the building pressure of her orgasm as her body clenched around him, her breathing going fast and choppy. He moved quicker, with less finesse and more power. They kissed hard and hot and frenzied, their bodies so close together at times he couldn’t tell where he ended and she began, a cliché he’d heard but had never actually experienced until now. He didn’t care that they were in his office. They could’ve been on the fifty yard line of the Super Bowl—he only cared about the amazing, passionate woman who was driving him past the point of reason, burning him alive.

  When she came, she let out a moan of pleasure, shuddering against him. Her pussy stroked his fully embedded cock, milking him, clutching around him like a fist, and he came like a shotgun, the pressure and intensity making his mind a complete blank. He trembled against her, his body shivering almost violently. He held her, the two of them kissing, stroking each other, as if they couldn’t bear to let go.

  Slowly, he came to his senses. He got a good look at her.

  “You’re all sweaty,” he remarked, pushing her now-damp bangs out of her eyes. “But beautiful.”

  “They’re going to know what we did,” she murmured, with a rueful but still-mischievous grin. “Do you mind?”

  He shrugged. “It’s about time they figured out who I really was, I guess.”

  She kissed him, and he kissed her back, knowing that being with her had a huge amount to do with who he now felt he was.

  But what if he didn’t make it into the Club? What if he couldn’t get her into the Club?

  And the thought that kept him up nights—why would she care about him, if she knew what a boring, normal guy he was?

  THAT EVENING, SCOTT WAS EAGER to get back to Amanda. To his surprise, he got a call first from George. Player’s business, he’d said. It surprised him because it was George and George was not exactly interested in business.

  The fact they were meeting in a bar, even a classy place like Martuni’s, did not surprise him, since George was orchestrating it. When he got there and it was only the two of them, Scott knew he’d been duped.

  What does he want with me? Scott thought.

  “Hey, man. Let me buy you a drink,” George said magnanimously from a bar stool, gesturing for Scott to join him. There wasn’t a big crowd, and Scott hoped he could get this over with quickly. “What’ll you have?”

  “Club soda.”

  “No, really. I’m buying,” George pushed, as if somehow Scott couldn’t afford something alcoholic. What an idiot. “Or maybe you don’t know anything about martinis. Tell you what, I’ll get you something.”

  “No, I’m not—”

  “Bartender, get this guy a dirty martini, Stoli.” His tone was peremptory, and he didn’t even look at the man behind the bar. Scott winced as the bartender gave George a second look. Scott hoped his own expression was apologetic enough to forgo anything the guy might do in retaliation—say, put something nasty in his drink.

  He sat next to George. “You haven’t even pretended to like me,” he said, his voice flat. “You’ve been telling me I won’t make the cut, that I’m not fit to be a member. Then you call me up and say you’ve got something I need to know. What the hell, man?”

  George blinked at him. “Couldn’t you have at least waited until… Okay, yeah, here’s your drink.” The now-surly bartender put the drink in front of Scott. “And hey, I need a refill.” George nudged an empty glass away from himself.

  Scott rubbed at his temples. The sooner he could get away from this guy, the better.

  “Now, what were we talking about?” George’s dull eyes sharpened a little, and his expression turned shrewd. “Oh, yeah. Hey, I was just messing with you. It’s hazing. It’s supposed to be like that, you know?”

  “You’re supposed to be a dick?”

  “Of course I am,” George said, as if Scott had proven his point. “That’s what drives me nuts about Lincoln. He makes it seem like some kind of boring, stupid nineteenth-century men’s club. When I joined up, I thought it was going to be a bunch of guys having a good time, you know? Doing
crazy stuff, partying. Then Lincoln had to come up with a bunch of rules, and a philosophy, and next thing you know, we’re turning into a bunch of pussies, I swear.”

  Scott decided to drink the martini. It burned at his throat, and tasted like ashes—hence the dirty, he surmised. It was probably a good martini if you weren’t a dedicated beer drinker. “Again, what did you need to tell me?”

  “I need to see where you stand.” The bartender put George’s new drink in front of him, and he grabbed it blindly, taking a strong swig. “Lincoln’s driving the club into the ground, and it seems like every new recruit is just as wimpy as he is.”

  “I don’t think running with the bulls is necessarily wimpy,” Scott said mildly, thinking, Insane, yeah, but not wimpy.

  George rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever. But I’m not looking to get killed every year. Especially not with a bunch of guys, you know?”

  “Lincoln’s a friend,” Scott said, his voice icy.

  George snickered. “Yeah, right.” His gray eyes narrowed. “What the hell do you know about him, anyway?”

  Scott started to answer, then stopped abruptly.

  Actually, he knew next to nothing about Lincoln. Or anybody else on the “crew,” for that matter. His brow furrowed.

  “Exactly,” George said in a low voice. “You don’t know these people. They’re not really your friends. Lincoln’s got a past that nobody knows about. Hell, I used to think he was in some kind of witness protection program. I don’t think Lincoln’s even his real name.”

  Scott blinked. “You’re crazy.”

  George shook his head. “Seriously. You try looking into the guy’s past, see what you come up with.”

  “Well, I know about Finn’s past,” Scott said, trying to deflect some of his new concerns. “He’s from a famous family, and…”

  George’s guffaw cut him off. “Yeah. He’s from my family,” he said, and the bitterness in his voice was palpable. “You wouldn’t even recognize him. That’s why I thought we were on to something good. But Lincoln turned the thing into some kind of…self-help group. And Finn buys every damned word the bastard says.”

  Scott shifted uncomfortably on the bar stool. He didn’t believe George—the guy was far too shady to be taken at face value. But the points he was bringing up did make him question, a little, what he was getting into.

  “They could kick you out, you know. For breaking any one of their precious ‘rules.’ Talk shit about another member? They can say you’re holding a grudge, and boot you out. Don’t attend enough of their ‘adventure’ exercises? You’re not playing the game in the field, or the park, or whatever stupid-ass metaphor Lincoln’s come up with. And bam, they boot you out.”

  “I don’t think it’s that easy,” Scott demurred.

  “Oh, really?” George’s look was pure derision.

  “No,” Scott continued, “or else they’d have gotten rid of you.”

  “They can’t get rid of me,” George said scornfully, drinking the rest of his martini and gesturing to the bartender again. “I was there when there was only like five members, and I’m Finn’s cousin. They wouldn’t dare.”

  “So, is this all the information you wanted to give me?” Scott said. “That Lincoln’s a wussy leader with a changed name and no past?”

  “Doesn’t it bother you?”

  Scott frowned. “I don’t see how it applies at all. This is just a club, for God’s sake. A hobby. It’s not that big a deal.”

  George’s eyes glinted. “So you don’t care if you get kicked out or not? The Club means nothing to you?”

  Scott tried to say yes, but found that he couldn’t.

  “Jeez, you’re as pathetic as all the rest of them.” George sneered. “You think that this stupid club is going to make you a better man, some kind of frickin’ hero or something. Just by camping and hiking and jumping out of planes.”

  “You’re right,” Scott said, his temper flaring. “It’s much better to nail a bunch of disposable broads and get hammered every night. Now that proves something.”

  George’s face turned red, and a small vein throbbed in his temple. He didn’t know how old George was, but anger seemed to add about five years at least.

  “Goddamned goody-goody. You, and the rest of them.” George threw his credit card down on the bar, and the bartender grabbed it quickly. “I should’ve known, but no, I thought I’d give you one last chance.”

  “What difference does it make? Why do you think I’m such a threat?” Scott finally said. “You’ve gone out of your way to stop me from joining the Club. If I join, so what? Who really…”

  Then, suddenly, a bunch of conversations clicked into place.

  We haven’t had a new member in a while…

  If he broke a rule, we’d be able to kick him out…

  “You’ve been the one preventing new members from joining,” Scott said, snapping his fingers. “You think they’ve finally found a way to prove you’re breaking a rule and kicking you out. You’re afraid of being replaced as one of the big men on campus. And it’s eating you up. Isn’t it?”

  “You don’t know anything,” George snarled. “They don’t have the balls to kick me out. And if they did, they’d be sorry.”

  “I’ll just bet.” Scott stood up. “Thanks for the drink and for the utter waste of time. When I do become a Player, I can almost guarantee that I will look for a way to kick you out.”

  George was too speechless to reply.

  “Exactly,” Scott said. “Have a nice night.”

  AMANDA WAS SITTING in her living room with her oldest friend, Jackie, and her newest, Tina. The two women got along better than she’d hoped: Jackie was more oriented toward mosh-pit violence than dancing, and Tina sounded as though she’d had enough dating advice to last her a lifetime, but the two found a common ground.

  Namely, the fact that it was time for Amanda to move on from her booty call with Scott.

  “It’s exciting, and all that, but now it’s starting to look a little…well, pathetic,” Jackie said, with her usual no-punches-pulled grace.

  Tina shrugged. “He was no dancer. You got him into that party because he wanted to get in,” Tina said, sounding irritated—not at Amanda, but at Scott. “He’s got all the advantages, and you’re the one who jumps when he whistles.”

  “Good grief.” Amanda rubbed her eyes. Flings were supposed to be fun, right? When did they institute a rule book? “We have sex. Great sex.”

  “You,” Jackie said, pointing a finger at her, “have cooked him dinner.”

  Tina gasped, shooting Amanda a shocked, accusatory look.

  Amanda let out a huff of indignation. “I just cooked you dinner, you twerps.”

  Jackie ignored that point. Tina grinned sheepishly, taking another bite from her brie-and-caramelized-onion on homemade sourdough bread. “You are a great cook,” she said, smiling happily.

  “You cook for a man, you might as well wear a T-shirt that says ‘Hi, I’m Interviewing for the Position of Wife.’ Honestly,” Jackie scoffed, “I ought to write a book.”

  “You should,” Amanda said eagerly, hoping to change the subject.

  “She’s right, though, hon,” Tina said, wiping her hands daintily on her napkin. “Cooking for a man is a husband-trapping exercise. We know it, and they know it. Granted, your cooking could probably land somebody, but it’s probably going to just make him take advantage of you.”

  “Why marry the girl when you can get the grilled cheese for free?” Jackie muttered darkly, before finishing her own sandwich.

  “At least I haven’t done his laundry,” Amanda piped up. “You guys act like I’m invertebrate, I swear to God. I’m not angling to be his wife.”

  “You want to be his girlfriend, though.” Tina got up, clearing away the dishes. Jackie nodded in agreement.

  “Okay.” She wasn’t going to get that one past these two anyway. “Yeah, maybe. It’d be nice. But I’ve been married, and I don’t need to repeat that
right away.”

  “I don’t have any problem with you marrying,” Jackie amended, her voice growing much more gentle. “Just trying to marry the wrong guy, that’s all. If he doesn’t want to admit you’re his girlfriend, then he’s wasting your time.”

  “Unless I’m just trying to have some sex,” Amanda said, then threw her hands in the air. “Why do I keep having this conversation? I love you, Jacks, but you really need to save some of it for your advice columns, you know?”

  She got up, disgusted with the whole topic, and headed for her kitchen. She’d splurged and made chocolate petits fours, glazed with ganache and filled with raspberry jam and fresh whipped cream. “Have some dessert.”

  Tina considered her waistline, but indulged in one anyway, making very pleased yummy noises. Jackie considered her tiny, artistic cake carefully. Then she tilted her head. Amanda braced herself for the assault.

  “You miss the shop, don’t you?”

  Amanda blinked. She hadn’t thought about the shop in—well, a long time. “Sometimes.”

  “Not just the shop. Being around food. Being in business.”

  Amanda shrugged. “Sometimes,” she repeated. Now that it had been brought to her attention, she realized that what used to be stress had been replaced with a numb sort of ache. She wasn’t sure if that was better.

  Jackie turned to Tina. “Maybe it’s not the guy, after all,” she mused, as if Amanda weren’t even there. “Maybe it’s the job.”

  “Oh?” Tina said, pouring a cup of coffee for all of them.

  “She’s never not owned a business. She’s always run the show,” Jackie said slowly, frowning with thought. “Now she’s trying to get a handle on this Scott thing, but I think it’s more distraction.”

  “Feel free to open a forum on my life,” Amanda said caustically, unable to even enjoy her dessert. She grabbed a mug of coffee, its warm richness soothing. “You’re the one that told me not to open a business, remember?”

  “You are all or nothing. I should’ve seen it,” Jackie said ruefully. “You’re not the type to get a hobby. I guess it was silly to even suggest it.”