For a businesswoman who prides herself on remembering names, I just don’t have it in me tonight.
Regardless, Callum was right. This place that the guys usually meet up at after wherever their adventures take them in the city, is just what I needed. Relaxed and sufficiently off the beaten track that it offers privacy away from fans. The guys can enjoy a drink or two without interruptions for autographs or fear that pictures will be posted online of them when they’ve had a little too much.
The lounge is dim, and the furniture is dark, save for the stage across from us with its red velvet backdrop and lights angled at the lone man sitting there playing the sax. His tune is melodic and seductive and begs you to relax . . . or make love. I’m angling for the former. We’re in the top of the three tiers of seats, and the bar is behind us with its clinks and clanks of glass as it buzzes with business.
Taking a sip of my martini, I close my eyes, and lean my head back to listen and unwind, but as per usual, my head never quiets. Everything I need to do sifts through my mind. Contracts and negotiations and endorsement deals. I understand my father’s reasoning in sending me here to recruit Hunter, but in the meantime, I feel like I’m neglecting my other clients who need my attention.
Sure, I can work most crises remotely, but not being in my office makes it difficult. Living in a hotel room that changes every other night makes it even harder.
I tune into the conversation in front of me. Comments about the game tonight, including a few snide remarks about one of my clients on the opposing team, make me smile.
“It’s true, isn’t it, Dekker? The fucker must eat lemons the way he’s so damn sour,” Finch says.
I belt out a laugh. “Client info is confidential, but uh, he’s got some killer lemon trees at his house,” I say with a wink.
He throws his head back and laughs while Maysen stands suddenly, the expression on his face causing us all to turn and see what has his attention.
Hunter stumbles near the entrance of the other side of the club. His shoulder falls into a guy and much like Maysen, we can see the fight coming a mile away.
Unlike Maysen, though, I overheard the conversation tonight between the LumberJacks GM and Sanderson.
The last thing Hunter needs to be doing is getting into a fight.
But before I can react, Maysen leaps over the back of the couch on legs that don’t look like he just played sixty minutes of high-intensity and brutally physical hockey, and jogs over to his teammate.
Between the distance and the music, I can’t hear what’s being said, but body language—Maysen’s hands are up and his smile is broad as he talks to the guy Hunter is staring down. A few tense seconds unfold where I’m sure Maysen offers to buy a round of drinks or something to that effect, before he wraps his arm around Hunter’s waist, and starts veering him our way. Situation handled.
Thank God.
But what the actual fuck?
What the hell is Hunter thinking?
Disgusted with his immaturity, I turn back to the company in front of me, down the rest of my delicious and much-needed martini, and choose to ignore whatever the hell is going on with him, because I’m off the clock.
At least that’s what I tell myself.
I should be prepared for Hunter’s flop on the seat beside me a few seconds later, but I still emit a startled yelp when he does.
“It’s Dekker the pecker wrecker,” he says with a huge grin that would be charming if he weren’t drunk or his words weren’t shitty. His cheek is red where a punch was landed in the game tonight, and his hair is falling in his face. I can’t deny that small tug that hits me at the sight of him.
And I hate everything about that admission.
I have just enough of a buzz going that I’m primed to pick a fight with him. Despite his behavior, how he’s shutting me out, the way he’s turned me on, the fact that I haven’t told him why I’m here, and the career he’s trying to throw away with his bullshit antics.
Reason would tell me I shouldn’t engage. The last drink I had encourages me that I should.
“Oh, look. It’s out-of-control Hunter who’s going to get his ass kicked off his team if he keeps his bullshit up,” I add with an equally charming smile as I meet his eyes.
“Bullshit?” he scoffs. “Nah, it’s just me getting warmed up.”
“I’m sure your teammates are thrilled to hear that.”
I don’t back down from his glare, so the silence settles between us as we stare at each other.
“Where’ve you been, man?” Callum asks, trying to ease the tension, as he leans back in his chair.
“Just taking care of some business,” Hunter says and dismisses him.
“Old friends?” Finch asks.
“Something like that.” He stands abruptly. “Can’t an asshole get a drink in this place?”
I push myself up. “I’ll get it,” I say, knowing if I get it for him, I can ask the bartender to make it light. Hunter’s so drunk he probably won’t notice. “What’ll you have?” I ask when I already know the answer.
“Good. I’ll have a Bombay and tonic. And uh, glad to know you know how to do your job properly,” Hunter says, and I see Finch’s wife wince at the comment.
“At least someone does,” I say, and he grabs my arm as I start to walk past him.
“Hey,” Finch says and stands to reinforce his warning. He glares at his teammate.
“It’s fine,” I say and shrug out of Hunter’s reach before anything can escalate. Getting in a fight with a random person is one thing, but fighting his own teammate is even worse.
The bar is crowded and it takes a few minutes before I can belly up to it. “Another?” the bartender asks.
“No. A gin and tonic. Bombay. And a lot more tonic than gin,” I say with a wink.
He nods, understanding what I’m saying. “Got it.”
Right when I go to turn around and check on Hunter, he slides into the spot beside me and leans his elbows on the bar top. Our eyes meet and the million questions I want to ask him surface and die right along with my want to tell him about the conversation I overheard tonight.
“Let me guess, you’re watering down my drink,” he says, his lips beside my ear.
“Should I worry about what kind of trouble you got in tonight before finding yourself here?”
Something flashes through the blue of his eyes, but it’s gone before I can decipher it. “I’m not your problem to worry about. Just looking after some fans. Surely you know what that is.” He looks at me with such an unexpected bitterness as if to test me. “How much do you want to bet I could walk away from this place tonight with five different phone numbers?”
“If your goal is to be a phone book, then by all means.” I roll my shoulders and refuse to give him what he wants. Another fight.
“What is it with you, Kincade?” he murmurs just above the music. “All of a sudden you’re here, there . . . fucking everywhere. In my face.”
“Not what I’m here for. But I’m sure any of those numbers you collect would be willing to be whatever you need for the night.” The bartender slides the drink in front of me, and I thank him as I push it toward Hunter.
“You’re right. They would.” He turns around so he’s still beside me, but so his back is against the bar. He makes a show of giving a hum of appreciation when he spots a woman who catches his eye.