Jackie went silent, studying her. Amanda sighed, sensing trouble coming.
“You know, you don’t have to have all your adventures with one guy,” Jackie said. “There are plenty of bad boys in the sea.”
“Yeah, I know,” Amanda said. “I’m happy with the one I’ve got, thanks.”
“Uh-oh. You’re getting attached.”
Amanda scrunched up her face. “You make it sound like I named a stray puppy.”
“Didn’t you? You are
so
fling challenged,” Jackie whined. “A total serial monogamist.”
“And that’s a
bad
thing,” Amanda observed.
“This time it is.” Jackie wiped her mouth and hands with a napkin. “Repeat after me. I am only interested in casual sex.”
Amanda’s blush burned across her cheeks again. “Out loud? Seriously?”
“I am only interested in casual sex,” Jackie repeated with menace.
“This is like that time you tried to get me to say ‘penis’ in a movie theater,” Amanda grumbled. “I’m not a prude, Jackie, I just—”
“I am only interested…”
Jackie shouted. Amanda quickly shushed her.
“Okay! I am only interested in casual sex! I have no interest in pursuing anything more, with anyone, much less Scott sex-in-a-sleeping-bag Ferrell! All right?”
Jackie smirked. “Tell me you won’t see him again, then.”
Amanda crossed her arms. “No.”
“So you
are
getting serious about him.” Jackie shook her head. “This is the first guy you’ve seen since your divorce, Amanda. I’m not trying to get all in your business…”
“Sure you are,” Amanda said, without venom.
“Well, okay, yeah I am. But only because I’m worried about you.” And to her credit, Jackie really did look concerned.
Amanda sighed. “I’m still going to see him—and yeah, sleep with him—but it’s not exactly what you think.”
Jackie’s ears perked up, and Amanda bit her tongue. “You’re keeping another secret.”
“For now,” Amanda said. “It’s not that big a deal.”
Jackie might be writing an advice column, but she was too much the reporter
not
to smell blood in the water. “Can I ask questions? Could you maybe mime it?”
“No questions, no miming,” Amanda insisted, with a little laugh. Her cell phone rang. “Sorry,” she told Jackie. She didn’t recognize the number and wondered absently if it was Scott.
“Hello, is this Amanda?” A woman’s voice asked.
“Yes…this is Amanda.”
Who is this?
“Oh, good,” the woman said. “This is Tina.”
“Tina…”
“From the Bettie Pages. The burlesque dance troupe.”
“Oh!” Amanda said, taking a step away from Jackie. “Right, right. How are you?”
“Shorthanded,” Tina said, with a desperate laugh. “Is there any way you could step in for me? I’ve got a huge gig coming up this weekend—you wouldn’t believe how high profile—and three of my dancers are down with the flu.”
“Dancing…” Amanda said, squirming slightly. That had been a ruse—a way to get in, find out more about the club. She looked at Jackie, who was listening intently. “Um…”
“I’ll wash your car. I’ll babysit your firstborn. I’m really in a jam here.”
Amanda thought about it. It
had
been fun—but the next day, it had seemed like a dream. Now the mere thought of it made her stomach knot unpleasantly. “Er, I think my dancing career is over.”
“I had to try,” Tina said, sighing. “If you reconsider it, will you at least give me a call?”
“All right,” Amanda promised, then signed off.
“Dancing career?” Jackie said, eyebrow raised.
“Long story.”
“I’ve got an hour for lunch.”
Amanda smiled. “It’s sort of part of the secret.”
“It’s not, like, a
dangerous
secret, right?” Jackie asked suddenly. “I mean, this guy’s not signing you up in some cult or something?”
Amanda shook her head, but her laugh sounded a little breathless—a little guilty, to her own ears. “Not a cult,” she said.
More like a club.
“All right.” Jackie sounded unconvinced. “Do you think it’s worth it?”
Amanda contemplated the crust of her pizza. She’d danced nearly topless, spent almost a week out in the Mojave, and was having bed-breaking sex with her neighbor…whom she was blackmailing in order to get into The Player’s Club.
At least I’m not boring, right?
“Is it worth it?” she echoed. “I sure hope so.”
THIS TIME, THE CLUB MEETING didn’t take place at the warehouse or the basement across the street. It was in the back room of a sports bar, someplace loud and rowdy. It was only one in the morning—the bar was still going strong, meaning the crew was packed like sardines in the small location, fighting the noise of the crowds and the TVs.
George was doing beer funnels, and Lincoln looked unamused.
“Anything to report?” Lincoln asked, and Scott strained to hear him over the sounds of drunken cheering from the other side of the wall.
“I did the first challenge,” Scott said, forcing himself to be louder. “Now what?”
Finn hooted, giving him a thumbs-up, and the rest of the room made various noises of approval.
Lincoln nodded. “Now, on to your second challenge—”
“Wait a minute,” George interrupted, sneering at Scott. “Do we have proof that you went out there, camping, in the desert?”
Scott looked at Finn, who shrugged. Lincoln’s jaw clenched.
“I’ve got some pictures,” Scott replied.
And I’ve got a girl who can verify exactly where I was.
Scott grinned at that thought. Apparently, George took the grin as a challenge.
“Had fun, huh?” George sounded distinctly derisive. “Jeez. Frickin’ nerd challenge…”
Finn held up his hands. “Hey, you know the rules of the Club, cuz,” he said quickly, cutting off any more of George’s diatribe. “We’ve always run it this way. Since the beginning.”
“When it was just Finn, Tucker, a few other guys…and me,” Lincoln added.
The fury and hatred in George’s eyes was quickly veiled…so quickly, Scott wondered if maybe he’d imagined it. George’s expression was now one of reluctant acceptance.
“So the guy went camping. Big deal,” George scoffed.
“The first of three big deals,” Lincoln segued gracefully. “Which means he’s on to the second challenge.”
“I’d like some clarification on that, actually,” Scott said. “I wasn’t really that clear on what a ‘huge party’ entailed, so I—”
“Oh, no,” George spoke up, stepping forward. “You’re not weaseling out of this one.”
“Just crash a party,” Lincoln said, crossing his arms. “You need to get ready for those bulls.”
“He didn’t say he’d crash just any party,” George protested. “He wanted to crash something epic.”
“Whatever.”
George’s eyes flashed with contempt, and he took a step toward Lincoln. Lincoln appeared casual, but Scott could tell his fists were balled, knuckles white.
George outweighed Lincoln by a good forty pounds or so, but it looked like fat. Scott would put money on Lincoln any day.
Finn quickly stepped in. “Cut it out, guys. Focus.”
Lincoln didn’t back down. Neither did George.
Finn looked at the ceiling. “George has a point. It has to be a
challenge,
Linc. If it’s easy—if it’s something he could do without breaking a sweat—what’s the point?”
Lincoln said nothing.
“Remember?” Finn said, and Scott could only hear him because he was standing so close. “When we started this. If it didn’t scare the crap out of us, why do it?”
Lincoln sighed heavily. Then, slowly, he took a step back.
“What did you have in mind, George?”
George preened. “There is this huge, off-the-chain party happening downtown in about a week. It’s been sold out for months, and only A-listers are allowed.”
“I suppose you’re going,” Lincoln said. He sounded bored.
“Hell, yeah,” George said, too intent on bragging to get Lincoln’s tone. “I paid ten large to get in.”
Tucker choked out a cough. “You paid ten thousand dollars to go to a
party?
What, does that come with a car?”
George ignored him. He looked at Scott.
“You crash
that,
” he said, with a note of challenge, “and you’ll have pulled off something. They’ve got bouncers that are ex-marines. Every invitation has a QR code that can’t be replicated—”
Tucker tsked.
“And you’ve got to be on the list. Anybody taking pictures is going to be thrown out. It’s for this insane magazine, completely depraved.”
Scott swallowed. “So I just need to get in, right?”
“No, you need to crash it, which means you need to hang out there. Just getting your ass kicked by the bouncer doesn’t count.”
Scott checked with Lincoln. “Is that the challenge, then?”
Lincoln looked pissed. “Let’s put it at fifteen minutes,” he said.
“Thirty,” George countered.
Finn sighed again. “Split the difference at twenty-two and a half,” he said. “Now can we start talking Pamplona?”
After talking logistics—places they could stay, who was going to run with Scott, stuff of that nature—George got bored. He and his crew of five or so guys wandered out to join the last of the bar crowd before they closed the place down. As soon as the door shut behind him, Lincoln went straight to Finn.
“He’s getting worse,” he said.
Finn didn’t have to answer. Scott looked at the others.
“We’ve got to get rid of him,” Tucker announced, and Finn looked insulted.
“Hey. He’s my cousin.”
“He’s an ass,” Tucker said, and Scott saw Lincoln hide a lightning grin.
Finn crossed his arms. “The Club started because we wanted to hang out with people who wanted to change their lives. George was in early, near the beginning.”
Lincoln rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. Then at Scott, he said, “So. How are you going to get into this party? What can we do to help?”
“I can get you a QR code without blinking,” Tucker said.
“Really?”
Tucker smirked. “If I can break into Microsoft, I can get you a stupid party invitation.”
“If we help Scott too much,” Lincoln pointed out, “George is going to call foul. He’s already trying to edge Scott out.”
Finn had a troubled expression on his face.
“He knows Scott’s more like us,” Lincoln continued, “than like him. He wants to make this a big fraternity.”
“I know.”
“One day, it’s going to come down to a vote,” Lincoln stated. “And you know he’s already got five other guys to back him up. Just at a start.”
Finn grimaced. “Let me talk to him, okay?”
Finn left and Scott turned to Lincoln. “That reminds me. Can I invite, er, someone? To become a Player?”
Lincoln’s gaze was like a scalpel. “Did you tell anyone?”
“No! No,” Scott said quickly, thinking,
She found out on her own.
Technically, he wasn’t lying. “But I’d like to bring someone in.”