And bringing in the big crowds is my job.
Club Craze is brand-new, but J. Winslow Promotion is notorious for working with the hottest clubs for a reason. I need this place to bring wall-to-wall people and an even bigger personality. It has the potential to be one of my favorite hot spots in Manhattan, and if everything is done right for the launch, the owner says he’d be willing to sign a contract with my company for nightclub promotion for the next four years.
My job is to create the party, help people let loose, and make damn sure they want to come back and do it over and over again.
For a guy like me, I can’t think of a better fit.
Once I’m past Ki-Ki’s booth, I take a swift right and head down the “employees only” hallway. Another few feet and I spot Maverick, a relatively new friend of mine—one I made pretty easily upon finalizing the staff for this club. He walks in through the back door that leads in from the small parking lot off the alleyway on the side of the building. A gray duffel is over his shoulder, and a beanie covers his blondish-brown hair.
Maverick is hilarious, a real fucking good time, and a dancer for Club Craze. Picture Channing Tatum from Magic Mike doing “Pony” with a grinder, and you’ll have a pretty good idea of what kind of dancing he does.
“What up, Winslow?” he shouts when we make eye contact. “What are you doing back here?”
“Actually, I was looking for you.” I wasn’t. “See, I remembered you still owe me money from that play-off game last month, and figured it was high-time I reminded you.” I smirk, shrug, and stop to lean against the wall just outside the dancers’ dressing rooms where I know he’s headed.
“Of course, you cheap bastard.” He throws his head back on a laugh.
“Cheap bastard?” I question and put a hand to my chest. “Are you talking about me? The guy who told you the Mavericks were going to win that play-off game, and you definitely shouldn’t take that fucking bet?”
This isn’t the first time the two of us have bet on something. Surely it won’t be the last either. Maverick is addicted to trying to beat me, and I’m addicted to wagers and challenges.
He laughs and rolls his eyes, coming to a stop across from me. “Yeah, but the only reason you probably knew is because your sister is married to fucking Wes Lancaster. It’s like goddamn insider trading.”
“Don’t be bitter, dude. I told you not to bet against them. Hell, the team has your damn name, for fuck’s sake.”
“Whatever.” He rolls his eyes at that. “What do I owe you again?”
“One hundred big ones,” I respond. “And don’t try to sweet-talk your way out of it with cries of poverty. Even though you suck ass at dancing, I’ve seen the way women shove dollar bills down your pants. I know you’re good for it.”
Mav waggles his brows. “You jealous, bro?”
“Jealous? Of what, exactly? That you spend your nights letting women fawn over the idea of your dick so you don’t have to cry when they see how tiny it actually is?”
“Fuck off,” he retorts. “We both know there’s a reason why you’re the one who gets the people to the party and I’m the one who entertains the people at the party. Only one of us has real talent.”
A laugh jumps from my throat. “Get real. I could dance. I could fucking dance circles around your ass. You think your tips are good? Ha. The number of tips I could pull in during one night would blow your mind.”
“Man, I’d love to see you put your money where your big, obnoxious mouth is,” he snaps back on a hearty chuckle. “There’s a bachelorette party coming in tonight. It might disappoint the bride, but it’d be a fun opportunity to watch you fail.”
“I’d rock that bride’s world.”
Mav cracks up. “Jude, with all due respect, you’ve never danced a day in your life. Much less danced like I dance. You’d fail spectacularly.”
I waggle my brows. I can’t help it. It’s the thrill I’m always chasing, the high I can’t seem to quit. And this bastard is going to pay for doubting my abilities.
I square my shoulders and lean forward, right in his face, and ask, “Wanna bet?”
Sophie
“Party of ten for Sophie Sage,” I tell the big, burly bouncer behind the velvet rope.
The man is dressed in all black and has a perpetual scowl etched across his lips, but I’m assuming it comes with the job territory. Every Friday and Saturday night, he’s tasked with the responsibility of filling this club with partygoers who will have a good time, but also, won’t act like total assholes.
Sure, it sounds simple enough, but all it takes is standing in the never-ending line outside—in the bitter February cold, mind you—for a mere five minutes with people yelling and shouting toward the bouncers at the door to understand it’s not simple at all. If anything, the man is being paid to deal with verbal harassment and demanding, drunk idiots. All night long. Add in a constant barrage of pimple-faced teens with fake IDs and the credit card they stole when their parents weren’t looking, and I’d rather rub poison ivy on my eyeballs than switch places with him.