Chapter One
Under an hour into his job as a bouncer, and so far Chase Dixon had been felt up, bribed and almost spit on. This job sucked.
A red cord stretched along the sidewalk in front of The Platinum Club. At the head of the line stood a smart-assed jackoff with a cocky smile and eyes that rolled every time he looked back at his equally smirky companions. “Listen, man, me and my three buddies here are on the list. Mark Jacoby and associates. Trust me. Don’t we look like honorable guys?”
“You’re not on the list, and I saw you cut in front of about two hundred people.” Chase gestured to the line that stretched all the way down the narrow sidewalk. That line contained a lot of women, most of them scantily dressed and wearing too much perfume. Then there were men like Mark, who’d doused in cologne before slipping into his uncreased jeans and unwrinkled tank top. Ones who had such big dicks they couldn’t feel the twenty-degree November temperature. “Go back to the end with your friends. You’ll be allowed in if there’s room.”
“I can make this worth your while tonight, brother.” Mark opened his wallet and flashed what looked like a fifty. Chase tried not to choke on his laughter.
“Sorry. Rules are rules.” And in about ten seconds, this guy was going to be escorted away from the club via a steel-toed boot in his ass.
“Wait a second.” Mark’s voice sharpened. He pushed back his red skull cap to get a better look at Chase. “Yo, ain’t you Deuce Dixon?”
“Get in line,” Chase snapped, unwilling to deal with the standard questions tonight. All he wanted was to get through an evening that didn’t involve him staring at the wall and cursing fate, wear himself out and go the fuck home. In that order.
“You are. I knew it.” Mark elbowed the short, squat man at his side. “Check it out. It’s Deuce Dixon, in the fuckin’ flesh.”
“Nah. A big time baseball player wouldn’t work this piece of shit gig,” his friend shot back. “Spring training’s not that far away.”
It is in my world.
Chase didn’t react to either of them. If they wanted to piss him off, they’d turned the right key. “One last time. Get at the back of the line or I’ll put you there.”
“Oooh, big shot’s all talk.” Jabbing his friend in the gut again, Mark swaggered away. He glanced back at Chase and chomped his gum with a gleam in his eye that might’ve served as a warning in his hometown of Dicksville, USA.
Chase cracked his neck. Jesus, he needed a beer. Why had he taken this job again? He wasn’t playing ball right now, but he didn’t have to waste his time dealing with every dickhead in Manhattan who wanted into The Platinum Club. He’d come to the city and temporarily sublet an apartment in Queens while he quietly pursued treatment from the best doctors for his busted pitching arm, and this club had always been on his radar as a place that catered to a relatively high-end clientele and featured some kick-ass musical acts. Its proximity to his apartment also weighed in heavily, since he damn well wouldn’t risk damaging his Escalade in New York traffic.
He’d figured there were worse ways he could pass a few nights a week. Besides, this was good training for the new career he was considering if he couldn’t get back to ball. Not that he was giving up. Hell no. He was just covering his bases.
Ha, a pun. His sense of humor hadn’t dried up entirely. Yet.
Tonight’s act seemed to be bringing in the masses, though he couldn’t really figure out why. The country-folk singer on the roster didn’t fit the usual kind of entertainment The Platinum Club showcased, despite the wide variety of performers they tried to bring in. But a solo chick with a guitar? Even the picture on the posters all over the club was way more subtle than their clientele usually went for. She had her head down, hair partially covering her face, a secret smile tipping up her lips. The name Sunny Z reminded him of a pop princess, yet the names of her songs sounded like coffeehouse specials. At any rate she obviously had her finger on the pulse of the people, since the rambunctious crowd seemed rabid to see her and there was still an hour before showtime.
Whatever. Get in, get it done. That was his motto for baseball and life. And for handling jerks who’d already started tying them on before they hit the club.
The line bottomed out about forty-five minutes after the show was supposed to start. It had actually begun about fifteen minutes ago. Must be the country chick had trouble being on time, like the bulk of the spoiled brat music types he’d heard about over the years. Bursting from a sense of entitlement and a certainty the world would wait for their brilliance.
Chase tipped back his bottle of ice water while he waited for Neil to finish up his stint at crowd control and relieve him at his post. The earpiece he’d been given to help facilitate communication with the security team hadn’t made it out of the owner’s office. Chase had begged off, claiming he had a recurring ear problem, which basically came down to he didn’t want dudes droning in his head all night long. The old-fashioned way worked for him.
For all he knew, he might not even be back next week. He had half of his shift left, but they were taking turns monitoring the groupies and manning the door. Between his headache and crappy mood—not helped at all by that Mark creep—he was eager to be on bashing-skull patrol. That he still longed for a Molson with every breath he took of smoke and weed and spilled beer only added fuel to his fire.
As the crowd started to cheer, he plugged a finger in one ear. It wouldn’t block out the melodramatic wail that was sure to follow. He would’ve grabbed some earplugs except they interfered with his ability to be aware of everything at all times. Still, he was tempted to risk it to avoid exacerbating his headache with some trailer twang.
For a few moments, he didn’t hear anything except hooting, hollering and a fair amount of foot stomping. Yeah, this was a different kind of crowd than the club usually encouraged, that was for damn sure. Marilee and Chris, the owners, must be branching out. Or else the country queen had an in. Everyone did nowadays. Even him.
He’d gotten his apartment short-term and with no notice because the Daggers team manager knew someone who knew someone. He’d nabbed the job at the club without even a background check because Chris thought Chase was one of the best pitchers in the major league. The Platinum Club’s owner had been trying to get Chase to visit the club for a while in the hopes his presence would land them in the news—as seemed to happen often when Chase partied hard. At least in the old days. Chris had never expected Chase would approach him for a job, but he’d needed another bouncer and believed Chase would up the club’s visibility, regardless of his function. Considering Chase’s reclusive tendencies lately, that remained to be seen. Still, it was all about greasing the right palm.
Her voice cut through his thoughts like a blade through skin. Searing him to the bone and bringing an almost-sweet pain.
Clutching his water bottle in his fist, Chase swung around toward the sound. Christ, the chick could sing.
He’d started to move forward without even being fully aware of it, drawn toward her voice, when Neil strode up to him and slapped him on the back. “Sorry, Deuce. Crowd’s fricking amped. Couldn’t make it back here before now. Who is this babe? You heard of her?”
Chase shook his head, wanting his co-worker to shut up and just take his damn post so he could listen. There was a soulful quality to the way she sang. Not traditional country, not typical folk or pop, but an amalgamation of all three. She sat on a stool under a spotlight on the stage, head bent as she played her guitar. Beside her another guy was playing a banjo, and together they made a great team, harmonizing perfectly. The