Jackson chuckles and shakes his head. “And we’re going to take advice about being classy from Cash Gardner? The man who lives above a bar?”
There are plenty of guys in Atlanta who do class—I went to high school with most of them. They’ll take you out to fancy dinners and woo you with roses. You want class, give them a call. “In my experience, class satisfies no one in the bedroom,” I drawl. “Never met a woman who said I was classy in bed—or out of it, for that matter—and yet I’ve never had a complaint.”
“Cash could afford a penthouse in Buckhead if he really wanted it,” Ryder says.
My hand slips on the neck of a beer bottle and it falls back into the ice chest. Ryder knows the elite of this city—they all turn out for his fight nights. Does he know about my past?
“Earth to Cash,” Ryder says, tapping his beer bottle against the bar.
“What, sorry?” Get back in the game, I tell myself.
Ryder looks at me like I’m one of his fighters. Nothing gets past him. He takes care of what’s his. His girl. His friends. His business.
“I was just saying you’re a rich man, what with the tips you make and the profits from the bars. You could easily move out of the studio.” Parker and Jackson nod along to Ryder’s words.
“Don’t forget what we each earn from investments from the clubs,” Parker asks. Always the money guy, that one.
“But out of curiosity, what does he make in tips?” Jackson asks.
“Ryder, don’t —”
“Usually he cashes out at four hundred at the end of his shift,” Ryder says with a smirk.
Jackson slams his glass onto the bar and Parker lets out a whistle. We all make a good fucking living in the business, but clearly they’re not expecting that kind of money.
“On a good night,” I add. Got to put it in some context for them.
“Hell, put me behind the bar,” Jackson says. “I’ll give up designing the building and sling drinks myself for cash like that. Not to mention the ladies.”
I give each drink a final stir and top them off with orange peels.
“May I present, 351.3.” I stand back and watch as they try the new libation.
“Damn, that’s good,” Jackson says. Parker nods, still drinking. Ryder salutes me with his glass.
“You’re welcome,” I say, with a laugh.
*
The game hums in the background, but we’re still gathered around the plans for The Library. The building’s got great bones, especially with all of the shelves. Jackson’s done a number of adjustments that’ll take it from former bookstore to the hottest new nightspot in ATL. And this ain’t the kind of bar you went to in college, either. It’s the sort of place that brings back the nostalgia of old-world libraries and mixes it with the modern feel of the current club scene.
“Where the hell is Knox?” Jackson asks as we’re winding down. We’re setting up an opening date and still have more than half the game left to enjoy.
“Cassie could take Knox’s vote,” Ryder suggests.
There’s a grumble around the table. “Are you kidding?” I ask. There’s really only one rule to board meetings: no girlfriends. It was never a problem when we were all making the list of most eligible bachelors in Atlanta, but with the addition of Cassie, we had to lay down ground rules. It’s not that we don’t like Cassie, plus she’s the one keeping our books straight—but this is our time. We started this place together, and we want to keep it ours.
“In all seriousness,” I say tapping the plans on the table to get everyone refocused. “The final plans look great. I’m all in for opening next month.”
“So am I, obviously. It’s my design, but we’re still missing Knox’s vote,” Jackson says.
“Wasn’t it your responsibility to get him on a plane?” I say to Parker.
Before Parker moved back to the great 30326 zip code, he and Knox lived it up in New York. Parker played the stock market, and Knox played ball—literally. As a starter for the Yankees, he’s the All-American boy making a name for himself as a Park Avenue Playboy. When we opened our first bar—it was sports themed and most of our startup capital came from Knox—we knew we had it right. He still holds a majority share, even if he chooses to never exercise it. But by our bylaws, we need his vote to make decisions.
Parker holds up his hands. “I told him about it, not my fault if the man can’t get to his computer or get his ass on a plane.”
“He’s in…Thailand?” Ryder says.
“Back in Florida,” I say. “Training there.”
“There’s internet there, right?” That’s Jackson for you, brilliant but practical.
“Without Knox—or his vote—we can’t carry out any new business,” Jackson says.
“We need new bylaws,” Parkers says. It was years ago when we drafted a stupid business plan. Back then we all ran on Ryder’s one rule: we’re family. We’re in this together. We may each have our issues with family, but the one thing we can always count on is each other. I’d bleed for these guys.