“God knows where you stow them,” The Hotness mutters.
I grin at her. “In my cheeks. Like nuts I’m saving for winter.”
“I shudder to think which ‘cheeks’ you’re referring to.”
Trey takes her coat, hanging it on a hook next to his. His hand instinctively falls to the small of her back, just under her long, blond hair. His insanely long fingers press against her waist, tucking her into his side, and I feel a tug in my chest. A weird yearning that I get now and then when I see them together.
Sloane, The Hotness, agent to the stars (aka Me), has been with Trey for the last few months. They met six months ago when she signed him at her dad’s agency, but after what I imagine in great detail was a dirty, sweaty affair, she quit the Ashford Agency. She passed Trey off to another agent in her new firm, picked me up from my worthless-ass agent, and started bangin’ Trey on the regular. He’s a lucky son of a bitch, off the field and on.
Dude was born to be a quarterback. Tall, but sturdy the way a lot of Hawaiians are known for. Large hands and sharp eyes. I wasn’t sure I was going to like him when he joined the L.A. Kodiaks earlier this year. I was worried he was going to be another loudmouthed asshole, one-man show the way Duncan Walker was. The day Coach Allen traded that guy away was the best day of my life, and I have Trey Domata to thank for it. We gave up Duncan to score Trey in the Draft. That’s why I gave him a chance, didn’t give him too much shit when he joined. Turns out he’s humble as hell, a team player to the bone, and with him handing off the ball I’ve finally had a chance to step up on the team and show them what I can do. Our offense is considered one of the strongest in the league this year and there are whispers about a shot at the Super Bowl.
You try not to listen, try not to let it go to your head, but you gotta be real. This is why we do this job, and I want a ring on my finger worse than a pregnant teen.
“I got first round,” I tell the group. “Regulars?”
Everyone nods in agreement.
I turn to the bar, leaning my arms on the dark, dented wood. “Hey, man, can I get a Maker’s Mark neat, a Koko Brown in the bottle, a Bud Light from the tap, and a Shock Top Lemon Shandy?”
“Bottle or can?” Taylor asks listlessly.
“Whatever you got.”
“I got both.”
“Bottle then.”
He grunts before reaching under the bar for a glass.
I lift a toothpick from next to the olives and pop it in the corner of my mouth. “How’s business?”
Taylor pauses to look at me severely. “How the fuck does it look?”
“Dead.”
“You’re smart, pretty boy.”
“At least you have us, right?”
More grunts.
I scan the other end of the bar. It’s dark and deserted, a small stage with a pole in the middle standing silently in the corner like it’s on time out. Like it’s been naughty. “You still got karaoke on the weekends?”
“Kind of. The monitor broke.”
“How’d that happen?”
“Drunk jackass broke it,” he answers dryly.
I smile around the pick in my mouth. “I love our talks, Taylor. They’re my favorite part of coming here.”
“Hallelujah for that.” He lands all four of my drinks down on the bar without a spill and a heavy thud. “Twenty even.”
I pull out my wallet, sliding a fifty across the bar. “Keep the change.”
“I’ll retire on it,” he grumbles.
Then he slides four golden Pesos across the bar.
I swipe them up eagerly before I wrangle the necks of the bottles between my fingers, lump the two glasses together, and carefully make my way to our table.
“Nah, he couldn’t make it,” Trey is telling Tyus. “He’s still on lockdown.”
“Poor bastard. That shit is why I’m never getting married.”
I set the drinks down in the center of the table. “Are you talking about Dre?”
“Yeah. Sloane said she invited him to come out with us but he wouldn’t.”
“Couldn’t,” she clarifies. I watch with a lot of love and respect as she takes up the glass of whiskey, bringing it to her lips without flinching. Girl’s a baller.
“I saw him outside smoking when I got to the party.” I sit down heavily, immediately stretching my legs out next to Sloane’s. “He looked rough.”
“Really? I thought he looked nice.”
“Yeah, his clothes and shit, but he’s a mess.”
“How can you tell?”
I think about it, taking a hit off my bottle. “He’s dark.”
“Yeah, he is,” Tyus agrees deeply. “I told him he should quit with the cigarettes and he asked me, ‘What’s the point?’ What the fuck do you say to that?”
“There’s nothing to say. His wife’s a bitch. She ruined him.”
Trey frowns. “He’s not ruined. He’s in a bad place. He’ll come out of it.”
Tyus shakes his head. “I don’t know. You weren’t here when he was getting ready for that kid. He was excited. He couldn’t shut up about it, and then one day he just stopped talking. About everything.”