Page 3 of The VIP Doubles Down
Nathan shook his head. “I won’t agree to that. Archer set that number high to make sure we took the wager seriously. None of us were thinking straight that night.”
“Donal,” Gavin called over to the bartender, “I need your boss for a little business transaction. And a pen and paper.”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Luke said. “We didn’t record the donation amount with Frankie the first time. Only our personal stakes. She doesn’t need to be involved.”
“I want to make it official,” Gavin said, “so you won’t be tempted tocut me some slacklater on.” He put heavy emphasis on the words Luke had used. He knew he was being obnoxious, but he couldn’t tolerate pity, even from his closest friends.
Nathan and Luke exchanged a look that he couldn’t quite read, and he didn’t like the hidden communication. He poured another drink, gingerly nodding his thanks as the bartender placed a couple of sheets of heavy vellum and a Montblanc pen on the table.
“Cheers,” Gavin said, knocking back half the bourbon in one gulp.
Luke blew out a breath of exasperation. “Look, Gavin, you helped me out by convincing Miranda not to give up on me. I’m trying to return the favor.”
Recollections of that day at Miranda’s family farm breathed some remembered contentment into Gavin. Luke had rounded up a few football players to help out with stacking hay bales. Gavin had tagged along, partly out of curiosity as to why the superstar quarterback was dragging them all up to Nowhere, New York, but mostly because he couldn’t bear to stare at his blank computer screen another day. Luke had quickly melded them into a team, and Gavin had found pleasure in the physical labor and the easy camaraderie. Of course, that was before every muscle in his back decided to clench itself into a throbbing fist.
He had also observed the vibrating tension between Luke and Miranda. So he’d offered Miranda a little pep talk, just enough to persuade her to share her true feelings with the quarterback. When Luke threw them back in her face, Gavin had told Luke what an idiot he was.
“I hope you never give me reason to regret my intervention with Miranda,” Gavin said.
Luke’s icy gaze dropped to glacial temperature. Gavin held up his hand in silent apology.
The big mahogany bar door swung open, and the club’s founder, Frankie Hogan, strode in, clad in one of her signature tailored pantsuits. This one was dark gray, which made her smooth silver hair glint brightly in contrast. “It’s déjà vu all over again,” she said as she walked up to their table.
The three men stood, their height dwarfing the Irishwoman physically but not in spirit. Gavin admired Frankie for thumbing her nose at all the exclusive clubs that had rejected her and her new money. She’d founded the Bellwether Club, a place of stratospheric exclusivity that had nothing to do with your birth, only your success. Of course, now membership in Frankie’s club had become highly sought after.
“You’re looking lovely this evening,” Gavin said, ignoring the shriek of his shoulders as he held a chair for her.
He was surprised when a slight blush added to the glow in her face. “Fresh air and exercise,” she said, her voice holding both the rasp of whiskey and the lilt of Ireland. “They cure whatever ails you.” Her gaze fell on the paper and pen, and she lifted an eyebrow at them. “Am I to be witness to another wager, gentlemen?”
“An amendment to the original wager,” Gavin said. “You hold the sealed envelopes with the stakes that are of personal significance to us. However, we also had an extra side bet that wasn’t recorded, a purely financial donation to charity. I’m sweetening the pot by doubling the amount I’m betting.”
He picked up the pen and wrote twice the amount Luke had originally proposed before signing his name with a flourish.
Frankie gave a low, musical whistle. “That’s a hell of a lot of money, even for one of my members.”
Before Gavin could hand the paper to her, Luke grabbed it and ripped it in half.
Nathan nodded his approval, saying, “An amendment requires the agreement of all parties to the contract. Archer and I do not accept Miller’s addition.”
“I see.” Frankie crossed her arms and turned to Gavin. “We seem to have a difference of opinion.”
He should have been furious, but the sense that even here he had failed swamped any anger. He shrugged. “No one can stop me from making the donation in the event that I lose the bet.”
Luke reached over to grip Gavin’s shoulder with one of his big, powerful hands, making Gavin wince. “You’re not going to lose.”
Chapter 2
Gavin glared at the blinking cursor on his empty computer screen before he shoved himself to his feet. His back spasmed, and he kicked the chair so it banged against the desk. “What the hell good is an ergonomic chair if my back still hurts?”
He didn’t even have the excuse of a hangover from drinking with Luke and Nathan the night before. The other two men had refused to join him in a self-pitying binge.
Stalking over to the standing desk once used by Charles Dickens—the antique he’d bought with his first royalty check from the first Julian Best movie—he picked up a pen and clicked it open and shut several times.
His gaze rested on the blank legal pad lying on the desk for several moments. He grimaced and wrote:A CEO, a quarterback, and a writer walked into a bar.
The desk stood solid under the weight of his focused gaze.
They made an insane wager. The kind you make only when you’re both drunk and choking on despair. The kind that you can’t begin to imagine winning.
