Page 7 of Dirty Filthy Boy
I shake my head. "No. Not really." Busy as I was with school, a part-time job, and volunteering at the women's shelter, I was in our apartment only long enough to grab something to eat and fall into bed exhausted. Whenever I ran into one of the football players she tutored, I never paid much attention. They all looked pretty much the same—big, bulky, missing a couple of chromosomes. "No."
She shrugs. "If it hadn't been for me, he would have flunked his Literature class. He needed at least a C to stay on the football team."
"And now he's a bouncer?"
"Don't judge, MacKenna. He's part owner of the club."
"Sorry." One of my constant sins. I tend to make quick decisions about people before getting to know the real them. That doesn't jive with being a journalist, I know. But it's the reason I became one. Because I wanted to get to the truth. I've gotten better through the years, but there are times when I slip back. "You're right. But why isn't he playing football?"
"His first year in the pros, he blew out his knee. They had to let him go."
"He looks okay."
"Okay is not good enough for professional football. You have to be in tip top shape."
Bruce gives us the high sign and we follow him inside. The club is wall-to-wall people. A band's supposed to play tonight, but at the moment, a DJ is spinning music which blares from speakers hanging from the ceiling, poles, even the floor. The music is so loud, my body vibrates with it, which I guess is entirely the point.
Smoke machines are hard at work throughout the club. Guess they add to the mystique of the place. Or maybe they use it to cover up the bumping and grinding going on. We follow Bruce to a section that offers a prime view of the dance floor. Miraculously, a table opens up right in front of us and Bruce grabs it before somebody else does. The mini rounds are on raised platforms so that you can not only catch the goings on on the dance floor crowd, but take in the whole scene.
"Thanks, Bruce." Marigold blasts him with her most brilliant smile.
"You're welcome." He hands Marigold a card, and, over the loud music, he yells, "Free drinks, all night long."
"Thanks!" Mar doesn't drink much, and neither do I. But, hey, free drinks are free drinks. After I tell her what I want, Mar makes her way to the bar while I hold down the table. A couple of guys come hit on me, but I ignore them. Eventually, they get the message and drift away. By the time she returns with an Appletini for me, and a Mojito for her, the band has taken the stage.
"They're quite good," I yell.
"Yeah, that's why I wanted to come tonight," she screams back. "They just cut a record and they're getting great buzz."
Before I get a chance to comment, a commotion erupts by the front door. People cramming the entrance swerve back in a great big wave. At first I can't figure out what's causing all the brouhaha. But then the crowd parts, and I see HIM. My jaw drops as my mouth waters at the sight. God, if he was gorgeous all sweaty on the football field, he's a hundred times more stunning now. Dressed in dark trousers, dark shirt and black leather jacket, he exudes heart-pounding sex appeal. No wonder women flip over him. He's taller than just about everyone in the club, but not taller than the mountains around him. Some of his Chicago Outlaws' teammates, I bet. "Gah."
"What's wrong?" Mar asks.
I nod my head toward the front entrance.
"Well, well, well, small world, huh?"
"What?"
"What a coinkydink. Out of all the club joints in Chicago, Ty Mathews had to walk into this one."
"MisquotingCasablancanow? Really, Mar." And then I catch the man standing behind him. "Oh, God. Ron Moss is with him." I try to crawl under the table, but there's nowhere to hide.
"Where?" She's so short, she doesn't spot Ron.
"Behind Ty Mathews."
She grabs the edge of the table and boosts herself up. "Oh, yeah. I see him now." Dropping back to the floor, she says, "What's he doing in this den of sin? Although I do remember when he wasn't so uptight."
My gaze swerves to her. "You know him?" I'd never heard about this.
"Yeah. We went to the same high school. I was a freshman, he was a senior."
Given my disastrous interview with Ron Moss, I need to ask her about him. But I'm so focused on Ty Mathews, I can't think about anything else right now. "Shouldn't they be, I don't know, resting up for the game tomorrow?"
"Oh, honey." She pats my hand. "This is what they do to 'rest up.' If they party too much, they'll have plenty of time to recuperate. It's a Sunday night game." She sips on her Appletini. "I can't get over Ronnie being here. This is not his type of thing. Not these days."
"Maybe he wants to feel like he's a part of the team?" I volunteer.
