Page 16 of Who's Saving You
“Password?”
“Fourth and inches,” I mutter.
The door opens, and I step inside. There are two sets of stairs, one leading to the left for the nightclub and one leading to the right for those who know the password. It’s such a cliché, and I find myself huffing a quiet laugh at the absurdity of my life.
All-Star in the NFL has it all but risks it in ways people would never think.
I ignore both sets of steps and walk straight ahead down the long corridor. The music from the club thumps through the walls, and the smell of cigarettes and bad choices becomes stronger. I take the steps in front of me, climbing to the top, feeling less like a saint and more of a sinner with each step.
I open the door into a large plush room that is the exact opposite of the shitty outside of this place. But that’s the point. The double life is a must. Once inside, I shed my large hoodie, smooth down the button-down I have on, and run a hand through my hair. The two security guards nod to me, and I walk to the front of the room that overlooks the entire downstairs. The double glass allows me to watch but never be seen.
Looking out over the crowd of writhing bodies, the blinking strobe lights make everyone look as if they are moving in broken waves. The music is loud, the drinks are flowing, and the women are hot. The bar that outlines this place is made of smooth black marble with etchings of silver and grey, the bottles behind the bar are lit on each row of shelves, and the hanging lights above the bar all have an amber glow. It’s meant to give off a classy, rich, smooth vibe.
As you move across the dance floor, the black and white checkerboard lights up like a rainbow as it catches the blinking lights. Sconces on the wall provide just enough light to know whether you need to pull a coyote ugly in the morning or not. Or if it’s dark enough for just a quick blow job in the bathroom.
I hear the door open and feel him enter before I see him. Dante's presence fills the room before he even says a word. He isn’t some shirt half-buttoned, gold-chain-wearing wanna-be thug. He's a businessman first, well-dressed and precise with everything he does. He’s ten years older than me, still very young to be running such an empire. He’s smart as fuck and has no problem scoring with the ladies. But money is his first love, and I’ve seen him toss a girl right off his dick because someone was fucking around with his businesses. This is why I’ll always keep him on my side. There are no drugs or trafficking. Besides alcohol and VIP rooms, we’re strictly a gambling house. Good business and privacy are top priorities for him.
Dante approaches with two drinks, and I accept one, shaking hands with the free one. I sip the tan liquid and say, “Full house for a Monday.”
“Mm. Business is good, on both sides.”
We move to the right side now, looking over the otherhalf of the room —the other half that is whispered about, but which the majority of the city thinks is a ghost tale. Just like me.
Essentially, I’m two different men. I’m the one on the field, the one you bring your kids to see and seek autographs from. But once the sun sets, I’m the one you’d cross to the other side of the street to avoid.
A dealer flips cards at the nearest table, while men and their dates surround it, laying down more money and chips. Two bartenders fill drinks quickly while others line the front of the bar, staring at the many televisions hung around the room, changing with numbers and stats from the sports world.
“This week’s game schedule is shaping up to bring in some good money, if all goes according to stats.”
I smirk. “Public stats and my stats are quite different, though, aren’t they?”
He chuckles. “That they are, sir.”
I watch the betting room. I sip again, letting the alcohol run through me, and study the men sitting at the bar. I’ve never been a drinker, but since coming into the league, dealing with that pressure while still running with Dante at night, I’ve found that a glass here and there is needed to keep me even. I eat clean, work out, but that extra bit of scotch or vodka to calm the nerves is key.
“Away game this weekend?” Dante asks.
“Yeah, I’m traveling north for Thursday night. Should be an easy win.” I sip again. “Soba’s playing home.”
“He give you anything good?”
I nod. “Two of their starting offense have injuries not reported, and second string can’t run like they can.”
“So, what are you thinking?”
I tilt my head back and forth in question. “It’s a home game, so they’ve got the crowd, but an injury is an injury.”
Dante says, “They've got a nine-point spread.”
I think for a moment. “I think Rage will win, but they won’t cover.” My gut twists as I say it, hating that I'm betting against my best friend, but knowing what I know about his team, I have to make it work for me.
“Alright. I’ll have it pushed,” Dante states.
I watch as a waitress makes her rounds around the bar, probably making more money tonight than most do all week.
Dante clears his throat. “Rhett was here earlier. Made a delivery for me, but I’ve a feeling he was here more so to look around.”
Rhett Daniels. Someone who should have only been a teammate. For whatever reason, he ended up here in Mistletoe Falls. Word is he’s got family here, so after school, he landed here. I didn’t like it. It was too close for comfort. He’s someone I never should have crossed paths with, but now I’m tied to him forever. Dante uses him as a runner every now and then, just enough to keep him interested in the money but afraid enough to keep his mouth shut. He lives for the adrenaline rush like I do. A lot of guys in the league get that rush from drugs, alcohol, and women. But no dollar amount and no girl could keep me from that high I got from placing a bet.
