Thick Love (Thin Love, #2)(8)
Mike Richard, a thick lineman with no neck and more hunting dogs waiting for him back in Mississippi than any one man should have, nudged Marshall, tugging on his shoulder when the idiot got a little too close to the entertainment. “Easy, man. You’ll get us tossed out.” But Marshall didn’t listen to Richard and he continued to wolf-call at the woman on the stage.
Trent was a dick. Since the first day in spring training when he sauntered onto the field like he owned the damn campus, I’d wanted to pop the smirk off his face. Like just then, sitting in the plush leather seats of that posh club, the crowd more highbrow than I was used to with their designer suits and cocktail dresses, I debated again how I could smack Marshall one good time without pissing anyone off. Maybe if he was drunk, no one would notice. A few shots of whiskey and the guy would get wobbly. I could pass off a swing against his jaw as me trying to keep him from falling onto the stage in a drunken attempt to grab at the dancers in front of us.
He wasn’t worth it. Not worth the shit I’d catch from the other five or so teammates with us or the giants manning the door, glaring at Marshall as he hooted and hollered up at the stage. An especially thick set giant, sporting a tailored-cut black suit complete with silver cufflinks, moved closer to our table and blocked Marshall’s view from the stage.
“Move, man. I can’t see.”
But the bouncer didn’t flinch, barely stepped aside when another man approached. The new guy rearranged the toothpick that was sticking out of his mouth and smiled around it, enough that I spotted a gold cap on his left molar. Classy.
“Fellas, please.” Toothpick’s quick nod had a skinny waitress with not enough up top to fill out her corset hustling toward us with a tray full of shots.
She smiled, offering something a little more than a shot with that expression, but I waved her off. “I’m good.” A shrug of my shoulders and that smile stayed frozen on toothpick’s face, like maybe he expected my refusal. Maybe he thought he could stare me down, as if an all gold-toothy smirk and wannabe gangster swag would somehow impress me. It didn’t.
“Ransom Hale?”
I was going to correct him. I was going to remind this guy that I had two last names, everyone knew that, but before I could, Trent interrupted with a slap to my back that was sharp, loud, and had me flexing my fist so I wouldn’t take a swing at him. “Riley-Hale. Shit, Timber, you must be the only * who doesn’t watch ESPN.”
That’s when the name registered. Timber Ironside. Local drug supplier who liked to pretend he was Tony Montana without the millions or the smoking hot girlfriend. Timber would never be Scarface, but he had plenty of friends, and in New Orleans, the right friends could make life very awkward for someone who was pissing you off. Just like Trent was managing to do.
“Asshole?” The toothpick broke between Timber’s teeth.
“Hey, man, it’s cool.” I promised him, hoping that my body was big enough to cover Trent’s loud laughing when I stood in front of him and that my smile didn’t look practiced, that Ironside bought I was trying to make excuses for the idiot I’d shown up with.
Pretending to like people that got under my skin wasn’t my thing, but I still offered Ironside my hand and held my breath until he took it, hoping to deflect any drama before it started. “We’re all good and everyone knows that it’s Marshall here who’s the *.” When the dick in question flipped the bird at me, I pelted him with a wadded napkin from the table. “And he drinks too damn much.”
Ironside waited, measured my smile like he was waiting for me to flinch. I didn’t and when he realized I wasn’t going to back down, the man finally relented.
“Drunk *s are this city’s specialty.” Even his laugh—louder than Trent’s, a sound meant to grab attention—grated on my nerves.
Ironside slapped my back like he knew me, then, like we were comrades sharing a private joke that everyone else was too stupid to get. I didn’t like his casual approach or the way he nodded his head at me, how he guided me away from my teammates, assuming I’d be cool with his familiarity. But when I tried moving his hand off my shoulder, getting some distance between us, Timber sent a glare back toward Trent. It was a small threat, silent, but I wasn’t thick. My father was a two-time Super Bowl winner. My mom was a successful songwriter who had famous artists courting her like she was a first round draft pick. I’d seen Ironside’s type my whole life. They wanted to collect influential friends. They wanted to impress those friends with their money and clout. Turning down the wannabe gangster’s instant friendship would cause more shit than it was worth.
“Listen, man, I’ve been hearing a lot about you.” His voice was even, subtle, but Ironside had an air about him that made a knot twist in my gut. Something was off, I knew, he probably got that I knew it too, but that didn’t stop him from playing his game.
“That right?” Arms crossed, feet planted on that rich hardwood, like I’d wait all night to hear whatever bullshit flattery Ironside was about to level at me.
“Hell, CPU used to be my old stomping ground.” The man was barely six foot, thin, and wore a designer suit with frayed hems, like he’d worn it so often the threading was loose. Everyone knew Ironside wasn’t broke. The rims on his Charger were twenty-twos, chrome and so clean they looked like mirrors. But his was newly-earned money, loosely held, and it wouldn’t surprise anyone if he was scrambling for pocket change before the end of the month. That he was somehow in charge of things in this club struck me as weird. He didn’t seem the type with that much juice.