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Troy Marshall needed a plan. But when the Brooklyn Monarchs’ vice president of media and marketing had read the Twitter message that the professional basketball team’s captain was drinking heavily at this trendy Brooklyn nightclub, he hadn’t stopped to think. He’d simply reacted.
He navigated the hot, smoky space past the sweaty, gyrating bodies in the darkened downtown club. The bass of a popular urban song pounded in his chest, echoing his heartbeat.
Memories of his own club-hopping years came back to him. Another lifetime, another world. Who had he been and what had he been hoping to prove? Trying to hold on to an image and a lifestyle he’d lost.
Troy mounted the stairs to the club’s VIP floor. Two mountains masquerading as men secured the perimeter of the team captain’s private section. Their stony stares dared him to approach them. Before Troy could introduce himself, Barron Douglas’s voice defused the standoff.
“He’s OK.” The Monarchs’ captain shouted his grudging approval above the driving beat of the club music. His voice was slurred.
Troy’s irritation rose. Shit. There were a lot of places he’d rather be at two o’clock on a weekday morning. Like home. In bed. Preferably with a warm and willing female. He’d leave that thought alone for now. He watched impatiently as Kilimanjaro on his left unhooked the purple velvet rope barrier to allow him into Barron’s inner circle. He nodded to the large security guard as he walked through.
One of the women stood, separating herself from the pack. She moved toward him with practiced sensuality. Her stilettos’ thin heels spotted her an extra five inches. The silver satin of her stingy dress wrapped her generous curves and shimmered against her brown skin. Even in the club’s dim lights, Troy could see the avarice in her dark eyes.
“Who are you?” The groupie stood too close. She raised her voice above the club’s entertainment.
“A friend of Bling’s.” Troy looked toward the NBA player. Hopefully using Barron’s nickname would reassure him that Troy was there as a friend, not a representative of the franchise’s front office.
“Are you a basketball player?”
The woman looked him over. Troy could hear the cash register in her head tallying the cost of his cream silk jersey, black pants, and Italian loafers. Did she think every tall, physically fit, and financially comfortable African American male played basketball?
“No.” Troy started to move around her.
She shifted to block him, taking hold of his arm. “What do you do?”
Troy glanced from her to Barron and back. “I look after the players.” As an NBA media and marketing executive, that wasn’t part of his job. Then why was he here?
Her brown brow creased in confusion. “Like a baby-sitter or something?”
“Or something.”
The groupie’s greedy gaze considered him again. “You get paid a lot to do that?”
“Not enough.”
“Do you want to babysit me?” She licked her lips as though her offer needed clarification.
In the past, it hadn’t mattered whether a woman was interested in him or his wallet. But it mattered now. Troy removed her small hand from his arm. “No. Thank you.”
Ignoring the groupie’s disappointed pout, he continued toward Barron. He stopped beside the table. Barron scratched his scalp, bared between his thick cornrows. From the sheen in Barron’s dark brown eyes, Troy feared alcohol wasn’t the only contributor to the player’s unnatural high. “Bling, let’s talk.”
Barron stared through Troy. His gaze wasn’t quite focused. His movements were deliberate as he lifted a heavy crystal glass and took a healthy swallow of its brown contents. He put the drink down with a thud. “Talk.”
Was the Monarchs’ captain deliberately trying to antagonize him? It didn’t matter. It had been a long day and Troy was short on patience. But he wasn’t going away. “In private.”
Barron’s sigh was more tired than annoyed. He placed his hand on the shoulder of the big man beside him. “Move.”
Barron stood with slow, unsteady movements. Troy tensed with worry. Getting drunk was bad enough, considering Barron was a professional athlete whose season hadn’t ended. If drugs were involved, he wouldn’t cover for the team captain any longer.
He followed the six-foot-five player past the velvet rope barrier and the human mountains guarding it. They came to the railed landing overlooking the dance floor. Shifting lights irritated him. What effect were they having on Barron in his intoxicated state?
Troy pitched his voice above the dance music. It seemed even louder up here. “What are you doing, Bling?”
The point guard’s smile was too bright. “Partying!”
Troy wanted to shake him. “It’s after two in the morning. Practice starts in nine hours. You need to bring your A game to the play-offs.”
Barron’s smile vanished. His glazed gaze hardened. “What do I have to do with whether the team does well in the play-offs?” Frustration tightened the other man’s stance and strained his voice.
