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He unzips his fire suit. Susan had to have one made special order to fit his shoulders. For that matter, the harnesses inside the car are meant for mere mortals, not the type of giant who straps on skates and chases a puck for fun.
“Speaking of fun,” he says, putting on a pretty good act of looking casual as he stares out at the track. I only know he’s tense because I’m standing two feet away and can see the muscle working at his jaw. “We’ve got a big Halloween party planned at the club. Your name’s on the guest list.”
The club. That would be Kynk, up in Brooklyn. Gage runs the joint on the side of his billion-dollar real estate empire. No wonder he bailed on the National Hockey League after only six years.
“Jack Strong?” I ask. That’s the name he gave me last time.
He shakes his head. “Security wrote you up after that shit with the Herzogs. I figured a clean slate was a good idea.”
I’m still pissed with Rider for how he handled things, throwing me out when I was only defending Alix.
“I put you down as Seymour Limpdick,” he says.
And I guess Rider’s still pissed with me. I keep my voice mild. “That should work well with the ladies.”
“I figure you won’t be there to hook up.”
If he’s giving me a lecture about how to treat Alix, I don’t need his fucking input. But I ask, “Do I need a costume for this?”
“Same rules as before. Masks required. Clothing optional.”
“That worked so well the last time.”
“Sorry, man,” he says. “Rules are rules.”
“You can take your fucking rules and shove them up your ass.” I take care to scrub any heat from my tone, but this whole conversation is pissing me off. Alix was hurt in his club. He can argue all he wants that she didn’t use her safeword, but his security guys should have stepped in. And he had no business throwing me out on my ass when I took care of things.
He shrugs, and it’s like I’m standing next to an earthquake. “What’ll it take to make us right?” he asks. “We can fight, if you want. I’ll give you one free swing.”
My krav maga against his years of fighting on the ice. I’d be lucky to get away with bruised knuckles. More likely, I’d be nursing a concussion worse than the ones that ended his career.
“I’ll pass,” I say.
Another one of those earth-shattering shrugs. And then he makes his peace offering. “Jonas and Ansel are both on the guest list. I’m comping them a party room—private bar, food and drink specials, some orange-and-black fetish shit to make up for the hassle last time.”
My temper gets the better of me. “Their motherfuckinghassle—”
He rolls right over me. “That way, you’ll know exactly where they are, all night long. I’m giving them the room closest to the kitchen.”
Closest to the service entrance. All I have to do is get them out the door, the same way I planned last time. Best’s team will do the wetwork.
It’s a solid offer. A fair effort at unfucking my last visit.
“Thanks,” I say. And because civilized men shake when they’ve made agreements to take out cocksuckers like the Herzogs, I offer Rider my hand.
His grip is firm, but not aggressive. Even so, the Beast that lives inside my skull wakes up to growl its displeasure. I tell it to go fuck itself as I tap my index finger against my thigh, five quick flicks. If Rider notices, he doesn’t say a word.
Instead, he grabs another water bottle and turns back to the track. He’s three steps away when I ask his shoulders, “What did you really put down for me, on the guest list?”
“Kent Clark,” he says, without turning around.
So I’m the opposite of a superhero. Well, fuck. I can live with that. “Works for me.”
He waves a hand before heading over to the pit. I check, but he’s using all his fingers. For now, I’ll count that as a win.
The Beast’s still prowling around, stirred up by Rider’s grip and the knowledge I’ll be glad-handing my way through the rest of the Diamond Ring before they head home at the end of the night. Once again, I tell it to fuck off, but that works as well as it usually does. I squeeze out a five-count with my fist and when that doesn’t work, I beat the water bottle against the grandstand wall.
Screw it. Time to take out the big guns. I pick up the last key on the table and head over to the track. “Okay you motherfuckers,” I say when the guys look my way. “Let me show you how it’s done.”
