The Player's Club: Scott Read Free Page B

three together as the hour grew later.
    He didn’t think about it. He threw on a dark sweatshirt and headed downstairs, his heart pounding with adrenaline. He didn’t know what was going on but, by God, he was going to find out.
    He opened the front door to the apartment building carefully, glancing around as he quickly dove into the shadows. He didn’t want anyone to notice. He saw a man in a dark suit, his tie loosened around his throat and his top button undone, also looking around furtively. The man then turned into the alleyway.
    Scott looked up and down the street. The coast was clear. He crossed the street, heading for the alleyway himself. It was dark, and smelled like garbage and Chinese medicinal herbs. Down toward the back of the building, he noticed light flooding out as a door opened. He headed for it, his eyes getting used to his surroundings. When he got to the door, he hung out, hiding behind a Dumpster.
    A few minutes later, a few other men showed up. “You know how Lincoln hates it when we’re late,” one of the men muttered.
    “Somehow, he’ll live,” another man said with a low chuckle. “Besides, I wouldn’t be me if I showed up on time.”
    “Three o’damned clock in the morning,” the third man grumbled. “Finn, can’t you get George to change the meeting to some reasonable hour?”
    “What, you getting old, Tucker?” the second man responded. Then he knocked on the door. It swung open.
    “Password?” the doorman prompted.
    “Luck of the Irish,” the first guy, Finn, said. “Come on, we’re already late.”
    “And whose fault is that, Finn?” the doorman answered. “They’ve started. Go on ahead.”
    The door shut, leaving Scott alone in the darkness. It was a meeting of some sort…run by somebody named Lincoln, or maybe George.
    They had a password.
    It was too cloak-and-dagger for words.
    It’s probably nothing, Scott tried to tell himself, as his heart rate started to speed up in excitement. For all I know, it’s some kind of twelve-step program.
    But his gut told him otherwise. There was something bizarre going on behind that door.
    He wasn’t quite sure what prompted him. Maybe it was Kayla saying he was boring. Maybe it was because he didn’t have a lot going on in his life. Whatever the reason, he found himself at the door and knocking three times, just as he’d seen the others do.
    The door opened. The doorman was a guy in his early twenties. He eyed Scott with suspicion.
    “Password?”
    “Luck of the Irish,” Scott said, keeping his voice calm.
    The guy looked at him, as if waiting. Then he said, “Come in. The meeting’s already started. Follow me.”
    Scott’s heart was pounding like a racehorse as he followed the guy down the long hallway. There was a door that had to lead to a basement. He heard sounds of a large group of people, and someone trying to call them to order. Scott felt the palpable rush. He was finally going to find out what was going on!
    The guy opened the door, and Scott goggled. The place didn’t look like a basement. The walls were paneled, and the furniture looked opulent yet obviously comfortable. It looked more like an old-fashioned men’s club, the type where old rich guys drank brandy from large snifters and smoked Cuban cigars.
    Many of the men fit that stereotype as well, wearing suits or obviously expensive clothes. On the other hand, there were also men who sported tattoos and looked like skateboarders. There was a group of guys that were bellowing like frat boys, and another group in conversation, laughing and talking.
    What was this, Scott thought as he stared around the room, some kind of underground men’s club? Were they gangsters? A West Coast Skull & Bones society? What, exactly, had he stumbled into?
    It was around then that he realized the room had gone silent—and that all the men, suits or skateboarders alike, were staring at him. Their expressions were definitely unfriendly.
    Uh-oh.
    He felt a hand clamp down