I loved a niceset of tits as much as the next guy, but not when they repeatedly showed up on my security cameras.
Honestly, I’d seen enough nipples tonight to last a lifetime.
Scrubbing a hand over my face, my scruff scraping against my palm, I wondered how I’d ended up here. I was a night club owner, yes, but this wasn’t a fuckingstripclub.
Most nights weren’t like this. Generally, club goers treated my place with respect. Patrons reveled in the music and the drinks and the company. I knew tonight was out of the ordinary but…my god. What the fuck was going on? Why weren’t these women deterred by the possibility of being arrested for public nudity? And didn’t they realize how much troubleIcould get in for these stunts? I was, admittedly, rich, but that didn’t mean I wanted to be paying stupid fines out the ass for women who couldn’t control themselves.
That two-for-one tequila shots special was proving to be an unwise decision. Surprisingly—and thankfully—the men werekeeping their hands to themselves, and I hadn’t yet witnessed any wayward cameras capturing footage of the half-naked women.
I was holed up in my office, dutifully pretending to work while really I kept an eye on things from behind the safety of a locked door. Even though I preferred to be alone, I liked being alonehere, where if I was gripped by the sudden need for company, I could go downstairs and camp out behind the bar, slinging drinks and grinning for the masses that jockeyed for my attention.
But being on the floor didn’t hold any appeal for me tonight.
Tonight, all I wanted to do was plan my next business move.
When I’d moved to Traverse City six years ago, I’d been running. Running away from the spotlight that followed me everywhere I went in Detroit. Running from the fans who stopped me on the street to say they were so sorry about my retirement—as if they were the ones who had to live that fucking nightmare. Running from the reminders of the career I’d had to give up.
Football had been my life…until it wasn’t. Until one bad hit had dislocated my shoulder, torn my rotator cuff, and taken it away from me forever. I’d been in my prime, and it had all ended in the blink of an eye.
And I knew it wasonlyfootball. I was still alive, healthy, and had all of my limbs. But losing football, for me,waslike losing a limb. I’d spent over twenty years honing my craft, becoming the best I could be in order to play at an elite level. I was only thirty when I’d gotten injured—an injury, mind you, that shouldn’t have taken me out. After the surgery to repair my shoulder, it healed fine. Butfinewasn’t good enough to get me back to QB1. Hell, after I finished rehab, I could barely throw for twenty yards.I didn’t have the long ball in me anymore, and I was faced with two choices: leave the game with dignity, on my own terms, or shuffle around the league playing backup to young up and comers until I was forced out.
It was obvious which door I chose.
I saw myself out with my legacy intact, and the rest was history.
God, I missed it.
Regardless, I’d settled into my new life nicely, despite the fact that it had greeted me several years earlier than I’d planned. I bought this place in cash, sight unseen. With the help of a local contracting firm highly recommended by an athlete friend from Detroit, I gutted and renovated the club on the main level, my offices on the second floor, and the apartments on the third. Back then, there hadn’t even beenwallsup there. For several months, I’d slept on an air mattress in the drafty, cavernous space. Naming it after myself had definitely been a choice, but I liked to think that was what made Lawless such a success. In the five years since I’d opened the doors, the club had become a Traverse City staple.
Since then, I’d expanded into a restaurant—Birdie’s, which I named after my mom—and a sports bar that was welcoming for all ages.
Now, I was ready to move onto my passion project: a distillery.
Well, it was less my passion and more a torch I carried for my dad. He’d always planned to open a distillery on our family ranch back in Idaho, expanding the Lawless brand beyond horses and cattle into spirits. It was something we’d dreamed about together, an endeavor we swore we’d take on once my playing career was over.
But that wasn’t an option for Dad anymore, owing to the fact that he was no longer among the living, so it was up to me to see it through.
I knew exactly which spirits I wanted to distill and the names I’d give each of them. I knew my timeline and already had the contractor lined up to start work as soon as possible. And I knew where I wanted to build, but that last one was proving to be a bit of a challenge—mostly because I hated asking people for anything.
But this time, I was going to have to bite the bullet.
Normally, I’d call my best friend and ask him to be the go-between for me. Amara was, after all, his girlfriend. Unfortunately, Cal was off in the wilds of the Upper Peninsula, service-less on some self-exploratory mission before he headed to Door County to see his parents. Not to mention, the text he’d sent me before he left told me things between him and Amara were on shaky ground.
Cal: I got fired, and I’m pretty sure Amara and I are done. I’m headed to the UP and then to Wisconsin for a few weeks, so I’ll be out of service the next couple days. I want to chat when I get back about that job you offered me a few months ago.
Instantly, my curiosity was piqued. Amara was—or had been—his boss, so shit had to have hit the fan in a major way. But that wasn’t my problem.
Me: Youhave any free time this afternoon? I’d like to meet with you.
Amara Delatou: If this is about Cal…
Me: It’s not, I promise. I have a business proposition for you.
Amara Delatou: Business I can do. I’m free whenever.
Me: Can I come up now?
Amara Delatou: Sure. I’m at the winery.
