The Player's Club: Lincoln (2 page)

Juliana scowled. They’d set up her trust fund because it was something rich people did. They were now pillaging it, because, as it turned out, modeling dried up no matter how beautiful you were—and her father’s acting had never matched the drama he managed offstage.

“You’ve got a month, maybe two, tops,” Bernie finished, his voice grim. “Come into the office, and we’ll figure out a strategy to get you back on your feet. But things are going to have to change. We both know that.”

He stood up, then patted her shoulder, too. She got the feeling if she’d been standing, her normally staid accountant would have hugged her. She probably would have let him, too. Right now, she was too shell-shocked to do much of anything.

How had it gone this wrong, this quickly?
She’d seemed fine only a year ago. Even six months ago hadn’t seemed that dire.

Maybe she just hadn’t been paying attention.

“Hey, Jules,” her friend Carolyn said, bouncing next to her in the booth, spilling some champagne in the process. Carolyn was a ditzy redhead, but she was also the police chief’s daughter—which meant that any trouble she got into usually got hushed up, quickly. Carolyn wasn’t exactly her best friend, but she did come to all the parties Juliana threw, especially if the bar was open. “This party is off the chain! The music, the food. Hell, even the red carpet! Who has one of those at a birthday party, anyway?”

“Only the infamous Juliana Mayfield,” a drunken voice said, as a red-haired man stumbled into the booth.

Juliana frowned, annoyed. “Who let you in, George?”

“Oh, you know, my good friends Benjamin, Benjamin and Benjamin,” he said, waving a few bills at her. Carolyn laughed, delighted, her eyes lighting with avarice.

George Macalister was a world-class party-guy, rich and absolutely dissolute. They’d been party buddies, back in the day. But she’d seen a little too much of him in action—he was good at spending money and good at making other people feel worthless because they weren’t as rich or as well-connected as he was. Also, he continually tried to make her, with plenty of lewd suggestions, not to mention the grabby hands.

How do men actually think that’s attractive? Does that ever work?

Juliana smiled tightly, gauging whether it was worth getting the bouncer to toss him out or not. The thing was, George was a big guy on the young jet-setter scene—old money and, considering the Macalister family fortune, big money. As such he could make problems for her if he wanted to. Too wrapped up in her own stress, she shrugged, choosing to ignore him.

She made plenty of her own problems, thanks.

“Hear you’re trying to get a reality show,” he said, as if on cue. He reached out, stroking his fingers along her forearm. She cringed, tried to maneuver away without seeming too obvious. He didn’t let her go. “I’ve been talking with a producer about one, too. Almost a go.”

“Really?” She hated herself, but forced herself to listen. “What producer?”

George’s eyes grew wary. “Oh, this guy I know. His studio’s over in Pleasanton, but he’s got an office downtown.” George preened. “We’re still in talks.”

“What’s the show about?” She couldn’t possibly see how someone as lecherous yet frankly boring as George could get a show when she couldn’t.

He leaned forward, and the Scotch wafting off his breath was noxious. “Do you know what the Player’s Club is?”

She blinked. Then she laughed. “No way you’re in the Player’s Club.”

He pulled back, scowling. “Bet your ass I was. I started the damned thing.”

“Really?” Carolyn said, leaning into him, her breasts pressing against his forearm. Juliana rolled her eyes.

“Well…me and my cousin,” he amended, smiling at Carolyn’s attention. “Anyway, I had a great idea to recreate it for a show.”

“So did you get a green light?” Juliana asked. She knew all about people having ideas for a show, or interest in a show. Most of the time, there was no show—just a lot of talk.

His scowl returned. “Not yet.”

She smiled. Which meant never.

“Well, good luck with that, George,” she said lightly, feeling a headache brewing. Why did all the cretins have all the money? His suit was obviously hand-tailored; he was rolling in dough, probably hadn’t worried about cash a day in his life. How was that fair?

“So, when are you going to sleep with me, gorgeous?” He leaned over, and she saw how bloodshot his eyes were—the way his face, once borderline handsome, had started to get pudgier from age and overindulging. “Come on, Jules. Surely you’ve heard some good reviews about me from your friends—hell, I’ve slept with most of them. Why not see what all the hype’s about?” Then he burst into raucous laughter. Carolyn joined in, giggling like an idiot.

Juliana finally allowed herself to shift away from him, slowly. She smiled. “Ah, but then you’d just move on, and I’d be heartbroken,” she fake teased, with a little
tut-tut.
“I’ve seen how you go through girls.”

He smiled, obviously enjoying the picture.
Dumb-ass.
“But you’d be different,” he said, his grin turning more predatory. “Nobody else has held me off this long. Maybe you’re just what I need, the girl to turn me around. Why do you keep saying no?”

She stood up. “Because,” she said, with a little more emphasis, “I’d rather drink turpentine and eat glass than have sex with you. Will you excuse me?”

She mingled with the crowd, her skin still crawling slightly from her encounter with George, her stomach still knotted from her brief exchange with Bernie. She scanned the well-dressed, intoxicated bunch, who were dancing and carousing. They’d set up the champagne pool. She wouldn’t be truly topless—she had pasties in place for just such a “wardrobe malfunction”—but she’d still get plenty of press.

Now, more than ever, she needed something to give her an edge. Something to capture people’s attention and land her the reality show. Otherwise, she had absolutely no idea how she was going to generate an “income.” As her father always said: “Mayfields are only able to do two things—be famous and be irrepressible.” So she’d done her damnedest to be both, all her life.

“Jules,” a partygoer called out, with a sly smile, “are you
really
twenty-eight?”

She covered her mouth, sending the partygoer an exaggerated naughty smile and wink, before moving on.

“Jules!” This time it was the paparazzi, telling her to pose, snapping pictures. She did it willingly. Nobody at all guessed she was worried, or anything but what she appeared to be.

Her cell phone buzzed: a text message. She glanced at it, her forehead furrowing for a split second.

Happy 28th birthday, baby! Saw on the web, looks like you’re having a fab time. Much love, Mom.

She sighed, deleting it. Of course, she knew she wasn’t really twenty-eight.

She also knew it wasn’t really her birthday.

But she needed to build a media event, and this seemed the most convenient way. Meanwhile, her divorced parents never remembered her real birth date. And she was willing to bet that her mother had only seen the party pictures because she was searching Google for her own name—the same name as her daughter’s.

She tracked down her publicist, a serious-looking woman named Emily, who was wearing a little black dress and Tina Fey-like glasses.

“Where is Oscar?” Juliana asked, in a low hiss. “Or the other one, Leo?”

Emily’s mouth tightened, and she glanced over the guest list.

“The television producers,” Juliana emphasized, smiling at a guest even as her voice pulsed with tension. “Where did you seat the television producers? They’re the whole reason I threw this stupid party—where are they?”

Emily took a deep breath. “They didn’t show.”

“What?”

“Mr. Greenfeld texted his apologies at the last minute,” Emily said. “We never heard from Leo, he simply never showed.” When Juliana wanted to scream, Emily just shook her head. “I’m sorry, but you know they were a long shot. We couldn’t guarantee…”

“Damn it. Damn it.” Juliana pressed a hand to her temple—just as a photographer snapped another picture of her. She fought not to snarl at him, knowing he would just take more and guarantee that a really ugly shot of her would be on the wires by morning. Juliana Mayfield: On the Downside and Sliding Fast.

She took a deep breath, composing herself and flashing a quick smile. Bernie was breathing down her neck; financial disaster was looming large. She couldn’t model, couldn’t act and had no marketable skills that she was aware of. All she could do was be herself and hope someone found that interesting.

She thought about George. Could he really help her out?

I’d rather put my own eyes out with a shrimp fork.

But he’d claimed to be in the Player’s Club…and he claimed to have a producer’s interest. She thought he was probably lying on both counts, although there was a ring of truth there that most of his bloated claims didn’t have.

What if George actually had started the club with his cousin? They had the money, and the connections, to create a secret society of thrill seekers and hell-raisers. Maybe George’s boorish act was just that, a facade. Maybe he was hiding his true nature.

Although, considering he was bragging about it, probably not, she thought with a frown. As far as she knew, he only had one cousin, the heir to the bulk of the family fortune, Finn Macalister. She hadn’t partied with Finn in a long time; she remembered him as a gangly, almost shy kid, and George had mentioned something about an illness that she couldn’t remember. Still, Finn had been cute, and he hadn’t been grabby—he’d had a subtle sense of humor she’d enjoyed.

Could a kid like that start as infamous a secret society as the Player’s Club?

Then she stopped short, blinked twice.

Infamous.

If there really were a club, and she could become a member…

What producer
wouldn’t
be interested in a show like that?

She smiled. Maybe she’d just have to find ol’ Finn Macalister.

LINCOLN STONE DIDN’T consider himself a particularly spiritual guy. He also didn’t consider himself a Native American—probably because he wasn’t one. However, he did consider himself a team player. Which was why he was sitting in the sweltering heat, in a large, leather-covered tent on a big patch of land somewhere south of Lafayette, listening to an ancient, wrinkly-looking Indian chief hum and wail in a guttural chant.

Finn hit him on the arm, then motioned for him to follow. Lincoln nodded at the other guys sitting around the circle and gave a discreet thumbs-up to the one in the center—the pledge, Jerry Knox.

They exited the tent, and the cool night air was like a shot of ice-cold vodka, refreshing and intoxicating. “You okay?” Lincoln asked, inhaling deeply. “Sometimes guys pass out in sweat lodges. It’s no big deal.”

“Nah, I’m fine,” Finn said, waving a hand. He knuckled sweat from his forehead. “And this has been a pretty decent challenge, all things considered.”

Lincoln sighed. “But…?”

Now it was Finn’s turn to sigh. “Don’t get me wrong—I’m glad we kicked out George.”

“Damn straight,” Lincoln muttered under his breath. He knew Finn had some residual guilt about kicking his cousin out of the Player’s Club, but Lincoln, for one, could only see the pluses in getting rid of the drunken, arrogant misogynist. “So, what’s the problem?”

“I agree with the rules we set out, and I think we’re being more careful about who we’re bringing in,” Finn said. “Maybe we’re being too careful, though.”

Lincoln frowned, taking a few steps in the grass, working the kinks out of his legs. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been sitting in the sweat lodge. “What do you mean, ‘too careful’?”

“The challenges. I’m glad we’re asking what you’d do if you only had six months to live, but we’re getting the same thing, over and over. I like traveling, but I’ve been to Amsterdam, Paris, India—hell, even Antarctica, you know?”

“That was not a boring challenge,” Lincoln pointed out.

“But it’s all been done. We need some fresh blood…somebody who’ll have some new challenges. Something different.”