“To Tuck, the oldest wide receiver in the NFL! Happy birthday, old man!” Jasper says as he raises his glass of Dom Pérignon.
“Still kicked your ass in the gym today, quarterback,” I say as he and Deacon clink their glasses with mine. “You puppies dream of being me when you’re thirty-five.”
“True, true. You’re a legend on the field,” Jasper says. “In fact, you’re so old I bet you still have a Blockbuster card.”
I grunt. “Jesus, that’s lame—and wrong. I grew up on HBO.”
Deacon, our running back, refills our glasses as our limo moves smoothly through Manhattan traffic. He chuckles. “I’m not going to make any jokes about your age because I sincerely feel bad for you, but think of it like this: You’re one year closer to wearing a big ole diaper. Better yet, you’ll be wearing it while you watch us play.”
Jasper cackles as I roll my eyes. These young guns are twenty-seven and consider me old, which is sorta true in the football world. Most wide receivers peak in their midtwenties, then decline by 50 percent each year after. Somehow, I’ve lasted fourteen seasons. I have had two ankle fractures, a broken wrist, four dislocated shoulders, and a groin injury but still keep coming back and playing my heart out.
They start whispering, and I eyeball them, wondering what they have planned for tonight.
They surprised me an hour ago when they showed up at my place wearing black masks and killer suits. They gave me a mask—only mine has a shit ton of feathers on it. Judging by their excitement, I’m surprised they didn’t insist I wear a sash and a crown.
I sigh. Usually my birthday is a somber event, and I either hang at home with my current girl or go to the Baller. I drink a few beers and eat a slice of chocolate cake. That’s the tradition.
I gaze down at the scars on my fingers and knuckles, glossy and whitened over time. My birthday is also the day my father died ten years ago. These guys don’t know that. Why would they? I keep my personal stuff close to my chest.
Whatever. Fine. No matter the dark shit going on in my head, I can roll with a surprise party. It’s not a stretch to put on a smile. I’ve been doing it since I was a kid.
“You all right there, Tuck?” Jasper asks as the limo pulls to the side of the road and stops.
“Yep,” I say as we get out of the car. “So what’s this big surprise? Where are we going?”
“Oh, it’s nothing special,” Jasper murmurs as he and Deacon share a sly glance, then giggle like frat boys.
Uh-huh.
One of the feathers from my mask sticks to my mouth, and I spit it out.
Sure, I’m a carefree guy. Some might even call me a party boy. But this—this shit is just weird.
Jasper tosses an arm around me, obviously the organizer of this shindig. He’s dressed in a tailored navy suit, and his frizzy white-blond hair is twisted up in a man-bun. His eyes twinkle. “Trust me; you’ll love what we have planned. I can’t tell you because I want to see your face when we get there. It’s going to blow your mind.”
I glance around the dark alley we’ve entered. There are no shops, lights, or people. A rat scurries off to the side. “If a clown jumps out from behind that dumpster, I’ll kill you,” I growl. “Birthdays are prank-free zones.”
“For the third time, there aren’t any clowns tonight!” Jasper lifts his hands. “I wouldn’t do that to you, Tuck!”
“Clowns should be murdered,” I add. “Wanna know who invented clowns? A psycho, that’s who.”
They burst out laughing, most likely recalling their last prank, where they tossed a “synthetic partner” female clown—with tits and a vagina—in the locker-room shower with me. I wrestled that monster to the ground and threw her out.
Guess I deserved it. The month before their prank, I took out a Craigslist ad as a hot woman looking for men to give her anal and left their cell numbers. Their phones blew up with calls and voice mails for days.
Jasper grins. “There’s no tricks where we’re going. Just beautiful women—”
I halt. “If you’re taking me to a strip club, I don’t do those anymore. Remember the redhead? The one who stalked me—”
“Yeah. She had some serious boundary issues. What was her name?” Deacon asks.
“Lollipop,” I mutter with a groan. “Still can’t look at redheads without flinching.”
I went to a bachelor party where she was a stripper. I tucked a hundred in her bikini top. Didn’t even get a lap dance, but she got obsessed, sent weird letters, and then showed up in cities where I was playing. Once she smashed the windows on my Porsche. The final straw was when she confronted me outside my apartment building. She was arrested and sent to jail. The Lollipop Incident may have happened a few years ago, but the trauma lingers.
“Here we are,” Jasper announces with a hand flourish as we stop at a metal door outside a ten-story brown building. Blackout shades cover the windows, and if there’s a club inside, I can’t hear it.
Jasper knocks, and a peep door slides open. He whispers a password, and the entrance creaks as we step inside. Red carpet leads us to a two-story foyer dimly lit with Victorian-looking sconces. Ornately framed portraits cover the interior walls, scenes of fancy people from long ago.
The man who opened the door sweeps hooded eyes over us. With auburn hair, he’s tall and well built and wears a black tux with tails. “Membership card, please,” he says in a haughty British accent.
Jasper pulls out his wallet and flashes a card at him, then nudges his head at me and Deacon. “I’ve brought two guests that the board approved last month.”
He bows. “Ah, yes. Welcome to Decadence, gentlemen, the premier club of New York. I see you have your masks—good. I’m Brogan, your guide during the orientation. We wish you incredible delights and pleasures in our playhouse. Tonight’s our fairy-tale theme. Let us begin. Follow me, please.”
Hold on . . .
Delights and pleasures? Playhouse?
What the actual . . .
Ah, shit . . .
I raise an eyebrow at them. “A sex club. Seriously?”
“Oh yeah, baby!” Jasper says as he pumps his hips. “There’s gonna be a hot time in the old town tonight.”
I shake my head at him. “Dude, is this place even legit?”
“Totally. The mayor sponsored me,” he says as he tugs me along the hallway. “It’s got a steep membership fee, seventy-five thou a year, plus a vetting system. They run background checks, credit scores, you name it. We have the masks so no one knows who we are. There aren’t any Lollipops here, so let that thought go.”
“I managed to stop thinking about her, but thanks for reminding me.”
He smirks. “You could be a mechanic or an accountant or whatever. That’s the cool part. Pretending to be someone else.”
“I see.”
“I usually say I’m a personal trainer, you know, because of my great body. Anyway, tonight everything’s on me—drinks and the entrance fee. You’re welcome.” He does a bow like Brogan did at the door.
“How much was it for us to get in?” I ask.
“For special guests, five grand each, so ten.”
“Damn,” I say. Sure, we make millions a year, but that’s pricey for a birthday.
“Whatever. It’s my gift. I’ve been several times and . . .” He kisses the tips of his fingers. “Amazing. And you’re worth it. Don’t cry about it or anything, you big baby.”
I grunt. “You’re the drama queen. I’m the bad motherfucker. Get it straight.”
He chuckles. “Which is why we get along. Yin and yang. Peas and carrots.”
“I’m dying to see what it’s like,” Deacon says as he rubs his hands together. “Don’t wuss out on us, Tuck.”
These two are obviously foaming at the mouth to bring me here, and Jasper spent a lot of money on this. I exhale. Why not? With a few more drinks, I might even forget the demons in my head.
I put on my fake smile and spread my hands. “Is there cake?”
“There’s a food area with a huge buffet—” Jasper says, then cuts off as a voluptuous woman in a see-through mermaid outfit appears in the hall. She sashays toward us, murmurs a husky “Hi,” and then disappears.
“Who needs cake when sexy Ariel is here?” Deacon breathes. “Did you see her tits?”
I did—great rack—but I’m craving cake. I eat healthy twenty-four seven, and I’ve been looking forward to cake. Wait a minute; I’m thinking about sweets instead of tits. Jesus. I am old.
We step into Brogan’s office. After handing over our cell phones and signing numerous consent forms, we get a rundown about the different parts of the club—some are just for regular socializing, and others are “play” areas. He informs us that some floors have themed rooms for privacy—or not. Each room has a bed, condoms, lube, toys, and hand sanitizer.
Wanna be a pirate? Cowboy? Biker? Vampire? It’s here.
Jasper leans over to me and whispers, “I could have gone with a nice bottle of bourbon, but I wanted your present to be unique. I love you, man. For real.” He sniffs and waves his hand like a swooning woman. “Now I’m all misty. You like it, the club? Please like it.”
Sure, I’m down with people exploring their sexuality. To each their own kink—I don’t judge. I’ve done my own crazy shit—a few threesomes, maybe a foursome (I really can’t recall)—but that was in my early days of the NFL. These days I prefer a girlfriend.
Did I want to come here tonight? Nope. It’s not part of my tradition.
“Stop torturing me,” he begs when I don’t reply. “Tell me you love it. Come on. Please, please, please.”
“God, stop with the whining. Fine, fine, it’s cool. Awesome. My mind is blown. My dick is hard. Plus, I’ve always wanted to wear a mask with feathers.”
“I hear your sarcasm and choose to ignore it. Is it weird that I bought a glue gun and stuck more feathers on it? I fucking loved jazzing it up, so don’t lose it, yeah? It’s a memento of our friendship.”
I huff out a laugh. “You seriously need to stop buying shit online.”
“Never. I would have told you I was a member, but it’s kind of like Fight Club. There is no Decadence Club.”
“Right.”
“We were never here. We never walked down that alley. The mayor is not a member. You never saw Brogan. Hmm, I wonder if I could fake a British accent.” He clears his throat. “Ahoy, matey, how the bloody hell are you? Wait, let me try again—that was my pirate impersonation.” He clears his throat. “Hiya, mate. Fancy a cuppa?”
Smirking, I hold my hand up for him to be quiet, keying into Brogan. Apparently, Deacon was the only one listening.
“Before you touch someone, ask, and before you join an orgy, ask. A simple tap on the shoulder will do,” Brogan says in a somber tone.
I roll my eyes. No thanks. I’m here, but I’m not touching anyone.
Brogan gives us name tags. Jasper writes in Prince Personal Trainer, Deacon chooses Prince of Princes, and I pick Prince Player. Brogan asks if we’d like to hit the locker room, disrobe, and wear towels around our waists.
I rear back. “Whoa, now, hang on. I’m drawing a line. My dick does not swing free in a club.”
“Same,” Deacon mutters, cupping his groin.
Jasper huffs. “Pussies. Fine by me. We’ll stick with the suits. We do look good—am I right?”
I guess we do. I’m in gray, Deacon is in black, and Jasper has the navy. It’s going to be hard to pass as a mechanic in a five-thousand-dollar suit, but whatever. Happy freaking birthday to me. “There better be cake,” I tell them.
After Brogan declares we’re ready, we go through double doors and head upstairs to the second floor, pausing on the balcony that overlooks the downstairs bar area. Deemed a social area—no full-on sex allowed, just petting—it’s like a regular nightclub: people dancing, a naughty fairy-tale movie flickering on one of the walls. It’s not gritty or dirty like I expected; the vibe is glamorous, with chandeliers hanging from the ceiling and an oval swimming pool in the center. Long black couches line one wall, where couples make out while others stand and watch. Nothing I haven’t seen in a regular club.
Following the signs posted, we walk down another staircase to reach the floor. A few men are dressed like us, but most of the clientele went all out: guys in white jackets with gold tassels and lapels; women in princess costumes—some skimpy, some floor length with big skirts. As for the men in towels, I salute them for their bravery.
“Oh my God, Snow White is here” comes from Deacon as a woman rises from one of the couches. She’s wearing a yellow miniskirt, white thigh-high stockings, red heels, and a headband. Straightening her mask, she makes her way over and asks Deacon if he’d like to dance.
“Uh . . . ,” he says, throat bobbing. “I’m here for a birthday. God, you’re so pretty . . .”
“Go on; we’ll be fine,” I say and nudge him her way. Deacon is the shy one and sometimes needs a push.
“Why didn’t she ask me?” Jasper asks, frowning as they disappear on the dance floor.
“Come on, pretty boy; there’s plenty of women for you. Let’s get some drinks.” We head to the bar.
A woman slams into me, her chest colliding against my arm. She’d been in a rush, and the impact sends her reeling. I catch her before she falls and tug her up to my chest. “Whoa there. You okay, sweetheart?”
Breathing heavily, she raises her face, a glittery white mask covering her upper cheeks and most of her forehead. Her eyes capture mine, and I linger on the striking aquamarine color, the irises outlined in thick black.
Petite with her hair in a haphazard updo, she’s wearing a floor-length white dress. There’s a tiara on her head attached to a veil. “Great costume, Princess Bride,” I say after glancing at her name tag.
She jerks away. “It’s not a costume, and I do not want to have sex with you! Pervert! Get away from me!”
I drop her arm like it’s hot, and she storms off, weaving as she clutches a bottle of tequila.
“Excuse me! I was trying to help!” I call back, brushing at the liquor she spilled on me. “And I didn’t want to have sex with you!”
A few people around us who saw the incident chuckle. She flips me off over her shoulder as she stumbles around the people on the dance floor, then disappears into the throng. The audacity. Women adore me.
Jasper laughs. “Making friends already, huh? Maybe you’ve lost your golden touch at thirty-five. Damn, you’re almost forty!” He legit looks horrified.
“Five years away, asshole.”
He gets his “I have a great idea” face. “Remember how you and Ronan used to make bets?”
“Hmm.” Ronan was our former quarterback before Jasper—and my best friend. A few years ago, he retired after a career-ending injury and moved to Texas. Now he’s married, and I miss the hell out of him. In our younger days, we’d make bets about who could get the most girls at a bar. I won 99 percent of the time—I can be charming when I want—and I may have bragged about that winning streak to Jasper.
He raises an eyebrow. “We should continue the tradition. I bet you can’t get Princess Bride into you. If you can’t, then I’m going for it. I do love brunettes.”
“Good luck. She’s rude and short.”
“Tuck Avery only dates tall girls,” he says mockingly, then slaps cash down on the bar. “This is yours if you can do it.”
“A dollar. Impressive.”
He gives me a smug look. “It isn’t about the money. It’s your competitive streak. You, my friend, love a challenge.”
“Nope. Not interested.” I shove my hands through my wavy golden-brown hair. Longer than usual, it falls around my shoulders. Since training camp started, I haven’t made the time to get it cut. Now we’ve started the season, and it’s the last thing on my mind.
Jasper hands over one of his extra hair ties, and I put it in a low bun. Behind the bar are plain black ball caps. I pay for one and turn the cap backward and slip it over my head. I check my appearance in the mirror behind the bar, rubbing the heavy dark scruff on my face I’ve let grow. Mechanic?
“You want to do the bet. Say it,” Jasper says, bringing me back. He beats his fists on the bar. “Do it, do it, do it!”
“Stop acting like a moron.”
“Ah, you’re scared you don’t have what it takes! First you wouldn’t wear the towel; now you’re running from an itty-bitty challenge. You’re old as dirt! Live each day as your last, man—that’s my motto. You might die tomorrow, am I right?”
“Maybe.” I pretend interest at the people in the pool.
“Carpe diem, Tuck! Seize the day—and the princess!”
“Dammit. Why are you such a prick? Game on, quarterback,” I say with exasperation as I roll my eyes. Why not? What else is there to do?
He pumps his hips. “Yes, yes, yes, my man is gonna try for the end zone! A true player in action!”
People turn to look at us, and I chuckle. “You’re a child.”
He raises his glass. “To Princess Bride and football!” We clink our Dom bottles together.
Deacon comes back to slam shots with us, then takes off to check out the BDSM dungeon with Snow White. Several women stop to chat with us, and I feign interest as my gaze searches for Princess Bride.
A few minutes later, she ambles off the dance floor, her updo completely down. A strobe light flashes on her, and it’s hard to tell if she’s attractive with the mask, but the dim light shows creamy pale skin and plump rosebud lips.
Excitement buzzes over me as I gaze at her. My competitive streak is ready. Plus, no one calls me a pervert and gets away with it. She will worship at the throne of Tuck tonight. I’m not sure how, but I’ll play it by ear.
A tall man in a towel follows her. I ignore him, focusing on her as I smile at her wobbly approach, meeting her eyes with my best smoldering look. She ignores me, plops down on the seat next to me, and then bursts into tears.
Well, this is unexpected—but it could work.
Mom always said I could make the rain vanish with my personality. I was her perfect slice of sunshine, and I smiled nonstop in those horrible days of childhood, pushing her blues away as I shoved down my own fears.
As long as no one peeks under the shadowy surface of me, all is well.
I smirk at Jasper.
In the bag, my eyes say.
