Chapter 18
He barely had time to say goodbye to Dean and Brody before Ramsey was dragging him outside.
“Uber’s eight minutes still,” he said to Ramsey, who was trying to hide it but Nate was fairly certain he was vibrating with tension anyway.
And considering Ramsey’s normal behavior, that fact had his own anxiety spiking considerably.
“I’ll try to grab a cab,” Ramsey said. He finished typing on his phone and slid it into his pocket. “I added Dean and Brody to the VIP list at Vault. They can go have some drinks on me, and possibly debauch the library.”
“Still pissed you wouldn’t tell me who already did that,” Nate complained.
Easier to focus on the secret Ramsey seemed determined to keep rather on what trouble Jordan was no doubt in.
“What did he say to you?” Ramsey shot him a look and stalked over to the curb, eyes scanning the traffic.
“What do you mean? You read the texts.”
“Yeah, I did,” Ramsey said, a little impatiently, “but I didn’t talk to him, not like you did.”
“He didn’t seem upset, he just seemed . . .” Nate paused, hesitating. “Actually, I’m pretty sure he was upset, and didn’t want me to know it.”
“He wouldn’t.”
Ramsey didn’t sound like he was guessing. He sounded like he knew.
“How do you know—”
Flagging down a cab, Ramsey interrupted him. “Cancel the Uber.”
Nate wasn’t annoyed but he was confused as Ramsey shoved him into the back of the cab, Ramsey sliding in next to him, giving the driver the address and to Nate’s shock, promising a huge additional tip if he could get them there fast and a bunch more money if the cab would wait for them at the club.
After he finished canceling the Uber, sure that his rating was going to plummet after this, Nate turned to Ramsey. “I’m worried about him, for sure, but you’re . . .” Nate gestured towards where Ramsey was nearly vibrating against the seat.
Ramsey looked over at him, blue eyes full of concern. “Spent a lot of time around guys like Jordan,” he said in a clipped voice.
But Nate still wasn’t following. “Hockey players get into trouble a lot?” He hadn’t heard that, but then, it wasn’t like he’d paid a lot of attention to hockey players before meeting Ramsey.
Before falling in love with Ramsey.
Ramsey just shook his head. “No. Plenty of other foster kids, though. Hate authority, through and through. And don’t tell me you don’t notice how tense he gets whenever Sterling talks at him.”
For a second, Nate wanted to correct him. But no, Sterling did speak at Jordan, not to him.
“Why am I the exception?”
“You don’t treat him like an idiot who’s going to fuck up.”
Nate did have to correct that misinterpretation. “He is an idiot who’s going to fuck up, though.”
“Yeah, but you don’t treat him like it’s inevitable,” Ramsey said impatiently. “It’s different. I know it doesn’t feel all that different to you, but it is. And it’s made a difference to Jordan. Enough that when the shit hit the fan, you’re the one he reached out to.”
Nate couldn’t help the way his own shoulders tensed. “How do you know that happened?”
“It’s obvious,” Ramsey said with a helpless shrug. “You saw it too. He didn’t bluster. He didn’t beg. He just texted your name, twice.”
Ramsey wasn’t wrong. That was exactly what had tipped Nate off to the possibility something could be seriously wrong.
“You got any cash on you?” Ramsey asked next.
“Couple hundred bucks, probably.” Nate didn’t pull his wallet out and check, but he was pretty sure. “And I can sign anything anyone wants.” He always carried a sharpie in his pocket, next to his wallet.
Ramsey gave him a sharp nod of approval. “Good.”
“You think we’re gonna need it?”
“I don’t know what we’re going to need, but I’d rather know what our resources are ahead of time. I’m not a Leaf, but I’m still a hockey player and we’re in Canada. Might have some pull too.”
“Plus you’re you,” Nate said, grateful, not even for the first time, that this was true.
“Yeah?” Ramsey glanced over and there was an uncertainty in his eyes that Nate didn’t like. As if somehow Nate might not like that Ramsey was Ramsey.
And that was complete bullshit.
“To be clear, I’m so fucking grateful you’re you,” Nate said, reaching over and squeezing Ramsey’s knee. Nate could feel the heat of him through his slacks.
Ramsey’s face softened. “It doesn’t bother you?”
“The opposite, actually.”
Nate didn’t have any more time to expound on that theme because before he could, they pulled up at the curb at the Pussy Palace.
Nate grimaced at the name—at least the Wild Leopard had a theme—as they got out of the cab.
Ramsey handed the driver a wad of cash, and for a half a second, Nate considered telling Ramsey that he’d pay him back, since Jordan was his problem. But the single swift look Ramsey shot him made it clear that he better not offer.
And it occurred to him that maybe Ramsey had already accepted that Jordan wasn’t just Nate’s problem anymore.
They’d become a team, a partnership, and as they walked up to the entrance it felt like it.
It was quiet outside, which was a relief. No cops yet.
But on top of the unfortunate name, Nate could immediately tell that this establishment was not as classy as the Wild Leopard. It was in a dodgier neighborhood, down a darker side street, and the outside brick edifice had the remnants of graffiti that had been half-heartedly scrubbed off.
The bouncer at the front door looked them up and down and Nate had been clocked many times in his years as an NFL player, but never this obviously. He’d also never been sized up and priced out quite like this before.
As he approached the guy, he was painfully aware of the Rolex on his wrist. He didn’t look back and see if Ramsey had tucked his diamond-encrusted chain into his sweater, but Ramsey wasn’t a rookie at this.
The guy could take care of himself—and if he couldn’t, he’d be the kind of person Nate would want to have his back in a fight.
Speaking of fights though, the bouncer looked like he’d fight dirty, with a knife to the ribs, or surreptitiously slipping on a pair of brass knuckles.
“Yo,” the guy said flatly. “You here for Atkinson?”
Well, they hadn’t been exactly slipping under the radar.
“Yeah,” Nate said.
“This way,” the bouncer said, and as they followed him through the dark doorway, Nate was tempted to ask what was going on, to get some kind of clue what they were walking into.
But before he could, Ramsey reached out and took his hand, squeezing it once.
Saying, Nate was pretty sure, not yet. He was becoming more and more fluent in Ramsey, but then after, Ramsey still didn’t let go.
Ramsey either didn’t care that they’d get clocked or maybe it was more he cared how much of a united front they presented.
Apprehension bloomed at the base of Nate’s stomach as the bouncer led them deeper into the club, past the bar, past the worn-looking stages with their cheap strip lighting and the dancers on the chipped brass poles.
Even though Nate checked every guy they passed, none of them were Jordan.
Ramsey’s grip tightened on his. Nate could feel his anxiety, even as he presented a cool, collected front, his expression a smooth mask that gave nothing away.
They finally reached an unmarked door, and he knocked twice, and it opened a crack and then opened wider after whoever was behind it recognized one or more of them.
“Here,” the bouncer said, and gestured them inside.
It was a small room, cramped with the three guys already inside.
Jordan was in the center, sitting on the single chair, and he was pale under the dangling fluorescent light.
One of the men was dressed like the bouncer, in all black, but he had a utility belt on, webbed and official looking, and there was not just a gun on it, but at least one knife, if not two.
From the flat expression on his face and the dead-eyed stare he swung their direction, Nate would bet he knew how to use both of them.
He’d been worried about the bouncer, but this guy was a whole other problem.
The second guy was dressed flashier. Still all in black, but in a suit, with a shiny, oil slick black vest under his jacket, his black shirt open at the collar, and the gold chain he wore at his throat was twisted and thick.
Glinting with diamonds the same way Ramsey’s chain did. But he wasn’t hiding it like Nate knew Ramsey was hiding his.
There was a pea-sized green stone on his pinky too, and the guy wore not just gold and diamonds and emeralds but power like a cloak over his shoulders.
“Wow, look who’s gracing my establishment,” the guy in charge said.
“Not just another football player, but Nate Bishop, in the flesh. And not just football players, but a hockey player too.” He paused, an ugly kind of amusement glittering in his dark eyes, “’Course not sure if you can call yourself a hockey player if you’re not really playing. ”
Nate felt his temper flare, but Ramsey squeezed once, hard. Don’t react, he said without opening his mouth.
“You’ve got us at a disadvantage,” Ramsey said. If Nate hadn’t learned the little tiny tics that always gave Ramsey’s true feelings away, he would’ve guessed that he wasn’t upset at all.
But in actuality, Nate knew just how deeply pissed off that comment had made him.
“We’re not what’s important,” the guy said arrogantly.
“You’re right.” Ramsey’s concession was smooth and easy. “You want to tell us why we’re here? What happened with Jordan?”
Nate watched as Jordan opened his mouth like he was going to say something and then he snapped it shut again when the man’s hand landed heavily on Jordan’s shoulder.
What an absolute dick. If it wouldn’t get them into even more trouble, Nate wouldn’t have hesitated before rearranging the guy’s conceited, self-important face.
“No, by all means, tell them how you were harassing some of my best patrons,” the asshole said.