Ryan Sloan.
Her shoulders tensed. She shouldn't feel that way about hearing from her brother, but given their last conversation, she had a hunch what was on his mind.
"Hey Ry," she said.
"Hey. What are you up to?"
She glanced around. Okay, fine. She might not care if strangers thought she looked like a woman who'd gotten some, but her brother didn't need the details of her sex life, which would be obvious if she said she was leaving a hotel.
"I just finished breakfast. What about you?"
"Heading to the gun range for a little practice."
She shuddered involuntarily. Even though she owned one, guns were not on her list of favorite things. Ryan was in the security business though, so he needed to stay sharp.
"Aim carefully," she said, as she leaned against a nearby wall.
"Hey, remember what we talked about at Grandma's?"
"Yeah," she said with a sigh.
"I got some more info. I need to talk to you."
She drew a deep breath, her pulse skittering with nerves. "Tell me."
"Not on the phone. Let's meet up."
She glanced at the time. "You're over at Reiss Range, right?"
"Should be there for an hour."
That gave her enough time to change into something simpler. Something that wouldn't scream that she'd been licked senseless the previous night. Because whatever Ryan needed to tell her did not necessitate her wearing fuck-me shoes.
"I'll be there."
She dialed the car service number Brent had left for her. The driver told her he'd be there in five minutes.
So much for the spa. She couldn't relax now if she'd wanted to.
Soon, she slipped into the town car, savoring the cool air, and the final few moments of this cocoon-the morning-after moments, as she floated down from her high from last night. Any minute, her feet would touch the cold, hard ground again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The head of the neighborhood association was a certified fanboy.
Alan Hughes knew all of Brent's dirtiest and filthiest bits by heart.
As he held up his fork, preparing to dive back into his steak, the man who stood between Brent and the Big Apple expansion recited more lines from memory. Ordinarily, the entertainer in him would be thrilled to have someone repeating his lines. But Brent was no fool. He knew the polo-shirt and khakis wearing, forty-something father of two tween girls wasn't quoting him to suck up at this lunchtime meeting at McCoy's over prime rib and problems.
Brent fixed on a closed-mouth smile as Alan Hughes waxed on from a comedy bit deemed too crude for his late-night show. This joke had only appeared online. Brent tensed, knowing what was coming next.
Alan punctuated the finale with a stab of his utensil in the air. "And that's why you should never shave your own balls."
The joke had been beloved by twenty-something guys. Dudes had gone ape-shit over some of Brent's bits. That one had earned him some serious guy cred online. Trouble was, that was exactly the opposite of the crowd he needed to impress now. Though Alan lived in Tribeca with his wife and two daughters, the man screamed suburbs, which meant he was the kind of guy trying to turn the city into a quiet, calm hamlet at night.
///
Alan pointed to himself. "Don't get me wrong. I'm a huge fan of Jackass and that kind of humor. I love the whole filthy, dirty, late-night Comedy Nation style. I watch it myself when the wife and kids are in bed. The problem is, you're not trying to win guys like me over."
Brent nodded. "Got it. And I'm glad you liked it. But talk to me about who I need to win over, Alan. Tell me what you see in your neighborhood," he said, inviting the guy into the conversation, letting him know he cared. Sealing the deal on New York was vital to Brent's plans, so he had to play ball. New York was mission critical for Edge, but he also didn't want to let down his friend Bob. He wanted to come through for him with the gig as manager of the club, delivering for the man who'd given him some of his biggest breaks.
But first, he had to deliver for others.
"Everyone else," Alan said crisply. "The moms. The stroller moms. The soccer moms. The-"
"The moms," Tanner barked, his coarse voice grating on Brent. He slammed his palm against the table at McCoy's. It shook. "All the moms."
Brent nodded several times, then kept his tone light. "Call me crazy, but I'm getting the sense you're saying... the moms don't like me."
"Sorry to bear bad news, but they don't right now," Alan said, hanging his head. The guy truly did seem sorry.
"What can I do to win them over, Alan?"
Alan clucked his tongue. "It won't be easy. How can we say you run a classy joint when you have this kind of history? You were the bad boy of comedy. That's what your own network called you."
"They did. But let's be frank here. I wasn't some criminal. They called me that because I had a foul mouth on stage. Because I had ink on my arms. Because it was part of a character." Brent held open his palms. Nothing to hide here. "But at the end of the day, I was just a comedian, telling some dirty jokes. Let's move on." He tapped the table with his index finger. "Talk to me, Alan. Tell what I need to do to convince your neighborhood that I can be good for business."
Alan nodded, and held up a glass. "I like you. You're a straight shooter. So I'm going to be straight with you. You need to meet the people in the neighborhood. You need to be charming. You need to show them you're not just the guy who tells filthy jokes that Axe Spray-wearing douche-canoes watch while smoking bongs."
"I can do that. And I never use Axe body spray, so there you go."
Alan chuckled again. "See? I knew you'd make me laugh."
But laughter wasn't enough. That was Brent's stock in trade in his twenties. He'd spun laughter into gold on stage. He'd parlayed jokes into a career, moving up the ladder with each chuckle, each laugh, and each hearty guffaw. They'd fed him and made him wealthy. Now, he'd pivoted. He was reinventing himself as a businessman, and in some ways he was starting at the ground floor. He had to prove he was trustworthy, that he was reliable, and that he was worth betting on when it came to this new playground he was playing in.
Playground.
So bizarre that his days of ball-shaving and first-date waxing had been replaced by playground makeovers. Brent saw a bigger opportunity. "Don't know if Tanner told you, but I've donated some money to have some of the parks revamped in Tribeca. Happy to go further. Build a playground, too. You think the moms will like that?"
Alan nodded approvingly. "Moms love playgrounds. The only thing they'd love more would be a coffee shop in a playground," he said, and now it was Brent's turn to laugh. "Anyway, that's a nice start. And we can build on that. This is what I'm thinking. We've got a big picnic coming up in the park. Fundraiser for some neighborhood services. Let's have you at the picnic. You could come by earlier in the day and say hello. Talk to them. Let them know you're a family guy at heart. Mention your brother and his wife. Mention your mom. Your dad. Don't talk up the Vegas roots, or the comedy. I know you're not married, but is there any chance you have a pregnant fiancée or something like that? If you did, that'd be a nice slam dunk," Alan said, miming stuffing a basketball through the net.
Brent laughed deeply, and shook his head. "Nope. I'm not opposed to either, but I don't have a woman in the family way."
"That's okay. I'm sure you've got plans to have a big family some day soon since you love kids, right?" Alan said, in a leading-the-witness tone.
Brent nodded. He got Alan's drift. He got it loud and clear.
///
* * *
"Let me see if I got this straight. The neighborhood association only wants to approve your plans to move Edge into the space if you seem less like the guy you were on TV and more like a clean-cut family guy. So you want my daughter-my precious angel princess-to be your prop?"
Clay raised an eyebrow as he pushed Carly lightly in a bucket swing in a park in Greenwich Village. The one-year-old giggled and kicked her feet.
"My niece who adores her uncle," he said, stepping in to push the sweetie-pie and elbowing Clay aside.
"Watch it there. That's my baby girl."
"And she's the sweetest, cutest, most adorable baby in the universe," he said, and Carly leaned back to smile at Brent. He cooed at her and made animal sounds. First a monkey, then a duck, then a chicken, and Carly scrunched her baby cheeks and laughed, the kind of infectious laughter only a child possesses. He shot Clay a sharp-eyed stare. "Told you so. She loves her uncle."
Like a hawk, Clay swooped in and rescued his daughter from the swing, cradling her against his chest. "Clearly, she's suffering from temporary insanity. I better get her to the pediatrician right away."
Later, as they walked through the Village, the baby strapped to her father in a Baby Björn, his big brother relented. "Obviously, you can bring her to the picnic. I'll just be the guy hanging by the fence, watching my kid. Ready to grab her if I need to."