CHAPTER NINE

A patron sloshed beer on a table in the front row. Some dude snapped a photo with his cell phone camera from the back. A waitress circled through the tables carrying a tray, expertly dispensing beverages to meet the two-drink minimum.

Bob’s Beer Haven and Comedy Club in Soho didn’t change its rules when Brent stopped by. The dimly lit comedy club off Spring Street had a been-here-for-years vibe, a low stage, and merely adequate acoustics. The crowd didn’t show up for the ambiance—they came there because the owner was known for his taste. Over the years, Bob had scouted and promoted some of the leading up-and-coming comedic talent, who went on to big careers. Damn shame that the landlord had just jacked up the rent astronomically—quadrupling it, so Bob was shutting down operations soon, and the location had been leased to a chain restaurant.

Brent and Bob had a long history; the guy had booked him for a few sets at a Los Angeles comedy club when Brent was working on Late Night Antics. Those club gigs had led to bigger ones that had helped Brent to grow his reputation in the entertainment business.

Whenever he’d visited New York for business or to see his brother, he’d tried to pop into the Soho club. He could easily draw a big crowd now, and fill out a fancier theater in midtown no problem, given the time he’d spent on screen hosting his own show on Comedy Nation before he shifted to the nightclub business. But he had no interest in that. He wasn’t on stage tonight for the money. He was on stage for the fun of it, and for the farewell—bittersweet though it was, given the fate of this establishment.

But this wouldn’t be the last time they worked together—Bob was a solid businessman, and Brent had promised him a job managing his club in New York, provided he got the approval from the city to open it. With two kids in college now, the man had needed to find a new gig quickly, and Brent was glad to potentially offer him something.

“So let’s say that there’s this guy,” he began, pacing slowly across the creaky wooden stage. “I’m not going to name names or point fingers at who this guy might be.”

He stopped to roll his eyes around, as if he were somehow looking at himself, and somewhere in the audience he could make out the silhouette of his brother pointing at him on stage. Brent held up his hands as if he was innocent. “Like I said, I’m not naming names. But, for the sake of argument, let’s say this guy fucked up a situation with a woman. Because, let’s face it, every now and then, from time to time, the man will be in the wrong, right?”

“Every now and then,” a woman in the crowd called out sarcastically.

“Exactly,” Brent said crisply. “It’s rare, totally rare, that the guy is the one who messes up. Because men are usually on top of their shit in a relationship. They never forget birthdays, they always remember to bring gifts to their women, they never say stupid, dumbass, idiotic things,” he continued in his deadpan tone. “Men, generally speaking, are really evolved creatures.”

Several loud chuckles resonated from the audience.

“But sometimes a man makes a mistake. And he has to make it up to a woman. What is this guy supposed to do when the woman is just not one of those gals who likes flowers?”

He stopped to scratch his head as if he was thoroughly flummoxed by the situation, and truth be told he actually was. Perhaps he could work out what to do next with Shannon in this routine.

“You see, I thought about a few options.” Brent stopped talking and quickly backpedaled, as if he hadn’t meant to indict himself, when he clearly had. “I mean, this guy,” he said in an exaggerated tone. “Not me, ’cause I’m not talking about me. Because this is clearly not about me at all. But this guy, who is obviously not me, he’s trying to figure out how to do something really fucking awesome for his woman. Something that proves he’s the man she needs. Something big,” he said, emphasizing that last word as his eyes drifted downward to his crotch, so the audience got his meaning. “So I thought: what does she want? What does a woman really want? And the conclusion is...” He stopped, paused, took a breath, because comedy was all in the delivery, then finished, “me.”

A few more laughs.

“So I’m just going to dip myself in chocolate, head to toe, and give her me. Covered in chocolate. For her to lick off.”

He held his breath as he tested out this new material for the first time. A ripple of laughter began, but there was still the punch line to deliver.

“But then I realized, that’s not really a gift for her. That’s a gift for me.”

Laughter rang out across the club. There were few sounds better than this—better than the sweet laughter of a joke well told. It was the great exhalation—it was relief and buoyancy all at once.

But then, it wasn’t a joke. He did need to prove himself to Shannon, and if she somehow happened to see this set, he was certain she’d know it was part of the big grovel, as Mindy had so aptly put it.

“So, yeah. Maybe not chocolate,” he said, then continued on for another ten minutes, finishing up his set. When he was through, he joined his brother and his wife in the audience during a short break between acts. Julia clapped proudly as he walked over, then wrapped her arms around him in a big hug. “As always, you were magnificent,” she said.

“I’m just sorry you didn’t wind up with the funny brother,” Brent said, adopting a frown.

“Shame she didn’t get the funny-looking one, isn’t it?” Clay said, deadpan.

Julia smiled and laughed. “You two are crazy. I know you were both lady-killers back in high school. All the Nichols men are fine-looking specimens,” she said, then patted Clay’s leg and wiggled her eyebrows at him.

Brent latched onto two words. He stared at her sharply. “High school? You think we stopped after high school?”

“Fine, fine. College, law school, and beyond,” she added, then dropped her chin into her hands. “But seriously. What are we going to do about your little problem?”

He furrowed his brow. “What little problem?”

She gestured to the stage as an answer.

Clay chimed in. “Do you think you fooled us?”

Brent snapped his fingers. “Damn. You guessed it. I really am going to dip myself in chocolate. Should I do dark or milk chocolate, though? That’s the million-dollar question.”

Julia swatted him. “Brent! Seriously. Your lady problem.”

“What lady problem?”

“You know you can’t trick her, man. Might as well own up to it,” Clay said, leaning back in his chair, parking his hands behind his head.

Brent laughed and held up his hands in surrender. “Fine, you got me. You saw straight through my routine.”

“I know that, sweetie,” Julia said, flashing a small smile. “But let me give you some advice. Whoever this woman is, she doesn’t want you to solve the relationship problem by dipping yourself in chocolate, as cute as you may be.”

Brent sighed, then laid out the story for his brother and his wife. “I’ve clearly got to big gesture the hell out of it. What do I do?”

Julia answered immediately. “The answer is simple. You need to focus on what matters to her. How can you show her how important she is to you? Where did you fail in the past in that regard?”

Brent scoffed. “That’s gonna be a long list.”

“Then take it item by item, step by step, and follow her cues.”

Clay pointed his thumb at his wife. “She knows what she’s talking about. Listen to the one and only Mrs. Nichols,” he said, and those words dug into Brent’s chest like a rusty shovel. He was thrilled that Julia and Clay were so happy together, but Shannon was supposed to have been the first Mrs. Nichols. She was supposed to have been his wife ten years ago. Now, she was simply a woman he’d had one dirty encounter with in his nightclub. He was at square one with her for all intents and purposes. Saying he was sorry yesterday was the barest beginning of trying to win her heart, and now he had to move past apologies and show her why she should want him.

After Clay and Julia went home, Brent made his way to the bar to catch up with Bob, who was pouring from the tap for another customer. “What does it take to get a beer around here?”

The man looked up and said dryly, “Evidently, it takes a chain restaurant.”

“No shit. But hey, you’ll be handling cosmos and top-shelf liquor in no time.”

Bob gave him a quick salute, then handed out the drink. When he returned, he poured him a beer, then clinked an imaginary glass to Brent’s. “Here’s to the next phase—cosmos and fancy-ass drinks at your new club.”

“And to landlords who aren’t assholes,” Brent said, raising his glass.

“Amen.” Bob rapped his knuckles on the counter. “I’ll miss this place.”

“Yeah, me too.”

Later, Brent hailed a cab and headed to his midtown hotel. As the cab ambled through traffic, he unlocked the screen on his phone, and opened up a new text message to Shannon. Keep it simple—keep it direct. That was what he’d do.

I’m in New York... thinking of you... can I see you when I return this weekend?

In seconds she replied.

I don’t know. Can you?

Oh, she was feisty tonight, toying with word choice. He responded with a:

May I?

As the cab rolled past the Port Authority and the neon lights and tourist traps on 42nd Street, her reply arrived.

What will you be wearing?

Okay, he was getting somewhere, if they were talking about clothes. Brent grinned to himself as the cab lurched to a stop at a red light. Maybe he wasn’t entirely at square one. Because he knew this woman. Knew how she liked to flirt. How she liked to play. How she liked to keep him on his toes.

What do you want me to wear?

As the cab started up again, he clutched the phone and peered out the window, forcing himself not to simply stare at the screen and wait for a reply. As he scanned the billboards and neon signs, he spotted one up ahead with a body in motion. A dancer leaping through the air. He read the details on the sign, and something clicked. “Yes,” he said triumphantly out loud, and he had the answer to the question Julia had posed to him—what matters most to Shannon. He was about to begin a quick Google search when she replied.

Honestly, you’re pretty hot in nothing. But I don’t think you should parade around naked at dinner, and I keep hearing the new restaurant in the Cromwell is fantastic. There’s a four-month wait, though. And I know you hate waiting. But maybe you can get us in...

Like there was a chance in hell he wouldn’t.

Consider it done.

The cab arrived at his hotel, and several phone calls later, he’d pulled it off. He knew enough people in Vegas, so he’d called in some favors and secured the reservation for the woman he wanted most in the world. He also had something else for her, thanks to a couple of extra minutes spent Googling and ordering, but he’d wait until dinner to give her that gift. As he got into bed, he wrote to her, letting her know he’d pick her up at seven-thirty on Saturday. Her response was swift.

Impressed. Also, no need to pick me up. I’ll meet you at the restaurant.

Damn. She hadn’t given up her address yet. But that was okay. He had a way to earn it when he saw her that weekend. He laughed to himself at the realization that he was thirty-one years old and excited as hell about a dinner date.

But then, the dinner date was with her.

* * *

Tanner Davies snapped his fingers to get the waitress’s attention. The woman with the bouncy ponytail doubled back to their table. “Yes?”

“I said I wanted sweetened iced tea. Take it back,” he barked, making a get this out of my face gesture with his fingers. “This is unsweetened.”

“Right away, sir,” she said, with a deferential nod.

Tanner, the landlord, turned to Brent, and shook his head. “Fucking waiters. Anyway. Like I was saying, the neighbors are worried about you, man. They think you won’t address their concerns properly.”

Brent nodded at the owner of the building he’d already leased space from in Tribeca. They were at McCoy’s in midtown, rolling up their sleeves to discuss the latest two-steps-forward-three-steps-back routine that New York was pulling.

“With four clubs open in the first year, I think that shows how serious I am. We just opened Saint Bart’s, and that follows our first club in Vegas, as well as our clubs in Miami and San Francisco,” Brent said, carefully detailing the progress his business had made during the first twelve months.

Tanner shrugged dismissively. He might as well have just said who gives a shit? Brent wasn’t so sure if Tanner was the enemy or just the gatekeeper of all the problems the city kept heaping on him. Permits were shooting up in cost. Hands needed to be greased. The zoning commissioner threw up roadblocks. But New York was a linchpin in Brent’s plans for Edge. It was vital to the growing success of his operation, and Brent needed Tanner to help him win this city over, even though just then he wasn’t sure if Tanner was even on his side.

“So what’s the real concern?” Brent said, opting for directness. “And what can I do to help ease them?”

Tanner scratched his jaw, and cleared his throat. “Look. I’m just the messenger here, so don’t shoot me. But the neighbors don’t trust you. They think you’re a flash in the pan. Impulsive even. They see you as the bad boy of comedy who hosted a foul-mouthed TV show. And they worry you’re just some former TV celebrity who’s going to bring a lot of noise and crowds into their neighborhood at night,” Tanner said, and Brent reined in the flash of anger he felt over that word—impulsive. “And they want to know why they should allow another club in their neighborhood, especially one run by someone with a high profile.”

“The location is zoned for a nightclub,” Brent said, pointing out the obvious, because that was the reality of the property. Rather than deal with intangibles, Brent wanted to try to focus on the facts. “You had one in the building before mine and it went out of business.”

“That’s what I’ve been saying to them,” he said.

“And how do they take it?”

Tanner sighed, a frustrated stream of breath that seemed to peter out of him. “Not well.”

Irritation knotted in his muscles. He didn’t even know who was friend or foe. He might not ever know though, so he shifted gears. “So I need to prove to them why it should be my club?”

“Yeah. Why you and not some other nightclub.”

Brent launched into his pitch about Edge. He wanted to make sure the landlord would go to bat for him. “Because we don’t attract the raunchy crowd that the previous club drew. You won’t find twenty-one-year-olds puking outside the loft apartments at three in the morning. We don’t cater to the whole deejay culture that attracts the crazy fans. My clubs are upscale and classy. They have a certain mystique, a lush sensuality, but it never crosses over into trashy. Edge is seductive, it’s sexy, but it’s never raunchy.”

The waitress returned with a fresh iced tea. “Here you go, sir. Sweetened, as you requested.”

Tanner grunted, then spoke to Brent. “That’s what we need the neighborhood association to see.” Tanner lowered his voice to a whisper. “And it wouldn’t hurt if you threw in a few thousand to have some of the Tribeca parks redone. There are a couple in need of a makeover, and that could make the residents happy.”

“Easy enough. I’ll be glad to do that. Anything else?”

“Yeah, how about you peel off a little extra for me? The ex is trying to take me to court about alimony payments.” Brent didn’t answer because he didn’t like the sound of the request, but Tanner quickly waved a hand and flashed his yellowed smile. “I’m just kidding. I won’t let the bitch have a dime of my money. And I’ll help you with all this. I want your club in my building.”

“Great. And I want Edge there too. So let me know if there’s anything else you need from me.”

“That’s all for now. But I’m sure there will be something else soon. That’s how it goes in New York. You gotta do whatever it takes.”

That seemed to be the new mantra in his life, whether with women or with business.