The Bet (Winslow Brothers 1)

“Oh, cool,” I mock when he still doesn’t say anything. “That sounds really interesting, Flynn.”

He flicks his eyebrows up and down, a tiny hint of a smirk lifting the corner of his mouth, but otherwise, he ignores me, wrapping his scarf around his neck twice before sliding a beanie over his dark hair.

“I’m going to grab dinner at Grand Station,” I tell him, silently letting him know he’s more than welcome to join. “Maybe stop by Milwaukee’s Bar for a beer after.”

“Have fun,” he says in dismissal, giving me a quick but loving punch to the shoulder and turning up the block to head the other direction. I watch his back for a moment as he retreats and eventually laugh to myself with a shake of my head.

I don’t know that I’ll ever understand the inner workings of my second eldest brother.

Pulling my jacket around myself more tightly, I power walk up the sidewalk on thighs that burn from Flynn’s sadistic idea of a simple leg day workout. The streets are bustling with cars, and tourists clamor on every corner, looking at their phones and maps and pointing in a million different directions as they try to navigate to their next landmark.

A fine cloud of steam hangs in front of me, spilling from nearly every building in the area and expanding in the chilly air. I love the sounds of New York even more than I did ten years ago, and back then, I was nearly obsessed. It’s always moving, always changing, and as a man who forever likes to be on the go, I appreciate the complication.

That’s not to say I can’t appreciate the simple life every now and then—I can and do—but this is the place that makes my blood sing. This is the place that makes me feel alive.

I hurry my pace to cross the street before the light changes, earning a honk from a turning taxi and a middle finger out the window for good measure. I smile and wave. God, I love this city.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, but I ignore it, choosing instead to indulge in the random sounds of my brisk walk and the warmth of my gloved hands. It’s not long before I’ve completed the ten-block trek toward Uptown, and the neon flashing lights of Grand Station Grill beckon invitingly.

This is easily one of my top two favorite restaurants in the city. It’s got everything—good food, good service, and just the right ambiance for solo or group dinners alike. Monday nights are their prime rib special night, and as a result, I usually find myself here once every couple of weeks.

The glass door feels light in my hand as I step inside, but I have a feeling that’s just some sort of sensory mis-signal created by the fact that my legs are absolutely shredded. I swear, I’m neck-deep in lactic acid.

Heidi, the hostess, smiles at me hugely as I arrive, likely encouraged by the pained chuckle spilling from my throat. “Hey, Jude!” she greets with a friendly, jaunty wave. “Good to see you.”

“Good to see you, too. My regular table available?”

She nods excitedly, admitting, “I blocked it off for you in case you came in.”

“Thanks, babe.” I wink, pull the glove off one hand with my teeth, and then dig into my jacket pocket to pull out a VIP pass or two. “Here. These are good for VIP entry and a bottle of your choice at Club Craze on Thursday. We’re closed to the public starting Friday for a private event this weekend, but if you like it, you should bring the rest of your friends some other time.”

“Really?” she squeals excitedly, doing a little jump-kick donkey-looking thing with her legs and putting her lips to the apple of my cheek. “Thanks, Jude.”

I wave it off. “You bet. Let me know anytime there’s a club you and your friends want to go to, and I’ll see if I can hook you up.”

She smiles again, grabbing a menu and waving me toward a table. She’s practically skipping she’s so giddy, and I’m feeling pretty damn satisfied. The truth is, as personal as I made the exchange seem, young, pretty things like Heidi are the ones helping me do my job. A club can’t be popular without customers, and she’s the kind of customer that brings in the rest. One quick phone chain to her friends, and they’ll have every college-aged guy in the city piling in after them to try to get a swing at their tail.

It’s just a fact of the club promotion business. Get the women, and the men will come. Period.

She puts the menu on the table and thanks me again before skip-running back to the front podium. I take off my overcoat and lay it over the back of the opposite chair, take my seat, and drop the napkin from the table into my lap.