K. C. Renner, who is wearing an aluminocloth shirt and boxer shorts, is the first to greet them. ‘My bonus baby, gimme some bone.’ Renner’s and Sam’s knuckles collide.

‘Good evening, Lauren.’ Renner’s voice turns sarcastically stuffy. ‘So glad you could join us.’ The quarterback shakes her hand, then licks it.

‘You’re disgusting.’

‘Thank you. Food’s everywhere, plenty of strange … oops, sorry. M’casa es su casa.’

The staccato pulse of the bass, originating from surround-sound speakers strategically placed beneath the porous floorboards, is literally sending music vibrating up through their bodies.

‘Isn’t it a bit loud?’ Lauren yells.

‘Yeah, great crowd. Hey, everyone’s out by the pool. Come on.’ Renner leads them through the packed hall. Groping blue-and-yellow-tinted hands reach out to touch them as they pass.

A set of soundproof Plexiglas doors part, allowing them to escape the noise into a home entertainment holograph suite. The doors hiss close behind them, shutting out the hallway acoustics.

The room is black, backlit by matching columns of ceiling-to-floor lava lamps and a 3-D holographic movie projecting in front of the far wall.

As Lauren’s eyes adjust to the dark, she notices movement along the floor—couples, making out in sensory body bags.

K. C. directs them through a second set of soundproof doors. They pass the food prep room and exit into the courtyard.

Humidity and the heavy scent of the pool’s ozone filtration system hits them square in the face. The soothing calypso sounds of Cuban heartthrob, Elian, comes from palm tree speakers planted along the periphery.

Cheerleaders, groupies, and prostitutes, most of them naked, lounge in and around the football-shaped pool in clusters, a dozen of Sam’s teammates drifting from one group to the next. Lauren spots Jerry Tucker in the hot tub, the enormous lineman sandwiched between two bare-breasted Jamaican-dyed Asian girls. Another teammate is lying on the deck behind him, passed out in a puddle of vomit.

She shakes her head. ‘Miami’s gridiron warriors. Pillaging the village before their next conquest.’

Ken Hudak, the team’s heavily muscled, pine-green-dyed middle linebacker, struts toward them, dragging his date, a Haitian girl wearing only a bandanna around her waist. Lauren stares at the couple’s his-and-her hip tattoo, which creates the illusion of two bulldogs doing it doggy style when the pair are making love with the girl on top.

‘Mule—we gotta talk, man.’ Before Lauren can object, Hudak drapes his arm around her fiancé and leads him away.

K. C. shrugs. ‘Sam’s a popular guy.’

‘Too popular.’

The Haitian girl slides over to K. C., grinding her bare groin into his hip. ‘I’m tired of playing defensive ball. How ’bout teaching me a little offense?’

K. C. winks at Lauren. ‘Back in a minute.’

‘Yeah, go grind your brains out.’ She watches him lead the girl away.