by Rina Kent
Upon seeing them, President Joe stands and greets them with toothy smiles.
His rivals. His fighter is playing against theirs tonight.
The leader’s name is Mist. She’s the madam of Le Salon — an entertainment club that runs prostitution on the side. It’s also the facade to money laundering, drugs, and gambling.
They weren’t the leaders until two months or so ago when the original owner was caught for tax fraud. And, surprise, he’s got no ounce of criminal records because like President Joe, these people cover their mafia business with legal flowers.
This group and President Joe are two facets of the same coin. But an enemy of my enemy...
Liam thinks I’ll infiltrate Le Salon to bring its owners down. I might do that if I get the chance, but my main aim is to bring President Joe down through his rivals.
The newcomers sit beside President Joe, chatting and appearing amicable. In reality, they must be plotting each other’s downfall. The history of their rivalry goes back for decades.
The shouting rises in volume. I rip my gaze to the reason why the crowd’s going rampant.
A hulk of a man – no kidding, pretty sure he’s on steroids or something – saunters inside the ring. Even his dark chest muscles are glinting due to some lotion or sweat.
The fighter runs along the ring, snarling and showing off his muscles pumped by steroids. Fighter man points at President Joe who raises his glass in acknowledgement.
Of course such a show-off is one of President Joe’s people.
Guess who I’ll root for? Yeah. Not this guy.
For a few minutes, no one else comes out from where the fighters normally enter the ring. The audience murmur amongst each other, some with anticipation. Some with anxiousness.
Instead of the usual entrance, a man slips from between the rails and hops into the ring with athletic grace.
The crowd erupts in cheers like he’s a Hollywood actor.
The man is half-naked and big, but his muscles aren’t on steroids like mister show-off. He has striking full-sleeves of colourful tattoos. I’ve seen countless tattoos in our side of the town, but nothing as realistic and menacing as his. Chinese tigers wrap around his biceps and forearms, snarling in full 3D fashion.
Their owner, however, appears laid back. Curls of his dark blond hair fall haphazardly against his forehead like he couldn’t be bothered to comb it. An easy-going smirk lifts his lips and his light blue – or grey? – eyes glint with pure mischievousness. It’s like he’s out in the pub with the lads instead of a highly anticipated fight.
He’s not a show-off like his opponent, but he has the level of confidence to know he will, without doubt, win. All of this seems like a one-man show where he’s internally mocking the fighter.
While his opponents snarls and beats his chest like an escaped Gorilla, he stands there in complete nonchalance. Seamless danger and authority seeps from him. He doesn’t even have to try to channel the entire ring’s attention.
Pity. I would’ve found him super hot – and drooled over those tattoos for like an hour – if he wasn’t so obviously an arrogant bastard.
“I told you Elle won’t come,” Liam shouts over the noise.
“She doesn’t like male fights in the first place.” My tone is absent-minded as I focus on President Joe’s rivals.
The blonde girl who came with Mist stands as soon as the fight starts and heads downstairs. To the restroom no doubt. I’ll begin working in Le Salon tomorrow, but it doesn’t hurt to form a connection now.
I stand. “I’ll go check on Elle.”
On my way out, I throw one last glance to where the fight is at its ripe. The arrogant bastard is toying with President Joe’s show-off. He ducks then kicks him in the back. The crowd’s cheers turn deafening. Something tells me he can knock him out unconscious if he wanted, but he’s elongating the show on purpose.
Not long after I round the corner, the cheers rise in volume. Maybe the arrogant bastard got bored and finished that other prick off.
I follow the blonde down the hall, trying to be as nonchalant about it as possible.
She rounds a corner. Then another. We go on successive corners for several minutes. This isn’t the way to the toilet.
Brilliant. Did she figure out I was following her?
I pause at a corner to keep a distance, wait a few seconds, then I go after her. I halt and stare at the empty hallway.
Where did she disappear to?
I run to the end of the hallway. Search left then right, but there’s no sign of her.
There isn’t even a room or something where she can disappear into.
The hell is she? A freaking ghost?
I’m still mulling the situation over when someone tackles me from behind. I fall to my knees. Hard.
“Well, well, well.” A deep, smooth voice calls from the side.
I look up and find the arrogant fighter in the flesh.
His metallic eyes shine with frightening trouble. “What do we have here?”
Chapter Three
First thought: shit.
Second thought: double shit.
Up close, the arrogant boxer is even more imposing. The hard ripples of his chest are coated with a sheen of sweat. The Chinese tiger sleeve tattoos swirl across his strong arms, snarling so frighteningly as if they’re about to be used as weapons. There’s a Chinese character tattooed along his pectoral muscle that I assume means ‘Fuck You’ in sophisticated Chinese.
His shiny blond hair falls in complete chaos, casting a shadow at the lightest grey eyes I’ve ever seen. A replica of England’s overcast sky. A calm before the storm. They appear tame — welcoming even — but a shard of darkness lurks behind them.
A darkness I invited upon myself.
A ringing starts in my ears and my body goes rigid. My breathing deepens, and the threat of a panic attack begins blurring my vision. I hate being in this position, it draws an uncontrollable tangle of emotions.
Since my parents’ death, no one brings me to my knees. No one did when Elle and I were young and practically homeless and they certainly won’t start doing it now.
I attempt to stand. The guard on my back brings me down with a harsh shove on my shoulders. My bare knees crush against the concrete.
I can take one of them — probably the one at my back — since the arrogant bastard is a boxer and I can’t beat them. Elle kicks my arse every time we spar. Besides, I’d rather not use violence when there’s an alternative. Violence is a momentary rush of adrenaline. Once that’s over, regrets are more prevalent than accomplishments.
In this situation, I need to stay calm and play whatever cards I have.
And yet, my idiotic finger is trying to twirl a strand of hair.
The arrogant fighter looks down at me with a slightly tilted head as if he’s counting his options about what to do with me.
Before he can get any wild ideas, I say in a clear — and thankfully — tremor-free voice, “I'll scream.”
A spark ignites in his previously-neutral eyes. Son of a gun. I just gained his interest. That’s never good.
He grins, and I’m transfixed by how lethally beautiful he appears. Pretty sure he can sell that smile.
“I love it when they scream.”
My lips part, and for some satanic, extremely weird reason, I imagine this man naked – which isn’t hard considering he’s shirtless. His abdominal muscles flex, those tattoos snarling and his overcast eyes hooded. He’s pounding into a woman wildly that she’d scream so loud as if he’s hurting her. And maybe he is, but the only difference is that the woman likes what he’s doing.
My cheeks heat.
I purge the weird thoughts as soon as they come in.
The hell was that all about?
His voice comes out deep and smooth like how I imagine the devil speaks when luring his victims. “What’s your name, beautiful?”
I glare up at him. “When I’m not kneeling at your feet, I’ll tell you.”
The gleam shine deeper, only this time, gloomy energy radiates off his too-perfect-to-be-true body. He has this permanent, eerie smirk plastered on his face and again, it gives a preview of the devil’s.
I’m sure this man has devil minions somewhere.
He motions to the guard at my back and the bloke grunts before letting me go.
I stand with grace, trying to appear as nonchalant as possible. My breasts are about to pop free from the leather confinement of my dress and the built-in bra. I re-adjust it while my eyes dart sideways, searching for a possible exit. A man is blocking me from the back and the other from the front.
“She’s in a restricted area,” the bloke from behind me says in a Scottish accent. “We should take care of her.”
I gulp when the boxer’s eyes rake over me before fixating on where I’m trying to keep my breasts from spilling out. Beside interest, they’re filled with a dark, chilling intent. “Maybe we should.”
An involuntary shudder draws down my spine. I got myself involved with someone who doesn’t hesitate to hurt. He’s like those monsters Mum warned me to stay away from.
Considering that these blokes are with President Joe’s rivals – and therefore gangsters – I’m sure they’ll clear my tracks or whatever term they use.
My chest tightens and my fingers reach for my hair. I drop my hand back down before I can twirl a strand.
I rein in the fear gnawing at my insides and plaster a smile. “Or maybe you shouldn’t hurt me? I was looking for my friend. I don’t even know your names, so all this can be a huge, non-harmful misunderstanding. Happens all the time.”
“Is that so?” He’s saying it with so much mockery and amusement, it pisses me off.
I continue smiling, though. It’s one of the fewest weapons in my arsenal that can get me out of this situation. “Totally.”
“I see.”
“Thanks!” I begin to bypass him, keeping my head low. Perhaps they’ll forget all about this.
No such luck.
“What are you thanking me for?” He steps in my way, blocking my path and towering over me like a grim reaper. He flashes me that devil smirk again. “I still haven’t let you go.”
“You should.”
He hums, and the sound shoots dread into the pit of my stomach. “Have you heard of being at a bad place at a bad time?”
He means, wrong place at the wrong time?
He approaches me and I instinctively push back. “That type of situation always ends badly.”
I don’t think. I rear back and kick the guard in the crotch backwards.
He bends forward, and I take the opportunity to dart around him and sprint in the opposite direction. Once I reach the crowd, I’ll be safe.
I expected the boxer to try and tackle me, but he doesn’t move. Pride swells inside me. Who knew my surprise element would shoot his reflexes down.
“You didn’t tell me your name, beautiful,” he calls after me.
I flip him the finger without looking back.
A burst of dark laughter echoes after me as I round the corner.
“Do you have to go?” Elle stands at the threshold of our tiny lounge area. The sofa is second hand and the worn-out rug could use some change. The room is filled with Elle’s medals, boxing gloves and my honorary diplomas from college.
The mouldy ceiling and the loud landlady are a pain in the arse, but this place has been mine and Elle’s home since I turned eighteen and we could break free of our foster homes.
My sis’s stance is wide and her shoulders crowd with tension as if she’s about to fight.
My tiny black dog, Killer, yaps at my feet as if echoing Elle’s question.
I carry him in my arm and hug his chubby body close. I’ll miss him, Elle, Liam, and everything that kept me going for years, but I can’t be little miss ostrich anymore.
I’ve always felt vacant — even when President Joe was in prison. Deep down, uselessness and restlessness had been my companions when I closed my eyes at night. I’ll never feel fulfilled unless I avenge Mum.
Once all this is over, Elle, Liam, and I can be a family again.
“It’s only training, Ellie.” I release Killer, pinch her cheeks, and pull them so she’d appear smiling. “One month or so and I’ll be back!”
There’s no way I’ll tell Elle where I’m really going. We don’t keep things from each other, but she’s too hot-blooded and would jump into this with me. Putting her in danger is out of the question.
Elle wiggles from my touch. “Call me.” She clears her throat. “I'll miss you.”
That’s the most show of affection Elle affords.
“I’ll miss you, too!” I jump her in a hug and squeeze the living hell out of her. She tries to squirm free, but there’s no escaping my death grip. Pretty sure I’m suffocating her, but it’s the last hug I’ll have from her in a long time, so I have a pass.
When I finally let her go, she’s panting. “I won’t miss your hugs.”
“Liar! You secretly love them!” I tickle her side and she bursts into laughter. I laugh, too, and Killer joins in with his happy woofs.
We clink out bracelets together. Hers a firefly because she always shone like one. Mine is a lotus flower because Elle said they grow beautifully in murky water.
I’m losing all of this. But I wasn’t able to appreciate it properly because Mum’s killer is still out there. He’s owning places and people and living the best of lives while mine and my mother’s have been hell.
I can never forgive him. Ever.
If I want to live my life to its fullest, then my grandfather has to pay.
I walk into Le Salon with confident steps.
Loud music booms in between the walls. Even though Le Salon is a legal façade for mafia activity, it appears no different from other luxury clubs. The main floor is sophisticated with tones of dark red and gold as theme colours. The lounge area is packed and so is the Victorian-style bar.
Since it’s the opening hours, so many people filter through the door, but the entrance is exclusive to the rich and powerful. They have to show a special access badge with Le Salon’s logo to get inside.
The distinctive scents of cigar, alcohol, and men’s expensive perfume lingers in the air. The dress code for all the girls working here is strictly evening gowns.
I’m wearing a mid-thigh blue dress that flatters my pale skin tone. I made sure to doll up as much as possible without appearing like I’m trying so hard. The only loud thing in my makeup is the matte red lipstick. First impressions matter the most and red is a winner in a place like this.
Some escorts are chatting happily with customers while others take men upstairs. Prostitution is a side dish on Le Salon’s menu. I’m hoping against hope that none of these girls is forced into it.
I keep pushing through the crowd with firm, sure steps.
Deep inside? I’m rethinking the whole thing.
I want revenge more than anything, but would I go to the extent of offering my body for it?
Mum’s dead eyes flash into my memory.
My mother lies on the kitchen floor while my father sits on a chair, eyes closed, with no care in the world. For a passer-by, he’d appear asleep. I stare dumbfounded from the kitchen’s broken window. My arms and legs are scraped with glass and blood pours from my skin.
It hurts so much, but I’m too numb to move. I want to scream at her to wake up, but nothing comes out.
I lose consciousness and wake up in the hospital. My parents are dead due to gas asphyxiation, they say. I was only saved because one of my parents threw me out from the kitchen window.
Mum did.
She was lying on the kitchen floor, her arms bleeding, because she saved me. Dad would never save me. He only returns from his post in Afghanistan for two weeks before leaving us again on months to no end.
He never cared.
He didn’t talk much either.
Because he was wrong in the head, Mum told me.
&
nbsp; Because the war made a monster out of him and I should never anger him.
Dad was a shapeless gloom for me and someone I needed to survive. Mum said he wasn’t a good man and that I’m only safe with her.
I asked her why she married him, then. In my seven years old mind, I believed in fairy tales. I believed that a man and woman should love each other to get married.
Mum said she always refused him and when she kept on saying no, he forced his way with her. She fell pregnant with me and her father coerced her to marry my dad.
When I grew up in various foster homes, I came to the shocking revelation that I’m a result of rape. I’m a dirty, shameful existence.
It didn’t take me long to connect the dots of what happened.
Dad killed Mum.
I heard them arguing that night everything went to hell. They always argued, but that day was worse than usual. I don’t have clear memories, but I remember that night so well because Dad broke my favourite toy. Mum told him she had enough and that she was taking me and leaving.
His reaction? Family suicide.
I lost both my parents one day and that was that. I didn’t have my father to blame. I didn’t have anything. The only one I had left is my mother’s father. If that scum didn’t force her to marry her rapist and took care of his traumatised daughter instead, she wouldn’t have died like a nobody. I wouldn’t have grown up alone, vengeful, and empty like a tin man.
So yes, if it’s to bring that rat down, I would do anything. Including Le Salon’s side dish.
When I applied, they said I’d be a waitress in the probation period. I might be promoted to an escort if I do well. I’ll make sure I’m accepted but I won’t do well enough to be promoted.
I take the stairs where the guard has directed me. I’m to see the madam before getting started.
There’s a commotion as soon as I reach the second floor.
The woman from last night, Mist, the madam of Le Salon, is twisting a man’s arm and locking it behind his back. He wears an expensive suit and appears mid-age. His face is reddening while hers is completely serene as if she’s dealing with a child.