by Celia Loren
Suddenly Gerard takes an exit and gives some crazy taxi drivers a run for their money, careening rapidly through a puzzle of streets before swerving into a parking garage. I have no idea where in the city we are.
“Whoa,” I say, clutching the door as we speed underground.
Gerard is burning rubber like a drag racer around the pillars of the parking structure, taking us deeper level after level. Finally, he screeches to a stop in front of an industrial elevator door.
There is a large man with a beard and a leather jacket standing outside the elevator. Another man is sitting on a crate. Gerard pulls the emergency brake and scrambles out of the car, trotting over to open the door for us. He stands to the side, his gaze downcast.
Dizzy from the speeding, I try to exit the car gracefully but am a little shook up. Mr. King appears at my side and offers me a steadying hand. I clutch it gratefully, smiling up at him. His eyes twinkle back.
“Sorry about that, Miss Clark. We were running a bit late.”
“No worries,” I say. I take a breath, pull my necklace back around the right way and follow Mr. King to the elevator.
The giant man gives us a nod and presses a button. “Hello Mr. King,” he grunts. Something like a gun bulges at his side. “Long time no see.”
Mr. King nods but doesn’t look at him. “Bruno.”
I look to Mr. King, uneasy, and he gives me a wink that says everything is under control. Somewhat placated, I follow him into the elevator and notice there is only one button: down. He presses it firmly and the elevator lurches slowly into the depths of Manhattan, lights flickering.
“I can see why this club is exclusive,” I say, trying to break my tension with humor. “Who the hell can find it?”
Mr. King smiles and links my arm around his, pulling me nearer to his face. His eyes are clear and intense and I can smell his cologne. Sensory overload.
“Just stay close to me,” he murmurs. “Alright, Clark?”
You bet, I think, nodding. I’m not going anywhere.
The elevator deposits us on a narrow platform outside a large sliding sheet metal door with the letters D.L. over the top and enormous thugs guarding the door. Bouncers who make Bruno look like Orphan Annie give us the once-over and make us put our hands against the door, patting us down. My stomach churns as I feel the huge hands trace every curve of my body.
“This seems extreme,” I object.
Mr. King shakes his head. “Standard procedure here.”
“We like a safe space to play,” says the taller bouncer, leering at me.
I grimace.
The bouncers finish searching us and unfasten the large metal chain barring the door, stepping to the side to give us access.
Mr. King goes through, tugging me along, and I hear the chain lock behind us. The doors open and my eyes and ears struggle to acclimate. There’s hardly any light, and when there is it’s reddish and murky. Oppressively loud trance music is blaring.
“What’s the D.L. stand for?” I shout to Mr. King.
But he’s not listening to me. He’s walking briskly into a chain-link hallway and I skip to catch up, startled to see men and women in various states of undress making out along the walls.
Wait. They’re not making out.
I hear rhythmic pounding and groaning and grind to a halt, dumbfounded, as I realize that a man and woman directly to my right are having full out sex. The man’s naked ass almost slams me in the stomach as he thrusts in and out of the woman, who is bound up to the chain-link wall by a pair of handcuffs. As I stare in shock, a new man pushes him away and drops his pants for a turn.
I spin around, realizing that all of the couples are fucking and one of them is tied up in some way. Women are dangling or suspended in rows on either side. One or two are upside-down. Some of the people tied up are boys, too. They look like teenagers.
But all the un-bound people look different. Some are in suits, some in leather jackets, some naked, some covered in tattoos, some wearing pinky rings and too much jewelry: all colors, shapes and sizes.
All men.
I’ve heard of sex dungeons and sex clubs in New York, but Jesus god I was certainly not expecting to walk into one tonight.
A strong hand grips my elbow and I jump. It’s Mr. King, his eyes searing into mine.
“I said stay close to me, Clark.” His voice is commanding.
I can’t form words to respond. Noticing my shock, he clenches his jaw and drags me along his side like a small, lost child.
The sex hallway opens to a wide, crowded room with arena-style seating and floodlights. People are shouting and laughing and drinking in their seats. Chains rattle and the sounds of ferocious dogs barking echo throughout the stadium. There is some kind of a sand-floored pit at the center of the room under a chain-link cage and I strain to see what’s happening inside.
On tip-toe, I peer through the heads of the crowd and see a couple of men restraining a hysterical pit bull with chains and a long pole with a loop at the end, pushing the animal into a corner where a crate is waiting. In the center of the sand, another group of men are lifting another, motionless dog into a bag. There is a pool of blood on the ground.
I instantly feel sick.
“Mr. King,” I say, voice weak. “What is this place?”
He doesn’t answer, staring in consternation at the dead dog being carried out.
“Fuck!” He curses. “This isn’t good, Clark. Let’s hope our luck changes.”
He presses his fingers to his temple and I see the muscle of his jaw work. I try to control my impulse to cry and vomit simultaneously.
“Sir, what’s going on? Why did you bring me here?”
“Sit down.”
He pulls me into an empty seat, taking his place next to me. Fresh sand is poured into the ring and raked until it’s even. I pray to god that they’re just making a nice Zen garden. But the crowd has other ideas.
“Hurry up, fuckers!”
“Fuck this shit! Death match!”
“Death match!”
It becomes a chant, wild and feral, and my heart is pounding in my mouth and I am sweating profusely, the cold sweat of dread.
“Death match! Death match!”
My worst fears are confirmed when two men are pushed into the cage. One looks like he’s maybe 19, in shape, but he’s shaking like a leaf and clutching a machete. The other man is a giant like the bouncers, straight out of a prison movie complete with Schwarzenegger’s body and a scar over his eye. One giant hammy fist of his is closed over the grip of a bat.
The smaller man darts to the center quick as lightning, swiping his blade at the giant’s feet. But the giant only laughs and swings his bat. The kid jumps away, but the bat clips his shoulder and makes him drop the blade.
The giant slams the bat into the kid’s side with a crushing blow, and the cracking sound makes me wince. My eyes squeeze shut. The crowd boos.
“Too easy, no way!”
“Come on!”
“Fight for it!”
The giant looks over to a man sitting in the front row, flanked by bodyguards, wearing a silk suit and tie and smoking a cigar. He gives him a slow nod of the head.
The giant nods back and kicks the machete back over to the kid. Kid snatches it up, trembling, and stumbles to his feet. The crowd roars approval, and the terrified kid uses the tide of adrenaline and noise as impetus to heave himself at his opponent.
My hands fly up to cover my eyes, but I can’t help but peek through my fingers, sickened. It’s like watching a train wreck, or an autopsy.
Somehow the kid ducks the swing of the giant’s bat and manages to sink the blade into Giant’s leg. Giant bellows in rage and wraps his arms around the kid’s neck, squeezing. Choking and spluttering, Kid’s arm flail until he finds his grasp on the machete again. He rips it out of Giant’s leg, blood squirting, and drives the blade into Giant’s ribs.
The slash makes the giant twitch and roll, and he takes the kid down with
him. They are a mass of churning arms and legs and blood. I see the kid’s arm reel back for a punch that lands on the giant’s chin. The whites of the giant’s eyes roll in pain, and he suddenly looks desperate.
One arm closes around the kid’s neck, locking him in an embrace, while the giant’s other meaty fist closes on the blade sticking out of his ribs. The giant rips the machete out of himself and with lethal swiftness tilts the kid’s head back and swipes the blade across his jugular.
The crowd roars and the giant jumps up and down in victory.
“Motherfucker!” Mr. King curses, slamming his fist into his own thigh.
Vomit burns up my throat and it takes everything in me to swallow it down. Disbelieving, I look back into the ring and see that the kid is, in fact, bleeding out in the center.
Dying.
Dead.
“Mr. King, please.” My voice is gone. It’s only a whisper. “Please get me out of here.”
“You’re alright, Miss Clark,” he says firmly. “Just a bit shaken up. We’re not finished yet. Get a hold of yourself.”
I stare at him and see he’s serious, his cold blue eyes unyielding and merciless. With a trembling hand, I reach in my purse for a napkin or maxi pad or anything to wipe my face. Mr. King is watching me coolly, and when I finish, he takes a firm hold of my elbow.
“Well done, Clark. Let’s go.”
We stand up, and I have a better view of the arena. They’re carrying the boy away like a sack of potatoes. More sand is poured and raked. And two women are thrown into the cage, trembling and sobbing, each of them clutching axes.
“Please, no!” Screams one. “Help me! Somebody help me!”
I can’t feel my legs. Adrenaline and terror and Mr. King’s forceful grip are the only things making it possible for me to walk.
Mr. King leads me through an aisle to another room, this one lined with plush couches. A few richly dressed men are lying down, tended by scantily clad and startlingly beautiful women carrying trays with syringes, pipes, and bongs.
“Jesus,” I whisper. It might just be an actual prayer.
Mr. King marches us to the back and raps loudly on a wooden door. An eye appears in the peephole, and I hear the sound of a latch turning.
“Paperwork,” Mr. King hisses at me.
Behind me, from the arena, I hear a woman scream bloody murder.
Shaken, I scramble to hand him the documents as the door opens and he drags me inside with him. This room is an office in an English library style, with dark leather chairs, bookshelves, and brocade wallpaper. Did I just step into fucking Wuthering Heights? What the fuck is this fucking place?
“Mr. King,” says a dark voice. “Not your best night, I’m afraid.”
The voice belongs to a hulking man with a weathered face, high cheekbones, gray hair, and imposing build. He’s sitting with his feet up on the desk, smoking a cigar. One eyebrow is missing, replaced by a burn scar. “Your dog was a pussy and your boy is dead, which means you still owe me seven million. I sincerely hope you’ve come to settle your account. Otherwise, your night might just go from bad to worse.”
Mr. King is licking his lips. I’ve never seen him agitated like this before. He extends the paperwork that I spent the afternoon typing up. “Here, Jack. It’s the deal we discussed. One hundred thousand shares, the property in Newark, and the shell company.”
Jack snaps his fingers. One of the leather-clad giants at his side steps forward and takes the papers from Mr. King, walking them over to the desk and laying them out. With a terrifying squint, Jack moves his gaze from my boss to my documents and starts to read.
A clock ticks on the wall. My nerves are stretched thin. I swivel my head and see it’s a grandfather clock with a skeleton figure at the top and the same letters, D.L.
“Hmm.” Jack stirs, fixing his gray eyes back on Mr. King. He smiles and starts to laugh, and Mr. King smiles back. Then Jack’s face goes hard and he rips up the papers. Mr. King blanches. “No deal, King. Looks like you still owe me. Which is how I like it.”
“What do you mean, no deal?” It’s the first time I’ve heard Mr. King angry. “The contract is perfect.”
The giant bouncers step forward and Mr. King grinds his teeth, cowed.
“No deal,” Jack repeats. He leans back in his chair. “Shares? I don’t want shares. I’m still shopping around with you and Skollz Corp. Meanwhile, you can pay some installments. You know what I trade in.”
“You’re making a mistake.”
“You’re not in a position to object.”
Mr. King’s jaw is twitching and I’m literally shaking. I don’t know what the problem is, but I want the hell out of here.
“Mr. King,” I whisper, “Perhaps a counter-offer?”
He looks at me then, his eyes flickering. “You think so, Clark? You want to know what he trades in?”
Jack is smirking at me. He mouths a word I can’t understand. My skin is crawling.
“What?” I turn to Mr. King.
“Flesh,” shouts Jack with a dirty laugh. “Peachy white flesh like hers is pretty high in demand, King. Red pussy. She a natural?”
“She’s natural.”
My stomach sinks and my blood runs cold. I think of possible escape routes and the long grungy path to this room, but fight or flight kicks in and I twitch to run, but Mr. King’s arms close around me in a vice.
“Easy,” Mr. King whispers. “Easy, Clark.” He turns back to Jack. “You are suggesting I leave my assistant with you as a payment? This is not the type of arrangement we had discussed.”
“She’s kinda skittish though,” Jack observes dryly. The bouncers laugh. Now I can’t feel my hands, I’m so scared. Jack smacks the belly of the bouncer standing next to him, laughing at a private joke. “She’d do nicely for Bane.”
The snickering grows louder.
“Mr. King—Vincent.” I barely recognize my own panicked voice. “Get me out of here now, please. Please. Vincent. This isn’t funny.”
“No, it’s not.” He agrees. He stares at me for a moment, computing, and mutters something under his breath. He turns to Jack, resigned. “What’s the going rate for a redhead these days?”
“Vincent!”
“Oh, I’d knock off say…fifty thousand?”
“What?” I shout. “This isn’t real, this can’t be real!”
Mr. King is holding me up. He looks at me with those sexy eyes, now cold, and shakes his head.
“I’m sorry Clark,” he murmurs. “For what it’s worth, I wasn’t planning on this. You were a promising assistant.” He kisses my cheek and releases his grasp on me, turning to face Jack. “Consider this transfer of assets a show of good faith.”
Consternation and shock render me senseless. “What?!”
“Goodbye Clark.”
“You can’t leave me here,” I screech. “You can’t just sell people! Rachel will know! People know I was with you! They’ll know it was you! They’ll find me!”
“People disappear all the time.” Mr. King rips my purse from my hands, turns his back and is walking toward the door. “You signed over access to your social media and email accounts with your confidentiality clause. I can keep your life going all over the world for months before anyone grows suspicious. By then…well…let’s just say your future has changed.”
What. The. Fuck.
“No!” I explode. “NO! You can’t fucking leave me here! Vincent! You son of a bitch!”
My nails are clutching at something, anything, and I fasten myself on Mr. King’s shirt. It rips in my hands and I’m like a drowning woman, flailing, sinking. I grab at his belt, his legs.
Mr. King whirls around and punches me in the face, dropping me in a world of blinding pain. I’ve never been struck before and am in as much shock as pain, my entire body shaking. By now the two bouncers have closed in over us, separating us.
“Let me go!” I scream, frantic, kicking and clawing.
“Don’t damage my property,” Ja
ck growls.
Mr. King shoots him a withering look.
“Look Clark,” he hisses at me, and I can see dark passion, anger, rage, and frustration in his face. “This isn’t what I wanted but this is not a game. These people do not fuck around, and you do not fuck around with them. Jack owns you now. And you will cooperate with Jack, or I will personally see to it that your little sister gets a bullet in the brain. Understand, Clark?”
Looking into those cold eyes, I believe him.
“No,” I plead. “Don’t do this.”
I thrash against the iron arms of the bouncers, but it’s useless. They’ve probably got three hundred pounds on me all together. My weight sags and my fury devolves into dry racking sobs that rattle my bones.
“Vincent, don’t!”
Mr. King turns and walks out of the room. As the door shuts me in, I hear Jack laughing.
“Welcome to the Death Layer, Red.”
D.L.
Death Layer.
Chapter Six
“Now, let’s see what we’ve got to work with here.” Jack is chuckling low and dirty, and the enormous bouncers spin me around to face him. “Open up.”
Before my brain can decipher what he means, I find my arms pinned in a vice-like grip by one bouncer as the other rips open my blouse.
“Stop!” I scream, thrashing. I kick with my legs, trying to find their insteps or balls but I can’t reach.
“Feisty bitch,” laughs Jack. “We just wanna take a look, Red. Don’t worry, we’ll save the touchy stuff for the Beast.”
“Fuck you,” I spit. “You sick bastard.”
The bouncer slaps me for that. Hard.
“Enough, I don’t have all night.” Jack snaps his fingers and the bouncer’s grip on my arms shifts, and now a thick bicep wraps around my throat and squeezes. Sputtering and gasping, I realize he’s cut off my air supply. Dots appear and dance in my vision. Tears form in my eyes as they frantically lock gazes with the giant squeezing my throat. His expression is blank, grim.