by Celia Loren
I look where Bane’s pointing and see that in the back corner of the Laundromat there’s a little copse of vintage arcade games and a soda machine. A petite woman in tight cut-off shorts and a leather corset has her back to us. She is bent over the Pac-Man machine, a diet coke resting on the washer beside her. The electric woo-woo-woo sounds of death wobble from the game she’s just lost, and she kicks it with her cowboy boots, shouting, “Motherfucker! God damn it! Shit!”
Bane stifles a laugh and crosses his arms, watching her as she strains to reach her hand into her pocket for more quarters.
“How can you possibly get your fist in there when those jeans are so damn tight?” He drawls.
She spins around, green eyes flashing. “Jesus Bane, why’d you sneak up on me like that? You trying to give me a fucking heart attack?” She bounces over, reaches up on her tiptoes, and plants a kiss on Bane’s cheek. Her eyes sweep over me as her jaw works at chewing gum. “Who’s this?”
Bane clears his throat. “Ava, Blair. Blair, Ava.”
We both nod, our names not quite answering our real questions about each other, and I see a flicker of suspicion in her eyes. She’s beautiful, curvy and fit with dusky skin and dark hair woven in two long braids. Her left arm is covered in a full sleeve of vividly colorful tattoos, wagon wheels and flowers and skulls. I feel an instant pang of jealousy.
“So what’s up with you?” Blair asks Bane. “You never showed! I waited in that damn alley for half an hour like a fucking hooker. I’m pretty sure one of your friends tried to hire me. Thanks a lot for that.”
“Sorry.”
“I’ve been trying to reach you.”
“I know.” Bane shrugs. “Shit’s been crazy. You got it?”
“Do I got it? No, I just hauled my ass downtown to meet you a second time for no fucking reason. Yeah, I got it. Use your brain.”
Blair snaps a bubble in her gum. She juts her chin toward a leather satchel on a nearby plastic chair. Giving her a look, Bane picks up the bag and plops in a chair to ruffle through. Peering over his shoulder, I see it’s packed with bundles of crisp new hundred-dollar bills. He rips one out and holds it up to the light before whistling and putting it back.
“Wow,” I whistle.
“Nice work,” Bane murmurs appreciatively.
“You did most of it,” Blair grunts. “I just collected, is all.”
Blair is watching us keenly. Bane pulls a small keychain out of the bag and dangles it, shooting Blair a look. It’s a silver playboy bunny shape, only instead of a head the ears are attached to a skull. A small set of keys is attached.
“Dead playboy?” I ask.
Blair grins. “Thought it was appropriate.” She says. “Since Bane’s playing dead from now on. Keys are for a PO Box at 34th street. I have another set. I’ll slip in the documents as soon as I finish, hopefully just a few hours is all it’ll take. I mean, I’m finished with yours B, but you didn’t tell me enough about her.” Her eyes snap onto me. “I’ll rush it but it will still take me a hot second to print. What are you, love, 5’7’’? Twenty-four?”
“Yeah,” I admit, surprised. “How’d you know?”
“Experience.” She grunts.
“Blair happens to be an amazing con artist,” Bane explains. “She can read anybody. I should probably make her tell me a few things about you.”
“Don’t try to butter me up,” Blair says. “I’m just here to do a simple forgery job.” She steps closer, studying me. “You’re like 130 pounds, red hair, eyes…wow. That’s actually a tough one. Bane, you seen her eyes?”
“Yup,” Bane says with a smirk.
“What color are her eyes?” Blair wonders, which is odd, because I am right here and she is staring at them.
“Um, hazel,” I say, trying not to sound sarcastic. “My eyes are hazel. This for the passport?”
“Shh!” Bane scolds, looking around. The fat guy has left, though, and the man behind the counter isn’t paying attention to us.
“What, like you weren’t talking loud?” I ask.
Blair squints at me, inches from my nose. “No, more like gold/blue. There’s some purple and green too, I swear to god. Jesus. That’s crazy. You’ve got beautiful eyes.”
“Thank you,” I stammer.
“I thought green,” Bane says.
“You’re colorblind,” Blair dismisses. “I’m green. I’ll say hazel for her. Bluish hazel.”
I nod. “Yup, that’s…what I said.”
“How long do you need?” Bane interrupts. “We’re kind of in a hurry.”
Blair sweeps her gaze over us, taking in my faded bruises and borrowed clothes and Bane’s cracked knuckles.
“I told you, fast, ok? A few hours at least, I’ll txt you.” She leans against the Pac-Man machine, smacking her gum as she studies me. “Got a new name picked out love? Do you care?”
“Um…”
Holy crap, a new name! Shit just got real.
I feel a thrill of goosebumps wash down my arms just thinking about it: a new identity. My entire life changed a few days ago when I was caught in the D.L. Club, and now it’s about to change again. Once I get a fake passport, will I ever be able to go back to being Ava Clark? Have a singing career, go to the drug store with Rachel, and attend family reunions in Ann Arbor?
Or will Ava Clark be gone for good?
Thinking of changing my name immediately takes me back to when I was a little girl playing pretend with Rachel. We’d invent characters and speak in silly accents, and sometimes carry our game all the way to school. Rachel was always pretty great at it, always made up really glamorous princess names like Arianna or Belle or Anastasia. I, on the other hand, was not so creative. I made my first grade teacher call me Heart from Valentine’s Day until Thanksgiving break, when I then decided I wanted to be named Cranberry. Like the sauce.
Clearly, I’m not so great at thinking up new names.
“Actually, wait,” I smile involuntarily. “I think I got one. How about last name Kent, first name Rachel? Rachel Kent.”
Kent like Clark Kent, Superman’s alter ego: a play on my real last name. And Rachel, like my sister. This way, I can take my family with me to my new life—even if only by name.
Blair shrugs and arches an eyebrow at Bane. “Feelings?”
“Yeah, why not?” He shrugs. “As long as that’s not a real family name, Kent. Don’t want to leave any breadcrumbs.”
“Nope,” I confirm. “No Kents.”
Bane’s gaze is steady on me, probing and clinical again. “What about Rachel?” When I don’t answer he sighs. “Alright Red, who’s Rachel?”
“Sorry if we haven’t had time to swap life stories,” I snap, “but there’s been a lot happening! Let’s just focus on getting out of here and then I’ll tell you whatever boring thing you want to know about me. Rachel’s a common enough name. There are tons of Rachels.”
Bane gives me a long hard look. “Ok.”
“It should be fine,” Blair cuts in. “The only tricky part will be the first twenty-four hours, getting you out of the country safely. I did all the arrangements myself, so there’s not much margin for error. It just depends on how smart and fast your little motorcycle enthusiast friends are when you hit the road. As long as you get to Uncle Crisp’s in one piece, no one will be able to trace you.”
“Uncle Crisp?” I ask.
Blair nonchalantly kicks at Bane’s boots with hers. “Way to keep her up to speed, jerk. You expect the poor girl to just change her identity like a pair of pants and you haven’t even told her where you’re going?”
“I told her Canada.,” Bane clears his throat. “Sorry, Red. In all the excitement I didn’t bother to really explain. Blair’s Uncle Crisp is my Dad, Crispin Davies. I always went by Harme, my mom’s last name, but my new papers are under Davies. My Dad went back to Canada after he and my mom broke up. He’s got a country house we can use. Death Layer doesn’t know he exists, so it should be safe.”
I process thi
s quickly and point to Blair, comprehension dawning. “You’re cousins?”
“Yup.” She pops another bubble with her gum, grinning. “Blair Davies, forger extraordinaire. I got all the good genes and brains, as you can see. All that was left for loser here was brute strength.”
“Right,” Bane smirks. “Which is how I just earned us both an early retirement, and don’t you forget it. Fight money, Red. Good old-fashioned bets on a boxing match. Isn’t it beautiful?” Bane rises to his feet, patting the leather satchel filled with cash as he slings it over his shoulder. He glares at Blair. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
I’m smiling, a bit dumbfounded. “You guys look nothing alike.”
“That’s cuz Bane’s ugly,” Blair says, sticking out her tongue and laughing.
Bane rolls his eyes. “It’s cuz your Mom’s ugly.”
Blair kicks him again, prompting a moment of horseplay. Clearly they never got over being seven. It ends when Blair kicks Bane sharply on the shinbone.
“Ow!”
“Shh!” I say, noticing that the guy behind the counter is staring. “Wait, though. Isn’t going to your Dad’s a little obvious? I mean, isn’t that the first place they’ll look?”
“Nah, Bane’s Daddy don’t exist on paper,” Blair says cryptically. “At least not on real paper. He’s off the grid. No birth certificate, no nothing. Not even on Bane’s birth certificate.”
I frown. “How is that possible?” Neither answer me. “Seriously, how? Is he, like, a pirate? Does he have a time machine and he’s here from the past? How do you not have an ID?”
Bane and Blair exchange a look that says ‘it’s not worth it,’ and Bane checks his watch.
“Yeah, well, I’ll explain later.” Bane grunts. “I hate to bust up this little family reunion, but Blair’s got to get her ass moving and make those IDs. Stat! And you and I have some loose ends to tie up.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Blair waves her hand. “Piece of cake. Just, I need a passport photo of your lady friend. Stand right there, sweetie.”
She moves me in front of a section of white wall and holds up her iPhone. “Smile real pretty. One, two, three.” She peers at her screen and wrinkles her nose. “It looks just awful enough to be real, no offense.”
She holds it up for me to see and I laugh. There are dark circles under my eyes from the fading bruises and my coppery hair is a mess, flowing in all directions like Medusa. It looks uncannily like my real passport photo.
“You have a talent,” I tell Blair.
“Yup,” she says. “Ok, that’s all I need from you creeps, I’ll touch this photo up a bit to get rid of the bruises so it doesn’t look like we took the picture today. The rest is up to butthead here.” She elbows Bane as she walks past him. “Tell Crisp hi for me!”
“Wait,” Bane calls, halting Blair from her fast track to the door. “Birth certificate too, for her.”
“Uh-huh. Okay.” Blair gives us a knowing wink and turns to leave.
“Hey!” Bane’s voice halts her at the door. “I may not see you again, cuz. C’mere.”
Frowning, Blair turns back and wraps her arms quickly and firmly around Bane’s shoulders, planting a kiss on his cheek.
“Sure you will,” she says. “Christmas in Cornwall! We’ll cook a goose and eat figgy pudding and have high tea at Buckingham Palace with Sherlock Holmes and Jane Austen. Of course you’ll see me again, loser. You two behave yourselves on the run.”
With that, Blair saunters out of the Laundromat and disappears down the street toward her motorcycle. Bane waves as she zips away, then turns and takes my hand. The warm pressure of his fingers over mine gives me some courage in the face of all this insanity. Fake papers. Running for our lives.
There’s only one glaring problem we haven’t addressed.
“You said loose ends,” I venture, peering up at Bane. “Do you mean what I think you mean?”
Bane’s face goes stony. “You have to tell me what Jack has on you,” he grumbles. “How he’s been holding you at Death Layer. And then we have to make it go away. We have twenty-four hours to fix it.” He checks his watch. “Fuck. Make that eighteen hours.”
I feel the blood drain from my face, remembering the psychopathic seriousness on Mr. King’s face when he promised he’d shoot Rachel if I escaped. Until this point, I had been so focused on just getting the fuck out of the Death Layer compound that I had pushed the thought of dealing with his threat out of my mind.
With escape in front of me as a real possibility, I realize I have to face the man that sold me out, tossed me into trafficking, and ruined my life in the first place: the man with the piercing blue eyes and missing soul: Mr. King, CEO of Skollz Corp.
“You need to tell me what it is, Ava,” Bane says. “What’s Jack got on you?”
I shake my head slowly, knowing that there’s only one way to deal with a psychopath like Mr. King, only one language he’ll understand: violence. As long as he’s alive, Rachel isn’t safe. Taking a deep breath, I meet Bane’s searching eyes.
“Jack’s got nothing on me, Bane.” I say evenly. “It’s someone else. Someone powerful. The one who brought me to D.L. and gave me to Jack.”
Bane’s face takes on that cold, lethal resolve I have seen too many times. “Who is this bastard?”
I stare at this fierce man who has already saved me three times. He is capable of anything. I see it in the set of his jaw and the straightness of his posture that he’s made up his mind. His eyes burn into me, thrilling and terrifying me with his intensity. He’s gone killer again.
Only this time I feel I can actually join him over the edge, past the law and fear; I can, and I will, become just as fierce as the Beast.
I will do it for Rachel.
Chapter Eighteen
It is very late, probably around four in the morning, and I am exhausted. The spiked dog collar I am wearing is tight, but that’s not the real reason my breath is shallow and hurried; I’m working against my fight or flight instincts, adrenaline pumping.
I am standing in what is now officially my least favorite place in the world.
The D. L. Club.
I am dressed in only a bra and underwear and chains, my uniform from my first day here at Death Layer. God willing, this will be the last time I see these fetid walls, hear these orgiastic screams, or smell this stench of blood. Soon the D. L. Club will soon just be a bad memory, and I’ll have the rest of my life to blot it out.
Bane broke into Jack’s office earlier and used his computer to email Mr. King, requesting an urgent meeting. Mr. King was advised to show up on time—five minutes from now. The simple deception will lead to his swift demise. Our plan is very basic, but there are still a million things that could go wrong.
Like any one of the Death Layer MC guys stopping us.
Things around here are winding down, so we are banking on everyone being too wasted and bleary eyed to bother with us. Bane is behind me, leading me through the MC members’ entrance.
Judge Jefferson seems to know something is up, though Bane hasn’t confided our plans, and when he saw us he crossed the room to talk up a pair of bouncers near the door, distracting their attention away from us.
The thunderous trance music and the chaos of the crowd flood my ears and almost instantly give me a headache, but Bane’s big rough hand is on my shoulder to steer me through. He’s relentless, guiding me past the fighting ring. Both of us pointedly avoid looking at the ring or the orgiastic faces tuned on it, and I am warmed to know that Bane is just as disgusted by it as I am.
There aren’t a lot of patrons in the club tonight, just a few groups of them warming seats in the bleachers and ordering cocktails from naked slaves. I recognize one slave as Amy, the blue-eyed girl who tried to help me escape on my first night. Bane notices her too, and I see him grit his teeth as one of the well-dressed Wall Street-types grabs her and starts to force her head towards the fly of his pants.
Without even thinking, I open my mouth to shou
t her name and take a step towards her. But Bane jerks me back against him, a hand covering my mouth.
“Keep moving,” he orders me. “We can’t help her right now. There’s nothing we can do.”
My heart sinks—not wanting to believe that he’s right—but he is. There’s nothing an entire SWAT team could do right now to help her, unless they were willing to go kamikaze and trade their lives for hers. There are bouncers lining the walls holding whips and wearing guns, not to mention that Jack and his friends have to be somewhere close by.
“Fuck,” I whisper, frustrated.
The odds are against us. We’re god knows how deep in the Death Layer building. It’s going to be all we can do to get ourselves out of here. Silently, I vow to myself that I will do something—anything—to help Amy. Every Amy.
Once I’m free.
Bane walks me behind the bleachers, past the red-lit room filled with drug couches and naked female assistants, and aims our strides for that first chain-link fenced hall near the entrance from the parking garage. Here, women sex slaves are chained to the fence for sex, and a couple of adolescent-looking boys. My stomach churns looking at them, wondering what they were like as children, as people, before they were trapped and brought here.
Bane steers me to an open spot, away from the sight of the other patrons chained slaves, and uses his fingers to lift my chin and point my gaze away from the horror in front of me.
“Right here, Ava,” he whispers. “Look at me. Focus.” I do, meeting his eyes. “Just stick to the plan, baby,” Bane says. “Trust me.”
I nod, adrenaline beginning to pump. “I trust you.”
“Good.”
He kisses me deeply, pulling a pair of handcuffs out of his pocket. Lacing his fingers through mine, he gently raises my arms overhead. With terrifying speed, he locks the cuffs around my wrists and through the wire. I can’t help a small whimper of fear. I try to smile at him, let him know I can be brave.
“You’re awful quick with those handcuffs,” I tease, my voice shaking a little. “I just might guess you’ve done this before.”