Death Layer (The Depraved Club)

By Celia
Loren

& Colleen
Masters

A Hearts
Collective Production

Copyright © 2014 Hearts Collective

All rights reserved. This document may not be reproduced in
any way without the expressed written consent of the author. The ideas,
characters, and situations presented in this story are strictly fictional, and
any unintentional likeness to real people or real situations is completely
coincidental.

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Jack snaps his fingers and the giant bouncers lift me to my
feet and toss me on Bane’s bed. I land with a whimper and instinctively curl up
into a ball, trembling violently. The sheets still smell of sex and booze—and
man.

“Jesus Christ,” Bane explodes, his voice dripping with
venom. “What, you want me to rape her in front of you? Is that your new
definition of brotherhood?”

I feel a dip on the mattress and hands on my hair as my head
is jerked up. Both my hands clutch at the arm that’s lifting me, scratching
with my nails. I throw my weight in every direction I can think of.

“No!” I cry, sobbing. “Please!”

“Knock it off.” Bane hisses. He gives me a harsh shake, jarring
my aching head. “Fuck, now I’m bleeding. Great.”

Bane is kneeling beside me, displaying my face to the room.
His hands are rough in my hair and the sinews of his forearms are achingly
close. My body goes cold, then hot, as I realize that I am inches away from
probably two hundred pounds of naked, powerful, seething testosterone.

And there’s no possible escape.

As he looks at me, his mouth flattens into a thin line. He
doesn’t look at all pleased.

“She’s just a kid,” Bane grunts. “Terrified. This make you
hard, Jack, you sick son of a bitch? Huh?”

Inevitably, my eyes flit back to his naked groin and I
swallow, reddening. Taking a deep breath, I look up and meet his eyes. There’s
a flash of something that passes between us, though I can’t say what. But
neither of us looks away and he cocks his head to the side, studying me.

Something lights in his eyes, a question? His mouth opens.
He pulls me imperceptibly closer and frowns down at me, as if reconsidering,
and I shudder to my very core.

My body responds to his proximity in spite of my terror and
fear, an explosion of heat radiating between my legs against my will. I can’t
understand it—I am so turned on. More frightened than I have ever been, yes,
but somehow aroused. I can feel his breath on the side of my face. He’s all
muscle, cut and wiry. Instinct tells me he knows how to use every inch of that
body of his. My heart is pounding so hard that I can hear it in my ears.

Bane must be able to hear it too.

“The store is closed,” bellows a gruff-voiced woman. She
sounds like she’s speaking through a megaphone or something, but its probably
just years of cigarettes and exhaustion.

An older Spanish lady I don't know is standing really too
close to me. We’ve been taking turns reaching for slightly wilted pairs of
shoes on the same clearance rack. She pulls out a pair, raising her eyebrows at
me conspiratorially.

“These?” She says, turning her feet to show off the white
espadrilles.

I step back into the pair of lop-sided flip-flops that I
wore into the store and nod at her. “Yeah, they’re cute,” I say.

“Si?” She shuffles over to a mirror to inspect for
herself.

As I stare after her, my conscience berates me. “You’re
wasting time,” it chides. “You can’t afford new shoes, Ava. You got fired today
for crying out loud. You can’t even afford TJ Maxx clearance shoes. It’s
Thursday night and you’re alone, trying on shoes you can’t buy. You’re a mess.
Go home.”

I don't know how long I've been standing here. They must do
this on purpose in these stores, lure you in to the black hole and make you
forget the world outside. Eventually you might forget you’re poor and convince
yourself to toss $25 at a shoes or something.

Only, I can’t forget because I literally don’t have $25.

I watch as the Spanish lady wanders off toward the cash
registers with a final wave. I smile back and feel a hot prickle of water in my
eyes. With an angry hand, I dash away a self-pitying tear.

“Fuck,” I whisper to myself. “Get a grip.”

I march myself through the dress aisle, my fingers running
idly along the racks of fabric the way I used to run them along fences in my
hometown as a kid. I've got to do something constructive. I could call
Blake and invite myself along to whatever he’s doing, or just follow my
pathetic mood to it’s logical conclusion and go get drunk somewhere by
myself. 

I’m trying to think of any dive-bars in the area, but the
loudspeaker lady is back and drowns out my thoughts.

“Ladies and gentlemen if you’re making a purchase please
proceed to the checkout area. If you are not making a purchase, please use the
escalator to the exit. The store is closed.”

I join the rest of the lemmings as we are all ushered out by
smiling security guards and squeezed out onto 125
^th
street. It’s
dark now, and I glance behind me to squint at the sign of store hours. It says
they close at 9. 

That’s the only way to guess the time, because my phone is
dead. Of course.

Tuning out the smell of humanity and the food truck on the
street corner, I jostle through people as they race in and out of the subway
entrance. When the light changes I trip off of the curb and am almost run over
by some asshole on a Harley.

“Watch it!” he yells over the roar of his engine.

“Fuck,” I squeal, dodging, my hand reflexively clutching my
chest.

He flips me off and disappears up 5th Avenue.

It’s been one of those days.

It’s only a five-minute walk to my apartment, if I can survive
it, and now that it’s dark it feels pleasanter than the harsh summer afternoon.
People pass me or wave to each other from stoops, shouting greetings and
carrying out loud conversations in the friendly Harlem fashion.

Thank god, I'm finally at my stoop. I muster a smile and nod
at Mrs. Johnson, our landlady, who is sitting on the steps talking to a
neighbor in deep, loud tones.

“Hello Miss Ava,” she says.

“Good evening, Mrs. Johnson.”

The front door clicks closed behind me. I open our mailbox
and pull out a stack of bills with my name on them: rent, electricity, student
loans. Shit. Trying not to think about how I'm going to pay them, I stomp
up our five flights of stairs and put on my poker face. 

I turn the key in my apartment door and push it open quietly,
breathing a sigh of relief when I see that it's dark and no one's home. 

“Surprise!”

There’s a burst of light and a shot of confetti and people
pop up from behind our tiny couch and out from under our dining table. 

"Oh my god!" Shocked, I jump about nine feet
in the air and out of my skin before landing with a self-conscious, nervous
laugh. My cheeks are a blaze of flushed, hot sweaty embarrassment. I
vainly look for a hole to crawl into and hide, but our apartment is too small
for holes.

“What on earth is this for?” I manage, confusedly looking
through the applauding people for an explanation. My eyes bounce from my
beaming sister Rachel to Blake and a couple of my girlfriends—Dara, Kristi.
“Hey,” I say, recovering. “What are you doing here? Good to see you.” We hug in
rapid succession, and I nod politely at the half dozen others I don’t really
know. They must be Rachel’s friends. “What’s the occasion? It’s not my
birthday.”

Rachel bounces up through the ranks and crushes me in an
overly enthusiastic hug that almost knocks the wind out of me. “Happy
Anniversary sis!” she squeals. “We’re all proud of you. Where the hell have you
been? You took FOREVER to get home, god! We drank half of the beer already.”

“Anniversary?”

She pulls back and laughs at me, shaking her head. “You
don’t think I’d forget your two year anniversary of living in New York, do
you?”

“Oh.” Whelp, I sure as hell forgot. Certain things tend to
slip your mind when you’re having an existential crisis in the shoe aisle.
“Right.”

Rachel scrunches her nose at me and rumples my hair. “Gotcha
good, huh?”

“You sure did.”

“Score Rachel, 1, Ava, 0.”

The familiar voice makes me turn around. I summon a smile
and turn to slug Blake in the arm. “You could have warned me,” I say.
“J’accuse! You know I hate surprises.”

Blake shrugs and laughs at me, scooping me into a brotherly
hug. “Get used to it. Word on the street is that life is full of them,
surprises. I thought you could use the pick-me-up after today’s lunch shift
debacle. By the way, where the hell did you go? I’ve been calling you. We were
all worried.”

I bite my bottom lip to keep it from trembling and shake my
head. 

Blake throws an authoritative hand in the air to prevent my
response. “Forget it. You are forbidden to mention or think about the
restaurant or the low level pond scum that run it,” he says. “There will be no
talk of being fired for stupid crap that stupid George made up because he can’t
get in your pants.”

“I have to tell Rachel,” I groan. “I have to find a new job
so fast.”

“Don't worry about it I already told her. Just relax and let
her throw a party for you. It makes her so happy to make you uncomfortable.
Besides, all creative geniuses get fired from at least one serving job. Maybe
this is your big break.”

I fan my shirt away from my body, mentally cursing myself
for not caving in and letting my parents buy me that air conditioner. “I needed
that job, Blake, what am I gonna—”

“Zip!” He pulls an imaginary zipper across my mouth, his
face hilariously intense. I can tell he’s had a couple beers. “There are plenty
of employer fish in the sea. Tonight you will repress your feelings, drink
alcohol and pretend to enjoy yourself.”

I smirk. “So, just a typical Thursday?”

“Yup.” Blake grins back and holds up his beer to toast.
“Happy two years, Ava. Keep it up and you’ll be a jaded shell of a human being
like the rest of us native New Yorkers in no time.”

I glare playfully at him as he chucks me under the chin and
swigs his beer. “One jaded shell of a human being, coming right up. Where’s the
beer? Just point me.”

Rachel has rematerialized and grabs my hand. “Come on!” she
urges, tugging me towards the kitchen. “There’s a cake!”

As Rachel leads me away I turn to Blake and mouth with false
enthusiasm, “There’s a cake!”

“Oh boy,” he mouths back.

Rachel pulls me close, giggles, and turns her sparkling eyes
over her shoulder at me. “So, you and Blake?” She whispers. “Tonight the
night?”

“No!” I hiss back, rolling my eyes. “Oh my god, will you
stop it? Blake is gay. I keep telling you he’s gay. You’ve seen him pick up
guys at bars. You know he’s gay.”

“He’s bisexual maybe.”

“He’s gay.”

“Methinks the lady doth protest too much.”

“You brat!” Realizing she is goading me for the hell of it,
I pinch her behind. “You know, you don't have to be a brat 100% of the time.
You can take breaks.”

She pulls a face of mock surprise. “Wow, really? I didn't
know that!”

Rachel gives me a playful shove and brings me face to face
with a large cake box from Billy’s Bakery. Peeling back the lid, I see that
it’s carrot cake.

“Oh my god Rach,” I say, touched. “My favorite! You went
through a lot of trouble, and it’s a work night for you. You’re so sweet, thank
you.”

“Anything for my big sister.” She throws her arms
around me from behind, pinning my arms the same way she always has, and we both
giggle. “But it wasn’t just me. Mom ordered the cake from Ann Arbor.
She’s the one who reminded me it was your anniversary. Love you, Bean.”

For some reason Rachel has always called me Bean, not Ava.
That’s little sister logic for you: the same kind of thinking that decides to
throw surprise anniversary parties for introverted, stressed out big sisters
who just want to be alone and cry into their iced tea.

I twist around to look into Rachel’s eyes and soften,
brushing her disarrayed brown curls from her face. She’s the extrovert, the
socialite. She’s throwing me this party because she would love it, because it’s
her love language. It’s her way of following the golden rule the way Mom and
Dad taught us to: do unto others as you would have them do unto you. The
thought makes me smile ruefully.

“I love you too, Rach. New York is already a million times
better since you moved in and are constantly forcing me to be less grumpy.
Thanks.”

The mushy feelings are welling up, but I stuff them down and
busy myself with looking for a plate and utensils big enough for the cake.

“Let me do it,” Rachel says, using her hips to box me away
from the sink.

“I can,” I say, pushing back. "It’s fine."

“No I’m the host, you’re the guest of honor.”

“This was my apartment first, so just try and stop me.”

“Well my butt is bigger.” To prove her point she wiggles
into me, and our joking instantly becomes wrestling. My only defense is to hop
on her back and spin us around, laughing, using my height advantage to dominate
her.

“What are you crazies doing?” Dara laughs from the hallway.

As Rachel and I spin, I see Blake’s face peek around the
corner.

“Girl fight!” He shouts, drawing the crowd into the kitchen.
He whips out his iPhone and starts to film us, snickering.

My foot slips and somehow we topple over, arms flailing, and
accidentally swipe the cake box off the counter. Rachel, the cake and I veer
sideways, losing to gravity and landing in a heap.

“Shit!”

We’re a mess on the floor, covered in frosting. I reach out
a finger and swipe some frosting from Rachel’s face, plopping it in my mouth.

“Mmmm,” I nod, approvingly. “Bon appetite.”

Rachel can’t handle it. We burst into hysterical laughter
until we snort. Blake is shaking his head into his phone. “And…post. You are
now immortalized on Facebook as the Carrot Cake Face Sisters. You’re welcome.”

It’s the best I’ve felt all day.