Death Layer (The Depraved Club) (4 page)

Chapter Five

Friday night rolls around faster than makes any sense.

Since Mr. King has insisted on picking me up at my
apartment, Rachel is chewing gum and helping me curl my hair. She’s already
done herself up, ready to head to the east side scene with her finance crew as
soon as I leave. The bathroom is hot and I am sweating away most of my makeup
already.

It almost feels like high school, when she forced me to go
to prom with her. I smile, remembering the awkward night. She didn’t know I had
a huge crush on her date, Chip Williams, the star quarterback of Huron High.
Rachel just couldn’t fathom anyone skipping prom, wanted to protect me from
“making a huge mistake” she knew I’d “regret for the rest of my life.”

She’d begged and pleaded and, when that failed, set up a
date for me with my band nerd friend Andy McKnight behind my back. So I finally
caved, let her dress me up, rode along in the limo and watched her and Chip
make out all night.

And that is our relationship. I’m still humoring her. She’s
still doing my hair and egging me on out of my comfort zone. Nothing has
changed…
except the world around us.

“You seem to be transitioning well,” Rachel says, jolting me
out of my daydreams. “Accompanying him to a private event in the first week? He
must like you.”

“Hm? Yeah. We’re getting along ok.”

“Maybe it’s a date.”

I roll my eyes. “Rachel. He’s my boss. Besides, I am not
looking for anything with anyone right now. Gotta get my shit in order. Last
thing I need is a guy.”

She says in a sing-song voice. “Bean and King-King, sitting
in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-”

“Grow up Rach.”

“Know how I know you’ve got it bad for the boss man? You
haven’t even been singing or playing. And you’re blushing.”

I sigh as she unwinds the curling iron, fanning my face for
brief relief from the heat. She’s right. I haven’t done any music all week.

“It’s just a timing thing,” I say, frowning, hoping I’m
right. “Been too tired to practice. Not used to the hours yet, but I’ll figure
it out.”

“You always do. But yeah, he’s working you hard.” She says
hard with a guttural groan, gyrating her hips. “So hard and rough and—”

“God, shut up!” We both giggle. “It’s not really hard,
just…long.” That makes us giggle more. “Shut up! Oh my god, we’re twelve.” I
force my face straight. “Tonight should be fun, though. Then, off to
Australia!”

Rachel nods, dousing me with hairspray and standing back for
a final inspection. “What club is it again?”

“He didn’t say. Something members only.”

The buzzer rings. “Must be him,” Rachel says, unplugging the
curling iron. I help her sweep the makeup and hair stuff back into its
Tupperware container.

“Whew, I’m a little nervous.”

“You look hot. Behave yourself.” She gives me a sweaty hug.
“Guess I’ll see you later. Or not. I mean, if he invites you to his penthouse,
you know what to do.”

I playfully punch her arm, grab my purse, and bolt out the
door.

Gerard is standing by the sleek Lincoln town car idling at
the curb. I’m a little surprised to see that he is the one driving us. It seems
rather out of the line of an Administrative Coordinator’s usual duties.

I smile at him. “Hello Mr. Jones,” I say brightly.

He nods but doesn’t meet my eyes. “Miss Clark, good
evening.”

His eyes are hooded and his expression blank. Obviously he’s
not excited about a working Friday night, but he dispatches with the
formalities flawlessly. With a flourish, he opens the passenger side door in
the back and I scoot in, finding myself up close and personal with Mr. King.

“Welcome, Miss Clark,” says Mr. King, his iceberg eyes
flitting over my sister-approved outfit. It’s fitted black from head to foot,
and I am assured it’s both corporate and club appropriate. Not that I would
know. “You look lovely this evening.”

Gerard slams the door behind me.

“Thank you, sir.”

“I hope you’ll excuse my secrecy about tonight,” says Mr.
King. As he speaks, Gerard hops in the driver’s seat and we glide onto 125th
street. “You see, this is rather an elite members-only club where the most
powerful men in the world go to unwind. Tonight I have some delicate, personal
business to transact, and it’s imperative that I have another set of sharp eyes
with me. A beautiful lady doesn’t hurt my cause, either. You’re my good luck
charm.”

He takes my hand and kisses it and I feel my whole body
flush with even more heat, and also a little pleasure. There’s definitely
attraction, and I know he can sense it too. Even in the dim lighting, I can see
that Mr. King notices me blushing.
Be cool, Ava.
I take back my hand and
turn to face the front, stoically.

“Gerard,” says Mr. King, “Will you increase the A/C in the
back for us please.”

“Yes, sir.”

The sudden whoosh of cool air makes goose bumps flare over
my exposed arms.

“Thank you,” I say, clutching my arms protectively around
myself.

“You’re welcome,” Mr. King and Gerard chime at the same
time. They catch each other’s eyes in the rear-view mirror. I stifle a giggle.

“Here are the documents you asked me to prepare,” I say,
pulling a folder out of my purse. “Can’t say that I understood them, but
they’re ready. Just as you specified.”

“Fantastic.”

Mr. King rifles through the papers, speed-reading the odd
gibberish he had asked me to type up. Gerard turns onto FDR drive and directs
us south. Finally Mr. King returns the papers to me. “Hold on to these. We’re
in for an interesting night, Miss Clark.”

I smile and look out the window. It’s dorky, but living in
Manhattan I rarely ride in a car anymore and it feels like a treat. I watch the
dense lights of the city swirl past, reflected on the East River like
phosphorescence over ink.

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.