Vulnerable (Barons of Sodom) (21 page)

Chapter Two

The powers that
be at Advance Media waste no time, that’s for sure. Mere hours after I respond
to their first email, they schedule me for a meeting with
FootSolider’s
managing editor, Elliot Simmons, to take place the very next day. My stomach
does a triple axel when I read my appointment time, and I hardly sleep a wink
that night. I know that I have to walk into
FootSoldier’s
Boston offices
with all the confidence I can muster, but I can’t help but be nervous. There’s
so much riding on this interview going well, far more than I’d care to admit.
But while I’m busy worrying about the impending meeting, the fitful night
passes. Time to rise and—hopefully—shine.

“You’re going to
kill it,” Emma assures me that morning, thrusting a cup of coffee into my
hands. I raise the mug gratefully to my lips, running through all the typical
interview questions in my head.

What are my
strengths and weaknesses? Where do I see myself in five years? What made me
apply to Advance Media in particular?

The only problem
is, my answers seem pretty thin all of a sudden.

I’m great at
stonewalling affection and terrible at emotional availability. Hopefully not
sleeping on a bean bag chair in my parent’s basement. Because I really really
really need a job please just hire me.

Yeah. This thing
should go great.

I run my fingers
through my artfully tousled hair.
FootSoldier
is an edgy, ballsy
publication. Its stories are always one step ahead of public opinion and
awareness. The writers who do well there are mostly millennial and slightly
hipster, but also very often female, which is a huge deal for any popular site.
I tried to dress accordingly, in black skinny jeans, a white slouchy tee, and
charcoal cardigan. And of course, a swipe of my favorite red lipstick—the one
thing I never leave home without. I’ll just have to hope that I blend in with
the natives.

“OK. Time to
face the music,” I say, plunking my drained coffee mug in the sink.

“That’s the
spirit. I think,” Emma replies, giving me a swift hug. “Don’t come back here
until you’ve got yourself a nice, cushy job.”

“But no
pressure, right?” I mutter, setting off to face the day.

By the time I
arrive at the interview, my mind is racing a mile a minute. I’ve made the
mistake of pinning too much on this one interview. I can’t psych myself out
like this—if I do, it’s game over. Standing outside the unassuming refurbished
warehouse that houses the
FootSolider
offices, I force myself to pause
and take a breath. You can do this, I coach myself. Remember, they called you
in for a reason.

With my nerves
as in check as they’re likely to get, I push open the heavy metal door and ride
an industrial-looking elevator to the top floor of the warehouse. When the
doors slide open again, I step out into the single coolest office I’ve ever set
eyes on. The entire floor has been gutted and repurposed as an open workspace.
Unfinished surfaces like exposed brick and untreated wood lend the place an
edgy vibe, but the state-of-the-art laptops lined up along the community desk
are anything but dated.

Even more
impressive are the dozen people toiling away at those laptops. Each
FootSoldier
staff member is young, attractive, and hip as can be. I doubt if a single one
of them is older than thirty. And even more remarkable is the fact that all but
three of them are women who appear to be around my age. I knew that
FootSoldier
was a forward-thinking publication, but I had no idea their business practices
were so progressive.

“You must be
Logan,” says a voice from over my shoulder.

I turn around to
find a tall, svelte woman standing behind me. She’s rocking an impeccably
tailored blazer, wavy ombre hair, and thick-rimmed black glasses.

“That’s me,” I
reply, tucking my portfolio under one arm and extending my free hand. “I’m here
for an interview with Elliot Simmons.”

“Well, what
luck,” the woman smiles, giving my outstretched hand a firm shake, “I happen to
be Elliot Simmons.”

“You’re...?” I
begin, before I can stop myself.

“A chick. Yeah,”
Elliot laughs, “Relax, you’re not the first person who’s come in here expecting
to see a dude behind the editor’s desk. It’s a symptom of the sick times we
lives in, my friend. I don’t hold people’s socially-conditioned sexism against
them.”

“Oh. Well.
Cool,” I say lamely, hoping that my embarrassment hasn’t painted my cheeks fire
engine red.

“Let’s get
cracking, shall we?” Elliot says, leading me into her office, a glass-walled
cube apart from the group work space.

I settle into a
chair before Elliot’s sleek, midcentury modern desk. She’s got three computer
screens arranged around her workspace, each one crowded with
articles-in-progress, news sites, and complex lines of code. Elliot must be one
fiercely competent editor to keep track of all this, or else a computer genius.
She sinks down into her plush leather chair and gives me a long, hard
once-over. I lift my chin, bracing myself for the grilling she’s surely about
to give me. But instead of firing off her first round of questions, she just
nods.

“I like what
you’re about, Logan,” Elliot says thoughtfully.

Again, her words
take me by surprise. “Oh, thanks,” I reply, at a loss. Maybe my outfit’s doing
more work than I would have guessed?

“I’m not a huge
fan of the standard interview,” she goes on, “I prefer a more research-oriented
approach to hiring.”

She turns one of
the computer screens my way. My eyes go wide as I see the content of the
information displayed there: every single bit of my life that exists on the
internet. Photos, videos, articles, comments, Elliot’s rounded up everything. I
suffer a brief moment of panic, trying to recall if I have any embarrassing
party photos or unfortunate teenage love poems posted on the Web. But I guess I
wouldn’t be here if she’d found anything too atrocious.

“Wow,” I
breathe, “Thorough.”

“Thorough, sure.
And very informative,” she says, looking at me over steepled fingers. “You’ve
got a great voice, Logan. Very straightforward. Very measured. Level-headed but
unwaveringly inquisitive. I think you’re exactly what we need around here.”

“Really?” I ask,
my hopes rising like mercury on a 100 degree day.

“Really,” she
confirms, “Plus, you don’t have any obnoxious social media habits. Or a Tumblr
about your cat. Or an online porn addiction, from what I can tell.”

“Would you be
able to know that?” I ask, eyes wide.

“Oh,
absolutely,” she smiles, “But like I said, you’ve passed the
pre-interview-Google with flying colors. I’d like to jump right in and give you
your first trial assignment. See what you’re made of, so to speak. If I like
your first article, you’re hired. If not...Well. You can deduce the rest.”

“Sure,” I nod
excitedly, “Thank you so much for—”

“Don’t thank me
yet,” she insists, leaning back in her chair, “I haven’t told you what the
assignment is.”

“If it’s
anything like the material you tend to publish, I’m all in,” I say
enthusiastically, “I’m a longtime reader of
FootSolider
, and I really—”

“Oh, it’s quite
in line with our usual focus,” Elliot cuts me off. “But the assignment I have
in mind for you comes with a bit of an...exponent.”

“What do you
mean?” I ask.

“Well, usually
our writers rely on online research to gather evidence and anecdotes about
their stories,” Elliot tells me. “Most of the people and corporations we
investigate here are woefully unequipped to keep tech-savvy investigators out
of their business. There will be a component of that in what I’m asking you to
do, at first. But most of your research will be a bit more...analog.”

“All right,” I
say slowly, “I’m still with you.”

“Super,” Elliot
says, training her intent gaze on me, “Here’s what I have in mind for your
first assignment, Logan. Unless you’ve been living under a rock for the last
five years, you know that the country’s collective curiosity has swung toward
what I like to call ‘fringe lifestyles’. Communes. Cults. And, more
specifically for our purposes, outlaws.”

“...Outlaws,” I
repeat blankly. Like in the Wild West or something? Where could she possibly be
going with this?

“Outlaws, yes.
Outlaw biker gangs in particular. Motorcycle clubs, as they’re called to those
in the know,” Elliot says excitedly, “Blame it on Sons of Anarchy, I guess, but
everyone seems totally fascinated by the outlaw MC culture these days.”

I swallow down a
surge of apprehension. My standing impression of bikers is not exactly
flattering to them. “Sounds...interesting,” I manage to say.

“Very
interesting. To us and our readership,” she goes on, “I’ve become particularly
fascinated by a local MC—sorry, that’s short for motorcycle club—that operates
all along the East Coast. They’re exactly the kind of group our readers will be
interested in—slightly amoral, very secretive. The members call themselves the
Circle of Death.”

The office
swings wildly around me as my mind is thrown for a Grade A loop. I can’t
believe what I’m hearing. Or rather, I can’t believe what I’m hearing again.
That name, the Circle of Death, is seared into my memory as if with a white hot
brand. That’s the name of the biker gang Juliet ran off with when I was
sixteen. That’s the so-called “family” she left her real family behind for.
That’s who she left me behind for.

“You OK, Logan?”
Elliot ask, “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“What? Oh. No,
I’m fine,” I say quickly, “I’ve just...heard of that gang before, is all.”

“I’m not
surprised. They’re downright famous around here,” Elliot replies, “The Circle
of Death MC is part of the largest organized crime syndicate on the East Coast.
They’ve been involved in all manner of wildly illegal activity throughout the
years. But the most intriguing thing about them, to me, is that no one’s ever
tried to stop them.”

“You don’t want
me to try—?” I burst out, bewildered.

“Oh, god no,”
Elliot laughs, “I’m not sending you in to bust them up or snitch on them or
anything like that. I wouldn’t send you on a suicide mission. Not for your
first assignment, at least. No, what I have in mind is more editorial. A
lifestyle expose, if you will. A look inside the world of the hardened,
tough-as-nails men of the Circle of Death MC. See where I’m going with this
angle?”

“Yeah, I think
so,” I say hesitantly.

“You sound
concerned,” Elliot observes.

You have no
freaking idea, lady, I think to myself. But out loud I say, “I’ve just...never
taken on a project like this before. I wouldn’t know where to begin, getting
access to those biker types.” Except directly through my big sister, but Elliot
doesn’t need to know about that. I get the feeling she’d pounce on that
connection in a heartbeat.

“That’s the
thing,” she says, waving my apprehensions aside, “I know exactly how to get you
access. Or rather, I know exactly how you might go about getting access. You’d
have to make it happen for yourself.”

“Do tell?” I
say, trying to keep the dread from my voice.

“Rumor has it
that the Circle of Death has been spending some serious time lately at a place
called The Club,” Elliot tells me.

“Is that, like,
a bar or something...?” I ask.

“Not exactly,”
Elliot says, “It’s more like...bear with me, here...a resort for the depraved.
A remote destination for all things Dionysian. Booze, drugs, sex, you name it.
Some genius bought up this secluded island off the coast—there’s a
Revolutionary fort out there, used to be some kind of lookout—and turned it
into this hotbed of debauchery. Crazy, huh?”

“Insane,” I
agree wholeheartedly.

“I haven’t even
told you the best part yet,” Elliot rushes on, “Word is, boatloads of young
women head out to The Club every night of the week, looking for the bad boy
experience. This place caters exclusively to MC types these days, so all these
chicks jump on a yacht and sail out there to go wild for a night. These girls
get to live out their biker boy fantasies, and the bikers get a new boatload of
pretty young things every damn night of the week. It’s like a double-sided
escapist Valhalla!”

“Holy crap...” I
breathe, my memory jogged by Elliot’s enthusiasm, “Holy crap, I’ve heard people
talking about this at my school.”

“I’m not
surprised,” Elliot nods, “Most of the girls who head out to The Club are
college-aged. Mostly affluent types from the better schools, looking to slum it
hard. I bet you even know a few girls who have already been out there.”

A dozen
overheard whispers flit through my memory. Snatches of conversation traded
between girlfriends in-between classes and in the back rows of lecture halls. I
never paid much attention when girls would go on about their wild weekends at
The Club. But the more I think about it, the more their stories seem to match
up with Elliot’s description of this biker haven.