Wow.
I climb into the limo, close the door and we’re off before I even settle on the leather seat. A slender old lady is sitting there with the air of a queen. She’s dressed in a long black coat, a pale pink dress peeking underneath, and pink pumps. Her gray hair is styled in an elegant coif, swept back from her face. Huge diamonds glitter on her ears and around her neck.
“Nice you meet you, Ms. Page,” she says and tends a gloved hand.
I take it automatically. “Please call me Pax.”
“Pax.” She smiles, deepening the wrinkles in her cheeks. “Please call me Ellen. So you’re Riot’s friend.”
“Girlfriend.” Again, automatic responses. I’m too weirded out to engage my brain properly, the truth coming out of me without prompting.
“I thought as much.” She smiles contently. “It was about time that boy found some happiness in his life.”
“He wasn’t happy before?”
“Not really. He smiled a lot on the surface, but his job was wearing at him, I believe.”
“And yet you paid to pet his hair.”
“Someone had to get through his defenses, and it was the only way I could think of. He wouldn’t let anyone near. So I paid him so he’d allow me.” She tsks. “Boy needs affection. Hasn’t had enough in his life. He’s like a wild animal sometimes. You need to take your time to let them smell you and accept your touch.”
Like what Riot said about his pets. And me.
“Why would you want to show him affection? And get through his defenses?” I narrow my eyes at her, suspicious all of a sudden. “What are you hiding?”
She laughs, a bright sound that has my mouth twitching. “Oh dear me,” she gasps. “I love it. You’re so protective of him. That’s good.”
“You haven’t answered my question.”
“Indeed.” She cuts me a sideways glance out of wide blue eyes. “Maybe I wanted some affection myself. Riot’s like a son to me.”
“You don’t have children?”
“I do. That’s the problem.” She looks away. “My son is nothing like Riot. Riot is the son I would have wanted, if fate cared at all.”
***
The limo stops in a narrow back street and the driver comes out and helps Ellen out. He’s dressed in an immaculate blue uniform and has a mustache that could be used as a lethal weapon.
I feel as if we time-traveled as we drove here.
The driver leads Ellen to a heavy metal door and rings a bell in the panel beside it. The panel only has The Club engraved in it.
I shiver in my coat and wonder if I was supposed to dress better. More elegantly, like her. I always thought underground fights took place in a pit with sweaty half-naked men yelling and dogs barking and women in skimpy bikinis slithering down poles.
The door cracks open and a suspicious face appears. The driver tells him something in a voice so deep and low it lifts the hairs on my arms, and the door opens wide.
“Mrs. Morris,” the man at the door says, a huge guy, at least six feet four, his craggy face set in lines of great shock.
“In the flesh,” Ellen says as she walks into the club, her head held high. “Thank you, James, you can go now. I’ll be fine. Come along, Pax, my dear.”
James. I snicker as I enter, because come on, a driver called James? Can you get any more clichéd? But then my snicker turns into a gasp.
Because the inside of the club is nothing like I imagined. It’s like an amphitheater with seats going down in rows to the ring. Around the perimeter there are raised platforms with couches and tables laden with bottles and glasses. And although not everyone we pass is dressed like they’re going to a gala, they sure have taken care with their appearance.
Gelled-back hair, flashy jewelry, fancy brands flashing on clothes, smartphones glittering with Swarovski crystals and God knows what else.
Holy crap, the place is packed.