8
Kane
Underground
“Bishop! Upstairs. Now.”
Nodding at no one in particular, bare chested, but not bare foot, I turn away from my sparring partner and drop my wrapped hands. Blood stains my used-to-be-white wraps, and sweat drips in my eyes as I work to loosen the fabric around my knuckles. The tiny earpiece crackles its relentless presence, imbedding itself in my brain every single time I walk onto any Abel Hayes property. It’s like he bought a shitty set on purpose toensurethe static reminds me he’s always here, always watching.
Moving around other fighters and their dancing girls, I brush a set of grabbing hands off before her man sees and challenges me to a fight in the hall.
We’ll fight tonight. But not in the hall, and not over a girl.
Skipping up the dingy steps, I pass room after room after room – offices filled with mostly naked women counting money or slicing blow; others with women teaching the less experienced – girls, really – how to fuck the way men who visit here like.
Passing the last door on the left before Abel’s office, the sounds of crying and a paddle slamming against skin – and not in a pleasurable way – sets my gut on fire.
At what point in all these peoples’ lives did they take a wrong turn?
A turn that would eventually lead them to Infernos? To a club that’s the physical embodiment of dog-eat-dog.
Here, you kill or be killed.
Fuck or be fucked.
Hurt or be hurt.
“Bishop!”
Shoving the wraps into my pockets, I step into Abel’s opulent office and scan the room for men who’ll put a bullet in my brain at a simple nod from the man behind the mahogany desk.
Outside this office it looks more like a warehouse; iron stairs, smoke stained wallpaper, and stained carpets. But unlike a regular warehouse, a boxing ring takes up the main space in the center, and chairs fan out around it until they almost touch the walls – walls that hide rooms.
I wasn’t lying to Jess; this club hasspecialrooms, too. Rooms to fuck. Rooms to watch. Rooms to be watched.
It’s all very utilitarian.
Easily hosed out at the end of a night.
But Abel’s office is gold and silks; expensive. Fancy draperies cover a giant glass wall at his back. Fancy liquor bottles line the walls. Fancy guns sit in every holster. Fancy suits; even on the men ready to kill me.
Even on me, usually.
“Boss?”
“You ready?”
One short, sharp nod is all he’ll get.
“You know why we’re doing this, don’t you?”
Again, I nod.
“You disobeyed a direct order. You had a job to do. A transfer to complete. You went off script to save a bitch you don’t know, and in your careless stupidity, you put our entire family at risk.”
My pulse thrums with imminent death.
It could all end that easily.