“You know I’d never hurt you.” His voice is sugary sweet, dripping with honey just like every other time he’s apologized after scaring me. Each apology more convincing than the last.
I open my mouth to say something else when the heavy, metal door no less than ten feet away slams against the brick alley wall. A few tipsy socialites who, I’m guessing, came down here to ‘slum it’ or take a walk on the wild side stumble out into the darkness, talking at a rapid-fire pace about someone called CM.
I feel Kyle’s hand settle into the small of my back as he leads us towards the closing door. He catches it with his opposite hand and opens it to reveal a hulking black man. I try to refrain from letting my eyeballs bug out of my head at the sight of him. I’m almost certain that the man’s biceps alone could literally be used to crush skulls.
“Name,” he huffs out, looking directly at Kyle and ignoring me.
“Kyle Nathaniel Davis the third,” he answers.
I can see the Hulk roll his eyes before he directs them down to his clipboard. “Buy in. 3K.” It’s less of a question and more of a statement as he opens his palm.
Kyle reaches into his pocket, pulling out what looks like a roll of hundreds, before placing it in the bouncer’s outstretched palm. The Hulk quickly counts it before speaking again.
“Go to the end of the hall. It’s the first door on the left,” he clips out, stepping aside to let us by.
I grip the back of Kyle’s dress shirt as we follow the directions he gave. The hallway is nearly pitch black, but as we get closer, I can feel a pounding bass under my feet.
It isn’t unlike Kyle to drag me along with him to a number of weird events. He is filthy rich, and so are his friends. They love to gamble and drop money fast enough to make your head spin. To anyone without a trust fund, their pastimes seem completely absurd. But nothing could have prepared me for this.
“What are we doing here?” I question, shivering inwardly at the rank smell of the old building.
“You’ll see.” He chuckles again, gripping the handle of another steel door and throwing it open.
My eyes are temporarily blinded by the light flooding the room, my ears assaulted with a combination of wild screams and the distinct rifts of metal music. Kyle starts to move through the crowd as a repeating line blasts through the speakers. “Let the bodies hit the floor. Let the bodies hit the floor. Let the bodies hit the floor.” Each time, the repeat is followed by what sounds like a growl into the microphone.
I choke back a cough as we pass through a cloud of cigarette smoke, waving my free hand in front of my face in an attempt at fresh air. We descend down a short, metal staircase into the bowels of the building’s basement. Set in the middle of what looks like a concrete prison is a large boxing ring. Ten rows nearest the front contain folding-chair seating while the rest looks like standing-room only.
I hear a catcall to my left and turn to find a potbellied biker giving me the once-over.
“I’d like to taste you.” He smacks his lips, reaching out a finger to stroke my thigh.
I plaster myself closer into Kyle’s back as he continues to push through the people, oblivious to my exchange with the leather rat. It’s not lost on me that, although his hand is in mine, our bodies merely inches apart, I don’t feel safe with him in this dragons’ den.
The chorus rings through the speakers flanking the ring again. “Let the bodies hit the floor. Let the bodies hit the floor. Let the bodies hit the floor,” and I realize that I’ve heard it before. It’s “Bodies” by Drowning Pool. My little brother Kai went through a brief metal phase. It isn’t the first time I’ve felt like my ears are bleeding to this song.
The bass vibrates in my chest as we approach our seats in the front row. It’s a requirement of Kyle’s to always have the best no matter what it is we are doing. I see a few of his trust-fund buddies huddled together, exchanging wads of cash with a shady-looking old man. If Sean Connery were a serial killer, I imagine this man is what he would look like. I don’t bother saying anything to them. Kyle doesn’t like it when they talk to me, and quite frankly, I can barely hear myself think let alone try to converse with anyone else.
Kyle points to the seat on the end, holding up his hand to signal ‘one minute,’ before he disappears into the group of gambling men. I sit down on the folded chair, crossing and uncrossing my legs uncomfortably. I feel naked and completely overdressed at the same time. My black, strapless dress suddenly feels too short and fancy. My Louboutin shoes make me appear ridiculous as I take in the filth of this makeshift arena. I said that Kyle always has to have the best—that goes for me looking my best as well. It’s not a far cry from who I am naturally, but that doesn’t stop him from enjoying dressing me up exactly how he likes me.