by Jamie Magee
Easier said than done.
Other girls pushed into the bathroom. Some peed not caring who watched, others fought for the mirror. Two got in the shower together. Every one of them had something to say to me. None of it was worth repeating. Once they were over prodding their new punching bag, aka me, they went back to their idle, competitive, chatter.
They were talking about fights. Malcolm’s fights. A whole new level of reality and sobriety hit me when I realized how close I was to a hell that Slayton had never wanted me in the middle of. I realized how bad this could get. For him, not me, I was sure I was already dead. What would I say? What was my cover story?
Channing recognized me. I know he did. So what the hell did he do with me? What happens now?
I almost lost the crackers I’d forced myself to swallow when the sense of doom twisted my gut even more.
A busty redhead spoke over all of the girls. “Fuck you, whores. I’m getting in the box tonight,” she said eyeing me. “Apparently, they’ll let anyone in.”
The girl with me—a platinum blond who was a bit too tan— her expression went from bitch mode to psycho as she pushed the other girl from the mirror. “You want in the fucking box, whore? You want to be raped in front of a room full of sweaty cocks? Want your hair ripped out? To be rammed so hard you swear your pelvic bone is going to break? Have your chest so fucking bruised when it’s over that breathing is torture?”
The redhead said nothing but her expression said she wasn’t backing down or buying that it was that bad.
“They’re fucking killers,” the blond went on. “You can still smell the fucking blood—they’ll smear it across you. They’re savages. We’re just bones tossed in the lion’s den.”
The redhead stepped up. “You must fucking like it. The big bad bitch you are—runnin’ shit.”
The blond gripped my arm, preparing to pull me to leave with her as she eyed the other girl. “You stupid bitch. Why do you think I have to train new girls every night? Where the fuck do you think they go? A body bag,” she glared. “Stick to sucking dick in the cages.” She lifted her chin. “Stay the fuck away from the Gladiators and the sacrifices they’re given.”
The other girls put up their protests. Some were clearly on the redhead’s side, the trashy and ghetto as they come girls. Others had the same look in their eye the blond had, the one I had. Scared shitless but too stubborn to show how much.
The girl pulled me out of that room. At the door was an armed man. He eyed us like yapping puppies at his ankles he didn’t want to deal with. She flipped him off and took me across the hall into a room that was half the size of the one we were in before. Three girls were sitting on a thin mattress on the floor, as three others worked on their makeup.
The blond pulled me to the corner only stopping for a trash can on her way. No one there paid us any attention. For a long while, I sat against the wall and tried to talk my stomach out of twisting as I processed what I’d heard. Any hope of seeing Slayton was vanishing. I knew he hated fighting. And that unless I was in the room with Malcolm and he made a drop I might not ever cross him. Which was good and bad.
The idea of being close to Malcolm all but made me hurl again. I knew he didn’t get a good look at me that one night I was outside his office. And I knew that he had enough women to hardly notice new faces around him. The thing is, though, the man paid people to notice shit for him.
People like Channing...
Why would he bring me back here? Was I ransom? A bribe? I didn’t get the games in this underworld and was sure I didn’t want to.
The girl had carefully put her makeup on and was dressing. When I saw her put on a dress, tight and short, I felt some hope. I missed clothes. Seeing I was focusing better she nodded her head to the vanity, telling me to get myself together.
I did my best. I could blow-dry my hair, maybe put on mascara, but that was about it on my best days. I wouldn’t be able to make myself look the way Tuesday had the night before. Cussing me, the blonde came to my side and started to work on my face.
“You heard what I said didn’t you?” she asked.
My welling eyes were her answer. “I don’t know what the fuck you did to piss off Channing, but I swear to you it was the wrong fucking move to make.” Under her breath she said, “He’s the last asshole you should’ve rattled.” She finished the line on my eye before she went on. “But you’re here now.”
She leaned back. “You need drugs?”
“I don’t know,” I said quietly.
She looked over her shoulder at the other girls, ones who had more confidence than me but looked just as scared. “It’s the semi-finals tonight. Four fights. Those four winners will walk into the box and be celebrated. Seconds before they do, they kill,” she said to set the horror scene in my mind. “Right now, they’re standing in a room with three others they know they have to kill to live. You’re their distraction. Their reward. You’re not a person. Your screams will mean nothing and your fight will only make them more aggressive.” She eyed me. “Don’t tense. You’ll rip if you do. If you don’t think you can control your body, then you need drugs.”
I bowed my head. “When is it over?”
She was quiet for a while. “If you’re alive, others might take a turn.” I shook so hard I heard my teeth rattle. She went on. “Some girls leave with the fighter.” The sound of her voice told me that was not a good thing.
“You’ve survived this?” I needed a stitch of hope. Just one.
She swayed her head. “I manage the girls.” Lower she said, “I’m in one of Malcolm’s crews.”
Sick jealousy slammed into me when the thought of this girl going down on Slayton came to mind. She eyed me shadily when she saw the anger wash down my expression. “It’s no fucking glory job, sunshine.”
I bowed my head again. I may have been sober but I still felt like I was on the edge of the high I’d ridden for so long that I couldn’t focus.
“Channing wants us looking high-class tonight. She pulled out a sequined mask that curved up sharply at each side. A pang of relief came when I thought at least half my face would be hidden if there was anyone I shouldn’t cross in that room.
She let me adjust my mask. The black mask, thick liner and shadow made my eyes so bright even I wanted to squint looking into them. The girl studied me a bit. “You’re not even his type.”
“Whose?” I asked with a rasp.
“Channing’s.”
“And what type is that?” I asked wondering if I should act that way or something.
“Mean,” she said bluntly. “How the fuck did you end up here?”
“Cursed,” I said weakly looking away. Inside I was angry. Fucking furious. I did nothing to deserve any of this. Was I an angel? No, but who the fuck is? One day my life was fine. Then I lost her, the only mother I ever knew. Nothing had been right since. Even the good was bad. Whatever child was left in me, teen girl, young adult, whatever you want to call it—she died right then. I let her go, and pushed her into a world I could never return to.
I was a woman now. Broken and damaged, maybe, but I wasn’t a pushover, and I wasn’t weak. Something dark wanted me to forget who I was. Where I came from, the lessons I’d always known. It wanted to suck me in, and I was determined to fight it. I was losing my fight right then; I might lose for a while. I had faith, though. One way or another I’d come out of this stronger...at least, that was what I asked for in a loop of prayers that my mind was clinging to.
Hours went by. She’d given me lotion for my knees and hands, and stockings to cover the burns I had from crawling the night before. She gave me food, only allowing me to take baby bites. Not long after I could feel the nerves picking up in the room and knew my clock had all but run out.
“Take this,” she said handing me a white pill. Xanax. Then a bottle of lube. “Put it everywhere,” she said. “Generously,” she warned.
God help me.
I was allowed to wear a dress, but no underwear, an
d no bra. Another win was that I wasn’t wearing a fucking leash or told to crawl. These men preferred to herd us with guns. When we left our room, I figured out those with me were the only ones in matching dresses and fancy masks.
The girls across the hall and the ones along the walls outside were quick to tease, shout out how we thought we were better than them and wishing us luck with our fist fucks. The redhead who had started trouble hours before was at the end of the hall, she wasn’t the loudest anymore, but her disgust was evident as she cursed under her breath to the hooker next to her.
It was when I looked at the girl she was talking to that a chill of fear rushed down my spine. Sugar. The girl who had come at me when I worked for Mrs. Jin. The one Channing punished. Her mouth fell agape. Obviously, she recognized me despite the mask, then she kicked into motion telling the guy leading us to tell Malcolm she needed a private session. He laughed at her, but I knew from the persistent look in her eye she wasn’t going to give up.
Part of me thought get over it, what’s the worst that could happen? I was already told the chances of me making it out of this room were slim to none. I hadn’t accepted death, the fear was still churning my gut, I was shaking and spacy as hell, but I could only fear one thing at a time. What Sugar could do to Slayton or me was something I’d worry about if I managed to wake up tomorrow.
I don’t know what I expected when the doors opened, but I don’t think it was a party. Every man in the room was visibly armed. At least half, I was sure were guarding one of the older men—the ones that carried a marked degree of authority. Some of those men had girls with them, others were eyeing the line of girls I was in with sick desire.
Then I saw him, Channing. He was right by Malcolm. I didn’t really recognize Malcolm’s face, but his voice. This was the first time I’d gotten a good look at the stocky, older, man. He was doing his best to put on an air of refinement, but the streets were in his eyes. His ear looked like fleshy cauliflower, telling me he’d spent some time in the ring at some point in his life.
Channing and he were standing in front of a glass wall, talking warmly to a man around Malcolm’s age. Channing’s eyes only touched on me lightly, and when they did, I couldn’t read them. I couldn’t tell if he’d made a positive ID on me, and if he had if I was there for revenge or I was just a toy.
Three girls and I were told by the blonde chick to kneel by the glass, facing out to the crowd. I wasn’t sure where the others went, the girls who had gotten us ready, but from the corner of my eye I was sure one of them had sat when Malcolm did, just behind me, across his lap.
“Well played,” Malcolm said. I only assumed he was talking about us when I felt his hand move across my back before it moved on to the girl next me. “You’ve always had class, Channing.”
Channing sat next to him; I was sure it was his leg I felt at my side. I was on the end.
“Zee still had his balls in a wad. I didn’t see the harm in letting him make amends,” Channing said.
“Might have to play on his fear more often. These girls look clean,” Malcolm laughed darkly. “Clean enough to rev up your boy.”
I tensed, and when I did, that leg I felt at my side knocked into me. A warning.
Recovering the best I could my stare flew to the world around me. We were only one floor up. It felt like I could reach out and touch the crowd, something I didn’t want to do. There weren’t thousands and thousands like the night I’d seen Slayton fight, but the few hundred I did see were hardened, seedy. They all looked like they had the money to be, though, and were yelling as much as the fight in the center of the room went down.
I flinched, then leaned into the girl next to me when I figured out to my right I was not by a wall of glass, but stairs. The only thing between those men and me was Channing’s leg. No one bothered to scold me, if anything they laughed at me. “Very submissive, nice,” Malcolm said as his hand eased over my shoulder. It left when he yelled out to the ring, cheering for someone.
My attention went to the ring, staring down the blood-spattered faces. It took me longer than it should to realize Slayton was not there. But my fucked up mind kept telling me that I felt him, that he was hurt. I shook it off telling myself that it was just having Channing so close to me that was twisting my mind and taking me back to when Slayton was mine.
When the fight was over it wasn’t until the winner was upstairs that I realized the blond was not joking—she meant dead. Not ‘killed it in the ring.’ The man left in the ring was dead. And the crowd was cheering, roaring with satisfaction.
I felt myself cowering into Channing, the devil I knew, when I figured out the winning fighter had been led into the box another way. He emerged from a door in the back left part of the room, soaked in sweat, bleeding. The men in suits greeted him like a king; even Malcolm stood to say something to him.
Then I heard the darkest words that had ever been spoken near me. “Take your pick.”
The room behind me had transformed from a casual party to the onset of another orgy. Most of the men had sat in the oversized lounge chairs to watch the fight, or pretend they were; the men who had brought women with them were being seduced by them. The girls who had helped us get ready were paired off, too.
The fighter didn’t even look at me or the three I was with, he took the girl off the lap of the guy next to Malcolm, one of his guards. When the guard drew a gun on the fighter, Malcolm stopped him. “My Gladiators get what they want.” He glanced back to the room. “If you don’t want to share, leave your goods at home.”
His harsh warning was met with tense laughter.
I heard the girl being raped more than I saw it. She was bent over a chair. The fighter railed her with abandon. Some in the room watched, others played with their own ‘goods.’ Most were focused on the next fight getting underway.
All I could hope was the mask was hiding every tear I felt spilling. I could not fathom how anyone, anywhere was okay with this, any of it. How could they hear her screams, his roars, and do nothing? This was not okay—in no realm of reality should this be okay. It shouldn’t be celebrated or fantasized.
I’d slipped into hell, I was sure of it.
As stupid as it sounds, I prayed for that girl. I don’t remember what I asked for, mainly for it to stop—to help her. Something. I even twitched to move, might have if Channing’s hand had not landed on my shoulder. He made it seem like he was petting me but I felt his unspoken threat.
When I heard the gladiator slump to the ground, I was sure someone had come to their senses and knocked him out, but he’d only passed out. He and the girl were taken out like leftover dishes from a fine appetizer. I clenched my jaw and balled my fists and kept to my thoughts, plead for a way out, one for all of us.
The next fight was quicker, less than ten minutes. The gladiator was brutal. He not only broke the other one’s neck with his bare hands, but gouged out his eyes once he was dead. Guards had to pull him off.
With a thundering heart, I held my breath waiting for him to come up. The next fight had started, and he wasn’t there yet. I had insane hope that he was too out of control to be around anyone and that meant when this was over, there would be at least one girl still standing. One was better than none. One was hope. Sometimes all you need to get from one second to the next is hope.
The third fight was long. It was a downright bloodbath. At one point, I was sure they’d both die. When a winner was declared, he passed out. More hope sank into me—maybe two would make it out of this room without being raped.
When the final fight of the night began, I felt Channing lean forward. Malcolm had turned his side to me. His attention was on the man next to him and some business conversation. I never got his name, but I knew from his accent he was new to English and not particularly fond of it.
When the next round of Gladiators came into the ring below Channing leaned into me more, gripping my arm past the point of pain. I had no idea what I’d done wrong until I saw him. Slayton. At least, I
thought it was him. He was bigger in the shoulders and arms. His dark hair was longer, and by the way he walked alone, I knew he’d become even more lethal than he was before.
No breath left me, no clear thought registered. I couldn’t figure out how to feel. Fear was obvious, but fear of what? Fear he’d die? Yes. Fear he’d see me? Yes. Fear I’d watch him rape someone? Yes. That it would be me? Yes. All of that was a hell fucking yes. But I didn’t know what was the lesser evil. There was no hope for me to clutch. At the center of it all was my biggest fear—that the boy I knew, my savior, was gone. One way or another, I knew he was gone and the next moments of my life would destroy his memory.
EIGHTEEN
I was pretty positive I’d felt every degree of pain that could be felt. I was wrong. Seeing him again, knowing he was only one flight of stairs away from me was agony. My fuzzy head kept taking me back to our last night together. The ice, the candles, every tender touch of his.
The blissful memory was shattered, like always, when I remembered the last second I saw him. When he reached for me to come to him and I refused. When I saw his gray stare filled with shock and betrayal. What would’ve happened if I had gone with him? Would we have made it?
A knot settled in my throat when I let myself brush against the idea that not going with him had been pointless—my dad was dead. When I jerked myself away from that pain I was left asking questions. Was Slayton paying for my crimes? Was he being led to his own slaughter and Channing was a cold enough bastard to make me watch the destruction I’d caused?
The man Slayton was facing had an inch on him in height, and I was betting had more muscle mass. Size, even though he had it, had never been Slayton’s gift. It was speed. How fast he could think and act. So fast you never saw him coming and were left wondering what you missed once it was all over.
The room around me, even the orgies, stilled as the fight began. The pause was only seconds long. One hit, two, three, duck, four...and Slayton’s opponent was down. It was the same fight I’d seen Slayton work through before. But as my stomach tightened, I remembered there was only one way to be declared a winner in the ring below. And it wasn’t a knockout.
