Stay A Little Longer (Kadia Club Nights Book 2)

by Nicole York

  Cameron nodded eagerly. “Yes, it means not having any serious purpose or value.”

  “I know what it means,” she said sharply. “The only thing frivolous in this room is you.”

  Cameron blinked. “Oh.”

  The woman beside her snorted. They both kept eating.

  “So does that mean you won’t talk to me then?” Cameron asked.

  “What kind of shelter is it?” the one with brilliant blue eyes beside her asked.

  “A shelter for battered women,” Cameron said.

  “You ever been beat?” Short Nails asked.

  Cameron shook her head.

  “Ever beaten someone else?” Blue Eyes asked.

  She shook her head again.

  Short Nails narrowed her eyes. “But you want to help women who have been?”

  “Yes,” Cameron said. “I don’t think I need to have the personal experience in order to have compassion and want to help people. I have the resources. I have the connections. I can build something incredible. I know I can. But I need help from people like you. What would you need in a shelter? What would be the most important thing to you?”

  The women shared a look.

  Blue Eyes chimed in first. “For starters, I wouldn’t want anyone looking like you walking around like they owned my ass.”

  “Oh,” Cameron said.

  “And I wouldn’t want to be bothered when I’m trying to eat my lunch,” Short Nails added.

  Cameron tapped her knuckles on her folder. “Noted. I won’t bother you ladies anymore. Thank you for—well, whatever this was.” She got to her feet and turned away from them. If they didn’t want to talk to her, that was just fine. There were people pouring into the soup kitchen by the dozens she could talk to. Surely, someone would be open to having company while they ate.

  “Sit down, Stepford,” Short Nails barked.

  Cameron peered down the length of her nose at the leathery-faced woman. “I’m sorry?”

  “I said sit down.”

  “You called me Stepford.”

  “Sure did. Am I wrong in assuming you live in a beautiful home with a beautiful family? Do you have more shoes than you do fingers? Did you style your own hair today, or did you go to a salon?”

  Cameron bit back a smart retort and lifted her chin. “It doesn’t matter. I’m here to help, not criticize.”

  “Sit,” Short Nails said.

  Cameron sat.

  Blue Eyes nudged Cameron’s elbow with her own. “My name is Carol. This here is Bernadette, but she prefers Bernie. We’re cousins.”

  “It’s nice to meet you,” Cameron said.

  Bernie snickered. “Why do people with money lie so effortlessly?”

  “It’s easy to lie when you’re as smooth as a dolphin.” Carol winked.

  Cameron became acutely paranoid about the fresh full-body wax she’d gotten this past Friday. She’d wanted to put her best foot forward this week in every capacity. There was something about a new wax that made her feel like she could walk on water.

  Or glide due to the aerodynamics of a slippery-smooth coochie.

  4

  Cole

  A man nearly the size of Marcus stood at the back-door entrance to the underground club. He had his hands, each nearly the size of Cole’s head, clasped together in front of his waist, and each ring bore a thick silver band. The rings on his index fingers were ridged with spikes to inflict as much damage as possible on the man who was foolish enough to start a fight and try to get into the club when his name wasn’t on the list.

  The first time Cole had been there three weeks ago, one such fool had been laid out on the wet pavement in the alley, groaning about his broken jaw. Cole had stepped over him and approached the door.

  Tonight, there was nobody to step over, so Cole strode straight up to the big bodyguard.

  “Cole Matthenson.”

  The guard studied Cole coldly for a minute before stepping aside and unlocking the door. He pushed it inward and tipped his chin, inviting him inside.

  Cole passed by him and let the dark hallway on the other side of the door swallow him whole.

  The air felt wet, like a cave. Cole was sure there was mold in this place as he crept through the darkness, working his way toward a dim light at the end of the narrow, nearly hundred-and-fifty-foot hall. The light hung above a narrow stone staircase with uneven steps that plunged two stories underground. From the depths, he could hear the telltale sounds of men battling with their fists.

  A sense of calm washed over him as he took the first step and continued down.

  The air grew hotter and more humid as Cole descended. It smelled like sweat, copper, and jockstraps. It was the only way he could think to describe it.

  At the bottom of the stairs, Cole stopped and looked around.

  The place was packed.

  From wall to wall, it was full with men and women from all walks of life. The wealthy mingled with the significantly less wealthy and were easy to spot in the crowd. They had their own entrance, Cole had been told by a drunken businessman the last time he was there, and it was much more incognito than the one Cole had used minutes before. The secrecy was to protect their identities from being wrapped up in the underground-fighting club should the law ever catch wind of it. They strode through the place in black attire, the women in wide-brimmed hats with veils over their eyes and the men in suits with walking canes.

  The middle class wore casual clothes: T-shirts, jeans, sneakers, and such.

  And the others?

  Well, the others were the fighters, and most of them walked around shirtless and barefoot, ready to be called into the ring at any moment.

  Those were the guys who’d been doing this the longest. Cole was still new to this thing, so he didn’t walk around in just his pants and little else. He kept his black Henley shirt on as well as his leather jacket, jeans, and boots.

  He stuck out like a sore thumb.

  If Cole wanted a chance in the ring that night, he had to check in with the host, a man in an Irish cap with a cigar in his mouth who was making his rounds through the crowd collecting bets. His name was Clyde and he had a slight limp to his walk which Cole assumed he’d earned in a place like this in his younger days when he used to fight.

  Clyde circled around to Cole and looked him up and down. “Back for more, lad?”

  “Back to win,” Cole said.

  Clyde chuckled and shook his head at the eager young fighter. His eyes were hidden beneath the shadow of his cap. “You’re a reckless one, you are. Dean said as much about you the first time he called to buy you in. Said you had some anger to work out in the ring. Said you’d sort your shit out in a fight or two. Yet here you are, six fights deep in three weeks. You sure you want to jump back in?”

  “If I wasn’t sure, I wouldn’t be here.”

  Clyde’s amused smile never left his lips. “Hell, kid. I’m not sure I want to keep doing this to make a living but I’m here, ain’t I?”

  “I want to fight.”

  Clyde stroked his whiskery chin. “Fine. Then a fight, you’ll have. Any requests?”

  “No.”

  “I got a scrapper in mind. He’s been around a couple months. I’ll see if he’s interested in squaring off. In the meantime, make yourself comfortable. Have a drink. Or five. It’ll take the edge off when you get your ass kicked again.”

  Of the six fights Cole had fought down there, he’d only won two of them. It hadn’t been the best hit to his ego. Cole didn’t lose fights. He was well trained from his time as a cop and he’d learned a few things working with Marcus, too. But these guys down here weren’t fucking around. They were here to make money and knock teeth out.

  Cole was here for—well, he wasn’t entirely sure yet.

  I’m here to work shit out, he told himself as he made his way over to the bar and ordered bourbon on the rocks.

  Hours had passed since Cole told Clyde he wanted to fight. In that time, he’d downed another three drink
s after the first and was feeling the effects of the alcohol in his system. There was a pleasant buzzing in his ears that made the laughter of the wealthy woman behind him less irritating, and his body felt lighter, too.

  He was considering ordering another when someone closed their hand over his right shoulder. “Ready, kid?”

  Cole got to his feet and faced Clyde, who had yet another cigar pinched between his lips. “I’ve been waiting all night.”

  “There were fights scheduled ahead of you. Don’t worry. You’ve got your chance now. Did you bring tape?”

  Cole pulled white tape for his knuckles out of his jacket pocket and held it up.

  Clyde clapped his shoulder. “Good lad. Step into the ring. I’m going to find your opponent.”

  Cole nodded and did as he was told. He found his way to the ring, which wasn’t really a ring at all but rather a cleared space in the middle of the underground club. Back in the day, he suspected this might have been a speakeasy. It had that look about it. The exposed brick walls, ancient bar, and exposed electrical and plumping had all the fixings of an illegal nightclub. It was still illegal, he supposed.

  That might have stopped him a few years ago. Not anymore. Cole lived in the gray space between lawful and unlawful.

  Purgatory.

  The ring had been separated from the audience by a low wooden fence braced on supports on the outside. When a fighter was thrown into them, they remained in the circle. This protected the fighter from the crowds and vice versa. Apparently, shit could get pretty wild down there, and on the odd occasion, they’d had the entire place erupt in a brawl.

  Part of Cole wanted to see what that would be like. Another part was content never knowing.

  He stepped through the one opening in the ring and drew the attention of several people crowded around the wooden dividers. These were the go-getters, the folks who were serious about being up close and personal with the sweat and blood. They liked to hear the punch when it landed, and liked to see teeth spray from a good hit.

  Cole had seen a man pick a bloody tooth up from the floor and hold it up like it was a diamond.

  He supposed he couldn’t blame them for their barbaric tendencies, seeing as how he was the one stepping into the ring preparing to cause the kind of pain and damage these folks went crazy over.

  Shoes weren’t allowed during a fight, so he stepped out of his boots and tucked them aside. Cole took his socks off, too. Lastly, he shrugged out of his leather jacket, draped it over the wooden partition, and rolled the sleeves of his shirt up.

  A woman in a dark hat and slinky dress made eyes at Cole on the other side of the ring. Her gaze, veiled and shadowed, swept up and down the length of his body and her tongue slipped out of her mouth to run along her upper teeth. Her lips were redder than the blood stains in the ring.

  Cole wasn’t interested.

  He was there to fight not fuck.

  Then again, the high after winning a fight did always leave him hard and aching for someone to take it.

  Cole wondered dimly if she was there with someone as Clyde returned with his opponent, a red-haired, burly, Scottish-looking brute with a crooked nose and cauliflower ears. He was missing both of his front teeth and there was no doubt in Cole’s mind this man had a hard time going places without being stared at.

  Clyde brought the two fighters into the middle of the ring and flashed Cole a smile. “Is he too big?”

  The Scotsman was at least four inches taller than him, and Cole wasn’t short. He had thick shoulders and a neck as wide as Cole’s biceps.

  “He’ll do,” Cole said.

  Clyde laughed and shook his head at him. “You’re a crazy motherfucker. Nobody wants to fight this bastard. And I mean nobody.”

  The Scotsman flashed Cole a toothless grin over Clyde’s head. “I won’t hit you too hard, boy.”

  The crowd’s excited chatter faded into a tense hush as they anticipated the fight and tried to hear the words Cole and his opponent exchanged.

  Clyde threw his arms over his head and addressed his adoring fans. “Ladies and gentlemen, do I ever have a treat in store for you this evening. Let me introduce you to our contenders, The Scot and Cole.” Clyde shook his head and muttered over his shoulder to Cole, “You really need to pick a fighting name, kid. Something with some gusto, you know?”

  Cole arched an eyebrow and rolled his shoulders.

  Clyde rolled his eyes. “You all know The Scot. Big, mean, ruthless, and powerful!”

  The crowd cheered.

  “And you know Cole, the underdog, the up and comer, the underestimated.”

  Cole cracked his knuckles. “Nice. Real nice.”

  “Bets have been placed!” Clyde cried. “Prepare yourselves, fighters.”

  The Scot moved to the other side of the ring. Cole followed suit and went to the opposite side. The fighters turned back to face each other as Clyde left the ring. He balanced on the support structure behind one of the wood partitions so he could see over the heads of the crowd.

  He raised his arm. The crowd fell silent.

  Cole’s blood rushed in his ears. A bead of sweat trickled down his forehead to his eyebrow. His fingertips tingled and adrenaline coursed through him, making his wrists and knees feel like rubber.

  Or perhaps that was the bourbon’s doing.

  A devilish grin stretched Cole’s lips.

  “Begin!” Clyde bellowed.

  The Scot plunged into the ring. His first method of attack told Cole a lot about him. He relied on strength and sheer power, not speed or agility. He dropped his head and charged Cole like a bull, intending to take him down to the floor where he could pummel him mercilessly until Cole lost consciousness.

  Cole’s strategy already began to develop in his brain.

  Priority number one? He had to stay on his feet.

  Cole leapt out of the way and let the brute charge past him into the wood barricade. The Scot let out a frustrated growl and whirled back as Cole put as much distance between them as he could. A man with as much weight and muscle as he carried would tire quickly, whereas Cole’s endurance was his best asset. He could stay on his feet for a long time.

  He kept his fists up in front of his face and his elbows tucked into his ribs to protect himself in case he got close enough, and Cole met the Scot in the middle of the ring to see how he handled himself in close range.

  The Scot immediately went for Cole’s legs.

  Cole avoided the kick to the side of his knee, ducked low, and came up with a fist under his chin. Cole felt and heard the other man’s teeth snap together and he darted out of the way of his parrying punch just in time. His fist sailed over Cole’s head and the power he put into the punch propelled him forward. Cole used the Scot’s weight and forward motion against him to put even more power behind his own punch. Cole drove upward, tucking himself under the Scot’s right side, and buried his fist into the big man’s ribs as he doubled over beside him.

  Cole spun out and away as he crashed down onto his knees. Blood leaked out of the corners of his mouth as he stumbled to his feet. He’d either bit through his tongue, lip, or cheek. Either way, Cole didn’t give a damn.

  Cole was sure he’d broken or at least cracked a rib and that would make the Scot’s breathing difficult. In turn, less air meant less power. If Cole wanted to win this, all he had to do was stay on his feet a little longer.

  But there wasn’t any fun in that.

  Cole beckoned the Scot to come for him another time with a curl of his fingers.

  The crowd rippled with laughter but Cole barely heard them.

  The Scott bellowed furiously and charged again.

  When will they learn?

  This time, he wasn’t fucking around. He predicted Cole’s decision to skirt the attack and caught Cole by the back of his shirt. He threw Cole backward with enough force that Cole lost his footing and stumbled backward into the wood partition. The impact took his breath away, and behind him, the crowd gasped.

>   Cole managed to catch himself with both arms over the wood partition, but he didn’t have enough time to get back on his feet before The Scot grabbed hold of him again and lifted him clean off the floor by the front of his shirt.

  The Scot’s grin as he held Cole straight up in one hand was manic. Each tooth was outlined in blood. His pupils were narrowed to pinpoints. His grip on Cole’s shirt tightened.

  “Good effort, kid,” The Scot growled. “But not good enough.”

  5

  Cameron

  The white plate before Cameron was trimmed in real gold, and the tablecloth beneath, a custom-ordered piece her mother had seen to, shimmered with flakes of Swarovski crystal embedded in the fabric. Cameron leaned back as one of the White-estate waitstaff approached her right side and set a small silver plate on top of the white and gold one. Two other waiters did the same for her mother and father, and at the same time, they removed the dome-shaped silver lids to reveal one of the courses of their meal.

  Fresh lobster smothered in cheese and baked in an escargot tray sat before her and made her mouth water.

  The family picked up their forks and dug in.

  As soon as the buttery, savory, cheesy morsel touched Cameron’s tongue, she thought about Carol and Bernie back at the soup kitchen and what they’d eaten for lunch: lettuce with ranch dressing and dry lasagna.

  “How’s your lobster, dear?” Cameron’s mother, Margaret, asked from across the table.

  Cameron looked up and smiled. “Delicious.”

  Her father, who sat in his usual spot to Cameron’s left at the head of the dining table, washed his first bite down with a sip of red wine. He set his glass down and watched his daughter take a second bite. “Are you going to tell us about your day, or are you waiting for us to pry it out of you?”

  Margaret nodded her agreement. “I’ve almost been afraid to ask.”

  How could Cameron explain this to them without them trying to talk her out of this now that she’d hit her first minor roadblock?

  Cameron bit her bottom lip. “It was… informative.”