Death Layer (The Depraved Club)

by Celia Loren

  “You’re a pain in my ass, Red, and next time I just might not be in the rescuing mood. Get your ass in line! I don’t care if you are really just that stupid or if you have a death wish. Either way, I can’t help you if you’re going to cause trouble everywhere you go.”

  I really don’t need or want the lecture. A mixture of rage and helplessness pricks the corners of my eyes with tears and my mouth flies opens to retort, to tell him to shove it, to tell him none of this is helping me, that if he really wanted to help, he’d get me the fuck out of here. That he’s just as much of a jackass as anybody else in this dump.

  But I rethink it.

  Bane still hasn’t touched me or hurt me. Why, I’m not sure. Maybe he’s just repulsed by me, maybe he’s disinterested, or maybe he really was telling the truth about his feelings for human trafficking. Who knows. It doesn’t really matter.

  What really matters is that if he hadn’t happened to be right here just now with his A-game, angry face and adrenaline…yikes. A shudder passes through my body as I realize what Smokey would have done to me. In public. Humiliation blooms in my cheeks.

  Despite my unsteadiness and threatening tears, I force myself to meet Bane’s eyes. In them I read resentment and annoyance but also something human, something like a flicker of pity. I don’t like the way I see myself reflected there: a pathetic and inconvenient liability. It’s hard to know that I register so low in another person’s reckoning, somewhere between cockroaches and diarrhea. But hey, Bane’s disgusted ownership is better than Coco’s sadistic bullying or Jack and Smokey’s total dehumanizing subjugation.

  I’ll take it.

  Because right now I am so shaken and hurt and tired and hungry, I’ll take any scrap of humanity that comes my way. I tell myself it’s not that I’m accepting this place, these circumstances. I’m not agreeing to him owning me, it’s just that I need to do the right thing as far as I see it. I raise my trembling fingers to wrap around his under my chin. His skin is rough and warm and there’s a small shock of static electricity.

  “Thank you,” I hear myself whisper. “For stopping him.”

  Though I am able to keep my face still and my breathing steady, I can’t control the floodgates as hot, shamed tears spill quietly down my cheeks.

  Bane blinks at me, taken aback. Curiosity and wariness flash in his eyes.

  “Don’t mention it,” he whispers. “Just another day in the life of a fucking hero.”

  He releases my chin with a rough push and turns to go.

  “Wait,” I say, surprising myself.

  His back stiffens and he whips his head over his shoulder to give me an impatient eyebrow raise.

  I bend as much as I can with my chains, find a clean lowball, and scoop in some ice. Reaching behind me, I trail my fingers over bottle tops until I find the one I want and splash a generous portion over the rocks. I slide it over the bar towards Bane.

  He looks at the Macallan 30, puzzled, then back up at me. His eyes narrow suspiciously, but he takes a step closer to the bar again and closes a rugged masculine hand around the glass. Raising it under his nose, he gives it a tentative sniff. His eyes never leave mine.

  “Sure it’s not poisoned? You already tried to off me once.”

  I can’t answer. I simply watch as he tosses back the triple shot in one gulp. Damn, that’s some tolerance. He licks his lips and draws my gaze to their fullness, their inviting softness startling in an otherwise intimidating face. A wicked, impish grin twists one corner of his mouth and he lets out a whoop.

  “Burns a little, don’t it Red?”

  Heat ignites my cheeks and belly again as Bane’s bores his gaze through me like a drill. He’s clearly not just talking about the whiskey.

  He shakes his head, grinning, and then his eyes flicker over to Coco and then back to the X on my face. Coco is watching us with crossed arms from the other end of the bar, but pretends she is busy with something else when he looks her way. Bane chuckles, his grin flattening, and shakes his head, staring into his glass. He swirls the ice contemplatively.

  “Women,” he mutters.

  With that, he slams the glass on the bar and strides away without a backward glance at me. His long steps are easy and powerful, carrying him right out the exit into the stairwell. The door swings closed behind him, obscuring my view of that perfect ass.

  I shake my jumbled, ridiculous thoughts out of my head. Why am I thinking about Bane’s ass? Clearly I have bigger problems.

  Like figuring out how to walk my own ass the hell out of here.

  A sigh flutters through my lips and I turn back to the bar to try to blend in, keep my head down. As long as I don’t make eye contact and serve drinks fast, the rest of the men pretty much just read my chest and leave me alone. It’s an uneventful bar shift the rest of the day, even if it is my first one as a slave. Only it seems to stretch forever. After what seems like an entire week, the band packs up and Coco reappears.

  “Cleanup,” she shouts at us. “Almost fight time downstairs, the guys’ll be clearing out.”

  She sashays off again, leaving the blue-eyed, bare-breasted bartender and I alone behind a swiftly abandoned bar. There are messes of spilled liquor, broken glass, and chicken bones. We silently work from opposite ends of the bar, sweeping the trash into big black bags.

  We meet in the middle. The blue-eyed bartender has dragged her ankle shackle down the pole and is only a foot away from me now. Leaning over as much as her chains allow, she busies herself with a bucket in the ice bin.

  Her hands are trembling and she accidentally drops the bucket, scattering ice over the floor.

  The girl glances nervously toward the kitchen door where Coco has vanished, and then jerks her head at me, motioning me to follow her. Surprised, I sweep a glance around to make sure no one saw. Relieved, I follow her to a sort of squat, picking up dirty ice cubes one by one and dropping them back in the bucket.

  “Amy.” She grunts.

  My brain is slow. No one has asked me my name so far, and I feel oddly comforted by the normalcy. “Ava.”

  “You got it pretty bad Ava,” she husks, her eyes flitting over my bruises.

  “I hadn’t noticed, Amy.” I grunt.

  The sounds of our names seem to cheer us both. She grins. “When did you get here?”

  “Last night. You?”

  “A month.”

  I shiver, less from the touch of the ice as from the thought of extended time in this shithole. I tap the bar our ankles are chained to. “I take it this wasn’t your dream job either.”

  She snorts and rolls her eyes. “I wanted to be a dentist, not join a biker gang.”

  “What happened?”

  “Same as you, probably.” Amy’s lopsided grin is sad. There’s a clang and she glances nervously back at the kitchen, but so far the coast is clear. “Look, my advice is lay low,” she whispers. “The sweetbutts ease up if you’re cooperative, as long as you don’t fuck their favorite guys. They actually want in, you know? It’s all about sexual favors until they find a steady boyfriend. You’re fucked from ground zero with Bane, because he doesn’t want you and Coco and Trinity both want him. So does Tink. You haven’t seen her here today. They’ve all been working on him longer than I’ve been here. You’re fucked if you fuck him, fucked if you don’t.”

  “I don’t want to fuck anybody,” I whisper urgently. “I want the fuck out.”

  She nods. “No shit. Look.” Her tongue flits nervously over her lips. “I’ve been here long enough to know I don’t have much longer. There’s a window in the stairwell of the fifth floor with a broken lock. There’s a drainpipe outside it that looks like it goes all the way down to the street. We’re on the seventh floor right now; bunks are on nine. Early hours of the morning, guards do rounds every quarter hour.”

  The ice is all cleaned up but we both pause, searching each other’s eyes.

  “Why are you telling me this?” I ask.

  Amy’s eyes are clear, daring me to trus
t her. “Because I’m climbing out tonight,” she confides. “Once the sweetbutts pass out. I’ll either get out, or get caught. But no matter what, once they figure out that window’s lock is jacked, we’ll lose the only loophole I’ve found in this building. I can tell you don’t belong here, either. So I’m inviting you to join me. Might be your only chance.”

  My lips are suddenly dry and I lick them urgently. But before I can respond there’s another clang from the kitchen, and I hear Coco’s heels approaching. Amy and I scatter back to our ends of the bar and I force myself not to look at her.

  “Tonight you’re cleaning toilets,” Coco announces.

  It’s all I can do not to burst into hysterical laughter.

  That’s not all I’m doing tonight.

  Chapter Nine

  I am sweating on Coco’s bedroom floor despite lying directly on the cool rough concrete. Barely breathing, I venture a little stretch of my legs and find that my battered muscles have stiffened. My scratches and scabs are throbbing and there’s a persistent nagging pain in my left temple. My poor body is a wreck, but I need it to come through for me tonight.

  It’s time to escape.

  The biggest obstacle is that before Coco collapsed drunkenly on the rickety metal-framed bunk bed, she shackled my ankle to the foot of the bed. My mind has been obsessively focused on possible Mensa-genius ways to get around this setback. Problem is I am not a Mensa-genius. I’m not even a regular genius.

  So, how the hell do I get into the hallway?

  Trinity hasn’t come back yet, leaving me only Coco to worry about; and she hasn’t moved since she face-planted into her duvet. Hopefully this means she is the level of comatose that I need. Bending my knees, I scoot my butt closer to the bed. A sudden cramp makes my leg spasm and there’s a clinking sound as my shackle bangs the metal frame. Stifling a curse, I freeze and stare through the dark in the direction of Coco’s body.

  She doesn’t move.

  Exhaling, I try round two of scooting and am more successful. In the dark my hands trace down the bed frame until my fingers find the relentless stainless steel of my shackle, but try as I might there’s no way to trick open the spring mechanism.

  Too bad I never learned to pick locks growing up, but for some silly reason I had kind of figured on being a decent, law-abiding citizen my entire life.

  Guess this is plan B.

  I spin slowly and use the bars of the bed frame to pull myself up to stand. Taking a minute to let my blood pressure adjust, I assess the situation. One cuff of the shackle is around my ankle, the other locked near the floor around the narrow bed pole. Since I can’t very well chew off my own foot, I’ve got to move the bed somehow. Bending over, I yank at the bed frame to see if there’s any wobble or uneven floor advantage to help me out. There isn’t. The only way to get the cuff off the foot of the bed will be for me to lift the bed enough to slip it out from underneath. Without waking up Coco.

  Which means that I must now transform into Superwoman. Cursing myself for not buying that Groupon for Crossfit a while back, I curl my body as much around the corner of the bed and pull. Nothing happens, besides a brief and passionate protest in my lumbar spine.

  I step back, frustrated, until high school gym class comes back to me in a flash: lift with the legs, not the back. Of course! I squat, tucking my tailbone into the bed frame and straightening my back to minimize strain.

  With a deep breath, I push with everything I’ve got. My tired hamstrings are screaming at me but the flimsy metal frame gives a trembling jump in my hands. The corner raises first an inch, then two, then three. Coco rolls softly onto her side because of the angle, but still doesn’t wake. She must be pretty damn drunk.

  The bed is frickin’ heavy, but I manage to hold it up long enough to slide my shackle out from under. It rattles across the concrete floor like nails on a chalkboard, but Coco still hasn’t shown a sign of life. Finally, with a hissing exhale I set the bed frame back down as gently as possible.

  Oh. My. God. I did it. I’m a fucking superhero.

  There’s no time to bask in my newfound glory. I catch up the loose end of the ankle restraints with my left hand and do a weird limp-run to the door and out into the hallway.

  It has to be super late and it’s dead quiet on the dormitory floor, all the bedroom doors closed. Heart hammering, I remember what Amy said about the guards and wish there was a way for me to find out what time it is. I’ll just have to wing it and hope that Amy somehow makes it out, too.

  The exit light oozes a red glow over the stairwell about five doors down from Coco’s room, and I make an awkward sprint for it. I almost sob in relief when I make it through and find myself clinking down the stairs. I pass the familiar seventh-floor entrance to the bar area and press on, amazed that no one is around.

  Sixth floor.

  Fifth.

  How is it so easy?

  And there it is: the most beautiful window I have ever seen in my life, never mind that it’s caked black with dust and rust: it’s freedom. Amy neglected to mention that it is small and high, starting at my shoulder level and only about the size of my bathroom window back at my and Rachel’s apartment.

  Whelp…so much for easy.

  Gripping my fingertips into the lip of the glass, I grit my teeth and push up. The window squeals like a pig being burned alive, but it opens. If that sound won’t raise the dead and bring the guards, I don’t know what will. Now all I have to do is figure out how to get my body through it, and fast. I attempt a pull-up to the windowsill with and without a leaping start, and epically fail.

  “Come on, yoga arms,” I mutter. “This is your chance to shine!”

  A door opens somewhere in the stairwell, and I hear heavy footsteps approaching. Adrenaline spikes through my limbs. Someone is definitely coming my way.

  Shit just got really fucking urgent.

  My hands are on the windowsill and my feet seek out the railing of the stairs almost on their own, using them as a booster. Necessity really is the mother of invention. It’s not until I am climbing up and my knee is on the window ledge and my head is outside the building that I realize that my body figured out an escape route without my brain’s help. I force my torso through the window and gulp as I come face to face with my greatest fear.

  “Heights,” I hiss. “Why, why did it have to be heights?”

  It’s dark and the widow opens into a dimly lit alley, but I can still see that the ground is really, really far away: five floors away, to be exact. Vertigo threatens to seize up my newfound Superwoman.

  “Get it together,” I order myself. “No time, Clark. Oh my god. Pipe! There’s a pipe! Find the pipe!”

  I force my gaze up from the ground and back to my immediate surroundings, remembering Amy’s instructions. The ledge I’m on is narrow. About a foot and a half away, I see the drainpipe that shoots from the roof above all the way to the street below. About two feet past the pipe is another column of narrow windows, and beyond that is an iron fire escape. In order to reach it, I’d have to be Superwoman and Spiderman…and I am not.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I curse.

  It becomes my mantra.

  Since there is literally no time to freak out, my body takes over again. I shimmy my knees onto the ledge, carefully pulling my shackle so it follows the rest of me through the window. Using my legs as a wedge, my arms stretch sideways until my hands can close around the pole. There are brackets every yard or so securing the pipe to the brick wall, and with laser focus I aim my un-shackled foot at that tiny, tiny hold.

  With a startled squeal I swing my shackled foot over. Just like that I become Spiderwoman, my body trembling and clinging to a freaking drainpipe five stories above ground.

  The Catholic kid in me is sure that maybe God is for something. I mean, having to shimmy down a drainpipe has to be at least some kind of karmic retribution for how well the first part of my escape was going, right, because stairs would be way too easy wouldn’t they? A ladder would be
too easy. A rabid grizzly bear flanked by angry Nazis with harpoons would be too easy.

  It had to be a drainpipe on the side of a tall building.

  “Why, god, why?” I moan.

  I am crying ugly tears as silently as I possibly can as I force first one foot, then the other to step off the bracket and let myself slide down to the next. My body shivers to a squeaking stop. About a layer of skin has already scraped off my hands and inner thighs. I risk a glance down to check my progress, but it’s very depressing.

  I am now approximately three feet closer to the ground than a moment ago, and trembling violently.

  “Fuck!”

  Either this is going to take all night, or I’m just going to fall to my death.

  Nope, don’t think of falling. Oh god. My eyes squeeze tight shut.

  “Well, this is going well,” I mutter.

  What jerks me out of my fear is a sudden explosion of voices in the stairwell not too far away, a man and a woman shouting. There’s a harsh slap, some scuffling, a scream. The window is slammed shut as the sobbing woman is dragged away and a door bangs shut.

  God. Was that Amy? Was she caught?

  A weird calm filters through me: I’d rather die than go back in there, so the only direction for me to go is down. Determined, I release my foothold and again squeak and bump along with gravity until my feet find the next bracket to steady me.

  I repeat the process over and over, not allowing myself to look away from the grungy pipe inches away from my nose. I don’t know how much farther I have to go, but it seems like the ground has got to be closer now. Sweat is making the job harder and my hands are losing their capacity to grip.

  Can’t stop. Must go on.

  My inner thighs and hands are raw, and my biceps spasm from their completely unprecedented effort. My foot slips and I miss the next bracket, causing momentum to build until I shoot down the pole like a fireman.

  “Ahh!”

  Speed makes the metal cut into my skin painfully and the next bracket breaks my grip. Stunned with the pain, I feel the pipe slip out of my grasp. My arms are wheeling backward, my feet standing on air.