Deceit (Part 1)

by L. A. Shorter

Chapter Four

  Lily

  When you're used to socializing with high flyers; rich businessmen and powerful members of the community; sports stars and actors and the top of the social strata; coming to a place like this is like eating dog food when you dine regularly on caviar.

  Yet, for me, it's not a problem at all, because underneath my false identity – the sweet smiley shop girl with short blonde hair and green eyes – I'm well used to a place like this. Drug dealers and tattoo clad bikers, covered in leather with half naked girls on their arms. Drunks and drug addicts grinding on the dance floor. People smoking weed and tobacco and whatever else they can get their hands on. It's not pretty, but it's familiar at least. And it's just the sort of place where that sort of 'circumstantial' sex happens to creep up on me.

  It's how we ended up here that I'm still trying to work out. Beth and her college friends seemed like the nicest bunch of girls, but once they'd had a few drinks their darker sides seemed to take over.

  At the first bar Beth was quick to invite me outside for a smoke. That was my first surprise. That Beth actually smokes. When she pulled out a joint, that was my second surprise, and there were plenty more to come.

  Besides the two of us there are three girls around me right now, dancing with their arms in the air and hair flailing all over the place. Their eyes are already sinking into their skulls, drooping under the weight of booze and cocaine. After I'd reconciled the fact that I'd just seen Beth smoke a joint, watching her snort cocaine was like seeing the Pope make a sex tape. All sorts of wrong.

  Yet they all did it, sniffing the white stuff up their noses in the toilets. Apparently everyone does it in college. That's what they told me, as if I was suddenly the one acting like a square. If only they knew what I really got up to, what my life really was. I'm anything but a fucking square. I'm a damn dodecahedron. There are a million sides to me.

  I guess I see their point though, refusing to snort. My excuse was that I had a friend who died of an overdose. A total lie, of course, but it didn't put any of them off. The reality is that drugs have never been my thing. If Blaine found out I'd been taking anything he'd crucify me. The fact that I had a few puffs on Beth's joint is as far as I want to go.

  Perhaps the biggest surprise was ending up here, where we are right now. To call it a club would be extremely generous. It's a warehouse, really. One with a few long tables acting as bars and a so-called 'DJ' spinning tunes I'd only expect to hear in my nightmares.

  I'm surrounded to the point of being crushed by sweaty bodies, several of them belonging to my companions. If there's a capacity on this dance floor, it's sure to be at bursting point right now because I'm literally struggling to catch my breath. I'm so wedged in I'm almost dragged up and down with the movement of the people dancing around me, like part of an uncontrollable wave. And then there's the bass, so loud and vibrating so furiously I think the ceiling's about to cave in.

  Of course, all of this is largely caused my the latent claustrophobia I suffer from. Something that is never a real problem until I'm stuck in a place like this. As yet another body packs itself into the final piece of space behind me, I decide enough is enough, and burrow my way out.

  The other girls hardly seem to notice I've gone when I turn back. They still bob up and down, waving their arms and shaking their heads as part of the rave. Frankly I'd rather be just about anywhere else, and that's something I find incredibly ironic. If any of us fit in here, it's me. Yet somehow I feel completely out of place.

  I'm not scared though. Not by the angry looking biker gangs gathered in one corner. Not by the steady stream of druggies cruising out of the toilets, or the bruising convict types pounding drinks at the bar. When you know people like Blaine and Kent and several others I work with, you've seen enough to make most people look like puppy dogs. Even last night, I saw a man's head blown off.

  The thought comes to me again, but I quickly push it away. I suppose that's been the one success tonight. Forgetting, at least for a while, that I was party to murder less than 24 hours ago. For the next few days or weeks, I'll have to avoid the news for fear of seeing his chubby face plastered over it. James Wheaton wasn't a billionaire or anything, but he was a prized enough member of the community to spark a serious investigation.

  I'm not worried about that though. Before we left we wiped the security cameras clean and did our due diligence. We left no trace, as we were taught, and I don't expect anyone to come knocking. If we were really worried we'd left any clue at all, we'd have torched the whole mansion. Might have done the neighborhood a favor. That place was a fucking eyesore.

  I gravitate to the bar and order a beer. They seem to serve the drinks here in plastic cups, and don't hand out bottles or cans or proper glasses, anyone of which can be used as a weapon if things get ugly. I get the usual looks as I stand there, drinking my beer. Drooling eyes, tongues hanging out. I'd rather fuck a camel than most of the guys in here. The gaunt drug addled look has never much appealed to me. Sunken cheeks, pale skin, eyes hidden behind dark bags. Not exactly the stuff of Calvin Klein underwear models.

  “You want another one of those,” grunts one, propping himself on the bar next to me. He's not actually as bad as the rest. No stained teeth. Check. A bit of color in his cheeks. Check. Eyes that haven't gone all glassy and manic. Check.

  But I still tell him 'no', and promptly pay for my own second round. I turn back to the dance floor to check on the others, as a series of men keen trying their luck. They're going to need a lot of that tonight if I'm to fall for their alluring charms.

  It's hard to see through the smog of cigarette and marijuana smoke out onto the dance floor, but the sight of Beth's bobbing blonde hair still remains visible. She seems short one friend, though. I see two, but not a third, until she comes stumbling out of the men's toilets like Bambi on ice. I dread to think of what she's been doing in there.

  I consider going back over to them, but then remember the clamping I felt in my chest as part of the throng. Instead I order another beer and keep on swilling, keep on turning down the advances of drunk men, stinking of smoke.

  It's a funny thing, getting compliments from them. A compliment should be such a nice thing, something to put a smile on your face. Of course, that's predicated on it being delivered by the right person and in the right way.

  “You're gorgeous.”

  “I must have died and gone to heaven, because you're a fucking angel.”

  “Damn girl, look at dat ass.”

  Sounds great, in theory, but not when issued by the drunken brigade. So, I don't take them quite so well. In fact, they're just an annoyance, and somehow that makes me the bad guy. When I turn away from them or ignore them entirely, they start getting hostile.

  “You're so up yourself, bitch.”

  “Fuck you then, there are much hotter girls in here anyway.”

  “Sorry, thought you were a whore. You definitely look like one.”

  This goes on for a little while, and I'm sure half the girls in here are getting the same. Frankly, I've got no time for it. So, choices. Rejoin the college cocaine crew, continue being harassed by every last lowlife in Brooklyn, or leave. Hmmmm, what to do...

  I make sure to let Beth know I'm leaving. That involves one final plunge into the swarm of heaving bodies ahead of me. I squeeze past guys and girls kissing. Girls and girls kissing. Guys and guys kissing. Kissing and more. Hands are where they shouldn't be. Too much flesh is on show. For a drunk person, be that through alcohol or drugs, it's probably great. A mosh pit of revelry and depravity. A good place to shut off the world and exploit your inner sinner.

  But for someone who's largely sober, like me, it's fucking disgusting.

  Thankfully I cross one of the other girls heading back to the group before I get too far in. Her eyes are wild and bright, her face dripping with sweat. She grins and hugs me and I call into her ear. “I'm leaving. I don't feel too well.”

  She stares at me vacantly
and I shout in her ear again. This time she nods and puts on a pouting, upset face. It doesn't last long. She turns and disappears back into the mess, and I do the same in a bid to escape it.

  When I get outside I'm happy to let the cool night air wash over me for a few seconds before I slip my jacket on. Cleanse me of the smoke and fumes and general foulness of the place.

  Yet it's just as bad out here. Ahead of me there's a baying crowd gathered watching something. I already know what must be going on, but decide to check it out anyway as I light up a cigarette. There are about 30 or so guys and girls, all cheering and jeering and making all kinds of noise. Within their circle are a couple of guys going at it. First flying, boots kicking out, choke holds being fastened and then quickly wriggled out of.

  Eventually one gets the upper hand, connecting with a decent hit to the stomach and sending his opponent dropping to the cold concrete floor. He steps in, about to stamp right down on the guy's head, when a big brute of a man emerges from the crowd and grabs his arms from behind. He puts him into some sort of hold and throws him out of the circle. I recognize the man mountain from when we turned up. One of the bouncers. I suppose stepping in now was better late than never, or is this patch outside the club beyond his jurisdiction?

  The winner topples through into the crowd, ready to come storming back until he sees who caught him. Then he wipes his hands, as if to say enough's enough, and walks away as a trashy looking girl clings onto his arm. Quickly, right then and there, a possible story forms in my mind: the beaten man tried to hit on the guy's girlfriend, and boom, fight night. I'd imagine that happens a lot around here. Hell, it happens a lot at any club or bar.

  The crowd disperse and quickly return to the club, leaving the loser heaving on the floor. I hear him wheezing, trying to catch his breath, as the giant bouncer goes towards him and props him up on his thick shoulder.

  “Cheers Brick,” says the guy, still rasping. “I think I had him though.”

  “Yeah, well, if I didn't step in I wouldn't have got paid would I.”

  He holds out his massive palm as the guy digs into his pocket, pulling out a 50 and dropping it into his hand.

  “Do you set up these fights just to take my cash?”

  The bouncer scratches his head pointedly. “Hmmm, I think you've got something there,” he says with a smile.

  “Seriously bro, appreciate it.”

  I loiter for a while, amused by their exchange as I suck on my cigarette. It's only now that the losing fighter lifts his chin up and sees that I'm the only one left.

  “Enjoy the show did you?”

  “Show? You call that a show. I've seen my nana fight better.”

  “Looks like you've got another fight on your hands Duke,” says the bouncer. Brick, I think he called him. “I'll leave you to it. Good doing business with you though. As always.”

  Duke laughs, a grimace rising up his face, as Brick removes his supportive bulk and begins pacing back towards the club door.

  “So, your nana sounds tough. What was she? An old Irish boxer or something.”

  “Yeah, something like that.”

  He steps closer to me, his grimace turning back to a smile. Blood runs down the side of his head from a cut on his hairline, dripping off his chin and onto his white t-shirt. He wears nothing else on top, although I see a leather jacket bundled on the ground near his feet. Probably his. Easier to fight without it.

  “So your name's Duke? Not really appropriate given that performance.” I'm really going for him, and I don't know why. Probably because I've had such a shit night and could do with a laugh. And this guy seems playful, despite what's just happened.

  “You know, I don't always lose like that. The guy caught me with a cheap shot. What was I gonna do? And, yeah, I'm Duke.”

  He steps forward, reaching out with his hand. His knuckles are slightly swollen and cut as I grab them and shake lightly. “Lily,” I say.

  “Lily? Not appropriate either, not here. Every girl in there's called Crystal and Brittney and Destiny. Are you sure that's your real name?

  I nod. “Pretty sure. Although I don't know why I'm getting heat from a guy named Duke. Or maybe that's not your real name?”

  A wry smile crosses his lips. “You got me. My real name's Mason. But don't tell anyone down here. I like to be anonymous.”

  “Don't worry, I won't tell anyone. I don't really expect to come back here any time soon.”

  “I get what you're saying. Full of druggies and bikers and criminals huh. You don't strike me as any of those.”

  “You'd be surprised,” I say. If only he knew the truth. “You don't look like you fit in here either. I can tell when I guy's trying to fake it. You're faking it.”

  He eyes me curiously for a moment, before slowly nodding his head. “You know what. I'm gonna be honest with you Lil. Can I call you Lil?” He doesn't wait for a reply. “I don't belong here at all, but that's not the point. I like it. I come down here, and I can be anyone.”

  “Anyone? And you chose the name Duke,” I tease.

  “Yeah, Duke. I tested it out on a few girls. They seemed to like it.”

  “Oh sure, Brittney and Destiny will love that name. Perhaps you're better off going back inside and finding them.”

  I pull another cigarette to my lips and light it up. The end burns brightly in the dim light, sending smoke twirling into the night sky.

  “You got one for me?” he asks, running his hand through his dark hair. It's wavy and unkempt, the front left matted with blood. I slip him one and he steps in as I press on my lighter. Unlike the masses of men in the club behind me, he smells good. Even over the lingering scent from inside I can catch the cologne drifting off his neck.

  He moves back and lifts the cigarette to his mouth, casually blowing out a cloud of smoke. Dimples crease in his cheeks as he blows and I notice the fine shadow of stubble appearing on his chin. Clearly he shaved this morning, and clearly he's a regular guy working a regular job. Unlike that sea of dicks inside. Hardly a clean face among them.

  “So what are you doing here?” he asks, eying me closely. His tone is suddenly a little more serious, a little more probing.

  “I could ask you the same thing. You seem a bit too proper for this place.”

  He recoils, as if I've hit a nerve, his piercing blue eyes blinking quickly. “Proper? Me?” He holds up his bruised fists. “You think this is proper?!”

  “Anyone can get in a fight. Doesn't mean you're like them.”

  “Well, there's only one way to find out. Let's go back to yours right now and we'll see how proper I am.”

  “I think you'd be better off going to a hospital,” I say quickly, taking a final drag of my cigarette and flicking it casually to the floor. “That cut on your head needs stitches.”

  I turn and begin walking away, a smile arching on my face.

  “So how about a date instead?”

  I stop in the street, before slowly turning around. “A date? You gonna come as Duke or Mason?”

  “Which do you prefer?”

  “I don't know either of them yet.”

  “Well that's the fun isn't it,” he says, strolling towards me. “Tell you what, I'll make it easy for you.” He reaches forward and pulls my hand from my coat pocket with his left. His right arrives at the same time with a short pen, fetched from the pocket of his jeans.

  Slowly he begins marking the back of my palm with digits, until he's completed the set.

  “There. No pressure. If you want a date, get in touch.”