Inferno: Part 1

  CHAPTER ONE

  Bryce

  It never gets old—the primal satisfaction of challenging another man to a fight and winning.

  My hand is thrust in the air as the announcer yells through a bullhorn, “The champion tonight at Inferno—Bryce Cole!”

  The cheering, the flash of cameras, the throngs of women ready to spread their legs for a night with the winner, it’s nothing compared to your fist colliding with a man’s face and seeing him drop to the mat.

  Inferno could be a cave, as dark as it is. A few red pendant lights hang over the bar, a spotlight over the ring, but the audience is only sporadically lit with can lights.

  The air is smoky with the smell of cigars, cigarettes, and weed, but even through the haze my eyes find the blonde who’s been staring at me all night. She’s illuminated by one of those recessed lights, her hair shining like a beacon. Her eyes are smudged with too much makeup, breasts are out for anyone to see, and her skirt is so short there’s no way she can bend over without flashing the world. It’s almost too easy. No, it is too easy.

  We lock eyes, she licks her lips and an unspoken question is answered. She’s down. It’s a given that she will wait until I come find her.

  I always want to fuck after a fight. They do too. I don’t even shower anymore after the ring. The smell of sweat, the half-naked muscular bodies of boxers like me, the blur of alcohol, the lure of a famous name—they’re overcome, every single time.

  At least in the ring there’s a chance of a fair fight. This is more of a dance, where the steps are all planned out and I’m leading. Only my partners change.

  As I leave the ring Nathan is at my side, parting the crowd like he’s goddamn Moses and it’s the Red Sea.

  Once we reach the locker room and the door swings open, Nathan’s thoughts are on the same wavelength as my own.

  “You pick a girl for tonight, yet?” he asks.

  It’s not a question of if but who and he knows that. He leans lazily against the old-school metal lockers waiting for my answer.

  “Blonde chick, left of the ring, standing under the spotlight,” I say cocking an eyebrow.

  “Man, I tried to nail her a while back. She shot me down. But I guess you have to be a billionaire and a boxer to tap that.”

  There’s a look of disappointment on his face that I can’t help poke at. This fucker owes me his livelihood.

  “Lucky for me,” I say through a smile and then immediately laugh.

  I watch his reaction and immediately feel a little guilty so I change the subject. “So, how much are we donating from tonight?”

  “Just about 125 grand, after my 20 percent,” he says looking very pleased with himself.

  “That’s good. So at least that guy’s face got jacked for a good cause.” I start to tug at the tape on my hand.

  We both laugh as I splash some water on my face, towel off the sweat and exchange the gloves for my Rolex. Everything else is simple—dark jeans, a white button-down and a tailored Dolce blazer. My back and shoulders strain slightly against the fabric, reminding me that I need another tailoring session with all of the intense workouts I’ve been doing. It’s not a huge deal tonight; I won’t be wearing clothes for long.

  Sure enough the blonde is waiting at the bar when I step out. She can wait a bit longer, so I sit on the opposite end of the bar. Before I even have a chance to order, a drink appears. The hand delivering it to me is manicured with black polish, and past the slender wrist a tattoo begins. Alexa.

  “Your usual?” she smiles.

  For the first time since I found her in that strip club I take a deep look at her face. Her hair is a severe shade of black, and her green eyes are almost unrecognizable under the thick sweep of liner. Each arm is covered with tattoos, which are artful but intimidating to most people. She bartends in a vest with no shirt underneath, and part of me just wants to give her my coat. I still can’t imagine what happened after high school and before I found her that made her this way.

  “Thanks,” I say back through a smile. We used to play tennis in high school, and she was a gawky thing back then, all limbs. Now she’s toned, and less angular.

  A sweaty, balding man in polyester slides down a few seats to sit next to me.

  “You were great,” he slurs. “S’not fair—looks and that right hook?”

  I laugh and lift my glass in acknowledgment. Alexa interrupts, looking at me apologetically.

  “Can I get you anything else, sir?” she asks him.

  “Yeah, why don’t you come over here and get me off?” He looks at me while laughing.

  I’m not amused.

  He’s still laughing as I shove him off the stool. His extra weight absorbs most of the impact, but his head smacks the concrete, making his eyes lose focus. I know that look…seen it a more than a dozen times, he’s barely conscious.

  “Shit!” Nathan yaps as he runs over with two bouncers, who pick the man up and drag him from the shoulders across the floor and towards the exit.

  “You didn’t have to do that, Bryce.” She tries to sound admonishing but her face shows she’s glad.

  “You work for me; I can’t have anyone insult the people who work for me.” I give her a quick nod to make sure she knows I mean it.

  Her eyes seem to grow darker as she stares at me, weighing thoughts against one another in her mind. She might believe my pride was the only motivation in helping her. But she more than likely knows better.

  When I ask if her father’s called, her smile fades, and I already know the answer.

  “No,” she admits darkly. “I’ve tried for the past few months. All I got was a voicemail saying nothing has changed. I’m still cut off since he found me stripping.”

  She picks up a glass and begins to dry it as a distraction. I keep looking at her knowing it will encourage her to keep speaking.

  “Of course, he didn’t say the word ‘stripping’. He’s a damn hypocrite, visiting the places but disowning his daughter for working at one.” She briefly looks at me and then looks to the side.

  “You have a job here as long as you want,” I assure her.

  Her full attention is back on me. “I know. Thank you, Bryce.”

  “Always. Guess I better grab my date.” I shoot her a sly smile, and give her an innocent wink.

  “Some have waited longer,” she laughs.

  It’s true, but I’m losing the high from fighting and I need another distraction. The blonde is still sitting there, accompanied by a shorter redhead. Seems like tonight might be a two-for-one special.

  I get up and walk over to them.

  “Hello, ladies. Did you enjoy the show tonight?”

  “It was so hot,” the blonde simpers. “You’re in really good shape; that other guy didn’t stand a chance.” She reaches out and rubs my bicep, which I flex under her hand.

  “Oh! Feel it,” she commands her friend. “He’s like superman.”

  “What’s your superpower,” I ask, half-joking.

  “My mouth,” she smirks.

  I’m not surprised, not at all.

  “Prove it,” I say as I tip her chin up with the side of a single finger.

  I let my hand drop and glare into her eyes.

  She grabs her friend’s face and starts kissing her. I can tell that this is nothing new between the two of them. The noises they’re making sound like something straight from a cheap porno—they’re both putting on a show for me.

  I’ve seen enough, so I don’t mince words. “Let’s go to my place.”

  They each take an arm without any further questions, turning themselves over to me. They tell me their names, but I don’t even bother to take a mental note. It won’t matter, never does.

  We leave the club, walking into a
mob of people and cameras. I wave and smile until we finally reach the limo.

  The limo is just for show. We circle blocks until the crowd is gone, then arrive back at my penthouse, many levels up from Inferno.

  I open the door and as they get in I catch a glimpse of the fire in their eyes. The same star-struck stare that I’ve seen time and time again. It’s a look of submission, some might call it simply a look of longing, but I’d beg to differ…it’s so much more than that. Sure they want me, because when it comes to me and women, it’s definitely not a fair fight. No fight at all.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Mila

  It’s unusually cold for April, and I just wish the weather would warm up. Even once I get inside my building it’s clear they’re skimping on the heat. Hopefully mine is still working.

  After two flights of stairs I reach my door, and an angry pink sheet is taped smack in the middle. An eviction notice—great. This wasn’t the plan when I moved to New York.

  Two months ago my ex-boyfriend, Scott, and I were living together, we had found Gabrielle as a third roommate to help share the rent. But I guess three really is company. I still can’t erase the image of them together, naked, in my bed. With only my name tacked to the lease I kicked them out but now I’m stuck here alone on this sinking ship.

  At least my landlord hasn’t changed the locks yet, so I let myself inside and wait for my hands to warm up before I check my phone. Five missed call, five voicemails. Scott Crowling.

  “Hey Mila, it’s Scott. Look, I can’t tell you how sorry I am about Gabrielle…”

  Delete!

  I should have just stayed home with my dad when I found out how sick he was on my last visit, but he was so insistent. “My little acorn moved to the big city for a chance at the best school around,” he reminded me. “Plant roots there, little acorn. You will thrive.”

  Just thinking of his pet name makes me tear up. He is always so proud of me and I hate the idea of failing, but this year has been heavy—first his cancer, then Scott cheating, then worrying about money, not to mention school. I am close to dipping below a 3.6 GPA and then I will lose my scholarship. It really will be over.

  It’s cold, but I can’t stay in the apartment worrying about money and thinking about Scott. So I gather up my detergent, laundry basket, and stuff my philosophy textbook and notes into a backpack, then head for the laundromat.

  A crowd of people block the sidewalk, and I am stopped short. I’ve seen the Inferno Club every day on my way to and from the apartment, but it’s never spilled into the street like this.

  I stand on tiptoe, and catch a glimpse of a tall, muscular guy with brown hair and brown eyes. Not that I can really see them, but I imagine that’s what they are.

  He looks familiar, and the crowd is absolutely obsessed, reaching out to touch him or turning to catch a selfie with him in the background. None of it seems to faze him as his dark eyes search the crowd, and he pulls along the two women who are latched on his arms. They disappear into a limo, leaving the crowd to grumble before pulling away.

  Of course one woman wouldn’t be enough. Suddenly, his name comes to me: Bryce Cole. He’s some kind of ridiculously rich trust fund baby or something. His face is always on some magazine or tabloid, but I never make it past the headline.

  A popping sound from above pulls me from my reverie, and I see that the “O” in the Inferno’s neon sign is blinking, making noise.

  My mind shoots back to the image of Gabrielle on top of Scott, her back arched in pleasure as he bucked underneath her.

  I reach for the necklace Dad gave me, the little silver acorn, and rub it with my thumb, breathing deeply. Somehow it comforts me.

  I weave my way through the remaining stragglers outside of Inferno toward the warm glow of the laundromat.

  Once inside, I walk towards the nearest washer before realizing it’s in use. A lady twice my age gets up, yelling over before she reaches me. “Those are my clothes! Can’t you see the soap and suds inside? Shit, ya can’t leave your stuff alone for one second in this damn city.”

  “I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize. I wasn’t thinking,” I say.

  She sniffs, not sure whether to believe me, I’m sure. I look over at two boys playing with a laundry basket as if it is a new Christmas present.

  “Are those your boys? They have your eyes—so handsome!” It’s a needed distraction.

  She beams, and I can feel myself relax. The last thing I need is a fight at the laundromat.

  Once she’s back sitting on the opposite side of the rows of washers and dryers, I find an empty seat and put my loads in. They spin and I sit down, preparing to read my philosophy assignment. Before I unzip my backpack, I already know I can’t focus on homework right now, so I begin to pace the laundromat.

  A bulletin board is littered with announcements and want ads. There are three lost dogs, two of whom are friendly and one of whom should not be approached. Roommates are needed in four buildings nearby, someone is selling a used set of drums. And Inferno is hiring a waitress.

  I picture the crowd outside of the club tonight and try to calculate what I could earn in tips, but before I get overwhelmed by the math, I rip down the ad, and tuck it into my backpack.

  The smell of clean laundry surrounds me not long after, and I walk back clutching the still-warm clothes. Dinner tonight will be low sodium chicken ramen. After Scott left, I canceled my meal plan, hoping to save some money. So far, the ramen plan is working.

  Four voicemails still remain on my phone, all from Scott, so I delete them without listening and call my dad.

  “Hello?” a tired voice answers.

  “Hi, Dad, it’s me. I’m sorry, did I wake you?”

  “Mila, you can always call me. It’s good to hear your voice. How is school?”

  I tell him I’ve been distracted lately and really miss him. He doesn’t need a full disclosure of all my life stresses, he has enough of his own.

  “I miss you too, little acorn. But I didn’t have children to keep them home forever. I’m so proud of you, in the big city, working for your dreams.” His voice is gruffly. It’s not the same voice that I grew up to know. Nevertheless, it gives me a sense of peace, simply knowing that I can still hear it.

  “Enough about me—how do you feel?” I ask.

  “I’m fine. The chemo makes me tired, but the nurses are very nice,” he replies.

  “Good. If I can’t be there I at least want them to treat you as well as I would.”

  “They are as nice, but much better cooks.”

  “Hey!” I laugh. “Who taught me to cook?”

  “That’s true,” he wheezes. “The acorn doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

  I can hear him breathing heavily, and say goodnight. Dad will talk to me all night if he knows how upset I am and how bad things are, but he needs rest.

  The apartment is so dark when I turn off all the lights, and the occasional whir of a siren or honking horn still startles me.

  I curl up in bed, making myself as small as possible, and clutch the acorn necklace. Every single worry weighing on my mind floods to the forefront, and before I know it I can’t stop the tears.

  When I begin to fall asleep, my pillow is damp, my eyes sting, and my chest is sore from the sobs. I know I’m in for a long restless night.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Bryce

  After only two laps around the block the crowd is gone. That’s the way fame is. When you’re in front of their faces, you are the only thing that matters. As soon as you disappear, they’re onto the next distraction.

  When I hit the “P” on the elevator and insert my key, the girls exchange glances. Everyone thinks I use women but the truth is they all have their own motives.

  When the doors open, they ooh and ahh appreciatively, but they are tallying the cost of everything. Cashmere blanket, travertine surrounding the fireplace, velvet couches. Their greedy eyes devour every detail, no doubt to later sell to some tabloid or regale t
heir friends with.

  Even outside of the ring, my life is a spectacle.

  The redhead won’t stop rubbing the couch, and the blonde is poking through the few photos I have on the bookshelf.

  “How cute!” she squeals, seeing a picture from middle school. “You have a lot of pictures of yourself as a kid.”

  I don’t bother to correct her.

  “Hmm. And who’s she? A little older than I thought you’d go, but still pretty.”

  “My mother,” I say disinterested in her line of questioning. She’s getting a little too personal. And I don’t do personal with my groupies.

  “Oh,” she laughs. “I guess that’s where you get your good looks from.”

  “And my crazy poker skills. Let’s play a few hands,” I say and then lift the lid of a small chest on the shelf next to the blonde and pull out a deck of cards.

  “What are the stakes?” Red asks, perking up at the possibility of winning some money or a souvenir.

  “Loser takes off a piece of clothing,” I say as if she should have known the answer. Because she knew the stakes the second she stepped into the limo.

  They both nod, and say in unison, “We like this game.”

  Guess it won’t be long before I’m the last one with clothes still on. We start with a practice hand. They both lose.

  “Next one’s for real,” I warn.

  In quick succession Blondie loses her shoes, Red her shirt, and we pick up momentum. They are both down to bra and panties before I lose a hand, and it’s just the distraction of their ample chests pushed up in lacy bras. I take off my shirt, shoes, and jeans.

  “That’s more than one piece,” Red says bossily.

  “Game’s over,” I say sternly through a smirk.

  They both rise, walking around the side of the table slowly, stalking like cats. Each takes a hand, and I lead us back to the spare room.

  I am pushed back on the bed, but before they pull my pants down, I order them to take off their bras. Their soft breasts spring free, the blonde’s tan and fake. Red’s are surprisingly real, her skin pale and creamy.