"A guy named Romeo left his phone at my house. He works here." I rummaged through my bag and held the phone up as proof.
Terry examined the phone from afar before gesturing for me to come inside, disappearing behind the doors before I could suggest leaving it with him to give to Romeo.
I hurried inside after him, taking in how different the club looked during the day as we crossed the room to the back door. It was quiet. All the bar stools and chairs were stacked up against the walls. Without the ever-changing club lights on, I discovered the floor was made of black slate tiles, the walls were lined with chestnut brown wood paneling, and everything had some small accent of gold paint. The bar included a gold rim and kickboard.
Inside the back room, where the bathroom doors and broom cupboard were, Terry pulled back the red curtain that hid the door leading to the corridor. He turned the handle and opened it for me to go through first.
I wasn’t so apprehensive this time. Hesitant but willing to enter the musty corridor with its flickering lights and green-gray walls. It helped that I already knew where we were heading, compared to the first time with Aiden and Kira. Plus, Terry seemed genuinely nice. He may not have remembered me from the other night, but I couldn’t blame him. Not when he saw hundreds of faces each night while working on the front door.
"I'm sorry to tell you this, but you're not the first girl he's left his phone with," Terry began, looking down at me from the corner of his eye. "You're not his usual type either."
"Oh, it's not like that,” I stammered. “He needed help the other night, so he stayed at my apartment."
Because that sounds so much better.
Terry cocked a brow and looked ahead. "Whatever you say, miss."
We arrived at the basement’s heavy, steel door after a quick turn at the end of the corridor. Terry pushed open this door with ease and led the way out onto the platform beyond it.
Instead of being greeted by the shouts of men, and the overbearing smell of sweat and cigarette smoke, I stood over an empty room with a couple of old crates pushed against the far wall. No fighters or fight pits. Just an old, dusty basement in need of fresh air and a sweep, filled with the faint sound of metal clanking in the back room.
Terry began the climb down the metal staircase. His broad frame just fit between the handrails as he descended on heavy steps. I followed him down as close as I could, keeping my steps quick as we approached the wall that divided the basement into two large rooms.
Deep voices, and the grunts from earlier, grew clearer as we passed through the doorway into an industrial-style gym. Along the back wall was a second flight of stairs leading to the parking lot exit, a row of lockers, and a dated kitchen behind a lounge area consisting of four frayed mismatched couches. Directly on our right, as we walked into the space, was an old boxing ring, sandwiched between the doorway we passed through and the other that served as the entrance to the fight pit. When it existed.
I gripped the strap of my bag a little tighter as my eyes raked over the place, mindful not to run into the thick wooden beams supporting the basement ceiling. I thought I might’ve spotted him immediately. His tattoos would be a dead giveaway, but uncertainty tainted my vision. I was no longer scanning for details or facial features I remembered but keeping an eye on every leering male down here.
There were roughly a dozen of them, moving between weights, cardio equipment, punching bags, or working out in the spaces around the floor. Eventually, they took notice of Terry and me, their gaze lingering as we walked along the left wall.
My steps slowed as if my body switched connections to my brain and was preparing to run the other way now that we were in the thick of it. Of them. Scruffy, tattooed, sweating, scarred, and muscled. They were all intimidating to look at. I couldn't bring myself to make eye contact with any of them as they looked me up and down, their expressions a mix of scowls and predatory hunger.
A force of habit had my lips curving into a quick, polite smile before I averted my gaze to several corkboards lining the brick wall on our left. Each was filled with black and white photographs of men flexing like bodybuilders. They were photographs of the fighters. Some I recognized as the men training in the room, while others were dated as far back as the late 70s.
Written at the bottom of every image were their names and the years they were active. Some had lengthy fighting careers, and others ended in the same year they began. I just hoped the men with the shorter careers had simply realized it wasn't for them and left instead of falling victim to a lethal punch.
Romeo’s was on the last of the corkboards where the photographs were the newest. Unlike the other fighters, who posed for their photos with every muscle flexed, Romeo’s arms were crossed over his broad, bare chest. His expression schooled into disinterest as he stared down the camera with his head tilted back at an angle. He had been fighting for eight years, according to the date in the corner of his picture, but he was one of the youngest here, which made me wonder how old he was when he started. It could explain why he looked so angry with the world.
My train of thought was interrupted when Terry suddenly boomed, "Yo, Dean!"
I whirled. “No, wait. I’m looking for Romeo—” My eyes snagged on the one man across the room, who hadn’t been gawking. And for good reason.
He had his earphones in and back to us as he plowed into a punching bag with sharp uppercuts and quick jabs with his knee. Hissing through each one until one of his colleagues tapped him on the back and nodded to us. Turning side on, Dean recognized me right away before his lips pressed into a line of annoyance. He tugged the earphones from his ears.
“She says she’s got your phone,” Terry added.
Pinching at the front of his tight black T-shirt, Dean pulled the sweat-soaked fabric from his body as he steadied his breathing. His eyes, sharp and harsh, remained on me a second longer before he rolled his head back with the subtlest of sighs and turned away.
Terry nudged me lightly, bringing my attention back to him. “I've gotta get back upstairs to set up for tonight.”
"Oh, right, of course." My voice came out as confidently as I could manage while I scanned the room.
Terry chuckled and thumped a heavy hand on my shoulder reassuringly. "Don't worry. Dean only looks scary.”
I managed a meek smile anyway and watched anxiously as Terry left. When I turned my attention to Dean again, I found him unwrapping the black strapping around his fists with a less-than-pleased look on his face.
I wasn’t that annoying, was I? Had he forgotten what I did for him? What I risked? Not that he knew those risks because we hadn’t spoken…
All I wanted to do was drop off his phone and go.
