Innocent? Not really. Naïve? Maybe. I wasn’t used to people being so blatantly confident about their sexuality or giving blowjobs at random points of the evening. I was raised as a good little conservative Christian girl, without the weekly trips to church, so this was all incredibly eye-opening.
And now I sound like a prude.
Just before 2 AM, Closing Time played over the speakers, and the bar was closed for service. Slowly, patrons began leaving the club as if on autopilot. They finished off their last drinks as the lights slowly faded from dancing red and blue to a soft golden glow. One by one, clubgoers spilled out onto the street in loud and joyful, slurred conversations until the club was quiet again.
I was exhausted, ready to head home and collapse into bed, but genuinely enjoyed myself for my first shift. Even temporarily forgetting about what went on downstairs. Working here wasn’t so bad until Xavier came out of the back room by the corridor with a vacuum cleaner, broom, and mop.
"Clean up time." His smile was wide and full of sarcasm as he handed me the broom.
"Don't we finish at two o’clock?" I asked, taking the broom anyway as I glanced at the time on my phone.
"Yep," Jen faked a smile as she took the mop. "But we get to work overtime."
"For free because someone is too cheap to hire cleaners," Xavier added.
“I heard that, Xavier,” Roxy said as she stepped out of the staff room. Her handbag hung from the crook in her arm as she clutched her phone and keys. She threw him a smirk before strutting out from behind the bar. “Lock up when you’re done.”
Xavier mocked her smile, which she didn’t witness as she breezed through the front door while Jen saluted her, and then flipped her the bird as Roxy left the building.
“Bitch,” Jen muttered.
We got to work cleaning up the mess, ranging from spills, food crumbs, and an explosion of confetti from someone’s birthday celebration. My job was to sweep under every booth and push all the rubbish to the middle of the floor where Xavier was vacuuming. Any items like reading glasses or purses went to the lost and found basket under the bar.
Halfway through the clean-up, Jen remembered she still had to give me her number and told Xavier to give me his too.
Xavier folded his arms as he watched me closely. "You're not the type to call at stupid hours in the morning for stupid reasons, are you? Because I'm not getting up at 4 AM for anyone. I don't care what the emergency is."
“Okay, that’s bullshit,” Jen laughed. “You’d be first to arrive at any emergency just so you can film the thing and get views online.”
He considered for a moment. “You’re not wrong.”
The door to the corridor suddenly swung open, cutting off our quiet laughter as an older man walked out. He was the commentator for the fights and was a little out of breath as he looked between the three of us.
"Where's the girl who helped Dean on Saturday night?" he huffed while dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief.
I slowly raised a hand.
"Great. Come with me," he said abruptly, turning back around and hobbling off the way he came.
Xavier stepped towards me and gave me a light nudge towards the corridor. "Don't question it. Just go," he whispered.
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Jen tried to reassure, but the slight worry in her upturned eyebrows said otherwise.
I reluctantly followed the man, glancing over my shoulder at Jen and Xavier before stepping into the corridor.
Chapter 11
Lily
The metal barriers around the pit remained standing, but it was empty, and there was still a crowd as they collected their winnings on the way out. The old man and I had to squeeze through the crowded staircase and edge our way through the celebrations below to get to the back room. I still had no clue why I was down here, but my plan to take Dean’s advice and avoid the basement failed.
Through gaps in the crowd, I noticed a trail of blood drops leading out from the fight pit. The sight of it made my stomach tense, but as I followed the old man into the back room, my stomach discomfort quickly became the least of my worries.
The fighters were gathered loosely around the lounge area in the middle of the room. As we got closer, they made space for us to get through before the old man nudged me forward, and I walked around the couch.
A teenage boy was lying on the coffee table, barely conscious and with a large bloody gash down the middle of his forehead. Beside him was a sewing kit and a roll of bandages, and standing over him, opposite me as I slowly stepped up to the table, was Antonio. His hands rested on his cane as a gentle smile crinkled the corners of his eyes.
Dean was beside him. Arms folded across his broad, bare chest. His skin glistened with a light sheen of sweat, and his face was unreadable, except for the simmering glower in his eyes as he looked at the kid. When he redirected his attention to me, my heart skipped. The humid air of the basement, thick and coated with the smell of body odor and blood, suddenly became too close. I wanted to shrink under his gaze. But then it softened (barely) and he looked to the floor.
