“Grand. Come have a look.” He leads me to the far right corner of the gym. Pushing aside an empty storage cabinet reveals a black door behind it. Unlocking it, he flicks on a light, and I follow him in.
It’s a second warehouse space, cement floor, fluorescent lights flickering. But a chain-link octagonal cage with a padded mat floor is the star. The cage door stands open.
I walk over and step inside. Like Pavlov’s dog, my adrenaline starts pumping. “Smaller than standard?”
“Aye. Sixteen feet across.”
I nod. The tighter space will force the fighters to stay in close combat. More brutal fights. Crowds will eat it up. I glance around the rest of the warehouse. There’s a crude cash bar set up on one wall and a long table on the other, presumably for the folks running the betting station. Simple but effective.
Sully’s gaze is sliding over the room with a calculating glint. “Over a hundred people have responded to the private invite. It’s gonna be a proper crowd.”
I glance up at the corners of the room, clocking the speakers I know also hold hidden cameras. The guests will be prominent politicians, business owners, upstanding members of Tampa’s elite itching for a little dirty fun. He will be recording it all.
Sully clasps my shoulder as we walk out. “I’ve got two warm-up fights starting at eight. But remember, we need a show, so no takin’ down The Punisher in the first round.”
I chuckle. “Play with my food. Got it.”
As I gather my things from his office, he crosses his arms. “You wanna talk about it, yeah?”
I freeze for a second before pulling my car keys out of the side pocket of my bag. Then stare him dead in the eye. “Talk about what?”
His eyes soften knowingly, then he changes the subject. “When are we interviewin’ dancers?”
I hook my bag on my shoulder and force a smile. “Tuesday. I’ve got twenty-six lasses vetted and set up with times. Starting at noon.”
He nods, but his voice still holds a hint of concern as he says, “Should be a good craic.”
Chapter 9
Samantha
Itoss off the bed sheet with a frustrated string of curses. Thedrip drip dripfrom the bathroom sink is driving me insane. Two weeks ago, I put in a request for the sink repair plus the air-conditioner, which is keeping the apartment at a balmy eighty-two degrees. No one has bothered to respond to my request.
A loud thump hits the other side of my thin bedroom wall. Outside, the bleet of a police siren follows.
I fling myself out of the bed and cross the small living room to the fridge. Opening it, I stick my head inside to cool off. Then I grab a bottled water, one of the three items in there, and check the time. Almost 4 AM.
I drop onto the faded couch, lean my head back and stare at the water spot on the ceiling. It looks like a Rorschach test. My eyes burn from lack of sleep as my gaze traces a particular area that looks like Rona’s pigtails. She’s probably fast asleep right now. I wonder what she dreams about, if she dreams about me like I do her. I wonder if she’ll have residual trauma from her short two years on this earth so far.
The spot blurs as I’m dragged back to the past. Back to when fate had me cross paths with the devil… her father.
Michael Barone is a six-two, dark-haired, dark-eyed attending surgeon and master of manipulation. Highlyintelligent, charismatic, and well-respected. Of course, when I met him in my third year of surgical residency, I was completely caught off guard and flattered by his relentless pursuit of me, bordering on obsession. I was twenty-eight and naive, having spent the last seven years of my life completely devoted to medical school and then surgical residency, working eighty-hour weeks, studying in my time off. No time for sleep let alone dating.
It began innocently enough in my mind. He was so attentive, so full of praise for how much I cared about my patients, how I was sharper, more focused than most of the interns. The flattery evolved into subtle touching, holding longer eye contact, to confiding in me and letting me scrub in on special surgeries, complimenting me in front of his peers. He made me feel seen. Made me feel special.
The first time we went out in public together was a dinner under the guise of mentorship. But it quickly became promises over steak and champagne. I wasn’t sure which was more intoxicating. The alcohol or his attention. I will always remember him smiling down at me as he opened his car door at the end of the evening, saying, “You don’t know it yet, but I’m going to change your life, Samantha.”
As someone who was eating ramen noodles and having nightmares about failing the board exams, this seemed like a lifeline. Like a miracle. I was smitten, enamored and completely fooled. And change my life, he did.
I knew nothing about love-bombing or how quickly that stream of oxytocin is replaced with shame when the praise turns into gaslighting, devaluation and control. Because this is what sociopaths do. They spot your vulnerability, bait the hook with whatever you need, reel you in, tear you down until you’re so confused and no longer trust yourself. Then you’re putty in theirhands. I was in hell, and he was the fire burning my life to the ground.
I spent a year in his clutches, trying to convince myself I should be happy and confused as to why I wasn’t, when the “incident” happened. I noticed something I shouldn’t have. A discrepancy on an invoice. A homeless man taken to the morgue minus his kidneys and liver when his chart initially said gallbladder removal.
I had no idea I was sealing my fate when I took my concern to him.
A loud thud against the wall pulls me back into the present. Muffled voices arguing next door grow louder. It takes me a moment of deep breathing to calm my racing heart, to convince my nervous system that I’m currently safe from him. Then with a sigh, I push my exhausted bones off the couch, dig in my bag for my earbuds and find a meditation video.
I’ve got to get out of here. I need money to do that. Which means I have to do whatever it takes to change Killian’s mind about hiring me. Tuesday is only two days away. I need to find a way to get in that line of dancers and audition.
