Page 100 of Abundance of Obsession

“ID,” growls the bouncer at the entrance.

I hand him the card and stare at the pitch-black door. Interestingly, from where I stand, I can’t hear a thing. No shouts, no chanting, no music.

The bouncer looks at the ID—one of many I have in my collection of various personas—and at me. Finally, he starts frantically tapping the screen of his tablet and checks my name on the guest list.

“All set.” The bouncer enters a code on the panel and opens the door for me.

The moment he does, a buzz of noise—laughter, shouts—reaches my ears. Here’s a completely different world.

In the middle of the place is a square ring. Of course. Instead of ropes, metal bars enclose the area, creating a cage.

People are crowding around this spot, jostling, talking, and drinking. On the right is a bar staffed by two men. Only two women are sitting at the counter; the rest of the people come up, order, and leave.

A hundred people. Maybe more.

Too many to keep track of.

My eyes sweep over everyone, and I exhale the breath I’ve been holding. No one I know catches my eye.

What worries me most is that I don’t see any emergency exits besides the door I came in. That’s not a good sign. I’ve only been here once to get my head around the place, and I could easily have missed something. The exit might be behind one door, and I couldn’t open them all one by one to check back then.

Fear should be creeping into my head, but it isn’t. Determination is what’s fueling me right now. I’m so close to crossing another asshole off my list.

I head to the farthest corner on the right. There’s a hallway there with two locker rooms for the fighters. When one fighter is in the ring, the other is getting ready to go in. That means you could theoretically run into three fighters in a locker room: the one coming out, the one going in, and the one getting ready. The key is to catch Owen when he’s by himself.

That’s right. I know it’s irrational. Risky as hell. And I’m holding onto the hope that he won’t recognize me. After all, the last time he saw me, I was a kid. Everything depends on that one thing.

Eli would beat the crap out of me right now if he knew how much I’m risking my life. Again.

He’ll find out after the fact.

Before I reach my chosen spot, another fighter emerges from the hall. He’s only wearing shorts, his bare chest smeared with some glowing crap. No bandages wrap his hands. Here, they fight with bare fists. And no rules. Anything goes.

At the last moment, I spin on my heel as the man passes me and walks straight to the cage. The crowd bursts into cheers. Some are happy, radiating excitement; others are booing.

Excellent. All eyes are now focused on the fight. Owen’s up next. It’s the perfect opportunity.

How do I know this? Well… Ash used to fight in places like this. Once, she took me along to one of her fights. That’s when I met the owner of this place. His name is Marcel. But that’s beside the point. What matters is that he let a kid like me draw in a graphics program on his computer. He had a soft spot for Ash and didn’t see a problem with the fighter who made him a fortune bringing her kid sister along just one time.

However, he didn’t foresee how fascinated by computers I’d been for as long as I can remember. I knew shit about hacking, scripts, codes, and programs. Still, the open program tab captivated me, a program where Marcel literally had everything under control—all the information.

It’s ridiculous if anyone asks me, but it’s none of my business.

While looking for Owen, I had a hunch to start with Marcel. I wasn’t wrong. A stroke of luck? A sixth sense? It doesn’t matter.

As the noise behind me continues, I enter the lobby and grab an isotonic drink from my purse. I hate the stuff, but based on my observations of Owen, I know he adores it. I’ve taken at least fifty photos of the guy, and in every single one, he’s holding the same drink. Even outside the gym.

So, my plan had to take that drink into account. And it’s no secret that it makes things a lot easier.

My heart is pounding harder and harder. Doubtful thoughts pop into my head, but I shoo them away. It’s too late to back out now. No way. Not at this point!

Pulling up my hood, I take a deep breath and slip into the role.

I hum the “Wedding March” under my breath, grab the doorknob, and enter the locker room with unsteady steps. Cheerful as a lark, pretending to be drunk, I take three steps. Only once I’m inside do I stop humming and start giggling with the glee of an idiot.

“Oh, shit! This isn’t a bathroom,” I say, raising my head. Hiccupping, I look around the room.

Metal lockers line the room, and wooden benches sit in front of them. On the left is a door that probably leads to the bathroom and showers.