“Excuse the fuck out of me if my best friend’s little brother is getting his ass kicked, and I get concerned.”
“Best friend?” I lift a brow and feign disappointment and pity. “My sympathies. And if by getting my ass kicked you mean winning the fight, then sure.” I gesture for him to put his hands up. More grumbles spill from him as he grabs the strike pads. My lips pull into a smirk like they do every time we do this. He looks ridiculous wearing a suit while strapped with pads. I start with my hands, throwing straight punches before moving into combinations. He grunts when I land a spinning back kick. “Aw, did that sting, Will? Maybe you’re getting soft.”
“Kid, you are on thin ice.” I chuckle. Giving him hell is fun, but Will isn’t soft. “Why don’t you stick to finding rock starsinstead of trying to lose brain cells?”
Because, while I’m goddamn good at finding talent, it doesn’t offer the reprieve from the darkness inside of me.
I don’t answer. Haven’t for months. Always the same questions, same lectures, and none of it matters.
Instead, I place several turn kicks against the pads. He grunts again after the fifth.
“If you’re going to keep up with this asinine shit, at least get a fucking trainer.” He tosses the pads to the side and hands me a bottle of water. “Who the hell would you warm up with if I didn’t show up?”
I pour the water into my mouth and shrug. “I have a trainer. He just doesn’t come here because it’s a secret. No one talks about Fight Club, remember? And I’d just skip sparring. If you find it so asinine, why do you keep coming?”
He blows out a breath and rolls his eyes. “Long story.”
“You can tell me sometime.” I’ll never get that story, but a knock on the door ends the conversation anyway, signaling it’s time for me to head to the cage.
I walk across the concrete room and through the door. I hook a left toward the not-quite arena, coming across Dom, the club owner, with a masked staff member I don’t recognize. He stops in front of me, extending a hand. “Good luck tonight. Hear you’ll need it.”
I chuckle, but my eyes are on the woman beside him. Like all the employees here, she’s wearing a mask, the same micro-sized, skin-tight, faux leather spandex shorts the girls on every level wear—unless they’re the dancers or sex workers—and the clingy red cropped tank that is only found on the girls in this part of the club.
Running my eyes over her, from the long, toned muscles of her petite body to the gold, green, and brown kaleidoscope eyes dancing with secrets behind the black mask covering her face from the tip of her nose to the middle of her forehead. Keeping the confusion and intrigue off my face isn’t hard, but that’s how I feel staring at the girl. Something about her sparks a flicker in my brain. Déjà vu, I can’t shake.
Awareness crackles in my veins, a slow ember of realization igniting, threatening to twist my lips into a grin. I know exactly who she is. Or at least why she’s so familiar. “I hear the same,” I say, releasing his hand and forcing my eyes off of her. “Better get out there and find out, right?”
He nods, stepping aside, pulling her with him by her elbow so I can pass.
I walk past, pretending the universe didn’t just drop that twist in my lap like a dare.
Poppy
There’s a line to the club. Not a long one because this club is too expensive and exclusive for crowds. But standing in it lets more precious minutes slip away. It also makes a few men take my presence as an invitation. I thwart their advances with my best saccharine-laced rejections.
When I reach the front of the line and the very large man behind the podium asks my name, I’m stumped. “I was told to come here tonight,” I explain, trying not to sound like an idiot, “but I forgot to tell him my name.”
A dark eyebrow rises as he listens to me. “Who told you to come?”
My lashes drop, and my lips press together as I exhale a frustrated breath. “I forgot to ask that, too.”
He grunts, eyes raking over me. I imagine he hears this kind of thing all the time. Though maybe not from women, so I remain hopeful. “Just tell me your name.”
I think for a few minutes, then say the girl’s name whose audition I stole. The heel of my hand comes up to my forehead as my frustration grows stronger when he shakes his head after swiping the screen in his hand. But maybe… I mean, he did know I wasn’t Harmony. He also knew I was a ballerina. Perhaps he knows my name, too. It’s worth a shot, and at this point, it won’t hurt a thing. “Poppy. Poppy Carnac.”
His fingers dance over the tablet screen a few more times, then his dark eyes meet mine. “That’s it.” Relief comes immediately. He gestures for me to go in. “Wait at the bar, and someone will come get you.”
The place is packed. Men and women sit around the bar and at the tables as they wait to be called into the entertainment room, but I’m shocked to see male servers along with waitresses. The women wear black leather boyshorts that might as well be spray-painted on, and hot pink push-up bras that turn their already impressive cleavage into a full-on spectacle. The men wear the tightest leather pants I’ve ever seen—and I work with men in tights—with no shirt, displaying so many ripples the ocean is jealous.
My mouth twists when I realize there’s nowhere to sit. Not like it will be awkward to just stand at the bar with my coat on, looking like a Salvation Army reject in a room full of high-dollar sin.
Fortunately, my wait is only about ten minutes. The same man from earlier today collects me with a tap on the shoulder and a jerk of his head.
I stand and follow him without argument. Foolish perhaps, but I’m not in a position to worry about the potential for bodily harm.
We pass several doors, I suppose are offices or storage, until we reach… a wall? But it’s not a wall. My brows jump when elevator doors slide open, and I try to figure out where in the world it might go. The place doesn’t appear that big from the outside.
“Coming?”
