He makes a face, then waves his hand when the elevator doors open. “Lead the way.”
Poppy
Thick clouds choke the atmosphere, a toxic miasma of nicotine, weed, and whatever other substances are filling the air, poisons riding the haze. The disgusting stench clings to my flesh like it’s becoming part of me. If I don’t get a contact high from the noxious fumes, I will from them seeping into my pores.
Raucous roars blast in my ears as the crowd cheers for whatever is happening in the ring. I’m unsure why Dominic was concerned about whether I had a strong stomach. I haven’t been able to watch even a second of the fights.
But for the record, I do. I enjoy mixed martial arts, watching and practicing. My Pop Pop liked fights, whether it was boxing or martial arts, and I enjoyed watching with him.
Then, a few years ago, a fighter asked me to teach him ballet. It’s not unusual. Many athletes have adopted ballet to assist in their training for flexibility, agility, and balance. I didn’t intend to agree. My schedule was chaotic enough, and at seventeen, I wasn’t sure I was the person to teach him.
My Pop Pop suggested I accept in exchange for self-defense training. He was always concerned with my safety, but it was a way to assuage my guilt over taking someone’s money when I was ill-equipped to train them.
As it turns out, it helped my ballet technique as much as ballet helped him. I also liked it a lot. It was a fun way to deviate from my conditioning without actually deviating—a way to work off stress without breaking my own training. Plus, hitting things was a blast. I’m no black belt, but I think I learned enough to handle myself in a pinch.
The only fight to ever affect me or make me ill was Jagger. I’m still unnerved by my reaction to seeing him getting attacked. And the look in his eyes—hollow and haunted—still gives me chills.
I weave between rows, gathering orders and bets. The club has an app where bets can be placed using digital currency, but some still prefer cash. They could place their bets at the cages themselves, but they prefer to get us to do it for them. The lifestyles of the rich and privileged, maybe. Or maybe it’s a bunch of pretenders, trying to look like big shots. Unlike the upper levels, there is no membership for The 7th Circle. Only a cover charge.
That’s if you know it’s here at all.
All I know is that it’s lucky for all of them I’m honest with the amount of cash I’ve had in my hands. More than enough to pay my debt at the bank—and then some—has slipped through my fingers, and the temptation has been real, but my conscience wins every time.
It doesn’t hurt that I’ve heard rumors Dominic is Mafia with a flair for limb removal. I need all my appendages in my line of work.
I go to the betting cages, handing the slips to the teller behind the plexiglass, then make my way toward the bar to get the drink orders filled. Someone behind me calls my name. “Dom wants to see you,” Leo tells me, jerking his head toward the back rooms.
Leo is nice and easy to work for. He’s mostly quiet, only really speaking when necessary. He also takes no shit. It doesn’t matter how much money they have or if they’re some powerful, important person, Leo handles them all the same. The fighters are no exception. On my first night, he took down a big-mouth, arrogant jackass who thought he could touch one of the other girls before he ever made it to the cage.
“I will as soon as I deliver these drinks.”
He lifts a brow, and the corner of his mouth twitches. “Sure. I’ll let you tell him when you get back there.”
Remember who I’m dealing with, I gulp. “On second thought, they can wait.”
Leo winks. “Good girl.”
A minute later, I’m walking into the break room where Dominic sits at a table with his back to me, swiping through his phone. A strange sense of awkwardness twists my stomach. I consider clearing my throat or something. Anything to let him know I’m here.
“Are you just going to stand there, or are you going to sit?”
A yelp rips past my lips as my heart stutters. “Yeah. Sorry,” I mumble as I walk around the table and take a seat.
Several moments pass while he swipes, and I sit here like an idiot, not saying a word. I pick at my cuticles. My knee bounces under the table. Impatience and nerves eat away at my stomach.
When he finally looks up, I’m ready to snap. “Do you have something to say?”
It takes everything in me not to reply with some sort of sarcastic remark, so I shake my head instead.
“Did you lose your ability to speak?”
“No,” I reply through gritted teeth.
“Then, when I ask you a question, you answer me with words. Understand?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
