Oscar laughs. “I’m here more than I’m at home, Si.”
“Rules.” Si, the leaner one, says. He looks like a young Robert Redford, except built like Chris Hemsworth at his biggest.
Oscar sighs good-naturedly and twists his right bicep toward Si, who aims the penlight over the proffered arm, where I see a tattoo of the letter H, but stylized to look like a Norse rune. When the invisible light or whatever hits the tattoo, it glows red.
The other man, Kane, twists the giant ring, visibly straining. A lock clangs, and the monster of a man hauls it open—it’s all of three feet thick.
Beyond, a relative oasis of calm and quiet. Oscar hauls me through the door, which closes behind us.
The clang of the lock feels awfully final.
Oscar hasn’t moved past the doorway, and I take the opportunity to wriggle out of his hold. He notices, his eyes flicking down to mine.
His gaze, I’m just now realizing, is…cold.
“Predatory” also comes to mind.
There are others behind us—several men and a number of scantily clad women. I didn’t even realize they came in with us—Oscar’s posse.
His grin is not a good thing. It sends shivers down my spine.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he asks, his voice suddenly an icy rasp.
I yank my wrist away, heart hammering. “Let go, please.”
He doesn’t. His grip is like iron. “Don’t think so, sweet thing.” His eyes flick forward, at the room we’re now in. “Do you know where you are?”
I look.
Music pounds here, but not as loud as out there. It’s red, here. The lighting is red, the furniture, the walls, all bloodred. It’s sullen and eerie. Like bathing in blood.
Low leather couches surround coffee tables in a large seating section directly in front of us. A bar runs along the wall to my left—the bartender is a topless woman, her hair in an elaborate updo. Heavy makeup. Tall heels. Leather shorts that barely cover her backside. She’s shaking a drink, which has…quite the effect on her generous bosom. A dozen or so men in suits are lined up at the bar, watching.
On one couch, a man in a pinstripe suit has a woman on her hands and knees, his face buried between her legs. She’s crying out in what I assume must be pleasure, and I don’t think she’s acting. She’s not wearing a stitch of clothing.
On another couch, facing me, a man sits with his arm slung across the back of the couch, head bowed. His other hand is knotted in the hair of a woman in a thong and nothing else, on her knees in front of him, head bobbing. He’s forcing her head down onto him. He is in no way being gentle or considerate.
There’s a pole across the room, a naked woman spinning around on it upside down.
I see another room beyond the pole through a wide, doorless opening; music pounds, bodies move.
To the right, another opening. A hallway, doorways on either side, red light glowing from the openings. At the end of the hall, a brighter light, loud noises. Cheering, shouting, boos.
I get the sense the rooms I can see are just the tip of the iceberg.
He watches me take this in. My eyes meet his, and his predatory grin and cold eyes send terror scuttling through my veins.
Just before he speaks, I see the word written on the wall behind the bar in huge, red, rune-like letters.
“Welcome to Hel.”
2Damsel In Distress
Rev
Ilean against the closed door, wipe the sweat off my forehead with my wrist, and suck in a breath. Twist off the cap of the water bottle, slug it back, chugging until I suck air. Crumple the plastic into a ball and twist the cap back on.
Fuck, I hate it out there.
