The corridor is narrow with high ceilings, racks of paper and plastic goods stocked on large industrial racks, along with cases of beer stacked on the floor three and four high and cases of liquor on yet more racks. A few paces away from the door, the stacks and racks fade and it’s just the corridor, dimly lit, our shoes squeaking on the epoxy floor.
A long walk, then—we pass another door which I assume leads out to the club, judging by the bartending supplies around the door. We go by two more of these supply stations; at the last one, there’s an exit to the exterior, which is propped open by a box of plastic cocktail straws; I hear low voices, a male and a female, murmuring and laughing, smell cigarettes—employees taking a break.
Chance halts here, shoves open the door. “Don’t prop open the door. Use your keycards. That’s what they’re for.”
He takes up the whole doorway, so I only hear the reply: “Yeah, Chance. Got it.” He kicks the box inside and back over near the rack, but leaves it on the floor rather than placing it back on the shelf.
At the end of the long, long hallway, we reach a corner. The hallway continues on at a right angle, but an exit sign here indicates a stairwell. He scans his card, the light turns green, and he yanks open the door, gesturing me through. Stairs go up and down.
He pauses beside me. “Alone, or company with a stranger?”
I blink up at him. “What?”
He enunciates overly clearly. “Would you like to be alone, or hang out with someone you don’t know?”
“Alone,” I answer right away.
He nods, his only reply, and heads down the stairs. They turn at the first landing, with another closed door at the bottom—another card reader.
I stand a couple stairs up from him, watching as he scans his card again. “Serious about security, aren’t you?”
He just nods. Steps through the door and holds it for me. I move through: to my right, a serious-as-shit gym, and considering the muscles on Chance, I surmise it’s where he works out. I eye the gear with a professional eye: Rogue equipment, mainly, with some other high-end brands here and there. Power racks, barbells, Olympic plates, dumbbells, battle ropes, several assault air-bikes, a heavy bag, a deadlifting platform, and incline/decline benches. An old part of me, which I’d thought long dead, stirs at the sight. It’s a beautiful gym, lots of space, brightly lit, with mirrors on the wall, thick mats on the floor. It’s neat, clean, and organized. For a moment, I almost want to go in there, slap some chalk onto my hands…
I shake my head and turn away.
Chance doesn’t move. “You lift?”
I lift my cane, wiggle it. “Not anymore.”
He looks at me, his hard eyes penetrating, assessing, yet giving nothing away. “Not anymore, huh?” The question is there, but I decline to answer it.
I shake my head. “No. Not anymore.”
He just nods, seeming to recognize I’m unwilling to discuss it.
Across from the doorway I’m still standing in is another door, closed and locked. To the left, a common area. We move that way, and I take in the common space. On the left, there’s a large sectional couch facing a huge TV; another hallway extends directly opposite where I stand, with several closed doors on either side; to the right, two long cafeteria tables separate the common area from the kitchen beyond the tables, and the kitchen is industrial, commercial-grade.
I look at Chance. “So when you said I could live in this club, you weren’t joking.”
He shakes his head slowly. “No.” He moves away from me, into the common area, heading for the kitchen. “What do you want to drink?”
“Just a beer is fine. Anything will do, I’m not particular.” I follow him, leaning hard on my cane; my knee hurts again after the stairs.
He goes to a huge refrigerator, pulls out a bottle of Heineken, flicks the top off with a bottle opener. He points at the couch. “Sit.”
I do need to sit, so as much as I want to stay on my feet just to spite his order, I cross to the couch and lower myself to it. Toss my cane on the couch beside me, the handle near my hand. Chance brings me the beer, then grabs a stack of remotes, brings them to me, tossing them onto my lap.
“Big one is the TV, cable, and DVD player,” he says. “Long thin one is sound. Little one is for the Fire thing.”
I blink up at him. “So I’m just going to hang out in your secret lair beneath the club?”
He arches an eyebrow, a corner of his mouth tipping up—almost a grin. “Yeah. Not my secret lair, though.Ours.”
“Ours? Ours who?” I ask.
“You’ll see,” is his cryptic response. “Just stay here in this room, on the couch. You want to eat, help yourself to the kitchen.”
“Am I allowed to leave?” I ask, my tone bitingly sarcastic.
