Deceit (Part 1) Page 4

Chapter Three

  Duke

  I slip into my black boots, tying them tight and tucking the ends of my ripped jeans into them. Then I pull on a simple white t-shirt, the low v-cut showing off the top of my pecs, and grab my leather jacket from the seat beside me.

  I check myself in the mirror before I leave the car, running through a quick self appraisal. All good, except the hair, which is still slicked back and molded into place like an Italian greaser. I drop my jacket and give it a rustle with my fingers, sending spikes and shards off in various different directions. Much better.

  When I open the car door, an immediate chill pours in. Jesus fucking Christ it's cold. I glance back to my bag of clothes, but there's nothing warmer than what I'm already wearing. Screw it, I'll be too drunk no notice in no time.

  I step out and lock the car, slipping the keys into a zipped inner pocket on my jacket. My hands immediately drop into my pants pockets, my fingers fiddling with my cellphone and wallet as I begin walking through the streets.

  My eyes linger on women as I go, walking in their groups and with their boyfriends. I prefer the summer, when the girls wear their short skirts and crop tops. You can really tell what you're getting then. The shape of their tits. The curve of their ass. The length of their legs.

  They're tanned during the summer too. Properly tanned. The type of tan that doesn't start to run when you jump in the shower together or get too sweaty in bed. I never like that.

  It doesn't take me too long before I hear the steady beat of the Den. A place where I can be anonymous without any fear of someone knowing me. Where I can enjoy the fruits of a women without recrimination. Where getting into a fight doesn't cause the cops to turn up in the blink of an eye.

  The place doesn't look too dangerous from the outside, but that can be misleading. As the old saying goes, don't judge a book by its cover. And when it comes to the Den, you'd better not judge anyone or you'll find yourself outside on your ass, most likely with a biker's boot about to bury itself in your face.

  It's not a place to go if you don't like nudity, because women and men alike will happily flaunt themselves in there. It's not somewhere to go if you don't like drugs, because half of those rocking the dance floor are high as a kite on something.

  If you're not keen on music that can make your ears bleed, drinks that will make your throat sting, and the sort of people who you'd expect to see in a prison line up, please stay the fuck away.

  I go to the Den for the all the right reasons. To find women, to get into fights, and to forget the humdrum nature of my day to day existence. But, above all, I go there because it's somewhere where no one knows me. Somewhere I can do what I want and not have to answer for it or find myself in the morning papers for doing some stupid shit.

  The beat gets louder as I move closer, my eyes scanning the people queuing outside. There's a lot of leather on display, and a lot of ink too. Even some of women are covered in tattoos, swirling up their arms and down the side of their necks. That's a little too much for me. Give me a tramp stamp or a little heart tattoo on the wrist and I'll be happy. Anything more comes across as a bit aggressive.

  The place is basically a small converted warehouse, which gives it this dingy and industrial feel. From the outside there are no flashing lights or decorated entry. Just a few burly bouncers snatching ten bucks off people and ushering them inside through a garage-type door. On the inside it's spacious, but dilapidated and grungy, lit by flashing lights welded into the ceiling.

  There's a central dance floor, playing heavy beats and pumping house music. Around it are several bars offering up spirits and beer at bargain prices, served in plastic cups so they can't be used as weapons. It's that sort of place, although there are plenty of bouncers around to keep the relative peace within the club. If they spot a fight, they'll generally throw them out and let them sort out their problems outside, often for their own entertainment. In general, that'll happen a few times a night, usually dragging out a few dozen spectators to cheer and jeer until one of them hits the deck and doesn't get up.

  I slip straight to the front of the line and give a nod to Brick, one of the bouncers on the door. We've worked out a system where I get immediate access for triple the price. Frankly, money isn't really an issue for me, so it works in both our favor.

  “Healed up OK after last time?” Brick asks as I pass him at the door and slip him his notes.

  He's referring to a cracked rib I received from some drunk lout a few weeks ago. Nothing major, but certainly made it awkward at work with everyone asking questions about what happened. Turning up to meetings with bruises on your face and black eyes isn't the best look either, although it's remarkable what they can do with make-up these days.

  “All good Brick,” I say. “Thanks for stepping in.”

  That's another service he offers me – protection should things get out of hand. I have a tendency to rub people up the wrong way sometimes and, after a few too many drinks, that doesn't always work in my favor. I pay him depending on how many people happen to be beating me up at the time. One guy is another 50 bucks, two guys 100, and so on. Once I had to shell out 300 when an entire crew came breathing down my neck.

  I slip into the club and immediately smell that familiar waft of air creep up my nose. That mixture of old rotting wood and stale beer, all churned into a pot with hundreds of sweating bodies and the stink of weed and cigarette smoke. Up above, a smog has already gathered. A cloud of second-hand smoke that obscures the lights and gives the place an even danker feel. I swear you could get high just being in here for half an hour.

  I hit the nearest bar and knock back a few shots of vodka, followed by a couple of quick beers. It takes me a good amount to get drunk, always has. My father's the same, although it's not like he drinks much any more. Perhaps a few glasses of wine or a fine brandy, nothing more. Nothing that will make him lose even one iota of control.

  So I start fast, sinking drink after drink until I feel that comforting lightness in my head. That numbness that begins to block out the week just gone. A week filled with meetings and spreadsheets and suits. With polite conversation and obsequious smiles and the sight and sound of just about everyone pandering to my father. This is my one release, my escape, and I'm always sure to make the most of it when the opportunity arises.

  By the time I turn from the bar the sight of bodies has already blurred a touch, the misty smoke growing thicker above their heads. Some faces have turned brighter, driven to smile and laugh and dance chaotically by the dope or cocaine or ecstasy filling their blood. Others react different to whatever they've taken, their faces coiling in anger or confusion or fear for the hallucinations they're having.

  I begin moving forward through the crowd, my eyes drawing over people as I go. Young women dance, scantily clad and dressed as provocatively as possible. Many of them, I know, are part of some of the gangs that operate around here. Groupies for the bikers that come here a lot.

  Others are full-on prostitutes. Venus fly trap types hoping to ensnare a man and then demand some money once they've lured him into their web. Sometimes their pimps watch over them, making sure the guy doesn't take advantage or waste the girl's time and not go through with it.

  Thankfully, I find it easy enough to spot a hooker from a groupie from a girl who's just stumbled in here off the street, looking for a 'crazy' night out. Often they're the best girls to go for. Perhaps they've just broken up with their boyfriend and are looking to do something stupid. Or maybe they've been fired from work or have just moved to the city and don't know the place yet. Whatever the case, those sorts are usually up for some fun, and don't come with the baggage, and potential dangers, of the hookers and groupies.

  Those drinks have gone straight through me, so I head for the toilet. Inside, guys sniff lines of coke up their noses, suck down pills as they swill on their flat beer. I hear the sound of a woman behind one of the doors and know that some guy's getting lucky already.

&nbs
p; I stand up against a urinal and a guy slips in next to me. “You looking for some gear?” he asks, not caring to be discreet about it.

  I look at him and shake my head. I recognize the guy. He's asked me the same question a few times before in here, but I don't know his name. Some sleazy drug dealer. Most probably an addict himself too. The twitch on his face and staring eyes would suggest that.

  “Anything else then. You want some pussy tonight?”

  “Sure,” I say, “but I can get it myself.”

  I zip up my jeans and push past him, ignoring his sales pitch as I pass. “Seriously bro, I can get you any sort of girl. Young, old. Blonde, brunette. Short, tall. Big tits, small tits. Black, white. Whatever you want.”

  His voice trails off as I pass back through the door into the club. Drugs aren't for me, not here anyway. I've taken them before, but with the right types of people. In environments I have some control over. Here you don't know what they're cutting the cocaine with. Whether you're actually sucking down an aspirin instead of ecstasy. I've seen too many people drop to the floor, blood pouring from their nose, to know better.

  I return to the bar now, slipping around the growing crowd and ordering a few more vodka shots. I sink one, then another, the more until my throat starts burning. I'm on my fifth when I feel a hand on my ass and turn to see a brunette behind me. Heaving cleavage, face plastered in make-up, trim midsection and tight shorts that fail to completely cover her ass.

  “Hey there handsome, you gonna buy me a drink.” Her voice is deep and sexy, but completely put on. She's as fake as a barbie doll.

  She doesn't wait for me to answer, pouncing on the latest vodka shot that's just been delivered by the barman. Without taking her eyes off me, she tips it down her neck and drapes her tongue over her tips, working it from side to side with a sultry smile on her face.

  My immediate instinct is to turn away. Generally, I don't like it when girls come to me. You just never know what their agenda is, especially down here. A hooker looking for a score? A groupie trying to lure me back to the biker's lair to be robbed? I've heard of that shit happening before and it's not pretty. Poor bloke thought he'd bagged a 10 and then he finds himself set upon by a bunch of thugs. Cell phone taken, watch ripped from his wrist. They'd even dragged him off to an ATM to plunder his savings account and credit cards. Poor guy.

  So, when a girl this hot comes up to me from behind, without even seeing my face, I know she's unlikely to have the best intentions. But then again, it's been a hard week. And this girl is super super hot. Maybe just this once...

  She leans in and whispers in my ear over the din. “So, how about that drink.”

  I scan behind her over her shoulder, checking for any staring eyes. Through the fog it's almost impossible to see much at all, and my growing state of inebriation isn't helping.

  “Sure,” I say back, without thinking. “What'll you have?”

  “More vodka will do just fine.”

  I turn back to the barman and set him to work. Two more shots drop in front of us, and she doesn't hesitate to sink one without a grimace. That's rare with this shit. For most people it stings.

  She manages to get another one out of me, her hands now creeping onto my body. They slide up my arm and squeeze at my muscles, move past my jacket and paw at my pecs. I catch a look of jealously from the barman, but I'm not sure he gets what's going on. Must be new here. She's clearly after something.

  I let her play it out, but I'm stiffening in my mind and not in my pants. She's too full on, too obvious. Clearly trying to shake me down, get my revved up so I'll pay anything to have her. I mean, she'd probably be cheap, but that's not the point. The point is I don't know how many guys she's already been with tonight. Today. This week. This month. There's no challenge in paying for it. And without the challenge, without the hunt, there's really no payoff for me.

  I quickly lose interest, and tell her so with my facial expressions. I lose the smile and stop checking out her chest. I twist my shoulder so her hand falls off my pecs. Then I turn back to the barman and make a single order. Just one drink, not two. It's my cue for her to go.

  But she doesn't. Not yet. She's persistent, I'll give her that. She paws at me some more, even drops her hand to my crotch in a last gasp attempt to sway me. No such luck. Eventually, with a loud huff and a scowl, she disappears back into the fog, no doubt setting her sights on someone more responsive.

  I'm suitably drunk now to make my own play. Not that I need to be hammered to chat up women. I just prefer to untangle that ball of stress in my gut. Clear my head and get in the right mood. Vodka, I've discovered, is great for that. The side-effects, unfortunately, are the regular fights I get into and the skanks I wake up next to if my beer goggles get too thick.

  There's a happy medium, though. A place where I've got my wits enough to find someone drop dead gorgeous girl who's purely here for fun, like me. A place where I don't turn aggressive and start a punch-up with a guy just because he's having a go at me for hitting on his girlfriend.

  Right now, I'm in that place. Pumped up on vodka and feeling pretty mellow. Tonight should, if the stars align, be a good fucking night.