Page 2 of Possession

But why bring me?

I don’t fit with his image, and I don’t fit with the rougher elements of this crowd either. The guys in leather and blazers over their t-shirts would scare the shit out of the street creeps I’m used to. They definitely scare the shit out of me.

“What is this?” I ask Frank, but he can’t hear me over the thumping techno beat and the general noise of several hundred people. The atmosphere is like a pop-up nightclub without the dancing. It’s dim, with multicolored lights slashing through the air and a spotlight on the pre-fight entertainment in the cage, where two women in high heels and bikinis are doing a lot of slapping, staggering, and hair pulling. A bikini top is grabbed and a pair of large, fake tits bounce into sight.

The crowd loves it. I look away.

“What is this?” I repeat, leaning near to be heard. When my arm brushes Frank’s, I jolt back. Frank and I don’t touch. Wenever have. I very rarely touch anyone. Honestly, I don’t knowhow. My hookup last fall was awkward as hell and didn’t end well.

“A fight,” Frank answers without really looking at me. Except for looking me up and down as I got in his car and commenting that I’m “still a good-looking kid,” he’s barely looked at me at all tonight.

“I know it’s a fight,” I say, “but why are we here?”

Why amIhere?That’s what I really want to ask, but for some reason I don’t.

Frank either doesn’t hear me or pretends not to. When he starts moving through the crowd, I stay where I am. Something feels off. I don’t like this. I want to leave.

Frank backtracks and grabs my elbow. “You need to stay with me.”

“This isn’t my scene,” I retort, yanking free. “I’m just gonna get an Uber or something.”

“I told you this place is no phones.”

Yeah, he made me leave mine in his car, but why can’t I just go get it?

“Look,” he says, “I didn’t spend money having a PI track you down just to lose you now, and nobody’s going to drive you all the way to the Bronx anyway. Now come on, there’s someone I have to talk to.”

Frank doesn’t grab at me again, but he jerks his head for me to follow. He waits until I move my feet, and what else am I gonna do? I mean, he’s right. Nobody’s going to pick me up here and drive me to the city, even if I could afford it. And as much as I don’t want to be here with Frank, I also don’t want to be here by myself. This place is dangerous.

With no great alternative, I follow Frank as he makes his way to what I assume is the bathroom. When I follow him inside,however, I see it’s actually a locker room, or used to be, and it’s not empty.

I stop dead as the door swings shut behind me. There are two men in the locker room, but it’s not the one standing guard with a holstered gun that has my heart leaping into my throat. It’s the one sitting on the bench, unarmed and barefoot, leaning down with his forearms on his thighs. He’s wearing only black pants—and some kind of electric collar.

He doesn’t look up, not when we enter, not even when the guard greets Frank as “Mr. Prescott.” He just stares at the tiled floor.

The guy is fuckinghuge. Even sitting down, it’s obvious. He’s crazy lean, but he’s got a ton of muscle. An ugly scar slashes across his right pec, and I glimpse lash marks on what I can see of his back. His dark hair is tightly buzz cut, and dark stubble shadows his strong jaw.

The scars are unsettling enough, but why the hell is he wearing a collar? The black strap bands his corded neck, and a green light blinks periodically at his throat.

“Lucas.”

When I jump at my name, the big guy looks up. Even though his lean, ruggedly handsome face remains expressionless, his dark eyes focus on me with such intensity that I shiver.

I glance at Frank, who motions for me to follow as he and the guard move out of the locker area toward the showers. Frank gives the collared man a wide berth. So do I as I follow, not wanting to be left alone with the man on the bench.

His eyes never leave me as I go to stand at the juncture of the locker area and the aisle running along the showering bay. There, Frank and the guard are talking quietly like they don’t want the collared man to hear them.

I don’t think he’s trying to listen to them anyway. His focus is still entirely on me. Why is he staring at me like that?

I shove my hands in my pockets and hunch my shoulders. Fuck my phone. Fuck the drizzly March night. I should just walk my ass out of here—because whatever this is about? It’s obviously not about me and Frank reconnecting, and the fact that I was even tempted by that idea makes me feel really fucking stupid.

I have nothing and no one, and it’s better to just own that fact. I’m alone. I always have been.

Fuck, why is this guy still staring at me?

I can feel it even before I glance at him again.

And why is he wearing that collar like he’s not even human? I don’t care how scary he looks or how empty and dangerous his eyes are, it’s wrong. I don’t like it.

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