Page 64 of Unmasking Mayhem
“We need a place to lay low. Not just for us, but somewhere we can strategize,” Raze admits, his voice strained but resolute. "If we want Dustin to believe we're dead, we can't go back to our place or even Whitney's."
“Hmm.” King fakes genuine contemplation, swirling his drink. “I might have a place, but it won’t come cheap. You two can do... Well, we'll call it an ‘errand’ for me. It pays.”
What he’s suggesting sends prickles of instinctual dread through me even though we've done some pretty bad shit being part of Masked Mayhem and all... but this feels different. “And what kind oferrand?” I ask cautiously, gauging the menace in his tone.
There’s a humorless grin on his face. “Simple delivery. Just need you to pick up something for me.”
“What’s the package?” Raze's eyes narrow, his instincts flaring up against betrayal.
“Something that belongs to me but fell into unwanted hands.” King leans forward, the grin widening into something sinister. “Let’s say it’ll even give you a free pass to split the profits and the attention with me from your ‘dear friend’ Dustin. It’s a win-win.”
“No,” I say firmly. “Is this the part where you throw us back into deeper waters? We can’t take on more enemies right now.”
“Hey, I’m not asking for anything too wild. Just a little favor, and I assure you that I’ll provide a safe place for you to huddle until you figure out your next steps,” King continues, twirling the drink in his hand as if he’s toying with us like pawns on a chessboard. “Besides, I’d keep it quiet; we wouldn’t want to dampen your spirits after that little explosion, would we?”
“Delusional fuck,” Raze shoots back, barely hiding his disdain for the game King revels in. “What happens if we refuse?”
King’s eyes harden, the friendliness evaporating like the smoke wafting from the blunt earlier. “That’ll be your funeral, boys. You either play by my rules, or you can forget about Whitney, and good luck going against Dustin alone. He won’t take too kindly to two shadows slipping away from his grasp.”
“I think we’d rather die fighting than play into your hands,” I retort, voice low and steady despite the thudding of my heart that screams of fear and uncertainty.
“That’s adorable.” King leans back, interested in how we’re poised against his threats. “You think this industry allows for heroics? You either play to survive or cater to the dark. The fucking choice is yours.”
Raze and I exchange a look, the weight of our decision pressing heavily between us. It hits me then: we’re fucking trapped between a rock and a hard place, and our options are dwindling fast.
“Fine,” I say finally, senses pulling taut with every word. “We’ll do your errand.”
King’s smile returns, almost impossibly wicked. “Good. You’ll be back on the upswing in due time—trust me.”
“Just tell us where and when,” Raze says, edging back on the couch as if backing away will rob us of the chance of escape.
“You’ll get the address. Just head over tomorrow night. You’ll need to move fast before things get murky.” King’s voice hardens, and he leans closer, making it clear we were far fromallies, merely tools in his sadistic game. “Anything goes sideways—well, you know what that means.”
"For the time being," D speaks, chiming in after cutting another four fat lines for us, dropping the dirty razor blade as he licks his fingers, reaching into his pocket. "Take the master VIP room downstairs in Masked Mayhem," he says, tossing the key at Raze, who catches it. "It's big enough for the both of you, and it's equipped with a shower and little kitchen area, so you won't have to leave the room and risk being seen by anyone."
We both nod in unison, the irony of our situation sinking deeper with every passing moment. King and D have us tangled in a web of darkness, and while they intend to use us for their own gain, we’re determined to find a way out. I glance at Raze, his jaw clenched tight, as I can feel the pressure building between us. A place that used to feel like a second home now feels like a glorified prison.
"Make sure you stay low and out of sight," D continues, leaning back casually, but the predatory glint in his eyes betrays his true intentions. “You’re not off the hook just yet, understood? You keep your heads down, do your jobs, and then we’ll discuss how we get Whitney back.”
The weight of those last words hangs over us like a storm cloud as we rise to leave. It feels like every exit we attempt leads only to more darkness, the unpredictable storm brewing closer by the second.
“Yeah, got it,” Raze mutters, irritation simmering just beneath the surface.
It feels like each step down the stairs takes us further away from the light and deeper into the shadows. The music from downstairs drowns out the last words spoken as we descend into Club Mayhem. The pulsating bass thrums through the walls and floors, mirroring the frantic beating of my heart—a constant reminder of the clock ticking down. As soon as we reach the bararea, the atmosphere shifts; the smiles and laughter around us feel foreign and unreal. The murmurs mixed with the sounds of clinking drinks, muffled by the noise, and amplified the anxiety prickling at my skin.
“We need to figure out a plan from here,” Raze says, scanning the crowd.
I can already see the ghosts of our dark intentions surrounding us in the forms of shadows and deceitful glances. I nod in agreement.
“We can’t just fucking sit back and let them use us like puppets. We need to take back control.”
I think along with him, but how? The glint of desperation shines through my conviction. Whitney is still out there, and the urgency of our task weighs on me like an iron chain. As we enter the large VIP room in the basement of Masked Mayhem, it feels more like a fucking cell than anything. Raze shuts the door behind us with a slow creak, locking the door and sealing us off from the chaos, while the scent of stale alcohol mixes with the sharpness of cigarette smoke and antiseptic, leaving the air thick enough to fucking choke on.
“We’ll have to check Whitney's phone,” I suggest, trying to diffuse the tension hanging in the air. “We should be able to find something on Dustin.”
Raze nods, pulling her phone from his pocket. As he fiddles with the device, I scan the small kitchenette tucked away in the corner. A glimpse of a new microwave sits still wrapped, and the fridge hums softly, letting out a low, constant running noise. I avoid it as if it holds secrets better left undiscovered.
“Let’s hope that we can connect to something,” Raze says, frustration creeping in as he attempts to navigate the minimal cellular signal. “The internet here isn’t exactly top-notch—this place screams ‘trap,’ especially with all the blocks they've put on their Wi-Fi.”
