Page 5 of The Order of Disorder
The ceiling’s crisscrossed with steel beams, from which heavy-duty industrial pendants hang from thick chains bolted to the steel trusses. When the hangar’s quiet in the early morning, you can hear them buzzing.
Up front, near the stairs to the second floor, the boardroom and Billy’s office have been constructed out of corrugated tin, newly outfitted with high-tech, science-fiction-looking doors. And high in the rafters, the club’s banner is hung with pride.
The Order of Disorder.
The screaming skull patch looks down over everything that happens underneath it, furious mouth open to the sky, haloed by a ring of chain—like I am.
Hands touch me as we walk by, groping because Billy’s told them to. He’s told them they’re free to look, to touch, to enjoy the show. And they do. Fingers brush over my nipples, through my hair. A hand slaps my ass. No one asks. No one ever asks.
“Beautiful,” says a low, admiring voice.
“Fucking whore,” hisses a woman’s voice—not so admiring.
I ignore them all, walking dutifully behind Billy, feeling eyes on me. Everywhere.
We stop at the bar, where Billy orders two vodka sodas from Cash, a prospect who’s playing bartender.
Like a lot of the prospects, Cash is young. Maybe nineteen, twenty max, with a baby face he tries to hide under patchy facial hair. His knuckles are raw, like he’s been fighting just to prove himself. He bows his head respectfully as he slides the drinks across the bar. Eager. Obedient. Useless. Like everybody here, he worships Billy.
“Smile, sweetheart,” Billy murmurs against my ear after handing me my drink. “You look like you’re at a funeral.”
I drain the entire drink in one long gulp, place the glass on the bar, and look up at him and smile.
Then I picture stabbing him in the throat with a shard of glass.
He laughs, satisfied.
We walk around the space, Billy shaking hands and clapping shoulders. On the largest pool table, two naked women are dancing—one on all fours. A handful of men cheer and throw bills.
Next to it, a guy sprawled in a folding chair is getting a crooked skull tattooed on his arm by someone who definitely isn’t licensed, a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, the machine buzzing like a wasp nest.
On the far wall, a bearded man wearing his screaming skull patched vest and no shirt is spray-paintingO.D. for lifeonthe hangar wall, the paint gathering and running, dripping like blood. Beside him, a bald guy adds a crude cock and balls.
Just outside the front entrance, a man lights a trail of gasoline on fire while a crowd hoots. The flames lick at the edge of a woman’s stilettos and she just laughs and doesn’t move out of the way.
It’s a circus. A war zone. Pleasure Island for men who’ve forgotten they were ever children.
I used to know the whole club when it was small and just starting out. Now I don’t recognize half the people here.
Some of them are from the support clubs—the Grave Sons, Iron Order, Bandidos. Others are hangers-on: party girls, dealers, strays and sycophants. People who orbit the chaos, drawn by hedonism or money.
Billy tugs my leash as we walk through the crowd, keeping me close behind him.
“Look at our girl!” he calls out, to no one specific. “Here for your viewing pleasure.”
A few men laugh. One claps him on the back.
“Doesn’t she look sexy?” he adds, and yanks the leash hard enough that I stumble. Then he spins me in a slow circle like he’s showing off a prize at auction. “Fucking hot as shit.”
I keep my face blank.
“Go ahead,” he says to a young prospect in a sleeveless top with the screaming skull on it. “Feel her tits. You’ve got my permission.”
The kid glances at Billy, then at me, uncertain.
“Don’t be shy,” Billy urges, grinning. “I’m telling you to do it.”
The kid steps forward with eager hands, and grabs my breasts, squeezing like he’s kneading dough. He doesn’t even look me in the eye.
