Up the stairs we go.
On the second floor, I can hear talking. The sound of many people talking. I can’t make out the words, or even the language, but as Ocho guides me down a series of hallways, the talking gets louder. He reaches the end of a particularly long, straight hallway and then throws open a blue painted door to the right, revealing the source of all the chatter—a small room, packed with people, at least twenty of them. Twenty-five, perhaps? Most of them are men. Women walk around the room, scantily clad, some of them not dressed at all, some of them wearing sheer material that gives the hint of nipple here and the suggestion of ass there. A tall guy with raven-black hair sees me standing in the doorway and smiles, heading straight for me. He’s Caucasian—most of the people inside the room are—and he’s wearing a white tuxedo.
“You’re late. What took you so long?” he asks, slapping me in an overly friendly manner on the shoulder. He shoots Ocho an annoyed look and hisses at him, frowning. “Well? Go on, Ocho. You’re not needed here now. We have everything under control.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a woman in a pink bra and panties drop to her knees, and the man standing in front of her slowly slides his bare cock into her mouth. I blink, looking away. Ocho isn’t paying attention to the guy with the black hair; he’s looking at me, looking at me intently, eyes narrowed. I think he’s gauging my reaction to what I’ve just walked into, so I make a show of smiling and allowing my eyes to wander again. Are my pupils still blown from the coke? Do I look turned on right now, or angry as fuck? Because I am angry as fuck. I don’t think I’ve ever been angrier than I am right now. I can’t let it show, though. That would be seriously disastrous.
Ocho makes a low rumbling noise, but he doesn’t argue with the guy. He backs out of the room, closing the door behind him, and the tuxedo guy is suddenly grabbing hold of me by the arm and dragging me off to one side.
“Who are you? Where have you come from?” he demands, talking out of the side of his mouth. He’s smiling, eyes wrinkling at the corners, as if he’s reacting to something funny I’ve just said, but his voice is low and urgent.
“I came from New York. My name is Sam.” Giving him any further information than that would be foolhardy. I don’t know who the fuck this guy is, after all.
“New York, New York,” the guy chants. His fingers continue to dig into my arm. “Nope. I don’t know anyone in New York. Fucking awesome.”
He has no accent, well trained to make it sound as though he could have come from anywhere, but as he talks I hear a hint of a Southern twang slip through, giving him away.
“Did he mark you, yet?” the guy asks.
“Mark me?”
“Yes. Y’know. Did he brand you?”
My look of confusion must speak loudly enough, because he rolls up his sleeve and holds out his arm, showing me what he means: a small, angry, red burn mark in the shape of a wolf’s head, with a large V underneath it. “He marks his property,” the guy tells me. A shadow of doubt flies across his face then, appearing out of nowhere. “Unless…”
“Unless?”
“Unless you’re a player, not a member of the Servicio.”
“I don’t have a fucking clue what you’re talking about right now.”
“Did you pay to come here? To fuck? Or are you one of us, one of Fernando’s servants?”
I take a step back, putting a healthy amount of space between us. “I’m neither. I just came to buy drugs.”
The guy in the tux visibly calms. He tucks his hands into the pockets of his pants and rocks back onto his heels, a manic light flickering in his pale blue eyes. “You have no idea where you are, do you?”
I refrain from answering. I don’t like the madness hovering over his head, this strange Southern, dark-haired man; I’m beginning to think he might be a little crazy. He tips his head back and laughs.
“You’ve strayed far from the path of civilization. No one just comes here to buy drugs. He’ll have you playing this game soon enough, or he’ll turn you into a pawn in it, Sam. You’d better clue yourself into your surroundings and quickly, otherwise you might end up the used instead of the user.” He steps back, a quirky, unsettling expression on his face. I think he’s going to go and stand back by the door, but before he can reach it a tall, blond-haired guy with neck tattoos places a hand on his shoulder and stops him in his track. The blond guy already has a woman on his left arm. She’s completely naked, apart from what looks like a necktie looped tightly around her throat, biting into her skin. Her dark brown, almost black hair is arranged into a perfect mess of curls, which fall way down her back. Her breasts are perfect, nipples peaked and standing to attention. The blond guy hugs her to his side as he reaches out and strokes his fingers down Tux Guy’s cheek.