Death Layer (The Depraved Club) (15 page)

Chapter Seventeen

It takes us another hour to get out of bed, at which point
Bane relents and lets me just wear my old bra and one of his white workout
t-shirts, which hits me around the knees, and a pair of his under armor shorts.

“I look like an alter boy,” I mutter.

Bane studies the effect and snorts. “I’ve never been more
attracted to you.”

“Gross.”

I shoot him a look, and follow him downstairs. When we get
to the first floor landing, I see that someone’s mopped up the blood and
removed Smokey’s body. But I still shudder as we pass over the spot, as if it’s
haunted. Bane grimaces, takes my hand and pulls me forward into the front room
of the first floor.

This is the Death Layer building entrance from the
street-level, and my curiosity is finally quenched when I see what it is. It’s
an innocuous auto parts shop covered in dust, with a bright blue motorcycle in
the window. Judge Jefferson, who looks a little hangover, is manning the
service desk. He snaps his newspaper down below his nose, nods at us, and
raises the paper to continue reading. Bane shrugs at me and leads me through
the door and out onto the street.

“That was weirdly easy,” I say once we’re outside.

Bane nods. “JJ is an alright guy. Like I told you, he
doesn’t feel good about all this D.L. club stuff either. He’ll cover for us if
anyone gets nosy. We should be able to disappear for an hour or two before
anyone gets suspicious.”

The thick orange sunlight and garbage smell of New York City
summer hits me in the face and I drink it in, euphoric. It’s the first time the
intense smell of Manhattan’s famous summer scent of baking piss has made me
feel happy.

It is the first time I have felt the sun since Mr. King
dumped me here. I subconsciously slow down to a standstill on the sidewalk,
relishing the feel of outdoor air. I’m trying to get my bearings on the
neighborhood. It’s a narrow, twisty cobblestone street that smells like fish.

“Chinatown?” I ask Bane.

He gently pulls my hand, bringing me back into step with
him. “Two Bridges. That’s why the club got the building so cheap.”

Bane leads me back into the alley entrance behind the Death
Layer building, where his motorcycle is still leaning on its kickstand.

“Might as well meet my other girl,” Bane says with twinkling
eyes. “Ava, meet Pearl. Pearl, Ava. Pearl’s a 2013 Harley-Davidson V-Rod
Muscle. She’s got a 1250cc Revolution engine that can produce 122 horsepower.
Which means she can kick ass and take names. I’ll start her, then you hop on
behind.”

My eyes glaze over. He might as well be speaking another
language.

“Hop on?” That’s the only part I heard. “Just hop on, just
like that, huh?”

Bane is already squatting on the motorcycle. He revs the
engine and shoots me that wicked grin of his. I have to admit he looks fucking
fantastic aboard the leather and chrome monster, his handsome face
simultaneously inviting and challenging. I feel something just south of my
belly quiver and flush.

“Yeah,” he shouts. “Hop on.”

“Right,” I holler back, “Because I totally know how to hop
on a motorcycle! I do it all the damn time!”

“Figure it out!”

Biting my lip, I stare at what seems like the absurdly tiny
strip of leather behind Bane’s hips that must serve as the passenger seat.
There’s a black and chrome backrest sticking up, and the question is how to get
my ass between that and Bane without overshooting and winding up on the exhaust
pipe.

“Here goes nothing,” I mutter. Taking a deep breath, I
launch my leg over and amaze myself by fitting in just right. It’s actually
comfortable. Bane glances over his shoulder, winks at me, and pulls my arms
around his waist.

“Good girl,” he shouts “Now hold on good and tight, like you
can’t get enough of me.”

“That’s easy.” I laugh.

We lurch forward and zip onto the street, careening around
pedestrians and parked cars. The wind is whipping through my hair. I can’t deny
that the feel of the powerful bike vibrating between my legs is turn-on, and
having to wrap myself tight around Bane makes it even better. I can definitely
see why he loves bikes.

Bane veers through a few lights and onto Bowery, which is
bustling with bicycles, buses, people, and carts. My wild smile stretches to a
squeal.

“Holy fuck!” I screech, laughing. “We’re gonna die!”

“Relax, I’ve done this before!”

I can hear Bane laughing as he weaves the bike dramatically
through traffic. He’s totally doing it on purpose, freaking me out for fun. I
squeeze onto his back as tight as I can, and get a whiff of his scent through
the air. My heart is pounding pleasantly and it feels a lot like freedom.

We follow Bowery up to Hester Street, and then turn on Mott.
I know we’re somewhere around Little Italy but honestly could never find my way
through this area to save my life even on a normal day. After what feels like a
trip down the rabbit hole, Bane pulls his bike up to the curb.

“Hop off!” he shouts.

I wish I could say I did so gracefully. I trip over to the
sidewalk and watch as Bane duck-walks the bike into a parking spot. Finally he
balances it on a kickstand and joins me on the sidewalk. He nods at another
motorcycle parked a few yards away.

“Blair’s here,” he grunts. “Business time.”

I follow his gaze. We’re in front of a Laundromat, and quite
a shitty-looking one at that. There’s a rusty awning and the “Wu’s Landry” sign
and walls are obscured by graffiti.

As Bane and I stroll through the open doors together, I see
that the interior isn’t much better. There are water stains on the ceiling and
walls, and the room makes me think of 70s b-movies for some reason. The pimply
guy behind the counter definitely has a 70s b-movie haircut, and an odd
expression. He looks like he stepped right out of a Godzilla movie and hasn’t
quite calmed down yet.

The place is pretty empty. I only see a big fat guy in tank
top with deep sweat stains under the arms playing Sudoku next to the dryers,
but Bane leads us past him and around a row of washing machines. His mouth
twists to a grin and he points.

I look where Bane’s pointing and see that in the back corner
of the Laundromat there’s a little copse of vintage arcade games and a soda
machine. A petite woman in tight cut-off shorts and a leather corset has her
back to us. She is bent over the Pac-Man machine, a diet coke resting on the
washer beside her. The electric woo-woo-woo sounds of death wobble from the
game she’s just lost, and she kicks it with her cowboy boots, shouting,
“Motherfucker! God damn it! Shit!”

Bane stifles a laugh and crosses his arms, watching her as
she strains to reach her hand into her pocket for more quarters.

“How can you possibly get your fist in there when those
jeans are so damn tight?” He drawls.

She spins around, green eyes flashing. “Jesus Bane, why’d
you sneak up on me like that? You trying to give me a fucking heart attack?”
She bounces over, reaches up on her tiptoes, and plants a kiss on Bane’s cheek.
Her eyes sweep over me as her jaw works at chewing gum. “Who’s this?”

Bane clears his throat. “Ava, Blair. Blair, Ava.”

We both nod, our names not quite answering our real
questions about each other, and I see a flicker of suspicion in her eyes. She’s
beautiful, curvy and fit with dusky skin and dark hair woven in two long
braids. Her left arm is covered in a full sleeve of vividly colorful tattoos,
wagon wheels and flowers and skulls. I feel an instant pang of jealousy.

“So what’s up with you?” Blair asks Bane. “You never showed!
I waited in that damn alley for half an hour like a fucking hooker. I’m pretty
sure one of your friends tried to hire me. Thanks a lot for that.”

“Sorry.”

“I’ve been trying to reach you.”

“I know.” Bane shrugs. “Shit’s been crazy. You got it?”

“Do I got it? No, I just hauled my ass downtown to meet you
a second time for no fucking reason. Yeah, I got it. Use your brain.”

Blair snaps a bubble in her gum. She juts her chin toward a
leather satchel on a nearby plastic chair. Giving her a look, Bane picks up the
bag and plops in a chair to ruffle through. Peering over his shoulder, I see
it’s packed with bundles of crisp new hundred-dollar bills. He rips one out and
holds it up to the light before whistling and putting it back.

“Wow,” I whistle.

“Nice work,” Bane murmurs appreciatively.

“You did most of it,” Blair grunts. “I just collected, is
all.”

Blair is watching us keenly. Bane pulls a small keychain out
of the bag and dangles it, shooting Blair a look. It’s a silver playboy bunny
shape, only instead of a head the ears are attached to a skull. A small set of
keys is attached.

“Dead playboy?” I ask.

Blair grins. “Thought it was appropriate.” She says. “Since
Bane’s playing dead from now on. Keys are for a PO Box at 34
^th
street. I have another set. I’ll slip in the documents as soon as I finish,
hopefully just a few hours is all it’ll take. I mean, I’m finished with yours
B, but you didn’t tell me enough about her.” Her eyes snap onto me. “I’ll rush
it but it will still take me a hot second to print. What are you, love, 5’7’’?
Twenty-four?”

“Yeah,” I admit, surprised. “How’d you know?”

“Experience.” She grunts.

“Blair happens to be an amazing con artist,” Bane explains.
“She can read anybody. I should probably make her tell me a few things about
you.”

“Don’t try to butter me up,” Blair says. “I’m just here to
do a simple forgery job.” She steps closer, studying me. “You’re like 130
pounds, red hair, eyes…wow. That’s actually a tough one. Bane, you seen her
eyes?”

“Yup,” Bane says with a smirk.

“What color are her eyes?” Blair wonders, which is odd,
because I am right here and she is staring at them.

“Um, hazel,” I say, trying not to sound sarcastic. “My eyes
are hazel. This for the passport?”

“Shh!” Bane scolds, looking around. The fat guy has left,
though, and the man behind the counter isn’t paying attention to us.

“What, like you weren’t talking loud?” I ask.

Blair squints at me, inches from my nose. “No, more like
gold/blue. There’s some purple and green too, I swear to god. Jesus. That’s
crazy. You’ve got beautiful eyes.”

“Thank you,” I stammer.

“I thought green,” Bane says.

“You’re colorblind,” Blair dismisses. “I’m green. I’ll say
hazel for her. Bluish hazel.”

I nod. “Yup, that’s…what I said.”

“How long do you need?” Bane interrupts. “We’re kind of in a
hurry.”

Blair sweeps her gaze over us, taking in my faded bruises
and borrowed clothes and Bane’s cracked knuckles.

“I told you, fast, ok? A few hours at least, I’ll txt you.”
She leans against the Pac-Man machine, smacking her gum as she studies me. “Got
a new name picked out love? Do you care?”

“Um…”

Holy crap, a new name! Shit just got real.

I feel a thrill of goosebumps wash down my arms just
thinking about it: a new identity. My entire life changed a few days ago when I
was caught in the D.L. Club, and now it’s about to change again. Once I get a
fake passport, will I ever be able to go back to being Ava Clark? Have a
singing career, go to the drug store with Rachel, and attend family reunions in
Ann Arbor?

Or will Ava Clark be gone for good?

Thinking of changing my name immediately takes me back to
when I was a little girl playing pretend with Rachel. We’d invent characters
and speak in silly accents, and sometimes carry our game all the way to school.
Rachel was always pretty great at it, always made up really glamorous princess
names like Arianna or Belle or Anastasia. I, on the other hand, was not so
creative. I made my first grade teacher call me Heart from Valentine’s Day
until Thanksgiving break, when I then decided I wanted to be named Cranberry.
Like the sauce.

Clearly, I’m not so great at thinking up new names.

 “Actually, wait,” I smile involuntarily. “I think I
got one. How about last name Kent, first name Rachel? Rachel Kent.”

Kent like Clark Kent, Superman’s alter ego: a play on my
real last name. And Rachel, like my sister. This way, I can take my family with
me to my new life—even if only by name.

Blair shrugs and arches an eyebrow at Bane. “Feelings?”

“Yeah, why not?” He shrugs. “As long as that’s not a real
family name, Kent. Don’t want to leave any breadcrumbs.”
“Nope,” I confirm. “No Kents.”

Bane’s gaze is steady on me, probing and clinical again.
“What about Rachel?” When I don’t answer he sighs. “Alright Red, who’s Rachel?”

“Sorry if we haven’t had time to swap life stories,” I snap,
“but there’s been a lot happening! Let’s just focus on getting out of here and
then I’ll tell you whatever boring thing you want to know about me. Rachel’s a
common enough name. There are tons of Rachels.”

Bane gives me a long hard look. “Ok.”

“It should be fine,” Blair cuts in. “The only tricky part
will be the first twenty-four hours, getting you out of the country safely. I
did all the arrangements myself, so there’s not much margin for error. It just
depends on how smart and fast your little motorcycle enthusiast friends are
when you hit the road. As long as you get to Uncle Crisp’s in one piece, no one
will be able to trace you.”

“Uncle Crisp?” I ask.

Blair nonchalantly kicks at Bane’s boots with hers. “Way to
keep her up to speed, jerk. You expect the poor girl to just change her
identity like a pair of pants and you haven’t even told her where you’re
going?”

“I told her Canada.,” Bane clears his throat. “Sorry, Red.
In all the excitement I didn’t bother to really explain. Blair’s Uncle Crisp is
my Dad, Crispin Davies. I always went by Harme, my mom’s last name, but my new
papers are under Davies. My Dad went back to Canada after he and my mom broke
up. He’s got a country house we can use. Death Layer doesn’t know he exists, so
it should be safe.”