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"Not exactly," she said, moving forward toward the abandoned school with its massive black metal privacy fence I didn't remember being there in the past. But why would there be a new fence on a place that had been closed for so long? And one that only seemed to block the parking lot out back.
"If we are, like, breaking and entering, you know that kinda stuff has never been my thing."
"Oh, please. I only break into places for work now," Hope said, rolling her eyes at me before tapping on the gate. "Limp Bizkit."
"Limp what?" I asked, feeling lost.
"It's the password," Hope explained as the gate started to groan open. "It's always some obscure, half-forgotten band from the 90s or early two-thousands."
"But why do we need a password?" I asked, suddenly wishing I'd packed the pepper spray my father sent me every year for my birthday as a tall man in a black suit moved to stand in the opening to the back lot.
"Yes, you're very intimidating," Hope drawled. "Congratulations. Now move."
I couldn't ever hope to be half as badass as Hope was. It was something I understood even as a kid. And had more or less accepted it. But it was nice, nonetheless, to be associated with that badassery.
"He looks kind of..."
"Pissed," Hope filled in for me as she kept moving forward, leaving me to do the same. "Yeah, they tend to when women boss them around. That's what makes it so much fun."
With that, we made it past the side of the building.
And what did I find?
A packed parking lot.
Packed with a lot of luxury cars. And a couple bikes.
I tried not to stiffen at the sight of them, reminding myself that even if Niro was here, I could avoid him, avoid any further upset. Or I could leave.
"Hope, what is this place?" I asked, thinking maybe it was one of those escape room things. But we wouldn't need to dress up for that.
"It will be more fun to see for yourself," she told me, getting on the short line leading in the back door where another suit-clad man was looking over each person who passed by while he checked something off on his clipboard.
"You saw me yesterday. Remember, I was the one here, saving your boss's ass by being my capable and charming self," Hope said to the doorman who simply lifted his chin, wanting something from her. "You're ridiculous," she declared, sighing. "But fine. Eight seven three nine. Happy?"
"Fucking delirious, babe," he said, getting an unexpected little smile out of Hope before she pushed it away and moved inside, pulling me with her.
It was exactly what you expected from an old school. Concrete floors and stairs, tile and popcorn walls, a metal rail leading down the steps Hope was heading down with everyone else.
We even pushed open old school doors with the metal bars in the center that let out a little airy sound when you hit them.
And then I understood why she didn't tell me where we were going. Not because she knew I would love it. Oh, no. Because she knew there was no way I would have agreed to come if I had known ahead of time.
Whatever this place was called, it was some sort of underground fight club.
There was a raised cage that dominated a large part of the space, people gathered around it even though it was empty save for some woman wiping what had to be blood and sweat off the smooth black mat.
There was a long, full bar to the back where two more women were moving around, making drinks with a sort of frenzied, but practiced ease.
To the left of the room were high-top tables with chairs as well as small seating areas with leather chairs and coffee tables.
If it weren't for the cage, for the metallic waft of blood in the air, it would have looked like some upscale gastropub sort of place.
"God, I can't imagine what Jax and Ross are raking in here. Look at all this money."
"What money?" I asked, looking around, seeing none.
"The people," Hope clarified.
"And who is Ross?"
"Ross Ward. And his son, Jax. They own this place."
The names sounded vaguely familiar. I think I remembered Niro or Niro's dad mentioning someone named Ross Ward. And I was sure we'd all gone to school with someone named Jax, though he'd never been someone I'd associated with.
"Oh. Well, I guess fighting is sort of popular again."
"Again? It never stopped being in style. From the Roman gladiators to the cable MMA fights. People are very predictable. They like sex. And they like violence."
"They like other things too," I insisted, not wanting to see people through the uglier, more jaded lens that Hope did.
"But none quite as much," she said, shrugging. "Unless money counts," she added, leading me over toward the bar, ordering, then turning to lean back against the bar while she waited for her drink to be mixed.
