I respond with a thumbs-up and start to jog. It doesn’t take long to find it. Though it’s tucked away, the entrance in the back alley, it’s spotted easily enough. This is some high-security joint. Names on lists and secret code words. I won’t be able to walk right in.
“Damn,” I swear.
The doorway of a restaurant’s back entrance, a little down the way, blocks me from view. The smell of grease and rotting vegetables fills the air.
I text O.G., “Any way of getting me in?”
I don’t get a response and it never shows as read. Okay, then I’m on my own.
Two well-dressed men round the corner and I only have seconds to decide. I strip out of my clothes and go Under. I tuck my phone into my clothes and slide them into a dumpster mourning the loss of yet another outfit. From now on, only potato sacks for me.
Ah, naked in a back alley. Totally how I want to spend my Saturday night.
One of the men knocks and the door opens. A tiny little man with beady dark eyes answers. Not the giant man clad in leather like I expected. I’m a little taken aback. The other two men lift chins as I creep closer.
“Briggs and Sutton.”
The little man checks his list and stands back to allow them. I creep up behind and tailgate in. Thankfully, they’re allowed a large berth. I make it into a darkish hallway without bumping into anyone.
“Straight back,” the little guy says in a high-pitched Brooklyn accent.
I follow close behind the two men. When the front one stops I slam into the other one, pushing him into the front. They share a look and I flatten myself against the wall. They shrug and continue on.
The air is humid and smells like herbs and spices. Not like fried chicken. Like an expensive salon. And chlorine. It’s some sort of spa. Eww, I hope it’s not a Happy Endings sort of place. I don’t need to see that.
As they walk, they discuss stocks or something equally boring. They turn to a locker room where my gaze immediately studies the floor.
Naked men. Naked men everywhere.
And not even the hot kind. No. It couldn’t be a group of hot firemen or a rugby team. No. It’s wrinkled, pasty, beer bellies and stick legs everywhere.
I tuck myself out of the way in a corner. This place isn’t for just anybody. One of the hairy man parts I accidentally spot is the mayor of the city. I keep my eyes averted and wait for whatever it is O.G. thinks I need to see.
“Right this way. He told me to send you back.” The man who answered the door now escorts Asian Hipster-slash-“man walking a dog” toward a door on the other end of the locker room.
I follow as closely as I can, when a giant, sweaty, pale ass backs into me. Ew. Ew.
“Hey, watch it—” the man starts but stops with a frown when he finds only air behind him.
When this is over, I will shower for days.
I slip a little on the wet floor as I chase after the Hipster and barely make it through. We go down a short hallway to another door. The short man opens it and gestures hipster dude forward. I slide in.
“Please let me know if you need anything,” he says before shutting the door.
It takes my eyes a minute to adjust. It’s a small steam room. The air is thick with humidity and a soft red light glows overhead. Hipster makes his way toward a shape in the corner. I’m a little concerned for the Hipster. As much as I can care about a man who’s stalking me. He’s dressed in jeans and a hoodie. He has to be dying in this heat.
Concurrently, I have to note that I feel amazing. Being Under in such a humid environment is life changing. It’s like I’m hyper-focused and sharp. Sure, it’s stiflingly hot but overall I’m really digging it.
“You’re alone?” A deep voice calls from the corner.
My heart stutters with instant recognition. No matter that the face it belongs to is obscured by steam. Zebulund sits wrapped in a towel. He leans back, sweat covering his shadowed features.
My stomach drops to the floor.
“Yeah. I’m alone.”
“Tell me what you learned.”
