Filed to story: Brace Face Betty Drama Story
The imposing, looming double doors of the Rock are infamous in Ravenshire. You can see them, the burning torches mounted on either side of the thick, weathered wood, from up on the road that takes you out of town toward Iron Springs. Besides the Rock, there’s nothing of note between Ravenshire and the coast. If you’re seen pulling off of that long, winding road through Grays Harbor County, it’s pretty damn obvious where you’re going, and there are plenty of people in a small town like Ravenshire who’d love to judge you for it, should they just so happen to recognize your license plates.
There’s no one around to see us peeling away from the road, though, as Marcus steers the bike down a narrow, darkened driveway, the boughs of the trees forming a sinister looking tunnel over our heads, blocking out what’s left of the weak afternoon sun. Loud, thumping, grinding music reaches my ears before the building’s even in sight. And then, there it is, a single story, squat looking structure, constructed out of stone and rough-hewn rock, massive and quite possibly the ugliest building I’ve ever seen.
Marcus navigates a path through the haphazardly parked vehicles in front of the bar, going around the side of the building, where he pulls into a narrow bay reserved for staff only. I feel so alive as I climb off the back of the bike, humming from the excitement of the ride. Marcus takes the helmet from me, grinning. “I really have created a monster, haven’t I?”
I nod, grinning back. “Looks that way. I’ve been thinking about using the money I was saving to fix up the Nova to buy my own deathtrap now.”
“Uhh, the Nova’s gonna need some TLC real soon by the sounds of that engine,” Marcus says, poking me in the side. “Maybe you should make do with borrowing my bike instead.”
“You’d let me borrow your bike?” The fake-surprised teasing in my voice makes him smile.
“You’re already holding my damn heart and my soul hostage,
Argento. You might as well take everything else.”
These things slip out of his mouth so effortlessly, like they’re so easy to confess. Most guys his age would rather bite off their own tongues than admit they felt any emotional tie to a girl. Marcus, of all people, who is so stony and withdrawn from the world most of the time, has no problem admitting whatever he’s feeling to me, though. There’s a surprise around every corner with Marcus. I still have to pinch myself whenever he looks down at me, and I see the longing his eyes, like I’m something of value, to be treasured, to be adored.
“My dad told me this place was commissioned by one of the scientists who worked on the U.S. nuclear program during the Second World War. He was paranoid, so he had this place built. It was designed to survive the fall out if Seattle were ever hit by a nuke dropped by the Nazis. Does it really have an underground bunker?”
He tells you that you own his heart and soul, and you start talking about the fucking
Nazis. Way to go, Betty.
“Yeah,” he replies, chuckling under his breath. “But trust me. You don’t want to go down there.”
“Why? Are you nervous, bringing me here?”
He takes me by the hand. Laughing, he leads me toward an emergency exit at the rear of the building that’s been propped open with half a brick. “You don’t want to go down there because it’s a sex club,
Argento. And no. Why would I be nervous?”
Sex club? Lord. I do my best to hide my surprise at that revelation. “Because this is where I find out how many strippers you’ve fucked?” I’m only half serious, half joking, but it has occurred to me-Marcus might only be seventeen, but he easily looks twenty-one. Not to mention the fact that he’s hot as hell. There’s no way he hasn’t been involved with the women who dance here.
“I haven’t fucked any of the strippers, Betty,” he says ruefully. “Most of the girls who dance are also available for extra services. Private services. And I don’t sleep with girls who fuck for a living. I respect their choices, it’s their decision to make, but I also respect my dick. I don’t want it to fall off.”
“They’re running a brothel?”
Marcus shakes his head, no. “The girls might meet or find a client here, but they cater to them at home. Or in a hotel room. Whatever. The owner, Monty, will fire any girl on the spot if he finds out she’s been screwing the customers on his property.”
“Right. So, we’re not going to stumble across anyone fucking in a hallway then.” Cue nervous laughter.
Marcus winks, ushering me inside, through the emergency exit. “Don’t worry,
Argento. As long as we stay above ground, I promise you there will be no fucking.”
MARCUS POV
This place is and always has been a dirty little secret. It’s been renamed a thousand and one times in a thousand and one ways. The bank; the grocery store; the post office. When a guy’s wife asks him where he’s been, he’ll say he was at the game. When a woman has to explain to her husband why she smells of stale booze and cigarette smoke, she’ll tell him she was pulling an extra shift on the casino floor. Very few people tell the truth and admit to spending time at the Rock, though. It’s tantamount to saying:
I cheated on you; I fell off the wagon; I stole the housekeeping money; I broke a promise I swore I would never break.
When the door swings open and someone new arrives at the Rock, the customers already at the bar or snuggled into the booths all hold their collective breath, heads turning in unison, squinting into the dark to see if (horror of horrors) it’s someone they might know.
We walk through the winding hallways, past Monty’s empty office, and through the ‘Staff Only’ door into the bar. Fifty pairs of eyes turn on us as the patrons take a beat to assess the newcomers. It only takes a half a second for the regulars to recognize my face.
In the far corner on the stage, a Led Zeppelin cover band is murdering “A Whole Lotta Love.’
On the narrow catwalks that protrude out onto the bar floor, two of Monty’s favorite girls are already down to their bikini tops and G-strings.