The thumping beat and neon lights of the Catfell Club washed over Spade. Ashe wrapped her arms around his as they approached the dilapidated building. The warmth of her body seeped through his hoodie, her touch a jolt to his nervous system. Shivers ran across his skin. He wanted to embrace her, but that would be too far.
A former warehouse turned hotspot, the Catfell Club’s thin metal walls hummed with voices and music. Rust climbed the walls, oxidation blossoming across the building’s facade.
Storage containers in the back were makeshift bedrooms for the prostitution side of the business. The fun side. Spade never got to see these bedrooms. Usually he sat at the bar, drinking alone, as the other guys spent their money in the back.
“That’s where you go if you wanna see the really trashy girls,” Ashe said.
Spade laughed. “Maybe I do.” He considered saying you’re the one to talk, but something told him that wouldn’t go over well. He didn’t think of it as an insult, but he sensed Ashe would.
Ashe carried herself with the haughtiness of a girl who knew she was at the top of the pack. There were other girls, and then there was her. The confidence was attractive, even if he felt the urge to poke her ego.
“What’s that? Are you cold?” She patted the front of his hoodie.
“It’s what I have to wear,” he said with a shrug. His clothing had always been hand-me-downs and donations. He would pinch his nose and pick out the least egregious option. He had never considered that he might have a choice about what he wore.
Humidity steamed the streets. Ashe’s makeup started to run, her under eyes catching the sparkles of her eyeshadow. She wiped her eyes with her ring finger. “It’s so hot. What’s wrong with you?”
“You sure complain a lot.”
She smiled. “I know what I want.”
He caught himself smiling back at her. There were many things he needed–food, shelter, stability–but recently he had discovered a whole new world beyond basic necessities. Things he didn’t simply need, but desired. Ashe was one of those things.
Ashe was selfish, reveling in excess and unashamed of her desires. Her dress spoke to this: a black ensemble wrapped in gold beads and jewelry. Dark liner accentuated her mismatched eyes. Her face was a mask of makeup, very different from her more natural appearance at X.
One day, Spade might also have an outfit that did more than shield his body.
Stragglers sat on the sidewalk, too poor to have any business inside. A bouncer stood between the riff-raff and the club. Spade recognized him. He had been a former heavy for the Youths, the kind of guy who stood at Dral’s side and used his square shoulders and jutting jaw to appear intimidating.
It was a front. Spade knew the bouncer to be a coward who never threw the first punch. He let Dral do all the fighting, a task Dral relished. No wonder he had a job that solely involved standing around with folded arms.
Regardless, Spade wasn’t about to risk a fight, even with a bleeding coward. He withdrew into his hoodie and approached the door with his face shadowed. He stepped around a glass-eyed man slouched in on himself. An opie user. A junkie.
Nightingale operata: Opie, or Operata for short. A hell of a drug. Spade had tried it once when Dral let him have some as a reward. The razor slid across a small mirror as Dral cut Spade a thick line of powder.
The powder burned when Spade used a straw to snort it up his nose, but the pain soon subsided. The Opie veiled him in heightened sensation. He experienced everything with a renewed awareness.
All of the sensations of touch and feeling that usually passed his notice overwhelmed him. His fingers grazing his own skin had been strangely intense as he wrapped his arms around himself. Even the air weighed on his shoulders.
“It’s good for banging broads,” Dral had said. He inhaled deeply, snorting back into his sinuses mucus and a pile of powder. “They don’t even know what’s going on. They’ll let you do whatever you want.”
Dral noticed the shivering hunch of Spade’s back. “You’re taking it like a girl, you know that? Here, more can’t hurt.”
Spade had woken the next morning huddled in the corner of the club. Someone kicked him awake. He blinked in the bright light streaming in from the skylight. The night was long gone, as were the rest of the Youths.
It wouldn’t be the last time they had abandoned him. Yet another in a litany of reasons why he was better off without them.
Upon entering the Catfell Club, he was hit by a wall of music that thrummed in his ears. He could barely tell what the music was supposed to sound like, except that it had a throbbing beat. He peered at the crowd. No sign of Dral.
Ashe pressed into his side, guiding him to a booth that was on a far platform on the other side of the room. It would give them a vantage point to watch the door. Eyes lingered as they ambled past. Nobody ever paid attention to Spade the way they did when he was with Ashe. He strutted with confidence. For once, the jealous glances were thrown his way.
As they sat, Ashe set her lips to his ear. “You remember the code word, don’t you? That’s how you’ll know it’s time to finish the job.”
“Heart,” he answered. They had already been over the plan a few times. He wasn’t so stupid that he would forget a single word.
“That’s right. Same as my last name.”
Spade started. “You mean like Knave Heart?”
She smiled ruefully. “Isn’t it a coincidence?”
“You’re Knave Heart’s kid? The Senator?”
Spade remembered the flier advertising Knave Heart’s reelection campaign. What stuck out the most–other than his unusually red eyes–had been Knave’s crooked nose, repeatedly broken and poorly healed. His craggy skin and cauliflower ears evinced the hundreds of punches he had shaken off. His features were put together like an ill-fitting puzzle. All evidence of Knave’s rough past, the past that was now only a backdrop for his glorious political ascension. Spade wondered if his own face would eventually morph into such a mess.
Ashe put her finger to her lips. “Can you keep a secret?”
“I’ll do whatever you want.” He smirked. “You’re cuter than Knave.”
“Don’t I know it?” She waved a waitress over. “Hey! Over here!” She ordered a fruity cocktail that was half sugar and half cheap vodka.
She took a sip that amplified her jitters. Spade didn’t miss the way her fingers trembled as she held the glass.
“What are you doing in the Gate?” he said. “Especially if you’re Knave’s kid?”
She tilted her chin defiantly. “Why don’t you ask him?”
Spade glanced around. “Well, he’s not here. So, why don’t you tell me?”
A slight scoff escaped her lips. She swirled the drink, watching the cherry flavoring mix with the vodka. “He abandoned me.” She glanced aside. “Everyone knows. Nobody cares. It’s not that much of a secret.”
“Yeah, I don’t care.” He paused, and added, “That he's your dad, I mean. But I’m glad you’re here.” He surprised himself with how sincere he sounded. It was true. Where would he be without her?
Her eyes widened, as if she didn’t know how to take his words. Beneath the harsh mask of makeup, her expression softened. She kissed his cheek. “Don’t mention it.”
He touched his cheek, her lips like electricity. Looking at her face, she was all he could think about. The crowd disappeared, the din muted, and it was as if only the two of them were in the club.
Ashe pulled the hood of his hoodie further over his face. “He’s here.”
Spade blinked, rudely brought back to reality. He stared at the door to see Dral walk in with his usual entourage of delinquents. Dral’s mouth was a stiff, straight line. He was ready to unwind.
The entourage separated. Dral lounged in a booth and pulled a brunette under his arm. His bored gaze drifted to the drink a waitress brought him. He was here every night, and clearly he had grown numb to it all.
The blacklights concealed filth that Spade could nonetheless smell through the haze of body odor. Bodies bounced on the dance floor, exchanging sweat. Spade scrunched his nose at the stench. Dral would die as he lived. In smut.
Ashe played with her hair. “How do I look? Can I snag him?”
Spade eyed her up and down, dreading the thought of her drawing Dral’s attention. “Nobody doubts that. But can I get him?” The alley flashed in Spade’s mind. There, he had gazed up at Dral’s imposing figure with a boot on his face. Somehow, Dral was even larger than Spade had recollected. Dral’s shirt barely contained his wide shoulders.
Spade clenched his fists. He would get Dral, get him back for everything.
“Don’t worry about it. Do your part, and it’ll be fine,” Ashe said.
Ashe slipped through the mass of people toward Dral’s booth. Her skin shined in the light, and her dress clung to her body. Her straight hair was clumped with sticky sweat. Dral regarded her as she drew near, and he allowed her to slide into his other side, packing him between her body and the brunette’s.
She wore a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. As if Dral cared. Her lips moved, murmuring in Dral’s ear. Spade grit his teeth, imagining the things she whispered. Ice melted in the drink Ashe had left behind, the glass slick with condensation.
Spade had been the one who had proposed this whole plan in the first place, but he hadn’t fully anticipated the way it would make him feel. Watching Dral run his fingers down Ashe’s neck and collarbone, it was as if someone had set Spade on fire. His eyes narrowed to pinpoints as he glared.
Play it cool, play it cool.
It was all Spade could do not to smash the drink. Knight always warned him about his temper. He tried to think of his brother–particularly Knight’s ability to remain calm no matter what. He had no idea how he did it. Spade's nerves were always screaming for a fight.
Sixty seconds had passed, and Dral was already hooked. Ashe snagged him, all right. The brunette drifted off to another client. Good. She would throw things off.
Ashe took Dral’s hands and pulled him from the couch, inviting him to follow her to the backrooms. They made their way through the parting crowd. The quickening pace of Spade’s heart signaled that it was time to move.
Spade slid out of the booth and marched down the steps of the platform. Nobody noticed as he navigated around the edge of the crowd. Without Ashe, he was back to being invisible. It didn’t comfort him as much as he expected. He didn’t want to live in the shadows anymore, but it was useful. For now.
Fresh air rushed in as Spade threw open the fire exit to the rooms out back. He glimpsed the shine of Ashe’s hair and jewelry as she and Dral passed beneath a streetlight. Dral strolled a few paces behind her with his hands in his pockets, watching her hips sway. Ashe flashed a knowing smile.
Sometimes Spade wondered what it would be like to get attention like that. Ashe seemed to handle it fine, like a true professional. It was a fact of life. Her livelihood depended on it. It was probably for the best, since she couldn’t escape it.
Spade was acutely aware of all the times his eyes had drifted a little too far from Ashe’s face. She would flash him the same kind of smile she gave Dral, to let him know that she was in on it and it was okay.
But was it? His stomach twisted. He wondered if they had anything special at all, or if he was another leering stooge.
Ashe and Dral stopped at a storage container at the end of the line. It was fairly remote: only a single side had another container beside it. Spade waited until the door closed behind them before he crept over. He pressed his ear to the cool metal and listened.
At first, nothing. But soon he heard rustling, the jangle of a belt. Ashe’s soft voice drifted through the door. “It’s fine. It’s fine,” Dral said. Spade’s expression hardened like stone. He fought the stew of disgust and loathing roiling in his stomach. The bile threatened to choke him.
He exhaled. Keep it cool. Don’t lose it.
His fingers thumbed the garotte in the deep pocket of his hoodie. A single word wafted through the door, punctuated by the hard edge of Ashe’s voice: Heart. She repeated it, in case Spade didn’t catch it, “You’re after my heart, baby.”
Spade withdrew the garrote from his pocket, stretching its length of wire as his knuckle-white fists clenched the handles. He opened the door soundlessly and stood on the threshold.
He beheld Dral’s broad back, his legs straddling a topless Ashe. She stared at Dral without glancing at the door. She was too experienced to give the game away.
Spade’s careful steps led him across the tin floor to the mattress. The mattress had a thin sheet that was never washed, the kind of bed that was meant to be rumpled but never slept in. The light from the standing lamp cut harsh angles across their bodies. As Spade neared, the volume of Dral’s ragged breaths increased.
Adrenaline pumped through Spade’s veins. His temples throbbed, but his body was numb. His vision narrowed to the point of Dral’s strong neck. Spade wished he could shoot him in the head. But a gun would be too loud, especially in what amounted to a metal box. He didn’t want heat from every Youth in the vicinity.
Spade caught sight of the desperate glint in Ashe’s eyes. He couldn’t wait another second.
Holding the garrote taut, Spade stepped onto the mattress. Spade pressed his knee into Dral’s back as he wrapped the garrote around his massive neck. The mud from Spade’s boots caked off onto the sheet, the dried clumps bouncing as Dral thrashed.
Dral lurched forward, trying to shake Spade off, but this only tightened the wire around his throat. Dral roared as he fell on his hands, but the sound came out as choked sputtering. Dral tried to buck Spade off of him, but they both fell on their sides.
Spade’s grip on the wire loosened upon impacting the mattress. Dral’s elbow shot toward Spade’s face, smacking him with force that sent Spade’s brain reeling. Warm blood poured from Spade’s nostrils, the metallic taste seeping into his mouth. The garotte hit the mattress with a thud.
Dral turned to face his attacker. Spade stared up at Dral, his sinking gut telling him that the tables had turned.
Dral’s shoulders heaved as he gasped for air, the sound like the gurgling breath of an animal. A bright red mark wrapped around his neck. Splotches of red covered the surface of his flushed skin. “Back for more?” Dral said. “No mercy this time.”
“Fuck you,” Spade spat, pawing for the garrote. Dral’s giant hands descended, fingers wrapping around Spade’s throat.
Spade choked as his air was violently cut off. He clawed Dral's hand, and Dral squeezed harder. Spade's eyes bulged, his vision fading. The adrenaline dwindled, leaving his weak limbs to limply hit Dral’s arms. Dral didn’t budge an inch.
This is it. Spade closed his eyes. The pressure in his skull increased, as if his head was about to pop.
Then, the pressure eased. Air returned to Spade’s lungs. His shallow breaths could barely catch up. Dral’s body dropped beside him, a deep slice cleanly cut across his throat. Spade’s brows knit in confusion as lifted his head.
Ashe sat on her knees in front of him, a small blade in her hand. She tossed it in the air and caught it by the handle. “Give it time, Spade. You’ll get better.”
Spade collapsed back onto the mattress. He laughed hoarsely, blood expelling from his lips. “I was supposed to kill him! You were just bait.”
She grinned. “You really forgot who I am, didn’t you? What do you think I do for a living?”
Spade ran his fingers through his hair. “Fuck.” A wave of exhilaration passed through him. This wasn’t how he imagined things turning out, but at last, the bastard was dead.
Ashe helped Spade sit up, so that he could study Dral’s body. Dral had fallen on his face. Blood spread around him. Spittle coated the pillow. Spade wiped the blood from his nose, struggling to ascertain which fluids were whose.
His gaze drifted back to Ashe. Not a drop of blood on her. She killed like a lady. He felt like an amateur.
Spade wrapped his arms around her, the gesture no longer seeming like it was too far. Blood smeared her mouth as he leaned in to kiss her, his lips urging hers to open, to kiss her the way he’d always wanted to kiss someone.
She hesitated to respond, surprised. “You want to do this now?”
“Any time’s fine,” he said.
“You nearly died. Calm down.” She crawled off of the mattress and adjusted her dress. After wiping the knife on the mattress, she slipped it back into her garter.
She was right. Spade had nearly died. It was as if he witnessed his own death and resurrection, which sent a thrill through him. Somehow, this made him want to kiss her more. He grasped for her waist, but she evaded his fingers.
“We can’t get caught,” she chided with amusement. “We have to go.”
Spade rose to his feet beside the mattress. Dral’s corpse remained. Spade stood over him, his shadow falling across the dead man. He slipped the garrote back into his pocket and watched as his shadow followed in kind.
I could gut him. Old habits sprang to his mind. Spade felt the urge to finish the job as he used to do so often for Dral. After all, Dral was a large, young, and healthy man. His corpse would easily net a fat profit.
It wasn’t that kind of job. This was supposed to be a clean assassination, and harvesting guts was messy. The body was a sack of organs and viscera that bled when disturbed. Spade remembered this vividly.
No, let somebody else clean up the mess. At most, they’d replace the mattress. Although, from the appearance of the stale stains, Dral might not have been the first person to die there.
Ashe drew close to Spade and stroked his back in a comforting gesture.
“Let’s go,” she said softly.
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