“A nice girl like you shouldn’t be going to a place like that.”

Ha ha. Little does he know the girl in his cab is anything but nice and not-nice girls belong in not-nice places. “It’s not that bad. When I lived in Oakland, I used to go there for drinks with my friends. They spin the best metal and thrash.” And right now I’m in the mood for some down and dirty.

“You sure? It’s changed over the last coupla years. Gone downhill. And it’s a half hour drive over the bridge on a good day. Ten o’clock on a Saturday night means you’re looking at at least forty-five minutes through traffic.”

I fall back in my seat with a groan. “I’m sure it’s fine.”

We drive through the city for no more than five minutes before he starts again. “I have a daughter around your age. If I found out she was going to Hellhole, I’d be down there in two seconds to drag her home. And then I’d have something to say.”

“If someone told my dad I had gone to Hellhole, he would sit at his desk and start typing a new version of his ‘I’m bitterly disappointed in you’ speech.”

Lights flicker around us, blurring as we whizz through the streets. I close my eyes to block out the sight of irritatingly happy people. Finally, I begin to relax. Maybe I should have called Makayla, but she would talk me out of indulging my sorrows in meaningless sex, or worse, offer to come along. And the last time that happened, she almost lost Max. I couldn’t do that to her again.

By the time I open my eyes, the Foster Hoover Historic District aka Ghost Town is in sight. Broken lights. Rundown buildings. Youth gangs lurking in the alleys. We pass Redemption and my chest tightens at the sight of the unassuming metal warehouse with the new Team Redemption logo painted on its side.

“That’s one of the top MMA fight gyms in the Bay Area.” The cab driver slows the taxi to a crawl. “My son trains there and teaches some of the classes. He’s with the Oakland police. My wife and I are so damn proud of him. Neither of us finished high school.”

My mood takes an even deeper nosedive. I hate proud parents.

“What’s his name?” Not that I care because I will never step foot in Redemption again, but curiosity is an insatiable beast. “I used to…hang out there. My best friend is going out with the owner.”

He glances at me through the rearview mirror. “My boy’s name is Theodore, but we always called him Tag. His ring name is Fuzzy.”

“Don’t know any Fuzzys. He must have joined after I…stopped going. They’re good guys, though. Like a family.”

The cab driver pulls the cab over to the curb and turns around. “Why don’t I drop you at Redemption? You can hang with your friends and I can introduce you to my boy. Not that I’m trying to set you up or anything, but…you know…it would be safer than Hellhole.”

“If I wanted that kind of safety, I would have stayed at home.”

His look of consternation makes my stomach clench, and for a brief second I’m afraid he won’t take me to the club. But after a few moments, he sucks in his lips, pulls away from the curb, and we leave Redemption behind.

“Something happen to you?” He throws the question out almost casually, but I can hear his concern in the tightening of his voice. And since I’m slightly inebriated and don’t give a damn who knows how badly I f**ked up my life, I give him the same story I gave Drake, leaving out the bit about the blue file.

He commiserates with me until we reach Hellhole, and then he turns around, worry lines creasing his forehead. “How about I wait outside? I’m almost done with my shift and I’ll be here in case you change your mind. It’s not easy to get a cab out here at this time of night…”

My heart squeezes in my chest. I’m a stranger and he’s more worried about my safety than my parents ever were. “It’s okay. Really. I know the staff. They’ll help me out.”

After the warm glow of the cab’s taillights fade into the distance, I knock on the familiar metal door inset in the crumbling brick wall of the building at the corner. Two of the streetlights are burnt out, and with no other businesses visible in the area, the street is dark and deathly still.

I wait and wait. A cool breeze rustles my coat, sending a chill down my spine and bringing with it a faint whiff of piss and stale beer. Just as I’m second-guessing my decision to come to Hellhole, a viewing slot slides open.

“You got a membership card?” The rough, leering voice makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end but not enough to scare me away, despite the fact that I have left my membership card at home.

“Look at me.” I wave my hand over my white sheath dress—chosen simply because it makes me stand out—the lamb offering herself up for slaughter. “Do I really need a membership?”

The door creaks open and a bald, burly bouncer steps to the side to let me pass. His face is pierced everywhere a face can be pierced and then in places I wouldn’t have considered piercing.

“Cover is forty bucks.” He holds out a hand. Also pierced. I slap a few bills in his palm and he points me down a long, dark, narrow flight of stairs.

“Welcome to Hell.”

Chapter 3

THE DEVIL’S NAME IS BOB

Hell doesn’t disappoint.

Decorated in peeling shades of black and red, the dank underground club boasts a cluster of scratched wooden tables, a tiny dance floor, and the delightful aroma of pot, sweat, and stale beer. Keeping my gaze firmly fixed on the bar, I weave my way through the assorted punkers, bikers, and Goths, slapping away the occasional stray hand and ignoring the lascivious winks.