Page 39 of Quiet Obsession
“Yes.”
He crouches slightly, cupping his hands and I place my foot in them, bracing against his shoulders, very aware of his proximity, and masculine scent soaking his hoodie despite the cigarette he just finished.
In one smooth motion, he propels me upward. I catch the ledge, dangling for a second while my Chucks search for purchase.
“Got you,” Dash says, closing his hand around my forearm.
He pulls me up and my jean-clad knee drags against the stone as I haul myself inside.
“Alright?” Noah calls.
“She’s fine,” Dash replies, glancing down. “Take your heels off, Abby.”
I straighten up, brushing dust from my palms, and move aside to give Abby space. As expected, her dress has ridden past her hips by the time she’s inside, red, lacy panties on display. Thankfully, she doesn’t scrape her knees bloody.
“Next time, dress accordingly,” Dash hums, passing her the five-inch heels Noah threw in. “You’re pretty, cupcake. Half the guys on campus would fuck you even if you showed up wearing a potato sack. No need to sacrifice your comfort.”
She just huffs, but the pinkness of her cheek betrays that she’s flattered.
“Why is it so quiet?” I ask, craning my neck left and right.
“The fights are three floors below,” Noah explains. “Before Gravemont was turned into a school, it was a government research facility. Some buildings go deep underground, and most are connected by service tunnels.”
That’s... unsettling. I wonder if the dorms areconnected. Could a senior sneak into the sophomore dorm undetected? It’s not like there’s security at the door now, but I bet there was a time when there was.
“Come on, let’s go,” Dash prompts, already on the move.
He leads us through the building, our steps echoing in the empty space, the air humid but surprisingly warm.
The weather’s been—very briefly—lovely, a final summer heatwave before Washington succumbs to its usual rain for fall, winter, and the better part of spring.
I stay close to Noah, his phone lighting our way. We descend the stairs, and with every step, the sound builds louder until it becomes a deafening mix of voices.
A tall, bulky guy stands in front of tall metal doors, brass knuckles adorning his fist. Dash pushes a few bills into his hands and the guy stamps small black snakes on the insides of our wrists before letting us through.
We step onto a wraparound balcony, and I pause at the railing, looking down. Music vibrates through the concrete, different songs seeping from many portable speakers and phones while people crowd together in groups, shouting over one another, alcohol sloshing in their red solo cups.
A cage sits in the center of the room, fashioned out of chain-link and thick metal posts. It doesn’t look professional, but I guess it doesn’t need to be. People clump around it, bodies packed shoulder to shoulder, excitement palpable in the beery, sweaty, dusty air.
I take in the chaos. The tables lining the walls, stacked with kegs, bottles, and towers of red cups, the electricatmosphere, the guy inside the cage, microphone in hand. He’s saying something, his voice disappearing in the noise of voices and music before it has a chance to reach me.
“You look awestruck,” Noah says.
I glance at him. “Who runs this?”
He nods toward the cage. “Same guy you’re looking at. Brock King. He’s post-grad, organizes the fights, takes a cut from the bets, pays the dean, and spends a few grand on beer to keep people coming.”
“A fewgrand?” Abby asks, incredulous eyes on Brock. “How much does he make in a night?”
Dash leans against the railing beside us. “Entry’s fifty a head. Do the math, cupcake.”
I dig into my pocket for cash, but Dash cinches my wrist, shaking his head.
“My treat, Mini.”
“Thank you.” I glance around the crowd. “There’s... what?” I scrunch my nose. “Four hundred people here?”
“Probably more, but say you’re right, that’s twenty grand for entry and then the wagers on top of that.”
