CHAPTER TWO | SLAUGHTERHOUSE

SUNDAY

FIGHT NIGHTS AT The Cut always produced a ruckus; a drunken cacophony of blood, sweat and sex practically palpable in the air. Tonight was no exception.

I was poised at the red-doored entrance in glittering stilettos, a skintight gold minidress and a faux fur coat that called for murder. Diamonds studded both my ears and neckline as I scanned the rowdy, intoxicated crowd of young people in search of my friends. Even after skipping the restless queue of people waiting outside, I was later than I should have been.

After drying myself off, changing my clothes and applying a bright layer of makeup behind a large trunk of tree near the riverbank, I had to stand in the freezing cold for nearly twenty minutes before my Uber arrived. I'd complain but I was choosing not to use the family chauffeur and waiting in impossible weather was part of the small town charm. After ditching my backpack near the river, I managed to warm up in the car before reaching the underground fighting circle.

I tried calling Ridley's phone thrice, but gave up when I couldn't even hear my own cell dialling over the noise. I squeezed through the bustling crowd, dodging all the flailing hands of the joint's bloodthirsty spectators.

Over the years, The Cut transformed itself to cater to its crowd's violent desires. During the day, it fit its natural appearance of a builder's beer parlour, but at night, especially during fight night, it converted into something more like a club; a hotspot for loud music, underage drinking, neon lights and scantily clad young adults.

The heart of this place however, was the glowing red boxing ring set right in the middle of the venue. The fighters made the match, but the dangerously electric energy both inside and outside the ring was what sold the tickets.

It was something of a glorified gladiator arena, with the wealthier onlookers sitting in private booths, sipping fine liquors whilst the more frequent patrons stood shoulder to shoulder, circling the ring.

I caught a small glimpse of two unrecognisable young men fighting in the ring, lunging at each other and splitting fresh skin open with their punches. I had to stop myself from visibly cringing as both men, of equal weight, height and muscle set out to pulverize tissue and cartilage. Over the music, I heard the medley of loud voices cheering and applauding each time someone landed a blow; an uproar of numbers, names and hand signals as bets were placed and money was exchanged.

After elbowing my way through the main throng of people stationed around the ring, I finally caught sight of my best friend's fierce cut-below-the-ears dark auburn hair. With her gilded skin consistently laced in velvet, leather and gold even in the densest of weathers, Ridley Cartwright stood out wherever she went. Yet, here amidst the blood bath, she looked nowhere like she belonged.

I strode towards the private table where she was settled alongside Toby, Temper and Ridge. Half empty alcohol bottles littered the tabletop with a cloud of smoke directly above as Toby clamped a joint in between his teeth and Temper blew a chain of opaque vapor upward from her e-cigarette. As soon as my friends noticed me, they waved me over and made space in the circular booth.

When I reached the table, I pointed at Temper, "I thought you quit last week."

"Today's her last day," Ridley murmured sardonically. I could feel the heat of her gaze on me, studying my slightly damp hair and inability to meet her eyes. "She promised she'd quit after fight night."

"How kind of you to finally grace us with your presence," Toby lazily smirked, gliding his fingers through his sunlit blonde hair and tilting his dark sunglasses to wink at me. The cherry-lit joint hanging from his mouth moved as he spoke, drawing even more attention to his chiseled jawline and yellow-flecked olive eyes. Spread out across the padded booth-seat in a freshly pressed vintage suit, October "Toby" Peters looked every part the hedonistic young king he truly was.

I chose to ignore him and laid eyes on Temper who sat at the corner of the booth, wrapping compression tape around her bruised knuckles. Her wolf-cut sheltered her face from the world, but behind the curtain of dark ebony hair was a deeply acidic, incredibly sarcastic, loyal-to-a-fault companion who held our private school's title of 'Mischief Maker' for four years straight.

"I'm sorry I got late, I had to help Dad with some asinine gala planning," I said. A blatant lie, but a necessary one. Ever since the incident, my friends treated me like precious cargo, scrutinising my every move and motive. They wouldn't understand.

"Well? How did it go?" I pushed when I received no response.

Temper gnawed on her bottom lip and finished wrapping the white tape around her wrist before glancing up at me with a smug grin. "Knocked the bitch out after two rounds."

My shoulders fell in relief and a genuine smile pulled at my lips when all my friends burst in excitement, whooping for her victory. Surprisingly, even Ridley relaxed when I moved into the booth to sit next to Ridge.

"Nothing like a short blonde punching you in the face a couple times to remind us all why we're all alive, right Temp?" Toby pulled back Temper's shoulders playfully.

Temper was a breathing contradiction. With a coffee colored complexion and sunbitten sepia eyes, she never failed to interfere with the bleached, colourless backdrop of Graycott. But unlike Ridley, everything in this room screamed that she belonged because there was very little about Temper Aninah that was pacifying. 

Beside me, Ridge brushed a stray wisp of hair from my face and slowly ran his honey-glazed eyes over my figure. I motioned for a waitress and ordered a round of tequila shooters before turning to regard him.

The devilish smirk playing on his lips alongside his dusky sable hair and softly flushed cheeks captured his boyish charm perfectly.

Dressed in his staple long trench coat which revealed his slightly unbuttoned silk shirt underneath, he leaned towards me cautiously. The hairs on my arm pricked in sudden anticipation as he whispered into the crook of my neck. "I wonder if you taste as irresistible as you look."

My body heated at his words, but when he tilted his gaze back to witness my reaction, I waved him off in a tease. "Behave yourself, Bridger Liu." I taunted him. "And you just might get lucky enough to find out."

"Don't make promises you know you won't keep." His smile was soft but it didn't reach his eyes.

He tenderly nodded at my lack of response and shifted to face the table, rejoining the group conversation.

Although Ridge had only moved to Graycott a couple years ago to live with his grandmother and attend Dalton, he managed to make a comfortable space for himself in all our lives. His parents were world-renowned artists so he grew up with the same silver spoon that we did. But that was where the similarities ended. Ridge was unfairly likeable, holding a gravitational pull of his own. He easily charmed everyone around him, winning over the students at the Academy and consistently feeding his own mysterious legend. Soon enough, nobody was surprised to see him with us. Sooner still, they started to expect it.

The rest of us shared the majority of our childhoods together, growing up in the same gated neighbourhood with tall white-picket fences and a staff of people awaiting both inside and out. Collectively, our families held the entire town by its proverbial balls, owning its people, property and pockets. Our parents were everything from companions, friendly rivals, business partners and government associates.

I knew what people saw in us. I knew the way they spoke about us. I knew how they admired us with equal parts resentment and hunger. We came wrapped in the American dream. It made us who we were. Over the years our friendship became a voluntary choice regardless of all the family connections. There came a time when we accepted our places and donned the skins of the monsters they all expected us to be.

And I was the worst of them all.

Even now when Ridge placed his arm around my shoulder and squeezed my arm, people stared around us and murmured amongst themselves. Because nothing about me, despite my best efforts, went unnoticed.

I was Sunday Harding.

Graycott's sweetheart and Dalton Academy's most darling treasure.

Daughter of Theodore Harding III and his socialite trophy wife; my mother, Lilliana Harding. My father was the state's wealthiest financier and business magnate; effectively an asshole since birth to everyone except his own family. A millionaire investor, he had a legion of employees coast-wide, all wrapped around his littlest finger. While he donated exhaustively to the self-benefiting charities of his choice, my father's true talent rested at his excellence in two weapons of choice: blackmail and bribery. Only the finer things in life for Ted Harding.

When the tequila arrived, I downed a slender shot of the cool liquid before the waitress could place the tray on the counter. Grabbing a lime from the small bowl, I bit down into the pappy citrus.

"Well, Shit!" Toby whistled. "Save some for the rest of us, Christopher Columbus. You just got here."

"First day of our senior year starts tomorrow," I wagged a finger between Ridge and me. Then motioning to the arrangement of alcohol in front of us, "Not a single one of these belongs to you."

"Oh, please," Ridley huffed, exasperated. She grabbed a shot. "It's immoral enough that you made me come to this god-forsaken place. I refuse to be sober for even a second."

"Cut the shit, Rids." Temper lightheartedly remarked, seizing a shot for herself. "You could have left right after the women's matches. So don't pretend you don't love roughing it up with the rats just a little bit."

Ridley stole a passing glance at Toby, a fleeting, vulnerable moment that I could have missed had I blinked.

"I've said it before and I'll say it again," Toby smirked, reaching for his own drink. "Our little Riddle likes it dirty."

"Ugh! Pig." Ridley's face squirmed in disgust. Her expression returned to the former air of disapproval she held about the night.

"She's here, as we all are because Volkov's next on the card." Ridge maintained. He grabbed two of the slender glasses, passing one to me and raising the other as a toast. "Leave it to The Cut to save the best for last."

All four hands joined him in unison.

"Second-best," I chimed, tipping my own drink towards Temper.

"To Freddie," Temper mused.

"And his uncanny ability to break as many noses as he does backs." Toby added, grinning.

Ridley groaned and we all sunk our drinks.