Chapter 13 Ares
Ares
Ares has never been inside a nightclub before.
He’s sure that if he ever volunteered this information, people would treat it with suspicion or even just straight-up disbelief.
He looks like the kind of person who’d frequent this kind of place, proven by the other late-teen to early-twenties guys trickling
through the neon-lit doors, into the pounding heart of Club Sixty-Eight Hours.
They’re all dressed the same, with their double piercings and expensive undercuts and the glint of silver jewelry hanging from their necks, their arms around giggling girls in strapless tops and thigh-high boots.
He need only hover at the periphery of any group, and he’ll blend right in with them.
So it’s easy to follow them inside, made easier by the fact that the bouncers here clearly don’t give a shit.
They offer him the most cursory of glances before waving him forward.
They haven’t stopped anyone to check for ID, and from the bored, nearly stoned expressions on their faces, he doubts they would, unless someone were to waltz in wearing a middle school uniform.
Maybe not even then—he’s just spotted two women in tight white tops and plaid schoolgirl skirts, and he can’t tell if they’re actually that young or trying to look it, but nobody else appears worried about their legal ages.
Red strobes flash like warning signs down a winding corridor, which opens abruptly to a dance floor, already jam-packed with
bodies.
He’s never been inside a nightclub before, but it almost feels like he has, because everything here looks exactly like the
scene from the vision. The club name glowing neon pink above the bar counter. The posters advertising its special new Blue Lagoon cocktail, available today. Cheap black sofas crowding the corners, where
people are draped over the cushions, pouring drinks and playing cards and laughing at nothing. Massive screens curving upward
over the walls, distorting the senses, abstract streaks of light flowing over them like lava. The painted lanterns strung
above the DJ booth, the electric candles inside them offering a modern touch, something Chanel Cao might pick out from a catalog.
The place reminds him of hell, although it actually could be hell: the inescapable heat, the thick smoke filling the air, the amber glow around the bar counters, the stench of stale
alcohol mixed with bland cologne, the press of strangers’ bodies far too close to his own.
Now that he has his ring and the bruises as stamps of loyalty, this might actually work. If he can find Long Ge, he’s out,
and never coming back.
As he cranes his neck, scanning the dense dance floor, something sharp and hard taps his elbow.
He jerks away out of instinct and sees the long acrylic nails first, encrusted with gems, then the pale fingers and an oval-shaped face, slightly greasy with make-up or sweat. Some girl he’s never seen before.
“Shuaige,” the girl says, or shouts it rather, in order to be heard over the heavy rattle of music. “Guo lai gen wo wan’er
ya?” Come hang out.
“No, thanks,” he half shouts back, already looking past her.
“Why? Are you here with a girlfriend?” she asks, and even though he hasn’t glanced back at her face, he can hear the pout
in her voice.
“I’m busy.”
For some reason, she takes this rejection as encouragement to wrap her nails around his arm, pulling it too close to her,
and she speaks directly into his ear, her hot, beer-tinged breath fanning his skin uncomfortably. “Too busy to dance with
me?”
He wonders if it would be rude to just shrug her arm off. “I don’t dance,” he says. It’s true, and he doesn’t seem to be the
only one. Most of the people out on the floor aren’t really dancing but standing around, scrolling through their phones, only
remembering to bob their heads a little when the beat drops. A few are playing some sort of game where they keep holding up
their fingers and screaming numbers out at each other like they’re in an extremely drunk math tournament.
“We can do other things, if you’re not up to dancing,” the girl says, her nails wrapping tighter and sinking into his skin
like claws.
He pretends he doesn’t understand the suggestion.
“You don’t come here often, do you?” the girl continues, her persistence almost inspiring. “I’d definitely remember your face.”
His eyes flicker to her with new interest. If she’s a regular, then she might have seen Long Ge around before. “There’s this
man I’m looking for,” he says, cutting to the chase. “Early forties, short hair, glasses, square face. Has a scar about this
big—” He makes an estimate with his thumb and index finger. “On his left cheek. I’ve heard he comes down to this club a lot.
Do you know him?”
The girl purses her lips. “Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“I don’t remember right now,” she says coyly, her small, glitter-dusted face giving away nothing except desire. “But I might
later, if you dance with me.”
He has no patience for her teasing, not when his stomach sits tight and heavy as cement and the awful remix thudding through
the speakers is making his head hurt, but he can’t think of a better option. “Okay,” he says, resigned and hating himself
and this whole situation. He clenches his jaw and lets her lead him down to the grimy, crowded floor, completing his descent
into hell.
But if it means bringing back his brother, there are far worse places he would go.