Chapter 9 Inferno

Date = 28 March

Same day. Same hangover. Same obnoxious boys.

Place = San Francisco (Inferno)

New place.

POV – Aria

"Wait for Logan at the door!" Enrique calls out as soon as we get out of the car. That comment is meant for me.

I salute bravely and grasp Leyla's hand, weaving the other arm through Lee's.

I have two reasons for doing this: First and foremost - I require some emotional and physical support (I'm a little unsteady from the hangover /slash/ kiss). Second, I need a human barrier between me and my fake lover (to keep me from doing something stupid that might land me in jail or naked in bed).

"Hi, how's the head?" Damion asks, passing us with a lopsided grin that would melt the frickin Snowqueen. Tall, broad-shouldered, sun-touched skin gleaming under the mid-morning rays. Ugh, why are all these guys blessed with such flawless genetics? It's detrimental to a girl's hormones. And health.

"Banging."

"Yeah, you should probably not drink everything my crazy girlfriend hands you," he says with a wink, voice teasing but lighter than last night's stormy edge. He looks almost reborn - hair still a little unruly, shirt half-buttoned like he dressed in a rush, his mood radiant.

"You seem chirpy ... made up?" I raise a brow, testing.

His grin stretches wider, smug enough to blind someone. "Spectacularly," he chirps, like a man who just conquered Rome. Before I can throw back another jab, Logan's voice cuts in, calling him, and Damion turns on his heel with all the swagger of a man who knows he's wanted. There's even a spring in his step, cocky and careless, like he's bouncing on invisible beats only he can hear. It's actually so sweet.

Lee, however, freezes. Dead stop. His eyes go wide, mouth parting in genuine awe at the sight of the racer. His gaze lingers too long, and a fleeting, uncomfortable thought runs through me - could the dude be gay? Not that I have anything against gays ― my cousin identifies as queer.

Damion is blissfully oblivious, too busy to greet his friends. I seize the opportunity, snapping out of my own head. My hand clamps on Lee's arm, tugging hard. His little body jerks as I drag him forward.

The club's entrance looms ahead, framed by massive steel doors that look like they've been stolen off an old bank vault. Each one is weathered with a patina of scratches and faint rust, giving them a heavy, timeworn dignity. They carry the weight of permanence, the kind that creaks with menace when pushed open, like they are warning you that once you step inside, there is no easy way back out.

And as if not enough, they are framed by bouncers in all-black with that dead-eyed stillness only men paid to break bones can manage. Bass music pulses faintly even through the metal, a promise of chaos waiting inside. The air reeks of sea salt and flowers, mixed with the sharp tang of spilled beer clinging to the pavement.

"Is that ..." Lee sounds a bit lost, so I butt in.

"Yep, that's Damion Grimm. A beautiful specimen of the male species - champion, adrenaline junkie, big on speed, not big on taking things slow. Mel's hubby-to-be."

"He's the one who raced a helicopter through the streets." For a second, Lee looks like a kid spotting a celebrity crush in real life. He now sounds more like a fan than someone interested in him as a man. Maybe he's not gay after all.

"Allegedly," my sister chirps. "I asked Mel ... she said the guys don't speak of the incident. Except when they're drunk."

Lee pulls his eyebrows up. He has beautiful brows. Brows any woman would kill to have.

"Welcome to this group of emotionally constipated men and girls with mental issues," I snigger.

"Thanks. I think I'll fit right in." I bet he will. I'm just not sure in which category he falls.

"Enrique asked me to give you the grand tour," Logan comments, walking up to us. He's slightly taller than his brothers. Just as handsome.

He pushes open the doors - they actually creak - revealing a vast, moody interior of glowing amber lights, concrete floors, dark wood, and exposed iron beams so polished you could check your teeth in it.

"I hear you start working here tomorrow." I wonder if he minds. It's his club, too, after all. And Enrique offered me the job in the heat of the moment, without consulting his brother.

"Are you okay with it?" I ask.

He flashes a smile that can make a nun horny and starts walking inside. "Totally."

The place has an old factory that crashed into the Renaissance vibe. Its rugged industrial bones unexpectedly get reborn by touches of middle-aged charm - like history collided with grit and somehow made something beautifully out of place. From somewhere in the background, a low, sultry bass thrums - not loud, just enough to curl around your ears like it's guarding a delicious secret.

"But I have to warn you, it gets busy in here. Lots of drunk guys looking to get laid."

"You can smell the testosterone in the wood," Lee snaps earnestly. I blink. He's strange.

Logan claps his giant QB hands together. "Welcome to Inferno!" he smirks. "House rules: don't get drunk alone, don't cry in the bathroom, no brooding in dark corners, and absolutely no line dancing." Leyla sniggers and skips ahead.

The foyer features a modernist-industrial design style that's raw, almost unfinished, providing a casual atmosphere not quite expected but at the same time welcoming.

Despite its simplicity and minimal urban tropes, you are greeted by an entrance adorned in soothing neutral hues with splashes of prominent subdued color, where ambient sounds, scents, and lighting work together to create a relaxed vibe.

Lee's eyes roam the space. "This place looks like a high-end warehouse had a baby with a private gentleman's club where Captain America is a main member."

We walk through the main hall - raw brick walls, smoky chandeliers hanging from industrial chains, steel catwalks overhead, leather booths tucked in dark corners, a bar that stretches like a runway of liquid vice. A huge fireplace glows along one wall, flames dancing behind black iron as if it might just be the entrance to hell.

Leyla grabs Logan's hand, while Lee and I follow them, listening to how Leyla lectures him on some weird facts about tarantulas, like how they can kick off microscopic hairs in your face when threatened and how females can live up to 30 years.

"Want to know a secret?" he asks softly. My sister's face lights up like a kid in a candy store, and even Lee leans in, curious.

"When we were young, Jackson had a huge Goliath Birdeater as a pet. Her name was Trainer." Odd name, I think. Lee's brow furrows deeply.

"A Goliath? Seriously? That thing must have been huge."

"Bigger than a plate. Easily seven times bigger than the one you caught today."

"That's one hell of a spider," Lee mutters with disgust.

"And every night, we removed Trainer from her cage and ... eh ... played with her, until one day she broke free and terrorized our mom in the shower."

Leyla's laughter bubbles up from deep within her, a contagious joy that infects the air, as her exuberance spills over.

"It's so funny." She bounces on her toes, every muscle in her body tingling with excitement.

Logan's voice deepens with suppressed laughter. "Mom didn't think it was funny at all. She grounded us for a week and locked Trainer's cage." Leyla laughs even harder.

Lee frowns, skeptical. "Then why were you all freaking out about the spider today?" Yep, he definitely is another insightful mentalist. Great.

Logan's shoulders shake slightly, and his face darkens. Even without mind-reading skills, I can tell something's off. And something definitely is off with this spider business.

"Eh ..." he seems to be considering his words carefully, "... let's just say it's not the spider that scared us." Wait, what? If not the spider, what then? The spider's ghost?

Okay, is it just me, or is that a rather evasive answer? Judging by the disdainful look on his face, Lee doesn't seem quite satisfied with it either. Meanwhile, Logan's already shifted gears, chatting with my sister about school like nothing's going on.

We turn right, through an archway leading to a dining area, hosting the same design style with lots of steel, exposed structural elements, brick, and fancy lighting, but the tables have a homey, romantic feel to them.

Whoever designed the interior of this club deserves a standing ovation. Even the massive rustic paintings - depicting medieval knights and sorcerers - blend seamlessly with the vibe. I stroll over to get a closer look at one - a fire-breathing dragon that practically leaps off the canvas with a stunning 3D effect.

"Mel painted all of them," Logan tells me. "She decorated the entire place." I can't help but feel impressed.

Design has been something I've always been interested in, particularly fashion design.

But after losing my parents and now dealing with my sister's illness, there's been no time or money for further education. When Noah landed a full scholarship, the plan was for him to get a degree and a solid job. Then he can support us. And I can seriously chase my own dreams.

To keep my hope alive, I'm posting makeup and fashion videos on social media. My followers are growing by the day. Who knows, maybe one day I'll be able to make a decent living out of it.

"This is the restaurant, and through there," he points to a steel door with some striking glass insets, "is the kitchen." I nod, making mental notes for when I start working here.

We make our way upstairs, from the main restaurant to the second level ― the private dining rooms. Each one is an elaborate individual space with a custom-made dining table fitted with plush couches and comfortable accent chairs. On one end of each room is a huge octagonal glass window overlooking the garden area and ocean, while on the other side, dark wood latticing separates it from the lower area like a cage.

This level was designed as an exclusive dining oasis, booked especially by celebrities to unwind and mingle in a more intimate setting ― away from prying eyes. Subsequently, I've come to realize that it means stalking fans or nosy paparazzi. And I also realize why.

"So, why did you decide to become a hockey player?" Logan directs the conversation in a new direction as we leave the restaurant.

"Eh," Lee's face turns into a mask of resignation, a facade that conceals some sadness hidden beneath a carefully crafted veneer.

"At first, hockey was a way for me to reach my dream." He wipes a hand over his face. "Now it's just a means of survival."

I truly don't understand what he means. And here I thought this one was gonna be straightforward, even simple. But complexity suddenly clouded that vision.

"So what is your dream?" Leyla asks, nosy like usual.

"I want to cut open dead bodies," he answers in all seriousness, and I turn my eyes without moving my head to stare at him. Even Logan looks slightly shocked.

Is that even a legal profession? You can study for? Gosh, another weirdo, it seems.

My sister chuckles, "You'll get along great with Jackson then." And she's not wrong.

Lee sniggers, and I wonder if it was a joke. This time, I move my head to fully look at him.

"Dead bodies?" I pose rather skeptically. He's not a serial killer, is he? Should I be worried? He is going to be in our group and around my sister, after all. He stares seriously at my face, his lips pressed firmly together.

"A Pathologist ... I want to be a Pathologist." His full lips pull into a broad smile. "I was finishing off my pre-med at Yale ... when ... eh ... before I had to come here." I silently let out a secret breath of relief. It's not something I would do, but it's much better than what I came up with in my mind.

"Yale," Logan asks, "Jackson did his punishment there, teaching the Bulldogs. Did you run into him?" Lee suddenly looks like a ghost, eyes huge.

"Eh ... no! No, no, no ... maybe ... but no." His pretty face fires up, blushing red like a tomato. Okay, that's not weird at all. Logan's handsome features pull into a deep frown.

Returning to the lobby, we slip beneath another archway, and as the steps guide us down into a cavernous lower level, the club's true personality begins to bear its teeth.

The air changes - cooler, buzzing louder with the echo of bass already testing the walls.

Overhead, enormous industrial cages dangle from blackened beams - some with moody amber lights, some decorative, some suspiciously good for acrobatics, as if waiting for a daring dancer to make a questionable life choice.

Suspended between them - an ancient banner unfurls - the Blackburn crest, frayed by time, colors muted but still defiant, a reminder that this hall belongs to their bloodline.

The whole place hums with a rugged, factory-renaissance aesthetic - rugged, raw, edgy - brick walls, steel ribs and rivets everywhere, and the dance floor unfurling like the courtyard of a besieged castle. Above it, a DJ booth rises like a throne dais, flanked by a suspended stage that could host anything from a bard to a fire-breather to a duel.

"This provides the guests with an unrivaled nightlife experience," Logan says, still frowning. "Most nights we have a band playing, and we also host karaoke nights."

I imagine someone belting Living on a Prayer beneath a wall of crossed longswords, and the absurdity is so perfect it feels like chaos dressed in chainmail.

We pass the long bar - easily the centerpiece. The bar front is literally the reinforced hull of a battering ram, iron studs intact, gleaming under the moody lights like it just smashed through a castle gate and stopped here for a pint. Its beam juts outward as a counter, the frame melting into shelving where bottles perch like gilded goblets in formation - every single one expensive enough to tempt betrayal, dangerous enough to make you forget loyalty altogether. The air carries a faint tang of spiced mead and citrus, riding on the steady pulse of music.

The seating is no less dramatic - cavernous leather booths tucked into shadowed alcoves, deep and plush enough to conceal a plotting council of warlords.

Above, a mezzanine curls around like a fortress rampart, more stone, more iron, and chandeliers forged from halberd blades and shield bosses - reborn as glittering crowns.

From a door behind the bar, Ilkay emerges with a slick smile. He's got a crate of bottles balanced effortlessly in his arms, the glass clinking with the seductive sound of liquid sin.

He nods a greeting as he sets it down, cracking it open like a knight lifting a visor before battle.

"That's Ilkay, right?" Lee asks.

"Eldest brother. Surgeon. Certified genius. Mysterious, quiet, broody," Logan explains flatly.

"Pretty," I say, "And I hear he's great with his hands."

Logan snorts. "That's true. I've seen his work," he chuckles. "But before you go trading in one brother for another," he teases, "You should know that he's in love with this girl who disappeared. He's still looking for her." I look at the hunky doctor.

"It's tragic and hot and honestly unfair to the rest of the female population," I banter with a deep sigh. Leyla runs to help Ilkay with the beer.

Lee nods solemnly. "He has midnight eyes and savior issues. I'm manifesting for him. He will find her." I hope he does. He always looks kinda sad.

Logan, however, gives Lee a broody glare as if thinking that statement was way too soft for a hockey player on Jackson's team.

"Moving on," Logan sneers.

We follow him deeper into the club, past a private booth area where velvet ropes and another bouncer separate VIP spaces from the normal population.

"You should know ... this is important if you work here," Logan suddenly indulges rather gravely. "What happens in VIP stays in VIP."

I swallow and wonder what stuff actually happens here. "Unless it involves glitter, goats, or twins. Then it goes on TikTok." He's joking, right?

"What about blood or murder?" Lee snaps.

"Then you call Jackson." I stare at him without blinking, trying to figure out if he's serious or not.

Yeah, it's a joke. It must be. But he's already moved on.

"The bars get overcrowded easily, so you'll have to learn all the names of the cocktails and drinks by heart, cause there's no room or time for error," Logan says while I stare at the overstocked bar, hauling any beverage I can possibly think of, and then some. "That's why we always try to have one of us at each bar."

"With 'one of us' ... you mean one of the boys?" I ponder. I don't want to mess this job up. I can't mess up.

"Hey. Not boys. Men. Sophisticated, well-groomed, emotionally ..." Logan grunts, but stops to pause. "Okay, mostly emotionally unstable but super functional adult males."

Lee snorts and rolls his eyes as he points at the mezzanine. "Do you keep them up there like expensive wines?" Logan sticks out his tongue at the little dude and continues his ranting as if nothing happened.

"Here you are at the epicenter of the action. Positioned under the lights with confetti cannons galore ... and I mean real ancient cannons." He smirks cutely. "You can get up close and personal with the DJ booth to be fully immersed in the high-energy atmosphere of the club," Logan explains while we walk over the massive dance floor.

"He looks like a jock, but he talks like a nerd," Lee gasps in my ear, with a buoyant lilt in his voice, and I bite my cheek to contain myself. He's funny, this little one. "Golden Retriever energy."

"Hey, Logan," Lee says, loudly now, "Does the club belong to all of you?"

Logan slides open some giant steel and wood stable-type doors. An open-air level, with more exposed beams, strings of industrial bulbs, and a fire pit encircled by wine-red couches. I'm starting to realize that the color scheme subtly represents a vintage American flag. Patriotic.

"Enrique and I started the club together," he answers, "But everyone helps out ... and now Jackson is constructing a fight club underneath." He points to the left, where heaps of sand and building material clutter the area.

Axel and Alejandro are standing in the middle of the garden, beer in hand, intensely focused on Jackson, who seems to be briefing them with lots of wild hand gestures. Probably talking about his new project.

I move my eyes from them to the horizon.

This is my favorite part of the club - a rustic bar with casual seating zones surrounding a water feature, set amidst lush foliage that immerses guests in an almost tropical environment like no other. The open room flows seamlessly onto the garden, a natural-looking rock pool, the private beach, and the ocean. I can only imagine the sunsets from this point ... gold and pink sinking into the bay. Definitely gonna be my brooding place.

"I just need to show you the VIP entrance and the VIP section on the top -" Logan's interrupted by his ringtone, and he holds up his hand, gesturing for us to wait. We stand in silence ... I'm staring at the view, Lee's staring at the three guys who are in deep conversation.

"Who's that with Jackson?" His voice sounds strange. Husky. Hoarse.

"Bulky statue with the great hair and the dog is Alejandro ... ex SEAL turned puppy-trainer, and Damion's older half-brother," I explain, and when I notice his expression, I add, "Long story."

"Just know his presence sucks the air out of the room without even trying. He'll save your life without speaking a word. Then train a Doberman to sniff out your lies."

Lee sniggers and shakes his head as if he thinks I'm weird.

"Axel, firefighter, pain with muscles."

"Looks like a tragic backstory?" Lee murmurs.

"He is the tragic backstory," I rap.

"So you stay with Jackson?" He nods, his eyes focused on his roommate. "He's scary," I say. Lee turns his eyes to me. The dude has beautiful eyes ... the color of liquid gold. And thick, black lashes that go on forever. The kind of lashes that don't even need mascara. Oh, I wish.

"Why?" His voice is still gruff. I watch Logan walking up and down the garden, talking on his phone.

"I swear he can read minds ... quiet, intense, dangerously observant. He gives devil vibes, as if he likes to play in hell," I blurt.

Lee pouts, his eyes back on Jackson. "Good to know." Then he adds as if to himself. "At least he's hot."

"Oh, obscenely. He blinks, and women consider legally changing their names." Lee's head snaps up to stare at me, bewildered, as if he's been caught burning butterfly wings.

I'm halfway through debating whether it's rude - or just nosy - to ask if he's gay when the soft click of polished shoes against the floor spins us around. Two men are approaching, moving with that calm, predatory authority that makes even the shadows seem to shrink back.

The Blackburn uncles. I've met John once before, brief and formal, but this other one ... the resemblance is unmistakable. Alex. Or so I think.

John gives a warm, quick nod, his eyes crinkling. "Ah, Aria ... how are you, girl?"

"Good." I step slightly ahead, subtly shepherding Lee. "Meet Lee ... he plays goalie for the Sharks now, and is Jackson's roommate."

"Roommate?" Uncle John also seems to be surprised at the mention of Jackson having a roommate. I still don't get it.

"Lee, this is Uncle John ... Jackson's uncle." He extends a hand toward Lee, who shakes it cautiously, sizing him up.

Alex steps up next, gray eyes appraising, but there's a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Hi," he says, voice calm, confident.

"You must be Uncle Alex, I presume? Good to finally meet you." His handshake is firm but not scary, and I relax a fraction.

"This is Aria, Enrique's girl. And Lee, Jackson's roommate," Uncle John introduces.

"Pleasure. Though I should warn you," he says, voice low and even, "I don't go by Alex. Haven't for a long time." His tone is calm, but final.

I blink, unsure how to respond. "You ... don't?" Enrique told me his name was Alex.

"No," he continues, his jaw tightening for just a fraction of a second, the hint of old scars lurking beneath calm. "Alexander was my father's name. The name died with him. I'm Ash."

R-i-g-h-t. Who wants a murderer's name? No one sane. But Ash?

"The man who raised him, gave it to him ... Blackburn ... burn ... ash," John offers, grinning. "Got a nice ring, doesn't it?"

"Oh ... okay." Guess it makes sense. Ash ... clean, sharp, unburdened.

John pats his shoulder, grinning. "Alright, we are going to join Jackson on the lawn before he changes into another mood. Don't get into too much trouble, you two."

They stride off, boots crunching against the stone patio. The morning air carries the faint smell of grass, mingling with the ghost of smoke from the restaurant grill. I glance at Lee.

"Well ... that went smoother than expected," Lee smirks. "It felt like meeting the parents."

Before I can answer, Logan reappears, phone tucked under his arm. "I need to go. Dean booked me on an earlier flight." He gestures toward a wrought iron staircase tucked almost shyly in the corner of the main club. "You'll find the girls up there." Then he's gone, swallowed by the huge doors.

I bite back the urge to start a full-blown LGBTQ+ discussion with Lee right now - there's no time, and honestly, it's irrelevant. I like him. That's enough.

So instead, I hook my arm through his, and we start toward the stairs. The faint hum of distant music floats through the air - a reminder that the world is still spinning. A faint scent of ocean mixed with lavender, lilies, and wet moss drifts on the wind, and my heart jitters between anticipation, nerves, and that familiar, subtle thrill of chaos lurking just around the corner.

"I guess we're climbing the stairs," I say. The iron rail is cold beneath my fingers.

"You're gonna love the girls," I tell him as we climb - the higher we go, the louder the murmur of chatter and gray noise becomes - until a scream detonates the air like a fire alarm.

"EEEEEEEEEEEHHHHHH!"

Lee jerks like someone just jammed a live wire into him. His eyes go cartoon-wide, his whole body locks in place.

Mel barrels toward me and clamps both hands onto my shoulders, shaking me like a martini at happy hour. My teeth rattle. My brain does cartwheels.

"Yeah," I try to whisper toward Lee's ear between violent jerks, "Mel has that effect."

He looks half-possessed, like he's just been resurrected by his own ghost.

"I was wondering if you were still alive after all those blowjobs!" Mel bellows.

Lee's jaw falls open so far, I'm worried it might dislocate. He looks like he's just been handed the world's worst life quiz.

"The shooter, not the -" I hiss, scrambling to clarify, "- not the sexual thing!"

"Ohhh," Lee croaks, though he still looks like he's reconsidering every choice that led him here.

"Who's this little popsicle?" Kiara swoops in, cheeks glowing, and squishes Lee's face between her palms like he's a particularly adorable dumpling.

Lee blinks rapidly, helpless, while Mel finally releases me. My head throbs, probably two shakes away from whiplash.

"Oh, he looks like a little K-pop star ..." Thalia gasps, clapping her hands together like she's just discovered a new collectible.

"Seriously ... I was thinking the exact same thing!" Mel chirps, her donut-wielding hand waving dangerously close to my hair. Sugar dust falls like confetti. Her pupils scream sugar high. Again.

Lee looks like he'd rather face live grenades than another compliment.

"Who are you, though?" Kiara leans back, eyes narrowing playfully as we shuffle into a booth, the vinyl seat squeaking under us.

"This is Lee," I cut in before he combusts. "The new Sharks goalie ... and Jackson's new roommate."

Mel pauses, her brows shooting up. "Roommate? Wait ... eh ... you're HIS roommate ... like staying with him ... in the same house?" She glances at Kiara, as if she needs backup to confirm this is not a hallucination.

Why does everyone seem to find it strange that Jackson would have a roommate? Maybe hell doesn't allow stayovers.

Lee's face turns red enough to rival a warning light. "Well ... I have my own key," he mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck. "But please don't hold that against me."

"Never! It's good ... GREAT! You've got tools I didn't expect you to have ... but hey ... still great." Mel throws her arm wide like she's presenting him to a roaring crowd. "I'm Mel, Jackson's little sister." She points her donut at the others, scattering crumbs. "That's Kiara, that's Thalia. You've met Aria. We're basically the chaos committee."

Mel leans closer again, frosting glistening, conspiratorial. "Blink twice if Jackson locked you in the basement already."

Lee doesn't blink, but he manages a smile, and this time it's more I'm-charmed than help-me-I'm-drowning, at least.

"Where is Logan?" Enrique appears behind me as if he rose from the floor, looking as if I'm hiding his brother in my bra or something. Ugh, the freaking malfunctioning robot!

"He had to go," Lee answers, and with some serious swearwords and big hand gestures, the robot walks down the stairs, cursing his younger sibling.

"So, that's your ... situation," Lee titters with a lopsided grin that forms a deep dimple in his cheek.

"You mean drama king deluxe?" I sigh. "Yes. That's my love song with commitment issues." The girls laugh. Hard.

Below, the club glows with golden light, as bartenders prep for the night. Music pulses just enough to make your ribs hum.

"Okay. So basically this whole club is one emotional support group disguised as a bar," Lee snubs.

"Exactly. We drink. We dance. We unpack trauma. Sometimes all at once," Mel laughs.

"But it grows on you. Like glitter. Or warm bread," I say grimly. Because it does.

"Or fungus!"

"Thank you ... Kiara."