Death Layer (The Depraved Club) Read online

  It’s sometimes said that sisters are built-in best friends. And for me and my sister Juliet, this was absolutely true. At least, it was when we were little. She’s two years older than me, and I absolutely idolized her when we were growing up. Juliet was always leading me off on epic adventures and insanely fun antics. Whether we were staging full-scale Spice Girls musicals in our shared bedroom, teaching each other how to do cartwheels in the backyard, or breaking into my mom’s makeup case for surreptitious (and poorly executed) makeovers, there was never a dull moment with Juliet around.

  But as we grew older, that adventurous spirit turned rebellious. My mother was a strict taskmaster, and my father let her rule over the household, and us girls, with an iron fist. She and Juliet butted heads ceaselessly from the time my sister hit her teenage years. And the harder my mom tried to hold on, the most desperate Juliet grew to fly away. By the time she was seventeen, Juliet was totally out of control. Partying every night, drinking and smoking, sleeping around—engaging in every bit of destructive behavior imaginable. I begged her to be careful, to take care of herself. I loved her more than anyone on Earth, but my love wasn’t enough to make her stay.

  The day she turned eighteen, Juliet ran off. She’d fallen in with a local biker gang, a really hardcore group of guys. She left us a note saying that she’d decided to join up with them as some sort of groupie, and that we shouldn’t come looking for her. She was a legal adult, and too damn stubborn to reconsider, so my parents had no choice but to let her go.

  I was devastated by her abandonment, and resolved to never be anything like her. I dove headfirst into my studies, my writing, and did my best to put her out of mind. But no matter how well I did in school, how many prizes I won, how many colleges I got into, no accomplishment was good enough to dispel the ghost of my departed sister from my parents’ hearts. It wasn’t until I went away to school that I finally felt free of her lingering, stifling presence.

  But as much as I hate to admit it, I’m still feeling the impact of what Juliet did. Because of her betrayal, I keep my heart safely locked away. I’m immediately suspicious of anyone who wants to be my friend, and insanely selective about the guys I’ll even consider dating. I can’t stand the thought of coming to love someone, the way I loved Juliet, and having them leave me behind. I’ve sworn never to let myself get hurt like that again, and so far I’ve managed just fine. I may not be the most popular girl in school, or have the most notches in my bedpost, but at least I’m not vulnerable to heartbreak.

  Of course, being safe from heartbreak means being safe from love, too...but that’s a conundrum to tackle another day.

  I’m just about to close my laptop when a new email pops into my inbox with a ding. I glance at the message, expecting some junky advertisement for penis enlargement or the like. But the email’s subject line makes my heart skip a beat.

  Interview Request from Advance Media, Re: Logan Farrah

  “Holy shit,” I whisper, hastily opening the message. I sent my resume to the media giant Advance on a wishful whim a few months ago. Could they seriously be reaching out to little ol’ me about an interview? I read the email with bated breath.

  Dear Ms. Farrah,

  We have received your resume and are very impressed with your scholastic record and achievements. If you are available, we would like to schedule an interview with you in the coming days. One of our popular media outlets is currently seeking editorial contributors. We think you would be a wonderful fit for the online publication, FootSolider. If you are interested, please let us know so that we can forward your information to FootSoldier’s managing editor. We look forward to hearing from you—

  I can’t even read the last few lines of text—my vision is swimming with excited glee. I let out a squeal of joy, leaping out of my chair and dancing ecstatically around my dorm room. In a flash, Emma is right back in my doorway, staring perplexedly at me and I jump and jive all over the place.

  “What the hell is going on?” she asks, befuddled by my outburst.

  “I just got an email from Advance Media!” I cry, clasping Emma by the soldiers.

  “Okay...?” she replies. Emma is not exactly the most plugged-in person on the planet.

  “They own, like, every blog and online publication on the East Coast. At least the ones that are worth reading,” I babble on. “There’s an opening at one site, FootSolider, and they want me to come in for an interview!”

  Emma may not have any interest in blogs, but even she recognizes the word “interview”.

  “Logan, that’s wonderful!” she cries, throwing her arms around me, “I knew something was going to come through for you. You’re too brilliant not to get snatched up.”

  “Well, I haven’t been snatched up yet,” I laugh, “But I’ve been reading FootSoldier for years. I really dig their aesthetic, and I think my writing style is right up their alley.”

  “In other words, they’d be crazy not to hire you,” Emma grins.

  “I’m definitely a good fit for the job,” I allow.

  “Ugh. That modesty thing is going to be the death of you,” Emma laughs, releasing me from her bear hug. “This calls for a celebratory drink!”

  “Weren’t we already going out for a drink?” I ask.

  “Well yeah,” she shrugs, “But isn’t it nicer to be justified in it?!”

  “I’ll say,” I laugh, grabbing my purse and trailing Emma out the door.

  We step out into the warm May evening, arms linked. My body feels weightless as we make our way through the streets of Boston. It’s like I can breathe freely for the first time in months. Finally, I’ve got a lead on a job that might actually pan out, a job I’d kill to have. Maybe I won’t have to crash land into post-graduate life after all.

  Chapter Two

  The powers that be at Advance Media waste no time, that’s for sure. Mere hours after I respond to their first email, they schedule me for a meeting with FootSolider’s managing editor, Elliot Simmons, to take place the very next day. My stomach does a triple axel when I read my appointment time, and I hardly sleep a wink that night. I know that I have to walk into FootSoldier’s Boston offices with all the confidence I can muster, but I can’t help but be nervous. There’s so much riding on this interview going well, far more than I’d care to admit. But while I’m busy worrying about the impending meeting, the fitful night passes. Time to rise and—hopefully—shine.

  “You’re going to kill it,” Emma assures me that morning, thrusting a cup of coffee into my hands. I raise the mug gratefully to my lips, running through all the typical interview questions in my head.

  What are my strengths and weaknesses? Where do I see myself in five years? What made me apply to Advance Media in particular?

  The only problem is, my answers seem pretty thin all of a sudden.

  I’m great at stonewalling affection and terrible at emotional availability. Hopefully not sleeping on a bean bag chair in my parent’s basement. Because I really really really need a job please just hire me.

  Yeah. This thing should go great.

  I run my fingers through my artfully tousled hair. FootSoldier is an edgy, ballsy publication. Its stories are always one step ahead of public opinion and awareness. The writers who do well there are mostly millennial and slightly hipster, but also very often female, which is a huge deal for any popular site. I tried to dress accordingly, in black skinny jeans, a white slouchy tee, and charcoal cardigan. And of course, a swipe of my favorite red lipstick—the one thing I never leave home without. I’ll just have to hope that I blend in with the natives.

  “OK. Time to face the music,” I say, plunking my drained coffee mug in the sink.

  “That’s the spirit. I think,” Emma replies, giving me a swift hug. “Don’t come back here until you’ve got yourself a nice, cushy job.”

  “But no pressure, right?” I mutter, setting off to face the day.

  By the time I arrive at the interview, my mind is racing a mile a minute. I’ve mad
e the mistake of pinning too much on this one interview. I can’t psych myself out like this—if I do, it’s game over. Standing outside the unassuming refurbished warehouse that houses the FootSolider offices, I force myself to pause and take a breath. You can do this, I coach myself. Remember, they called you in for a reason.

  With my nerves as in check as they’re likely to get, I push open the heavy metal door and ride an industrial-looking elevator to the top floor of the warehouse. When the doors slide open again, I step out into the single coolest office I’ve ever set eyes on. The entire floor has been gutted and repurposed as an open workspace. Unfinished surfaces like exposed brick and untreated wood lend the place an edgy vibe, but the state-of-the-art laptops lined up along the community desk are anything but dated.

  Even more impressive are the dozen people toiling away at those laptops. Each FootSoldier staff member is young, attractive, and hip as can be. I doubt if a single one of them is older than thirty. And even more remarkable is the fact that all but three of them are women who appear to be around my age. I knew that FootSoldier was a forward-thinking publication, but I had no idea their business practices were so progressive.

  “You must be Logan,” says a voice from over my shoulder.

  I turn around to find a tall, svelte woman standing behind me. She’s rocking an impeccably tailored blazer, wavy ombre hair, and thick-rimmed black glasses.

  “That’s me,” I reply, tucking my portfolio under one arm and extending my free hand. “I’m here for an interview with Elliot Simmons.”

  “Well, what luck,” the woman smiles, giving my outstretched hand a firm shake, “I happen to be Elliot Simmons.”

  “You’re...?” I begin, before I can stop myself.

  “A chick. Yeah,” Elliot laughs, “Relax, you’re not the first person who’s come in here expecting to see a dude behind the editor’s desk. It’s a symptom of the sick times we lives in, my friend. I don’t hold people’s socially-conditioned sexism against them.”

  “Oh. Well. Cool,” I say lamely, hoping that my embarrassment hasn’t painted my cheeks fire engine red.

  “Let’s get cracking, shall we?” Elliot says, leading me into her office, a glass-walled cube apart from the group work space.

  I settle into a chair before Elliot’s sleek, midcentury modern desk. She’s got three computer screens arranged around her workspace, each one crowded with articles-in-progress, news sites, and complex lines of code. Elliot must be one fiercely competent editor to keep track of all this, or else a computer genius. She sinks down into her plush leather chair and gives me a long, hard once-over. I lift my chin, bracing myself for the grilling she’s surely about to give me. But instead of firing off her first round of questions, she just nods.

  “I like what you’re about, Logan,” Elliot says thoughtfully.

  Again, her words take me by surprise. “Oh, thanks,” I reply, at a loss. Maybe my outfit’s doing more work than I would have guessed?

  “I’m not a huge fan of the standard interview,” she goes on, “I prefer a more research-oriented approach to hiring.”

  She turns one of the computer screens my way. My eyes go wide as I see the content of the information displayed there: every single bit of my life that exists on the internet. Photos, videos, articles, comments, Elliot’s rounded up everything. I suffer a brief moment of panic, trying to recall if I have any embarrassing party photos or unfortunate teenage love poems posted on the Web. But I guess I wouldn’t be here if she’d found anything too atrocious.

  “Wow,” I breathe, “Thorough.”

  “Thorough, sure. And very informative,” she says, looking at me over steepled fingers. “You’ve got a great voice, Logan. Very straightforward. Very measured. Level-headed but unwaveringly inquisitive. I think you’re exactly what we need around here.”

  “Really?” I ask, my hopes rising like mercury on a 100 degree day.

  “Really,” she confirms, “Plus, you don’t have any obnoxious social media habits. Or a Tumblr about your cat. Or an online porn addiction, from what I can tell.”

  “Would you be able to know that?” I ask, eyes wide.

  “Oh, absolutely,” she smiles, “But like I said, you’ve passed the pre-interview-Google with flying colors. I’d like to jump right in and give you your first trial assignment. See what you’re made of, so to speak. If I like your first article, you’re hired. If not...Well. You can deduce the rest.”

  “Sure,” I nod excitedly, “Thank you so much for—”

  “Don’t thank me yet,” she insists, leaning back in her chair, “I haven’t told you what the assignment is.”

  “If it’s anything like the material you tend to publish, I’m all in,” I say enthusiastically, “I’m a longtime reader of FootSolider, and I really—”

  “Oh, it’s quite in line with our usual focus,” Elliot cuts me off. “But the assignment I have in mind for you comes with a bit of an...exponent.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “Well, usually our writers rely on online research to gather evidence and anecdotes about their stories,” Elliot tells me. “Most of the people and corporations we investigate here are woefully unequipped to keep tech-savvy investigators out of their business. There will be a component of that in what I’m asking you to do, at first. But most of your research will be a bit more...analog.”

  “All right,” I say slowly, “I’m still with you.”

  “Super,” Elliot says, training her intent gaze on me, “Here’s what I have in mind for your first assignment, Logan. Unless you’ve been living under a rock for the last five years, you know that the country’s collective curiosity has swung toward what I like to call ‘fringe lifestyles’. Communes. Cults. And, more specifically for our purposes, outlaws.”

  “...Outlaws,” I repeat blankly. Like in the Wild West or something? Where could she possibly be going with this?

  “Outlaws, yes. Outlaw biker gangs in particular. Motorcycle clubs, as they’re called to those in the know,” Elliot says excitedly, “Blame it on Sons of Anarchy, I guess, but everyone seems totally fascinated by the outlaw MC culture these days.”

  I swallow down a surge of apprehension. My standing impression of bikers is not exactly flattering to them. “Sounds...interesting,” I manage to say.

  “Very interesting. To us and our readership,” she goes on, “I’ve become particularly fascinated by a local MC—sorry, that’s short for motorcycle club—that operates all along the East Coast. They’re exactly the kind of group our readers will be interested in—slightly amoral, very secretive. The members call themselves the Circle of Death.”

  The office swings wildly around me as my mind is thrown for a Grade A loop. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Or rather, I can’t believe what I’m hearing again. That name, the Circle of Death, is seared into my memory as if with a white hot brand. That’s the name of the biker gang Juliet ran off with when I was sixteen. That’s the so-called “family” she left her real family behind for. That’s who she left me behind for.

  “You OK, Logan?” Elliot ask, “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “What? Oh. No, I’m fine,” I say quickly, “I’ve just...heard of that gang before, is all.”

  “I’m not surprised. They’re downright famous around here,” Elliot replies, “The Circle of Death MC is part of the largest organized crime syndicate on the East Coast. They’ve been involved in all manner of wildly illegal activity throughout the years. But the most intriguing thing about them, to me, is that no one’s ever tried to stop them.”

  “You don’t want me to try—?” I burst out, bewildered.

  “Oh, god no,” Elliot laughs, “I’m not sending you in to bust them up or snitch on them or anything like that. I wouldn’t send you on a suicide mission. Not for your first assignment, at least. No, what I have in mind is more editorial. A lifestyle expose, if you will. A look inside the world of the hardened, tough-as-nails men of the Circle of Death MC. See wher
e I’m going with this angle?”

  “Yeah, I think so,” I say hesitantly.

  “You sound concerned,” Elliot observes.

  You have no freaking idea, lady, I think to myself. But out loud I say, “I’ve just...never taken on a project like this before. I wouldn’t know where to begin, getting access to those biker types.” Except directly through my big sister, but Elliot doesn’t need to know about that. I get the feeling she’d pounce on that connection in a heartbeat.

  “That’s the thing,” she says, waving my apprehensions aside, “I know exactly how to get you access. Or rather, I know exactly how you might go about getting access. You’d have to make it happen for yourself.”

  “Do tell?” I say, trying to keep the dread from my voice.

  “Rumor has it that the Circle of Death has been spending some serious time lately at a place called The Club,” Elliot tells me.

  “Is that, like, a bar or something...?” I ask.

  “Not exactly,” Elliot says, “It’s more like...bear with me, here...a resort for the depraved. A remote destination for all things Dionysian. Booze, drugs, sex, you name it. Some genius bought up this secluded island off the coast—there’s a Revolutionary fort out there, used to be some kind of lookout—and turned it into this hotbed of debauchery. Crazy, huh?”

  “Insane,” I agree wholeheartedly.

  “I haven’t even told you the best part yet,” Elliot rushes on, “Word is, boatloads of young women head out to The Club every night of the week, looking for the bad boy experience. This place caters exclusively to MC types these days, so all these chicks jump on a yacht and sail out there to go wild for a night. These girls get to live out their biker boy fantasies, and the bikers get a new boatload of pretty young things every damn night of the week. It’s like a double-sided escapist Valhalla!”