Present
I’m back at Fight Club at a quarter to noon. Daylight doesn’t do this place any favors, but I can’t help calculating the cost of pavement, new paint inside, maybe some bleachers around the cage…this place could be legit. Of course, I’d want to kick out the vampires, or maybe just make them sign something restricting their activity. Part of the thrill of this place is the danger; I wouldn’t want to take that away completely.
My thoughts are swirling around waiver forms and liquor licenses and costs of regular powerwashing when my eyes land on Trey’s tall form. He stands in a pool of light, dust motes dancing around his powerful body. His tattoos really aren’t bad. Works of art, really. I want to peel off his clothes and make him tell me the stories of how, when and why he got them
