The Pledge (The Pledge 1)

“Come on, it’s the first club we’ve heard about in weeks. I don’t think we should miss our chance to go.”

I’d just finished clearing the last of the tables and I was exhausted, but I knew better than to complain. I worked hard, but my parents worked harder—from sunup to sundown—never giving voice to their weariness, even though I could see it etched in the new lines on my mother’s face and in the worried expression my father wore each and every day.

“I don’t know, Brook, a club is the last place I feel like going tonight. Besides, where’d you even hear about this place?”

“Those guys. The ones from table six. They gave me the address and said I should bring you with me.” She wiggled her eyebrows. “They were asking about you, or at least one of them was. I think he kind of likes you.”

“Or maybe he just felt sorry for me after I nearly got myself hanged.” When Brook stiffened, I realized it might be too soon to be glib about the incident. Clearly, she wasn’t amused.

“I think it’s better if I just go home,” I said, trying to change the subject. “My dad’s really mad at me.”

But Brooklynn was determined. “It’s early, and you can stay at my house tonight. That way he doesn’t have to know you’re going out. Besides, it’ll give him a chance to cool off.” She turned her wide eyes on me, the way I’d seen her do to hundreds of different men. “Just go for a while, and if you don’t want to stay, then we’ll both leave.”

I stopped what I was doing and put my hands on my hips, practically daring her to look me in the eyes and lie like that. “No, we won’t.”

“We will. I swear it.”

I pursed my lips, but felt myself relenting even as I asked, “What about Aron? Is he going?” I already knew the answer, of course. Brooklynn never asked Aron to come with us.

Brook rolled her eyes as if my question was unreasonable. “You know they’re not exactly looking for more boys at the clubs, Charlie. Besides, Midget gets all twitchy and over-protective.”

The door between the kitchen and the dining room had been propped open while we cleaned up for the night. My father passed the doorway, and I caught a glimpse of his hard stare. I felt him pinning me to the ground, reminding me with that single glance that I’d messed up.

When he was gone again, disappeared into the depths of the kitchen, I looked back at Brooklynn

.” All right,” I muttered, deciding that maybe Brooklynn was right, maybe my father did need some time to cool down. “I’ll go.”

III

Brooklynn must have known that I was having second—and even third—thoughts.

I glanced around. Something didn’t seem r C821 Tiight. Most of the clubs were downtown, tucked away in the industrial districts, but somehow this was darker—and dirtier—than any of the places we’d ever been before.

From the streets behind us, I heard the faint crackle of the loudspeaker. The message was so muffled and tinny that if I hadn’t already memorized the words, I wouldn’t have been able to make them out: “PASSPORTS MUST BE CARRIED AT ALL TIMES.”

It felt as if even the queen had abandoned this part of town.

“Seriously, stop worrying, Charlie. We’re in the right place.”

The brick buildings were defaced with layers of fading graffiti. The windows that weren’t broken or boarded over were coated with grime. Cigarette butts littered the ground amid the rotting garbage. The stench of decomposing food was bad enough, but the mingling odor of human waste made it hard not to gag.

And yet conspicuously absent were the new homeless of the Serving class who had infiltrated the city, sleeping on the streets and sidewalks, seeking refuge in doorways and alleys, scavenging for food scraps and spare change.

But as we walked, I heard—and felt—the distant stirrings of music trying to break free from one of the warehouses ahead of us.

Brooklynn stopped, pointing at a flash of red paint near the end of the alleyway. “I told you! That’s it.”

I knew she was right, because it was the only door that was freshly painted. Probably in years. Possibly decades.

Brooklynn hurried down the alleyway and bounced up the two steps in heels that seemed recklessly high, heels that had once belonged to her mother. I glanced down at my plain sandals, the brown leather straps laced around my bare ankles.

She reached out to knock on the solid door, rapping her knuckles against the red steel. The sound was swallowed by the bass resonating from within.

She tried again, pounding with the side of her curled hand, striking the door as hard as she could.

Still, nothing.

I pushed her aside. “I think we just go in.” I gripped the iron handle and pulled as hard as I could. When the door opened, the noise beyond reached inside me, rattling my bones. It beckoned me.

Brooklynn hopped up and down, clapping her hands before rushing past me in a blur.

I hurried after her, not wanting to be left outside alone.

The large man inside the door stopped us, holding up an arm that was the girth of my entire body as he reached for Brook’s Passport. I was certain his silence was meant to be intimidating, and he wasn’t half-bad—with all of his brawn and his menacing scowl—but he was just like any other bouncer at every other club we’d been to.

It wasn’t until his gaze fell on Brook—not her Passport—that my throat tightened. I hated this part.

He knew we were underage, and we knew that he knew it, so he would be doing us a favor by letting us in. He would admit us, of course, but not before getting something out of it in return.