“Duly noted.” I watch her discard my knife in a trash bin with a sharp stab of pain to my gut. “How did you know I was carrying?”
“Carrying?” Her full lips twist into a sardonic smile. “You’ve been walking odd tonight, favoring one leg. And you kept looking down at your ankle on the ride here.” She shrugs, like this skill is nothing at all.
But to me, it’s everything. It’s a part of the equation; one of the necessary variables to help solve the problem.
She hovers close to me, and I’m drawn to the hum of her skin—that crackle of chemistry between us. “You wore your contacts,” she says. “Good.” Then she drives her fingers into my hair to muss it up. “But better. Now untuck your shirt.”
With barely constrained resentment, I do as instructed, trailing behind her as she approaches the lone straggler at the back of the line. I’m supposed to be playing this part…the shmuck…and yet, Blakely makes the role feel all too real.
“We need tickets,” she tells the guy.
He scoffs and looks around. “Sold out, baby.”
“How much?” she insists.
He sniffs hard and sinks his hands into his oversized jacket. Then he looks her up and down. “I only have two,” he says, “five-hundo a piece.”
Blakely doesn’t blink as she reaches into her cross-shoulder bag and produces a zip pouch. She counts out the cash, and the guy reaches for the wad. “Show me the tickets,” she demands.
He shrugs into his jacket and pulls out two tickets which, surprisingly, look to be professionally printed. They make the trade.
As we move toward the line, I look at her. “How did you know he had tickets?”
“Shit, you ask a lot of questions.”
I do. I make a note of that, as I don’t want her to get even more suspicious of my motives. “Just curious.”
“You just get to know these things when you deal with people,” she says.
I’m sure this is true, to some extent. But there’s a reason why certain people take particular career paths. Detectives, investigators, politicians. They have attuned instincts, and an innate ability to read people.
Empathy plays a part.
For Blakely, this skill isn’t so much innate as it is learned. Developed and honed.
There are two kinds of empathy: cognitive and emotional. Cognitive empathy is the ability to understand what others are feeling. Emotional empathy is the capability to feel what others are feeling.
There’s a decisive difference.
Cognitive empathy in the hands of a psychopath is a dangerous device. They can read a person, suss out their vulnerabilities, and use those vulnerabilities against them.
From what I’ve observed, Blakely has remarkable cognitive empathy. So remarkable, in fact, she’s able to use people’s emotions to manipulate them and the situation.
Mary had journals filled with insight into this characteristic, and I’ve studied them cover to cover. My sister was an expert in her field, much like I am in mine. I never appreciated how much psychology and science intersected until she was gone.
It’s too late to tell her now.
We reach the front door of the warehouse. The burly bouncer with a neck the size of my thigh winks at Blakely as he accepts our tickets. He overlooks me and talks directly to her. “You want to be a card girl?” he says to her. “We have an opening.”
I might as well not exist. That, or these men don’t find me a challenge. I’m not any sort of imposing obstacle to Blakely.
“I have a job, thanks,” she says. “Just here to enjoy the bouts.”
He grunts and nods at her, apparently approving of her response. Maybe it was a test; has she ever been to a fight before? As I scanned the crowd earlier, I mentally calculated around sixty people. People that are probably return customers.
The bouncer pushes the warehouse door open for us, and there’s two more beefy guys waiting to pat us down before we enter into the dark underbelly of the city. Packing boxes and assembly machines have been cleared to make room for a caged ring in the center with limited standing space surrounding it.
We cluster into a throng as people vie for the best position to view the ring. Since we’re not here to actually watch the fight, I take Blakely’s hand and steer us through the crush of bodies to a less crowded area.
An octagon ring made of wire mesh and chain-link fencing has been erected in the middle of the building. Crowd control barricades surround the arena itself, and gym mats layer the cement floor.
Just like at the nightclub, there’s a VIP section here—a place for the wealthy and elite to view the fight unobstructed.
I nod toward the makeshift bleachers, and Blakely understands my signal. She starts weaving her way there. Once we’re situated right below, she whispers near my ear, “When you spot Ericson, do nothing. Don’t even look.”
I squint at her, as if that will help me decipher her code. “What do I do, then?”
She sweeps the area, then pulls the hoodie of her jacket up to shield her face. “I’ll let you know when I figure that out.”
“Of course.”
The differences between Blakely and I are too many to count. I rarely, if ever, go into a situation without a plan. A carefully constructed and tested plan with contingencies. Blakely shoots from the hip…for lack of a better comparison.
This might be the most dangerous aspect of all about her.
Where I depend on structure and routine, she’s able to improvise. This needs special consideration before I get to the testing phase.
A piercing whine of feedback cuts through the warehouse, quieting the crowd considerably. A man wearing a black suit stands on a crate as he talks into a headpiece microphone. He’s the promoter of tonight’s show.
According to him, tonight will host fifteen bouts. The first bout, the promoter says, is between Lucky Vince and Mike the Truck, to settle a beef they had over a girl. Each bout will last three minutes. He goes on to ramble out a list of rules.
I did a little Googling on the subject of MMA fighting before we got here, just to be prepared. Mixed Martial Arts. Pretty much, anything goes in that ring. A few minutes might not seem long, but when you’re locked in a barricade and there are little rules to follow…the sport turns into a bloodbath. Unless a contender taps out or there’s a knockout, the winner is chosen by the roar of the crowd.
As the promoter wraps up, I note the medical personnel along the sidelines.
“There he is,” Blakely says.
I follow her line of sight to where a group of suits are being led to the top of the bleachers. Ericson is amid them, followed closely by Brewster.
A band of apprehension threads my spine as I realize I’m the one up now…until I remind myself that this is all a farce. Unlike Blakely, I’m not here for Ericson. He’s not my concern. His wife isn’t my concern.
Blakely is all that matters.
The lights of the warehouse blink out, quickly followed by dim emergency lights flashing on. A spotlight circles the ring as a card girl wearing a blood-red bikini walks the length with a sign held high announcing the first round.
The sudden uproar of the crowd announces the contenders as they enter the caged ring through their gates.
Blakely turns my way. “We need to get closer,” she shouts.