Carry The Winners To A Private Room

With her peripheral vision, the reporter had noted that there were doors at the back of the club—obviously what had been offices back when this had been a warehouse, now apparently converted into private rooms. The reporter swayed a little as she directed her two "slaves" to pick up Aimee and herself and carry them into a private room.

The two men obeyed. Lois Lane rode piggyback on Jorge's broad back, a cup of beer in one hand to quench her thirst, while the senseless Aimee was held over Mac's shoulders in a firearm's carry. The reporter half-dazedly wondered if people would give them trouble...but the crowd parted, and when Jorge got to the door to the nearest room, ducking so that Lois didn't bash her head against the lintel.

The office beyond had been converted into a kind of lounge. There were couches flush against the wall of the cozy room, a low table, a flatscreen television against one wall, recessed lighting...and everything was black, but splattered with random strands and streaks of paint; it was a bit like stepping into a Pollack painting.

Aimee was only half-conscious when they laid her on one couch. Lois was squeezed in between Jorge and Mac...the Black man spoke briefly to a red-haired woman at the doorway, who disappeared before Lois got a good look at her.

"Who was that?" Lois asked.

"Waitress," Mac lied. "I figured you might be thirsty. You've already finished your beer."

Lois looked at the cup in her hand. It was empty. She blinked, not able to remember draining the last drop. In fact, she'd runk an awful lot tonight, much more than she normally did, but she wasn't feeling nearly as tipsy as she should.

"Great. So...you guys," Lois leaned back in the couch and stretched out her arm, behind the shoulders of both men. "I'm going to ask you a couple of questions, and I want you to answer me honestly, okay?"

Mac and Jorge shared a glance, then gave their most disarming smiles.

"Sure. I mean, you won the game," Jorge said. His hand came down to rest on the reporter's knee. "We have to do anything you want for the rest of the night."

Lois stared at the hand on her knee. She could feel the warmth of his palm through the tight red material...and for the moment, she decided not to do anything about it. The reporter knew she needed their cooperation, at least for now.