We follow the sound, push through the door and suddenly we’re standing on a balcony that’s seen better days.

The paint is chipped, and the railing has rusted over, but you can tell it was a beautiful place once upon a time.

The ceilings are high with intricate crown molding in desperate need of some attention, but as I step closer to the edge and look out, I would guarantee nobody here has noticed, nor do they care.

Like the girl from the parking garage, several others below wear bright wigs and loud patterns. Half of the men are in slacks and button-ups, the rest putting off more of a street vibe like the boys, jeans and T-shirts with high-top sneakers to match.

This time, it’s Arsen who grabs my hand, leading me down the staircase, the other two on our tail.

Our feet hit the final step and no sooner than Arsen yanks me to a stop does a man with black curls covering the top of his head slip before us.

He eyes Arsen, the guys behind us, and then looks at me.

“Who’s your friend?” His tone is short.

Ransom slips in front of me without a word and the guy softens, laughing lightly as he steps aside.

We follow Ransom down onto the main floor.

The people around here are chatting and smoking and lightly swaying to the music, but what was hidden from the view of the balcony are all the separated rooms tucked beneath it.

None of the spaces have doors, but the openings are as wide as French doors would be. Some have strange strands of beads hanging from the ceiling to the floor while others have some sort of Christmas lights strung across. There’s even a tie-dyed curtain hung along one that may have been a sheet at one time.

There seems to be no real rhyme or reason for anything, but nobody cares, they are simply laughing and talking among their friends.

Tucked deep within the area closest to us is a wall of cabinets turned bar.

There is no seating, no loitering, no more than a walk-up counter with cocktail waitresses coming and going, full trays in hand. I realize they are the ones wearing the wigs.

We continue forward, coming up to what looks like a hookah room, a guy our age steps in front of us, blocking my view.

“What’s going on, Freddy?” Beretta clasps hands with the Ken doll-looking guy.

“Oh shit, I didn’t know you guys would be here. I’d have brought more cash.”

Cash?

I realize then, there’s a deck of cards in his hand.

The guy glances toward me, and with a grin, he extends his hand.

Considering how Ransom slipped in front of the last man, I cut a quick look his way.

Something flashes in his eyes but when he gives a curt nod, I accept, squeezing as hard as he does.