Playing with the Enemy

“You here alone?”

“What if I am?”

“Wanna head over to that corner? It's empty,” the young man replied, leaning close to my ear.

I leaned back, eyeing him. I did a quick assessment: $100,000 watch, $5,000 haircut, $300,000 suit.

“Sure,” I commented with a smile. Loudly. The club was packed tonight, and the music was blaring.

I moved in front of him, directly to the spot he had indicated with a nod. I turned to face him as he approached. He was tall. My height, maybe taller.

He was slouching and glancing around. I knew the look.

He stepped up to me, then moved to face the wall. I stopped him.

“Ummm, I usually do that,” I stated casually, keeping my tone friendly. The kid looked like he needed a friend, and I needed a little fun myself; I didn’t want to scare him away.

“Ah. Oh…can you…switch tonight?” he asked, his eyes trembling slightly. Even in the dimness of the room, with the flashing neon strobe lights, his eyes were bright.

He was younger than me, but of age.

I was safe.

“Nah,” I called out jovially, “I prefer it that way.”

“Oh…” he mumbled, his eyes drifting away as he bit his lower lip. “I…I can pay you. 100,000. What do you say?” he asked, almost pleadingly.

I knew that look too. Someone still new to the game.

I stared him in the eye and took a step forward, getting in his space.

He swallowed. Trembling eyes on my steady ones.

“500,000,” I said slowly.

He nodded hurriedly, with barely a second's hesitation.

I assessed him again.

A rich kid. Definitely. But also a careful one. I could guess why he chose me. I was older than many in the club, and I didn't look like a pauper either.

I wouldn't hang on to him. Probably.

I smiled again.

He turned, let his pants down, and I went in. Easily. He had prepared himself.

He gasped and squeezed me, but I kept going, slow at first. I wasn't sure how new he was to this. Then, when he relaxed, I pumped him fast. Not hard, I'm not a brute.

I listened, gauged, and moved with him until he came, his large frame shuddering and slumping against the wall.

I pulled out.

In the darkness of the club, people were fucking everywhere. It was that type of place.

If you didn't want sex, you went somewhere else.

As for me, I mostly liked to watch. And because I'm not that young, I rarely get approached, which worked out just fine.

Tonight, however, someone had made a move, and I was in a good mood, especially after over an hour of spectating.

The kid slid a card into my hand. He leaned in again. “1111, that's the code. The money's in there,” he said, gazing at me with the kind of gratitude one reserves for that server or ice cream man who gives you an extra helping of your favorite food or treat, without you having asked.

I smiled again. There was no need to speak. This wasn’t some networking event or meet and greet.

It was a sex club, and we weren’t acquaintances.

Moreover, I wasn't interested in talk. That's for daytime. At night, I watch, I listen. I breathe.

The happy, rich kid turned to leave, and I slipped his card back in his pocket with one of my own.

As he walked away, I pulled out my phone and transferred $550,000 to my card. The access code was already written on it. I really don't like to talk.

I went back to watching the boys and the men. The hunters and the prey. The buyers, the players, and the ones for all seasons.

==========

The next morning, I walked into my lawyer's office. My company was brokering a deal with a top investor. I had met the investor before, a seasoned art curator from old money.

He was setting up a gallery, and my company was to handle the construction work and interior design, if we could close the deal today, that is.

I strolled in at ten a.m. on the dot, to find the elder gentleman I was familiar with seated with two other men. I glanced at them casually as I turned to shake my lawyer's outstretched hand.

I paused. In my mind, while my body moved automatically.

What…the…fuck!

I shook Martin's hand and then turned to my intended client. I shook his hand as the other two men stood.

My gaze moved to the first man. My client was speaking, but I didn't hear a word until the word ‘son’ slipped through the high-pitched sound going off in my head.

The boy from last night is staring at me. Wide-eyed and pale.

I heard myself laughing heartily as I shook his hand, then disengaged forcefully, but discreetly, from his damp, iron-clad grip.

I nodded at him as his lips fell open, still not hearing the older man’s words as I automatically turned to the second man.

I froze. My face fell. I turned to Martin.

“What is this?” I asked calmly, but my head was on fire. My heart was banging against my chest like a war drum. My palms were damp, and not from the handshake with the kid from the club.

I tightened my hands into fists at my side as I faced the only person I could at that particular moment.

Martin smiled apologetically, coming around his desk to my right side. “Come on, Jade, it's been a long time, no?” he asked casually, though I could hear the tremor in his voice.

A tremor that we both understood well.

“Did hell freeze over and nobody mentioned it to me?” I continued cooly, though I wanted nothing more than to crack open my lawyer friend’s skull and let his blood pool on the floor of his plush, carpeted office.

“Jade –” he remarked weakly, but he was interrupted.

“Jayden, come on, it's been what, thirteen years? Can't you put things behind you?” the second man droned, and my skin crawled, instantaneously.

I hadn’t heard that fucking voice in over a decade, and it wasn’t soon enough.

The arrogance. The audacity. The confidence.

God let me die. Let me die now! I cursed in my mind.

I didn't look at him. I turned to my intended client, the elderly man. “If he's on the job, I can't do it,” I remarked tersely.

The elderly man smiled calmly. I held my breath.

“100 million. Will that change your mind?” my intended client asked patiently. I had been liaising with him for over three months. I respected the old man more than I cared to admit.

He was not like many of my clients. He was wealthy, like all of them, but he was also very down to earth. Unlike the majority.

I had spent more time talking about non-business-related things with him than I ever allowed myself to with others.

He talked about the past and how society had changed. I talked about my father’s views on work, life, and dedication to one’s craft.

He talked about how younger people were harder to get along with nowadays. I assured him that I was the exception to that particular rule.

And like that, we had danced, discussing, negotiating, getting familiar with each other, until today. The final act.

And now, the word came out of my mouth before I cared to stop it.

“No,” I replied politely, confidently.

“500,” the boy croaked. I turned stiffly to him. “500million. Would that work?” he rasped.