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.

I stared at the kid. Assessing again. I smiled.

"Why should I do that? That price is far more than anyone would charge –"

"But you're not just anyone," the bastard beside the boy stated boldly, "you're the one and only Jayden Malroy! Anything you build will definitely pull in the crowds. Come on, forget the past," he droned with barely concealed arrogance.

I shifted my gaze from the kid to the blonde man with the ice-blue eyes.

"Why are you here?" I grumbled, facing him squarely, finally getting my initial rage under control. Pushing it down to where I could barely feel it.

A skill I had learned years after dealing with the sleek bastard I was facing. A man who looked like ice couldn't melt in his mouth, but was, in reality, a demon in human form.

"Didn't you hear my father?" he droned, almost sweetly. I wanted to burst my own eardrums.

I blinked. I turned to the old man. "I'm sorry, I must have missed something," I remarked slowly.

The elder smiled his patient smile again. He straightened his shoulders. "This is my son, Leon, and my youngest, Adrian. We want Adrian to learn about our business and would like you to work with him during the construction and decorating phases of the project."

I blinked. "I'm not a tutor."

"I understand."

"Nor a babysitter."

"Hence the price we are willing to pay. The lad is even open to putting a much larger sum down than required, but I think," he turned to his young son, "he may have just been too excited," he concluded politely to me, even as his eyes clearly scolded the boy.

I looked at the kid again. He was still pale, but his jaw was clenched. His brow was smooth. His eyes were steady on mine.

Shit! He's this fucker's brother? I cursed in my mind as I read his posture.

"And," Leon rumbled, sidling up to me, putting himself too much in my space, but I didn't move. I stood my ground even though I pressed against Martin.

Martin, my lawyer, my friend, right from the time when I and the fucker in front of us were acquainted, stood fast, supporting me against the devil himself.

"We get to hang out, too, of course," he concluded with a smile that held too much meaning.

I would have bristled, but instead, I just stared at him. Almost blankly. Controlling my expression.

"I won't work with you," I remarked flatly. No passion in my voice. I wasn't a sophomore anymore, and he wasn't my shining, flawless senior.

I was a full adult, independent and free, and he was still a pretentious bastard, only this time, I was fully aware of it.

"You'll work with me," the kid jumped in urgently, taking a step forward. "And only me," he pressed.

I turned to him even as his brother did not move an inch but kept staring right at my face.

"I don't think you understand –" the devil was saying breezily.

"Leon, that's enough," their father cut in, a sharp edge to his voice.

My gaze shifted to the old man. "Do you know about our history?" I asked slowly, my professional self fully engaged. My public persona running on autopilot.

The old man glanced to the side, then back. "He told me you went to school together. I see that you are definitely not strangers."

"You don't have the same last name. If I had known –"

"I need you for this job. My son needs a good guide," the old man cut in patiently. "As for Leon, he will stay away," the old man continued firmly, turning from me to his older son.

I glanced at Martin, who was squeezing my arm, his expression tight. I knew what my lawyer wasn't saying. We needed to close this deal. Too much was riding on it.

It wasn't that my company, or my lawyer's firm, needed money; what was at stake here was our reputation.

Masterson Emporium was not a project to fuck around with.

We had gone through three rounds of submissions and presentations to win the chance to sit down with the owner, a consortium of old-money families who wanted to design a showroom for the ages.

My family's name, my lawyer's firm's name were in the limelight for this work.

If it fell through, just like that, the backlash on our respective businesses would be significant.

But how did this fucker become Sir Sinclair's son? How?! I asked Martin with my eyes as he reminded me of what we both needed to do with his pressure on my arm.

"200," I retorted hoarsely, turning to our would-be client.

"Deal."

I nodded.

No. It wasn't about the money, but I wasn't about to let myself be steamrolled into a shitty relationship or circumstance without gaining anything up front.

I would not lie down and be trodden upon, not again.

Not ever.

If Leon was playing a game, I could play too.

I was not the kid he fucked with for two years. I was not the boy he ruined and threw away like the trash he must have thought I was.

I was something different now. Very different.

And if the gods or devils he served had deemed it fit for him to enter my universe, well, I would have to make do with that. Just as I've had to make do with every fucking nightmare that has been sent my way since I met Leon.

Since I met... him. My mind pulled me toward another. Reminded me of another.

My chest pushed out mentally.

Yeah, we can play, Leon. But this is one match you're gonna fucking lose. I declared privately.

I turned to leave, and Leon reached for my arm. My eyes snapped up to his, and I dared him to touch me. Without a word, I dared him to put his hand on me.

He smiled, that roguish smile that had swept me off course for two entire years, that smile that got me kicked out of my family, that smile that made me lie on my back for others while he filmed everything and sold it online, without my consent.

He raised his hands in mock surrender and stepped back.

"Keep him away from me, or this deal is off," I said roughly to his father, now my highest-paying client, losing my composure for a split second.

The old man nodded, his expression a mix of concern, gratitude, and hesitation.

He doesn't know, I mused. He doesn't know what his son did to me.

I spun and walked out.

The kid's face flashed in my mind.

What am I going to do with this shit! My mind screamed as I headed to my car.

My phone buzzed and I almost ripped my pocket pulling it out.

I stared at it. Marcus Sullivan, my keeper, my prisoner. The man my mind recalled in the face of that bastard.

It was the first Monday of the quarter. I knew the drill.

We've been doing it for seven years. I didn't need reminders, but he sent them anyway.

I wanted to go to him immediately. That's how irritated I was. I wanted him to do what he did so well – fuck me blind, deaf, and dumb.

The man was a beast, both in bed and out of it. Mafia kingpin, five years running. I'd been waiting for someone to take him out, free me from his hold, but right now, I wanted him inside me.

My phone squeaked in my hand, and I loosened my grip, exhaling long and low through my nostrils as I leaned on my car with one hand.

It's not like I couldn't walk away from the client and his sons, but I needed to get out of the hole I had dug for myself thirteen years ago.

Thirteen!

I had kept track, kept score, thirteen fucking years of clawing back to what should have always been mine, but I had thrown away because of some sleek-looking, sleek-talking bastard.

A man I had dismissed in my journey of penance. Forgotten as I was salvaged by another. Never even considered when I became my savior's kept man.

Well, not exactly 'kept', but close enough.

I owed Marcus millions, and I paid every month. Whenever a balance remained, I would service him, once a quarter, have the interest added, and the cycle would continue.

Some months, I paid less than I could afford. I paid less to keep that door open. A door that I had become afraid to close.

Because if I closed it. What would I be? Who would I be?

I had my family's business to look after, but outside of that, I was an empty shell.

I had no taste for anything, or anyone.

I didn't go to the movies or go to sporting events.

I went to sex clubs and nightclubs. High-brow bars and exclusive hedonistic parties. for one thing and one thing only – pleasure. The only type of pleasure I liked.

I didn't do drugs, and drinking my life away wasn't an option – I had already tried that, it wasn't for me.

Sex, though, was just right. The very balance I needed. But I wasn't the type who went with every man that came my way. I had some regulars, some not regulars, and some one-night wonders.

But Marcus had become a constant. A reliable one at that. A good one, if I wanted to be honest.

And if I paid up quickly, if I let him go. What would I become?

With the new payout from the elder gentleman, I could be out from under Marcus' thumb before the year ended.

Had I taken that 500, I could be out today. But if I had taken that 500, Leon would have found a way to make me regret it.

I couldn't give him the chance.

My mind pushed the bastard out, and Marcus floated in. All 6 foot 9, 285 pounds of him. My mind cooled, and my body got hot.

I'm no lightweight myself. At 6 feet 6 inches and 250 pounds, I'm not small, but to Marcus... few were his match.

I could feel him as I closed my eyes, struggling to clear my mind, to focus as I thought of what lay ahead for me on this fucking project.

Tonight, I mused. I'll go tonight, on schedule. I can't have Marcus messing with me cuz I ran to him early.

Fuck!

I snatched my door open, jumped in, and skidded out of the parking lot.

My mind reeled with memories long forgotten, buried, but now threatening to consume me, blindsiding me out of nowhere.

==========

I had met Leon in my junior year at Uni. He was a senior, studying law. I was studying architecture. One fraternity meet, one beer too many, and I had fallen into his smile, his eyes, his boldness.

Things I didn't have around me in my tiny, careful world.

Things I didn't know about myself, Leon shone a light on and then ignited me, body and soul. He pulled me in, took me away from everyone and everything I knew, controlling me, using me, and then he spat me out, exposed, humiliated, alone.

My father disowned me. My mother had a stroke. My elder brother, the drug addict, mocked me, the good son, and my sister...best not to talk about Rina.

After two years of debauchery and wasting my parents' money on classes I was barely attending, then dropping out of school and becoming Leon's full-time bitch, only to later become his whore when he pimped me out to anyone who so much as glanced in my direction, I ran.

I left the city, left the country. I took the last money I had, cash I had gotten from selling the three watches I had stolen from Leon, and got on the first bus that hit the station.

I went across the border, with no destination in mind. No plan. Just escape.

I found work in clubs and bars, in various Canadian provinces, moving from one to the other, serving drinks and sometimes giving other services I had mastered under Leon's very precise tutelage. I was twenty years old and drifting.

I was older than most in the trade, so I stuck to serving drinks or manning bars. After a year, I was strictly a server or a host who drank with customers, and I had settled down in Toronto.

One day, a particularly raunchy customer put his hands on me, and I lost it. Nobody touched me without my consent. It had become a trigger for me, and I wasn't having it.

He pressed against me, with his friends seated around. They were all laughing.

Why do predators always laugh? That was the thought in my head as I stood up, determined to walk away. I had been at that club for almost nine months, and I wasn't going to throw my hard work out the door for some drunk fools.

I stumbled backward, taken aback as the customer rose to follow, reaching for me in the process. A large man with more muscle than necessary for any regular, standard human being.

Whether from surprise or fear, or perhaps it was anger or irritation, at everyone, at everything, at myself for being nervous, at the look in his eye that presented a picture I was too familiar with.

A gaze I had seen before from too many horny men, too many aggressive clients, a look linked to too much shame from my past, I smashed a wine bottle on his head.

His friends stopped laughing.

I turned to leave, and he grabbed me by the collar, ripping my silk shirt; buttons popped as the collar tore. I spun back to him, picking up another bottle and breaking it against the low table as I fell on my back on the food and other drinks that nobody cared or was quick enough to move out of the way.

As he tugged my belt, to rip my pants off, I stabbed him just below the collarbone.