Badger Game

by Abernathy Ross

  The conversations continued the next night and the night after that, with Langston wanting desperately to keep in communication with her. She tried to convince herself that it was all part of the plan. She was doing this because she needed to get as much information from Bette as she could to make sure that the job was finished properly.

  After the first two nights of falling into long conversation on the phone however, Even Langston had to admit to herself that she was truly enjoying all the time she spent talking to her. In her mind, it was becoming much, much more than a job. The more she learned about Bette the more she wondered why in the world she would have married a man like Griff. The man was a stiff, boring individual who, according to Bette had more of an interest in sports statistics and strip clubs than anything else. He was the type of man who lived like he was a bachelor and expected to have his wife be fine with it. Bette, on the other hand, worked in the art dealing world and could have done perfectly well without getting married to him.

  “The money was alluring,” Bette told her. “I’m not ashamed to admit it. He’s rich—richer than I had ever seen. It’s astounding how much money he spends on strippers. Besides all that, though, he can be very lovely. I tried to change him, as naïve as that sounds, but of course, it wasn’t possible. It’s been two years of disappointment.”

  Five days after meeting and having these conversations daily, the time finally came where Bette gave her a tentative date.

  “This might be a bit too last minute,” Bette said, over the phone. “But are you free tomorrow evening?”

  “I am,” said Langston. She was sitting on her balcony, looking out into the park, and she felt a string of butterflies rush through her. The memory of their time in that bathroom at the bar came flooding back to her, and the thought of being able to do those things in the space of a bedroom made her aroused beyond belief.

  “You can come here,” said Bette. “To my home. We could even have dinner here, if you’re interested. My chef—my chef, not my husband’s--let me know that he could come over to cook us dinner.”

  “A chef?” said Langston, surprised. “That sounds incredible. Unnecessary, but incredible.”

  “Why would it be unnecessary?” asked Bette. “It just wouldn’t be a date without food and drink.”

  “That’s right,” said Langston, smiling. “So, we’re calling it a date.”

  I quite like that.” Bette said. Langston could almost see Bette’s smile mirroring her own.

  “So do I. Where will your husband be?”

  “He’ll be gone,” she said. “Late night business meetings, and such. He told me something about his friends wanting to watch the basketball game together, but I bet the jerk is going to the strip club.”

  “That works for me,” said Langston. “We want him to be distracted, no?”

  “Let me put another idea by you,” said Bette. "He’s going on a trip to Montreal in a few weeks. You wouldn’t want to wait until then, would you?”

  “No,” said Langston quickly, remembering what Griff had said. “The sooner the better. Tomorrow, I’ll see you.”

  “Wonderful,” said Bette. Langston could hear the smile on her voice. They spoke for a bit more, and when they hung up. Langston looked into the apartment through the balcony’s sliding glass door. Kira had come home with a fat wad of cash from her latest acquisition, and was sitting on the couch watching television with an exfoliating face mask on.

  Langston picked up her phone, again tapping on the app where she could call him from. She had to call him to tell him about the meeting. She didn’t want to do it. She felt as if she was breaking a barrier of trust—a barrier that she really cared about when it came to Bette. The woman deserved much better than all of this.

  After a moment of contemplation, she forced herself to tap on his phone number. He answered right away.

  “Hey there,” he said. “I was hoping you’d call. I was hearing her talking upstairs in her bedroom. Was that you?”

  “Yeah,” said Langston, slowly, her mind focusing on the words her bedroom. “Yeah, that was me. We’re meeting tomorrow. At seven.”

  “Oh, perfect,” he said. “I’ve been out nearly every night this week trying to get her to invite you over. I guess she took the bait. So, should I come home at what time? Seven-thirty? Eight-thirty? How long does it usually take women to, uh—you know...”

  It doesn’t usually take longer than anyone else, she almost said, rolling her eyes, then thought better of it. “We’re eating dinner beforehand so it might extend the timing a bit.”

  “Dinner where?”

  “There,” said Langston. “She’s having a chef cook it for us.”

  Griff paused for a moment, and then, in apparent surprise, said, “Well, that’s interesting. Who’s the chef?”

  “I have no idea,” said Langston. “I didn’t ask. I told her the dinner wasn’t necessary, but she was insistent. So, let’s say nine-thirty. Does that work?” Langston was desperate to get this conversation over with. With everything she had learned about Griff, she was starting to dislike him more and more.

  “Yeah, that works perfectly,” said Griff, his voice rising in pitch with giddiness. “Hey, what if you tried to leave stuff around the house? You know, like clothes and stuff? Lingerie would be good—an underwear here, a bra there. That way I can take pictures as I go up to the room to find you guys and that just gives me ammunition for the divorce case. It’ll be great.”

  “I will take that into consideration,” said Langston, her voice flat.

  “Excellent, excellent. And the chef—try to get his name. You never know, he might be needed to corroborate my evidence.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  Griff released a satisfied smile. “I’m so excited for this, you don’t even know,” he said. “Bette’s hot and a good fuck, but she’s just not worth all the trouble. This really helps me out. The rest of the money I’ll get to you right after. The day after, right?”

  “Exactly,” said Langston, wrinkling her nose. “That’s what was discussed.”

  Griff chuckled excitedly again. “All right. You’re a freaking superwoman.”

  Langston ended the conversation with the pit in her stomach growing bigger. She went to bed that night feeling a strange sensation of annoyance with everything that was going on. She felt that she was being ridiculous. She had prided herself on her objectivity and she was thwarting her paycheck by getting overwhelmed by her feelings. As she fell asleep, she resolved to go through with the plan.

  Seven

  She woke up still feeling the same resolve. She felt good. She felt like she could do this. Professional, she thought as she got herself dressed in the afternoon. I’ve got to keep it sexy, but professional. She decided to dress more like herself this time, putting on thin gray slacks and a long-sleeved black shirt. She kept the make-up minimal for the most part, deciding to wear a nude lipstick and a simple contour.

  Kira wasn’t home that afternoon, and Langston messaged Griff through the app, telling him that she was about to leave. Then, she herself left, not bothering to order a nice car, and flagging down a yellow taxi instead. The Simons were Upper-Eastsiders as well and they didn’t live far from her apartment. It was only a ten-minute drive away.

  Bette was waiting in front of the elegant, three-story, brick townhouse. She had her hair tied back in a slick ponytail and had on a loose green dress that was tied at the waist with a sash. She looked incredible. All of the professionalism that Langston promised to herself she would have, left her in an instant.

  She smiled when Langston got out of the car. “Hello,” she said. “It’s good to see you again.”

  “Likewise,” said Langston. They gave each other a small, cordial hug as the taxi drove away.

  “Shall we?” asked Bette. They walked into the home and Langston was immediately struck by how extravagant it was. It was clear that this was a family with money. The first floor alone could house two of Langston’s apartme
nts comfortably, and they had two more floors on top of that. They had a foyer, a soaking tub, a rooftop garden, a whole host of other things that were a rarity in New York City. In the kitchen there was a gray-haired man with a white chef’s coat and hat cooking and humming to himself. He turned to give them a small wave as they passed through it towards the living room.

  “This is Henri,” Bette said. “He’ll be taking care of us tonight. I believe it’ll be French fare, right?”

  “That’s right,” he said with a smile. “The full menu will be a surprise, of course.”

  “That’s how I like it,” Bette said. She walked out to the very large living room where there was a bottle of opened red wine and two glasses waiting on the long, wooden coffee table. Bette sat down first, and Langston sat next to her, trying to get as close to her without looking weird. Bette poured her a very large glass of wine before serving herself and then lifted up the glass.

  “Cheers,” she said. “To finally meeting in private.”

  “Cheers,” said Langston, lifting up her glass. They gently tapped their glasses against each other and took a sip. Langston looked up at the large antique clock that was hanging up on the wall across the room. It was only a quarter past seven. Time felt as if it was running slowly.

  Bette noticed Langston’s wandering gaze. “Most of this stuff is not my taste,” she said. “My husband is strangely stern with the décor. His ex-wife was an antique collector and he didn’t want to get rid of the stuff because he wanted to set it up for auction. Of course, he never did, so here we are.”

  Langston nodded, faking interest, thankful that there was wine to calm her nerves. She wasn’t really sure why she was nervous, but she was. She really wanted to enjoy this time with Bette, but the looming thought that Griff would be busting through the door like the hunter ready to kill the big bad wolf was throwing her off. She gulped down the wine and set her glass down with a sigh.

  “You look like you needed that,” said Bette, smiling. “You want more?”

  “Please,” said Langston, and Bette refilled her glass. As she did so, Langston couldn’t keep her eyes of her incredible figure. Suddenly, a thought ran through her mind. There was a way she could put a stop to this, even if it was just for a little longer.

  “Before I drink that,” she said, “I’ve got to use the restroom.”

  “Of course,” said Bette. “There’s one on this floor, right in the hall on the other side of the foyer.”

  “I’ll be quick.” Langston stood up with a bit of a scramble and headed back towards the front of the house. When she passed the kitchen, the chef waved at her again.

  “Dinner is almost ready,” he said with a thick French accent.

  With an awkward smile, Langston went into the foyer and quickly found the bathroom. She ducked into it, then immediately took out her phone and dialed Griff’s number. She ran the water as she waited for him to pick up. It took him a bit longer this time.

  “Hey,” he answered. “Sorry, I had to walk outside to take the call.”

  “Hi,” said Langston, her breath barely above a whisper. “We’ve got to call this off.”

  There was a long pause, then Griff began to sputter in confusion. “Why?” he asked. “What’s happened?”

  “She--she feels sick,” she said. “She doesn’t want to have sex or anything.”

  She heard Griff let out a long sigh. “Right,” he said. “I see.”

  “I’ll try again as soon as I can,” she said. “But we’ll have to call it off for now.”

  “Fine,” said Griff. “Do you think it’ll happen before my trip?”

  “I believe so,” said Langston. “I’ll contact you once I leave here.”

  “All right,” he replied. “I guess I’ll just stay out then. I’ve already got reservations at the—ah—establishment that I’m going to after work.”

  “Of course,” said Langston. “Talk soon.”

  She hung up the phone and flushed the toilet, just in case there was anyone listening outside of the door. Before she left the bathroom, she looked at herself in the mirror, fixing up her hair and taking in a long, deep breath. Now she could relax. She could spend this evening enjoying the company of an incredible woman, then continue with the plan Griff was paying her to do later. She left the bathroom feeling much less stressed, and determined to shift her attitude. There was nothing to worry about now.

  When she got back to Bette, she was standing in the kitchen, looking over the appetizer that the chef was getting ready to serve to them. “The mini flambées look amazing,” she said. “And this, what’s this?” She was pointing to a black, cage-like structure that was set up on a separate plate.

  “You’re ruining the surprise,” the chef said, with a wink.

  Langston stepped up to it, looking at it. “It’s squid ink, isn’t it?”

  Henri was impressed. “You know your stuff,” he said, blue eyes twinkling.

  Bette was impressed as well. They sat down at the dining table, opting to take seats next to each other instead of across. Langston refreshed their wine glasses, and Henri came in soon after to serve them the first course.

  Langston finally felt herself relaxing as she drank and ate. There was nothing to worry about now. This was the best possible scenario. She felt as if she was playing house and merely living out a fantasy that could never be attained, but there was no harm in enjoying herself for just a bit longer. Here she was having an exquisite dinner with an equally exquisite woman, and nobody was going to stop them.

  “I feel like I both know you and don’t know you,” said Bette, peeking up at her through her eyelashes as she took a bite of the flambée. “I’ve enjoyed our phone conversations, but I couldn’t help but realize that it was mostly me that was doing the talking.”

  “I’m an open book,” said Langston, preparing to lie. “What would you like to know?”

  “There are a lot of things I want to know,” said Bette, holding up the glass and swishing the dark wine around inside of it. “But let’s start with the question that has been burning in my mind for the past few days. When did my husband first contact you?”

  Langston felt her heart dropping down into her stomach. She felt the color draining from her face. “I don’t--I don’t know you’re talking about,” Langston stammered, her mind spinning. “I’ve never spoken to your husband before.”

  “Oh, but you have,” Bette said, with a small laugh. “He hired you, didn’t he? He hired you to come try and get me to have sex with you at the bar and for you to have sex with me here. I assume this was his plan to use it as a way to divorce me without any issue.”

  Langston started to shake her head, panicking. How had she been able to figure this out?

  “Don’t look so surprised,” said Bette, taking a small sip of the wine. “My husband is not very good at hiding his private business. I didn’t even need to snoop around, he made it obvious that he was plotting something, and you weren’t the first person he tried to hire for this exact reason. Tell me, how much was I worth?”

  Langston felt defeated. This had never happened to her before. She had been doing things like this for years and nobody had ever been able to catch her in the middle of her plan like this. She didn’t know what to do, or what to say, so she just sat there dumfounded. There was a long, awkward silence that was broken only by Henri coming in with the main course.

  “What did you think of the first course?” he asked as he took their empty plates and set the new plates of food in front of them. Langston stared at the slab of meat on the plate in front of her and felt that she had completely lost her appetite.

  “It was wonderful, Henri,” said Bette, smiling as if nothing had happened.

  Henri turned to Langston. “And you, Madame, were you satisfied with the first course?”

  Langston mustered up her best smile. “Yes,” she said. “It was very good.”

  Henri jumped into an explanation of the second course and Langston inadvertently tune
d him out, aware only of her heart beating so hard in her chest she thought it could be heard in the entire room. When he finished describing the food, he gave them a little bow and a quite “bon appetit,” before leaving them once again in an uncomfortable silence.

  “I suppose I owe you an apology,” said Langston, numbly.

  “No need,” said Bette. “I won’t pretend that I didn’t enjoy our time together.”

  Langston looked up from her food. Bette was watching her, and she couldn’t place the look she had on her face. Was it anger? Pity? A mix of both, perhaps. Langston picked up the fork and stabbed it into the meat. “I’ll just leave then,” she said.

  “Why?” asked Bette. “I don’t care if he divorces me. I won’t get in the way of this. If he wants to have his little victory, so be it. I’m sure all of this has taken a lot of your time, and you deserve to be paid for your services. How much did he offer to pay you, by the way? I’m sure he low-balled you.”

  “I'll let him know when he pays me tomorrow,” said Langston, unable to hide the bitterness in her voice. She stood up, leaving her food untouched.

  “You could tell him when he comes tonight,” said Bette with a shrug.

  “He won’t be coming,” said Langston. “I called him and told him not to come.”

  Bette looked up, pausing mid-bite. “When?”

  “Earlier,” said Langston. “In the bathroom. I was trying to hold him off just for tonight. If you did feel a connection between us, I can assure you that it wasn’t completely fake. In fact, it wasn’t fake at all.”

  Bette said nothing, cutting up the steak into another bite. She chewed, staring at Langston intently. “And why would I believe that?” she asked.

  “Do you want me to call him?” asked Langston, then quickly shook her head. “You know, it actually doesn’t matter. I’m leaving anyway.”

  “Wait a moment,” said Bette, standing up as well, a look of confusion passing over her face.