Play Dirty

by JA Huss

  How the fuck did I get here? I swear to God, none of this is my fault. I did nothing to ask for this bullshit. I’ve just been doing my thing these past several years. Moving on, and up, and a little bit out. I put things behind me for a reason and I have no interest in bringing them all front and center again.

  We get to the table, which is an intimate two-seater with a fucking candle between us.

  The waiter is smiling, happy to present us with the chef’s specials, and then leaves us to get our drinks. Which Alexander orders for both of us.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” I ask, once the waiter is gone.

  “Showing you a nice time,” he says, placing his napkin on his lap. “Just relax, Jordan. Enjoy yourself for once.”

  “I can’t enjoy myself if I have to spend every waking minute wondering what your game is.”

  He smiles. Chuckles. “Ironic, isn’t it? You, the game master, think I’m the one playing. I’m here for you, I thought I made that clear the other day.”

  “You want to date me?” I ask.

  “Yes, Jordan,” he says. “Yes. Now that Augustine knows you’re not interested in her or the three of us, I feel like…” He shrugs. “I feel like we can start over.”

  “As lovers?” I laugh and it’s not a chuckle. It’s kinda loud.

  “You’re not attracted to me?”

  I look him over. Alexander is a good-looking man. He’s athletic. And if I remember correctly he’s into horses. Like he plays polo or something like that. He’s got a square jaw, piercing blue eyes, and sandy-blond hair cropped close on the sides and a little longer in the front. So every now and then—despite the fact that he’s well-groomed—a strand or two will escape and fall over his forehead.

  We’re about the same height. Six two for me, maybe six one for him.

  Both come from money, both well-educated, both…

  “So what do you do now?” I ask. Because I realize I don’t actually know anything about the guy. I didn’t pay much attention to how he made money back in LA, I just knew it had something to do with the film industry.

  “I run my family corporation. Which is a major arts endowment.”

  “So you’re what? A professional board member?”

  “You could say that.”

  The waiter appears with a bottle of Macallan 18, pours a healthy amount into our glasses, then leaves.

  Alexander raises his and says, “To Denver. May this city bring us more than we had in LA.”

  “Sure,” I say, “Whatever,” taking a sip and pausing to enjoy the burn of an excellent eighteen-year-old Scotch.

  He watches me, smiling. Making me feel self-conscious. It’s been a long time since a man could put me on edge like this, but Alexander always was that man, wasn’t he?

  “I’m so tired of asking this question, but here goes. Why are we here?”

  He shrugs. Puts his glass down. Slowly twirls it on the tablecloth with his fingers. “We could find another girl,” he finally says.

  “What?”

  “Someone who isn’t August, ya know? Someone new. No baggage. No expectations. Just… a fresh start.”

  I have to run all that in my head several times before I can accept he actually said that. That those words just came out of his mouth.

  “I mean, we could try just us, ya know? But I don’t think it would work.”

  I just blink at him. “What?”

  “Jordan,” he says, leaning forward. “I came here for you and I’m not leaving until I get you.”

  “What happened to the guy who didn’t want to kiss me two weeks ago?”

  “That’s because…” He pauses. “That was Augustine’s idea. This one is mine.”

  “You’re in love with me?”

  “With us, Jordan. I want a plural relationship, one with two men and one woman, but maybe I don’t want that with August. She’s…”

  I wait for him to finish and when he doesn’t I get impatient. “She’s what?”

  “Look,” he says, holding up a hand. “All your reservations go back to how it ended with the two of you. It’s not really about me, is it? So she’s the one you’re avoiding. I’m just trying to make this work.”

  “I don’t understand how you got the impression—”

  “You’re living in a ten-thousand-square-foot house by yourself, Jordan. That’s how. You spend your life playing games with people because you can’t play one yourself. You feel guilty for who you were, so now you hide under the umbrella of friend to everyone. Just as long as they don’t get too close, right? No one gets close to you. Not even Ixion. I talked to him, ya know? He told me what you’ve been up to. Trying to make up for past mistakes is exhausting. So why don’t we pronounce you absolved and move on, huh? It would be so much less exhausting.”

  I just stare at him.

  He waits, but when it becomes clear I’m not going to reply, he says, “You don’t need that club, Jordan. Not if you have what it gives you in real life.”

  The Club? This is about the Club? How the fuck?

  Still, I remain quiet.

  “New girl? What do you say?”

  I stand up, throwing my napkin down on my unused silverware, and button my suit coat. “I think I’m leaving now.”

  When I get outside and look around, still confused and stunned, he’s behind me, hand on my arm, pulling me into an alley. He slams me up against the brick building, places his hands around my neck, and leans in like he’s gonna kiss me.

  But he doesn’t kiss me. His mouth finds my ear and he says, “I will pursue you relentlessly. I will not take no as an answer, Jordan. So stop fighting me and just give in.”

  I slap his hands away from my face, tug on my suit coat, and say, “Go home to your wife.”

  I end up at Chella and Smith’s house down on Little Raven Street. It’s one of those million-dollar townhouses just on the other side of Union Station. Planned community-type neighborhoods that attract young up-and-coming couples.

  It’s raining hard when I press the doorbell and peer into the long, slim window on the side of the door.

  I see Smith stop what he’s doing in the kitchen to look at the door, then put something down on the counter and wipe his hands on his jeans as he walks down the hallway, their husky dog, Joe, trailing him as he hops down the three stairs to the front door and opens it.

  “Jordan?”

  I hold out a bouquet of flowers as an offering. “Sorry I haven’t been by sooner to see Chella and the baby. Is this a good time?”

  “Jordan?” Chella calls from the other room.

  Smith looks annoyed when I smile and push past him, but I don’t care. Smith and I are only acquaintances. It’s Chella I come to see.

  I find her nursing her new baby in the back living area, all curled up on their overstuffed couch with her legs underneath her. She smiles big at me. “Finally!”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, leaning down to kiss her on the cheek. Then I point to the flowers and say, “I know I’m like two months past due, but things just really got busy.”

  “Yes, that game was amazing. Well done, Wells. Well done.”

  “Yeah.” I smile. “And you played your part perfectly,” I say, sitting down next to her.

  “Well, whatever game you’re here to rope her into now, she’s not interested,” Smith says. He’s got his arms crossed over his chest, scowling at me as he half-sits, half-leans on the edge of the couch arm. “And she’s busy. So make it quick, Wells.”

  Like I said, he and I… we’re not really friends.

  “Smith?” Chella says, looking up at him. “Can you take Daniel and put him to bed for me?” She smiles bigger. I want to glance at Smith, because I’m sure he’s probably silently mouthing a litany of things like, Get him the fuck out of here, or No, I’m not leaving you alone with him. But I don’t dare break her spell, so I force myself not to.

  Smith grumbles something about… something, but he takes the baby and disappears upstairs, their two Yorkies a
nd the husky following on his heels.

  “So what’s up?” Chella asks, fixing her nursing blouse.

  I sigh, then let it all spill out as fast as I can because I know Smith is gonna come back and kick me out, and I really need a third party to give me some advice right now.

  So I tell her a little bit of backstory—she already kinda knows this part and there’s no point in rehashing that shit—and then move on to explain the building, and Augustine’s offer, and how weird they’re both being.

  Two minutes later she nods her head at me, understanding.

  I think.

  I hope.

  “I just want that club, Chella.”

  “You should’ve bought it when we were selling if you wanted it that bad.” That’s Smith, who is back now, leaning up against the kitchen island looking like… like a hot dad who belongs on the glossy cover of a men’s magazine. It’s just jeans and a t-shirt. He doesn’t even have shoes on… but goddamn, Smith is the only guy I know who makes me want to be someone other than myself.

  And he’s absolutely going to throw me out of his house in the next five minutes, so I need to appeal to his… I dunno, something. Curiosity? Maybe he misses flying his freak flag?

  I start there. “Don’t you miss it?” I ask.

  “No,” he says.

  But in that very same moment Chella says, “Kinda.”

  I almost laugh out loud. Because Smith gives her this look like… I can’t even explain it. It’s something in between shock, admiration, confusion, and desire.

  I’m not kidding. I got all that from one expression.

  Smith blinks. Twice. “What?”

  “I’m not saying I want to fuck other people, Smith. But I miss the place. I miss the restaurant, and the bar, and…” She shrugs. “I don’t want to fuck other people, but—”

  She looks at me and my eyes go wide, because Smith owns a bunch of gyms now and he’s built like he’s on steroids—except he’s not—because his job these days is basically letting at-risk teenage boys take a shot at beating the shit out of him in the boxing ring to keep them off the streets.

  I put up my hands to protest—like, no. I’m not gonna join you two in a threesome—but she says, “That game with Issy… uh-huh. I’m on board with her fantasy.”

  Now it’s my turn to blink.

  Issy played a game she didn’t know she was playing and most of that had nothing to do with her secret fantasy, which was being fucked in a sex club in front of other people.

  I glance at Smith to gauge how he’s gonna take this news, but he’s just scratching his chin, like he’s considering her confession.

  Then he notices me noticing him and says, “Get out.”

  “Yes,” I say. “I’m leaving.” Usually I’d kiss Chella on the cheek to say goodbye, but no. “Thanks for listening, Chella.”

  “Thanks for stopping by!” Chella says. “And thank you for the flowers. Next time we talk I’ll introduce you to the baby properly. But Jordan—” She pauses so I’ll stop my retreat and look at her. “Stop running from them. That’s not you. Just… just hear them out and see what it is they really want. Because they want something and whatever that is, it’s some deep secret they aren’t ready to share yet. That’s my take on all this. It’s shame, maybe. Embarrassment. Something like that. Who knows? But they’re keeping it close. So you just have to wait until it comes out before you can really make a decision about this.”

  Then she smiles and Smith has me by the arm and he’s pulling me back down the hallway towards the front door.

  When we get there, he opens it up, shoves me outside, and I’m just about to turn and go down the front porch steps when he says, “Here,” and thrusts a plain white envelope at me.

  I look at what he’s offering me, then glance up at his face. “What?”

  “This,” he says, shoving the envelope into my hand. “Payment.”

  “For what? Staying away from your wife? Get real, Smith.”

  “No. For killing her father.” Then he smiles. “I owe you one, Wells. So if you ever actually need something—because I know you don’t need money and that’s what that is”—he nods to the envelope as I lift the flap and see a check written out to me. There’s seven digits on that check—“I’m your guy.”

  Then he claps me on the back and shuts the door in my face.

  I skip down the steps and walk across Little Raven Street to get in my car thinking of all the things I should’ve said back about that little remark. I didn’t kill him, is the first. But then again… I sorta did.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket once I’m back on Speer Boulevard heading towards the Country Club neighborhood I live in. When I get to a red light I check it.

  Augustine: Before you walk away let me explain.

  The light turns green, so I don’t have time to fuck with a reply. But three more texts come in in quick succession.

  Augustine: Don’t walk away without knowing the whole story.

  Augustine: You WILL want to hear this.

  Augustine: I’m at your house.

  Fuck.

  And I’m there before I know it, pressing the button to open the gate and pulling into my driveway. Her car has to be parked on the street, but the walking gate doesn’t have a lock. So she’s standing under the cover of my small front porch behind a curtain of rain because it’s pouring down like sheets right now.

  I park, get out, and walk around to the front of the house wishing… wishing they’d just go away.

  Which is ironic, because last year around this time I thought I wanted this. I thought reconnecting would be awesome.

  Even though she’s under the porch, she’s drenched. Her long, dark hair is plastered to her wet cheeks. Water is beaded up on her upper lip and soaking her clothes.

  “What the fuck, Augustine? Go home. You’re gonna get sick or something.”

  She shakes her head and says, “No,” as I unlock the door and hold it open for her.

  I don’t want to invite her inside but dismissing her seems out of the question.

  Stop running from them. That’s what Chella said. And Chella’s instincts are usually right on the money. I don’t really feel like I’m running, but maybe I am? And maybe they do have a secret they’re keeping safe. Maybe I should just… wait them out until they’re ready to spill it?

  She goes inside and stands in the grand foyer, dripping on my travertine-tiled floors, hugging herself to ward off the cold.

  I take my coat off, hang it up, and then say, “Well, what is it?”

  “What?”

  “The whole story. What is it? Because I gotta tell you, Augustine, I don’t think there’s anything you could tell me that would make me change my mind about this. But Chella says you guys are probably keeping a secret you’re not ready to tell me yet, so…” I shrug. “If that’s the case, you’d better come clean quick, because I’m about done playing.”

  She looks past me, into the office I’m using as my apartment. “Can we sit down at least? And can I ask you… can I have some dry clothes? I walked over here.”

  And even though I have a million questions about that—starting with, Where the fuck do you live?—I don’t ask any of them. Just go into my office and start rummaging around for some sweat shorts and a t-shirt. I throw them at her and point to the office bathroom. “You can change in there.”

  She doesn’t. She strips right in front of me, peeling off her wet clothes one layer at a time until she’s standing there, naked flesh bumpy from the chill. Teeth chattering as she messes with the shorts and shirt, pulling them on and then hugging herself again.

  “Do you have a blanket?” she asks.

  “Welcome to my bed,” I say, pointing to the couch.

  And then we both kinda laugh.

  It’s stupid, I know this. Living the way I do. But the tension between us melts a little, and I grab the blanket, sit down, pat the cushion next to me, and wait for her to join me before covering us both up with it.

>   She leans into me automatically.

  I let her. Automatically.

  I can’t deny that it all feels very familiar when we’re together. Not just her and I, but Alexander as well.

  We spent over two years together. That’s not nothing.

  “So what is it?” I ask. “This amazing story you need to tell me.”

  She draws in a breath. Like she needs it for courage. Then starts talking as she lets it out. “Alexander has changed a lot since you knew him.”

  “Has he?” I ask. “Has he really? Because it’s all the same to me.”

  “Did you ever… did you ever…”

  “Did I ever what?” I ask, getting impatient with her stammering.

  “Did you ever wonder who was the top? In our relationship.”

  My brow creases as I think about that. “No, I guess not. It wasn’t really like that. At least I didn’t think it was.”

  “I didn’t think it was either. But after you left… there was… some… maybe…”

  “Goddammit, Augustine, just spit it out.”

  “He got dominant,” she says.

  “Like how?”

  “Like… you know. Choking and—”

  “What?”

  “—face-slapping and—”

  “What?”

  “—and no bondage. Not that kind of dominant. But like… total throat-fucks and—”

  “What?”

  “—and we had a few threesomes and they were really… um, wow, like intense and—”

  “Jesus Christ, Augustine. What are you saying? Did he hit you? Scare you?”

  “No,” she says quickly. “No, no, no. That’s not what I’m saying. Not exactly, anyway.”

  I turn to face her, unwilling to accept where this might be going. “Not exactly how?”

  “He’s just… very… rough, Jordan.”

  “So he hit you?”

  “No.” She shaking her head. “I’m not here to complain about it. You’re misunderstanding me.”

  “OK,” I say, leaning back into the cushions to put some distance between us. “What the fuck are you trying to tell me?”

  “The reason…” She sighs deeply. “He’s going to kill me—not literally,” she jokes, which I do not find funny. Like at all. “For telling you because he wanted to be there when we did that. Together. But I think you’re about to bail on us and I don’t want you to do that without hearing this first.” She looks at me. Swallows hard and stares into my eyes. “Hearing why we need you.”