Play Dirty

by JA Huss

  “Hmm,” I say, picturing all this. Picturing little tow-headed Alexander running around in fancy European kid clothes playing croquet or something. “Interesting.”

  “I was a privileged brat.”

  “I can see that,” I say. Then I smile. Because actually, even though I always knew Alexander came from money, he never acted like he came from money. He was always just one of those strange artists. Of course, broke strange artists don’t live in Westwood lofts. It was kind of a shithole back then, but still. Three bedrooms, three baths, three thousand square feet.

  He hit the trifecta with that place and we all knew it, even if we never talked about it.

  “So I had it easy,” Alexander says, slipping into some kind of fake Hungarian accent. Although… is it fake? Maybe this part of him, the part I know, is fake?

  He’s watching me try to figure this out.

  “I had it easy,” he repeats, now in perfect English. “Augustine was my first real challenge in life. I fell in love with her the moment we met. She was in film school, I had just finished grad school the year before and was a consultant for an academic organization that gave out grants for film students. It wasn’t fair, I knew that. To dangle that money in front of Augustine. She needed it and…” He shrugs again. But this time he’s frowning. “I needed her.”

  “And so she took your bait,” I say.

  “Ixion was just her friend. He was no threat, I knew that immediately. They were partners, they had business plans, and he was not at all interested in a sexual relationship with her until…”

  “Until I came along,” I finish for him.

  “Yeah, well. You changed everything, Jordan. I knew it the moment we met as well. You were competition. So I had two choices, right? Let you in or chase you away. If I let you in, we share her. If I chase you away, I lose her. So what could I do?”

  His accent is back and for some reason it throws me. It tilts my world a little. Because I don’t know Alexander Bartos with the thick Hungarian accent. I have no fucking idea who this guy is.

  And he’s staring at me. Daring me to ask him this question. “What do you want?”

  “Her,” he says. “So simple, right? I just want her.”

  “And she wants me.”

  “She doesn’t want you. She needs you, Jordan.”

  I think about this for a few moments. “Your family,” I say. “They’re dangerous people?”

  “All people are dangerous.”

  “Right,” I whisper.

  “You’re dangerous people too, so don’t worry about that.”

  I wonder how much he knows about me? How unbalanced is this relationship?

  “We’re here to figure this out and we need you to do it.” His English is perfect again.

  Fucking. Weird.

  “So what do ya say? You in?”

  “I mean… I said I was. I don’t know why you guys keep asking me this. I want the building so I’m game, OK? I have no objections to what we’re doing.”

  “Do you love her?” he asks.

  “No,” I say. And it surprises me even more than it surprises him. Because it’s true. “No,” I say again. “I don’t love her. I don’t know what I feel about her, but I don’t love her. I mean, I care about her. Of course.” I let out an uncomfortable laugh. “I care about her. I want her to be happy. Whatever that looks like.” And then I shrug. I don’t know what else to do. What else to say.

  “Sounds a lot like love to me,” he says.

  “I guess. I dunno. OK, look, I’ll be straight with you. It feels like we’ve maybe… turned a corner here. Right?”

  He nods. Tacitly agreeing.

  “So…” I sigh. Trying to put these feelings into words. “Yeah.”

  He smiles, then huffs out a little laugh.

  “I mean… OK. I like it. I don’t know why it’s so hard for me to admit that, but it is. I thought we were over and turns out… we’re not. So… I’m just… a little bit… surprised about that, I guess.”

  “We like it too. And yeah, we’re just as surprised as you are.”

  “You are? But… you came here for me, right?” I get this sick feeling in my stomach when he hesitates. This sick, sick feeling that I’m missing something here. Something very important and life changing.

  “We did,” he says. And even though that’s the right answer, that feeling doesn’t go away.

  “Don’t fuck with me, Alex. OK? Please? If you want revenge or whatever, fine. Get it however you need to get it. But just… don’t lie about this part.”

  He stares at me for a few moments. Like there’s a million things running through his mind. Like he’s wondering... should I keep lying? Or should I come clean?

  “Feelings don’t lie, Jordan. So, no we’re not lying. It’s just… nice, I think. It’s nice.”

  “Which part?”

  He shrugs. “All of you. I mean, you were kinda hostile last week.”

  “So were you.”

  “Fair. But it does feel like we’ve turned a corner. I agree. The dynamic started out a bit… muddled. As was the objective.”

  “Because you guys are making that part up, aren’t you?”

  “It’s clear now,” he says. Not really answering my question. “It’s clear you still love her.”

  “I’m not in this to steal her, OK?”

  “You can’t steal her, Jordan. She’s not a thing.”

  “I get that,” I say, irritated. “I’m not insinuating she is. I’m just saying… if you guys don’t make it, don’t blame me. It’s not me. I don’t want her. I don’t want you. I need that fucking building and you two just happen to have it.”

  “She needs that building too. That’s why she’s playing this game.”

  “What?”

  “She has plans for it.”

  “Like what?” I ask.

  “She can tell you herself. That’s the reason I came here today. We’re going to look at it tonight. Do you wanna come?”

  “To the building?” I ask.

  “Yes.” He nods. “Meet us there at eight. Unless you wanna come for dinner.” He winks at me.

  I squint back at him with suspicious, narrowed eyes. He’s so fucking confusing. I mean, what the fuck was this visit about? Not lunch. Not some dude-bonding time, either. It’s just another move in the game.

  “No? OK. Then enjoy your burger and we’ll see you tonight.”

  He stands up, buttons his suit coat, and then waits.

  What the fuck is he waiting for?

  “See you then?” I say. Trying to make him go away. God, this guy. I fucking hate how he makes me so uncomfortable. I fucking hate how easy it is for him to do it, too.

  “Unless you want me to stay for something else,” he adds.

  “Like what?” I ask, my irritation totally showing now.

  “Some fun, of course.”

  “You’re not even into it, so don’t play like you are.”

  “Last night I was pretty into it.”

  “Yeah,” I say, remembering how he fucked her. Just… took her. Like she’s his.

  Then he’s walking around my desk and I can’t help myself, I lean back in my chair. Which is the wrong move, I realize, because when he reaches me, he bends at the waist, places one hand on either arm of my chair, boxing me in place, and leans forward to kiss my mouth.

  I kiss him back and feel myself grow hard.

  I’m wondering who the fuck he is as my tongue slips against his. He picks up one hand and slides it behind my neck, pulling me close to him. Into him. And then his other hand is on my belt, unbuckling it. Unbuttoning my pants. Pulling out my shirt. Unzipping me.

  And finally, he’s holding me in his firm grip.

  We stop kissing as he begins to pump my cock. Just hold our lips close to each other. Breathing heavy. Looking at each other.

  He doesn’t get on his knees. In fact, I instinctively understand that there is no possible scenario where he gives me another blow job. I just know that. C
an feel this power vibe radiating off him like… steam.

  “I’ll keep going if you don’t mind coming in my hand and me wiping it on your shirt,” he says.

  Fuuuck.

  “But if you don’t have another suit here at work, I’d advise you to say no. Because I’m gonna make it messy.”

  I just… stare at him.

  Which makes him smile, then chuckle, then laugh, and finally… he lets go of me and steps back.

  “Tonight,” he says. “You can show me what you love about this building of yours. Why you need it so bad.”

  And then he double-slaps my cheek. Not hard, but not soft either. And walks out of my office. Leaving me there with a hard cock sticking up out of my pants, a rumpled shirt, and desire for him I didn’t have when he walked in.

  I’ll give him one thing. I don’t exactly forget about my father, but Alexander’s visit definitely pushes it to the back burner of my mind for the rest of the afternoon.

  I give the deposition my full attention because it’s my job. Plus, it’s my father’s client and letting him down in any way when he’s so busy with other issues just isn’t an option.

  But that’s the last appointment of the day and by the time I go back to the office, answer a few emails, and then head home to waste time before I meet up with Alexander and Augustine, I’m… fucking nervous.

  I’m nervous to walk back into the club. I’m nervous to see it with them. I’m anxious about what comes next.

  I was in there a couple months back. Broke in with Darrel because Augustine has owned it for over a year and a half now and the place has been sitting empty. I was dying to know what was happening in there.

  That was a big fat nothing. The whole place was still… our place. The Turning Point Club. Except there was plastic sheeting over things and layers of dust.

  God, why did Bric ever sell it?

  Why didn’t I just buy it back then?

  And how long have Augustine and Alexander been planning this little reunion?

  I pour myself a drink, sit on the couch in my office bedroom, and think about Alexander’s visit today.

  I wonder what Augustine was doing while he was with me?

  My mind wanders with possibilities. Strange ideas pop into my head. Things that have more to do with that Hungarian accent Alexander sprang on me this afternoon. Things that have to do with our life back in LA. The memories of a too-hot summer, and the broken AC, and the sweaty sex.

  And of course, how I fucked it all up with that little plot to use Ixion to break Augustine and Alexander apart.

  It’s weird too. Because I was the one with the fixation on cameras and filming people. Watching them in private moments. But Ix was the one who took that and made it into a career.

  First with film school. And he and Augustine had a little production company going. They made shorts, ya know? The artsy kind you enter into film festivals.

  And even though he dabbled in our little quasi-quad we had that summer, he was always the watcher. Always the one behind the camera.

  I knew Augustine loved him, just in a different way. He was always the most important member of our… team. They were best friends. By that time Ixion and I had gone separate ways, but we kept in touch and he was the one who invited me into his tight-knit world.

  I was the one who pulled it all apart. Found that unraveling thread and pulled on it until there was nothing but a chaotic pile of what once was.

  I set him up. I set up the cameras, and the date with Augustine. I set up the sex. I set up Alexander. Had him walk in. Set up the reveal. The fact that the whole thing was on film. All of it.

  And Augustine freaked the fuck out.

  Not on me, like she should’ve. Would’ve, had she known back then I was the one responsible.

  But Ixion.

  I tore them apart with my bullshit.

  What I did was a felony and if Ixion hadn’t just sucked it up and took the charges Augustine filed against him… if he had told her it was me… well, let’s just say I wouldn’t be a lawyer right now. I’d have done some time, probably.

  She only dropped the charges on Ix because his whole family died in that car crash. He was in jail when it happened—his dad flatly refused to bail him out. Ixion always did have that bad-boy persona and I guess this was the last straw. So he was left in jail to await the trial.

  Then he missed the funeral.

  Then she dropped the charges.

  Ixion’s mother, father and little sister died thinking he was a pervert who makes sex tapes with unsuspecting women.

  But he wasn’t.

  I was.

  I gulp down my drink, then get up and pour myself another. I gulp that down too, standing at the front window, looking out onto the elaborately landscaped front garden bathed in the soft glow of expensive landscape lighting.

  He was never the same after that.

  None of us were. Not even Alexander was the same and it had nothing to do with him at all. He married August, they moved on as a couple, and… whatever. They split up, and got back together, and a part of me knows all of that was my fault.

  They know it too. That’s why they’re here. They need to fit all those fucked-up pieces into the fucked-up puzzle we created back in LA so they can move on.

  You’d think I’d have learned my lesson.

  You’d think I’d change my ways.

  You’d think running these games would be the last thing I’d get involved in.

  Of course, you’d be wrong.

  Because deep down inside I am one sick motherfucker.

  At seven-fifty-two I’m standing before the revolving doors at the front of the old Turning Point Club, unable to reconcile what I’m seeing.

  The building is an old historical brownstone with an elaborate facade. Six stories in all, and all the windows are tall.

  They remind me of the windows on the front of my empty mansion and I let my mind wander for a moment, wondering if they were built at the same time, or maybe they are even…

  My phone dings a text.

  I take it out of my pocket and read the screen. It’s from Alexander and it says, Come inside.

  I look back at the revolving doors. At the soft glow of light that filters through the frosted glass. The windows are shuttered, like this is another night, in that other life when the weekends here were filled with people dressed in black and white and the shuttered windows were a sign that there was fun to be had inside.

  Private fun. Hot, sweaty, sexy fun.

  I take a deep breath, straighten the lapel of my black tuxedo—because the Club always did have a dress code—and then step into the cramped compartment of the revolving door and push.

  I could hear the music outside. It was part of the reason I hesitated. Got lost in the memories of how it used to be. Felt that little pang of ache that started two winters ago when I was last here and never seemed to fade away.

  It’s just… music, ya know. Background noise. And if this was real, and not an illusion, it would be accompanied by the clink and clatter of silverware on china, and platters of food being served in the White Room restaurant off to my left. And the tink of cut-crystal glasses filled with Macallan, or Hine Triomphe, or Hennessy Paradis Impérial in the Black Room bar off to my right.

  All the wives would be dressed in white or silver, and all the men in black tie.

  And Bric would be there. I glance over at the bar. Picture him talking to people. Picture people hanging on his every word. The gregarious laughter that would always come after. The side looks he would throw at me, or Quin, or Smith, maybe. Which makes me look up to the second-floor balcony overlooking the Black Room and the grand lobby, where you’d always find Smith. Watching. Waiting. This was before Chella. Back when he was still weird. Back when things were fun for me.

  I was new at the Club. Just became a member a few weeks before. It was Lucinda’s birthday and there was a party for her. She chose me to take her downstairs and share her with her husband.
>
  It was a fun night.

  But it was more than fun. It felt like… like after all the bullshit in LA I’d finally found my place in the world. A place where what we wanted out of marriage and sexual partnerships wasn’t discouraged.

  Where we could all just be ourselves.

  “I’m so glad you came,” Augustine says.

  And it’s like she knows. Because she’s wearing a long silver gown. I have to take a deep breath. Have to stop the memory of those long-gone nights from becoming too real.

  “It looks the same,” I say, noticing Alexander now. He’s sitting at a booth near the window. The same booth Nadia and I sat in when I first mentioned her to Bric. First gave her to Bric, is probably more accurate.

  They’re not married yet, but they will be soon.

  “Come,” Augustine says. “Sit.” She waves a hand to Alexander’s booth. My booth. You can’t see outside because of the shutters, but I know… I know people are looking at this place right now, asking themselves, Is it open again?

  I walk over to Alexander and slide into the booth opposite him.

  He stands, waits for Augustine to get in the booth, then sits again.

  I let out a long breath as we stare at each other.

  “This is it, huh?” Augustine asks.

  I nod. “Sorta.”

  “What do you want to do with it?” Alexander asks.

  “What do you mean? I want to fucking open it back up.”

  “Just like this?”Augustine asks.

  “Yeah. Just like this.”

  “Why?” Alexander asks.

  “Because I miss it. We all miss it.”

  “Who’s we?” Alexander asks.