Exhibit

by Noir, Stella

  “Twelve million, six hundred and seventy five thousand, four hundred and thirty two dollars, sixty five cents”, I say, and cast the paper to the side. “There have been many people romantically linked to Mr. Power over the last few months - Stephanie, Rachel, Alice, don’t forget Sylvia, how could I forget Sylvia, but this Christmas, it seems like New York’s most eligible bachelor might be spending the festive period on his own.”

  I sip down scotch and press a button on the side of the bath that jets out a jacuzzi stream of bubbles into my back. Satisfied, I continue.

  “With no family to speak of, and rarely spotted in public, especially at this time of year, despite all of that money available to him, is this former actor turned city golden boy, unable to buy the one thing he’s so desperately looking for?”

  “What’s that Steve?” I say, playing out the conversation in my head.

  “Well, I think you know exactly what it is I’m talking about. Love.”

  “What a load of bullshit”, I say, arguing with myself. “I want it, I can buy it. There isn’t anything in this world that can’t be bought with the right money, and I’m fucking rolling in it. Everything has a price, you just need to work out how to negotiate for it. Even love.”

  When I’m done with the bath, I get out, dry myself and choose a suit. The way I look is very important to me. Jack and Stuart and even Craig to a certain extent, don’t go in for all of that, but I do. It’s part of the fucking look, and it works. There’s no point in having as much money as I do if you don’t look the part. Sure the other guys will get suited and booted, but that’s only half of it, you’ve got to feel it to do the rest. The clothes I put on, the watch, the rings, the cologne, the jewellery, even the fact that I have my teeth polished and whitened, it all costs money.

  I pay almost six hundred dollars to have my haircut the way I want to every month, because it makes a difference. You can’t pick up girls like Rachel and Alice if you don’t do it like that. That’s why Jack has to pay for every fuck he gets, and everyone who fucks him resents him for it. Jack will never get it. He squirrels his money away like animals do food, the little he earns of it compared to everyone else.

  Carter knows, but he just hasn’t got the style to go along with it. He’ll pay six hundred dollars for a McDonald’s burger, just because he’ll want to be seen flashing the cash. Fucking idiots, all of them. I only hang around with them because it makes me look all that much better by comparison. I’m the only king in the room when we’re together, and there isn’t anyone who can touch me. They all think I’m the golden boy and want to stick to me like glue, Jack included, even though he whines about it the most. They aren’t wrong.

  Christmas fucking day tomorrow. The girl who cleans this apartment left me a Christmas tree as a present and it now sits exactly where she left it, on the coffee table in the living room, untouched. It will sit there until she comes back to work next week and clears it away, and neither one of us will say anything about it again. She’s lucky I don’t sack her, but I guess she just doesn’t know.

  It’s just gone 7pm. I’m dressed, I’m rich, and I’m ready to play. Nothing can stop me.

  I know where they’ll be. They’ll have gone there straight after work, and it’s where I’m heading now. I make sure the only card I carry in my embossed silver card holder is the black credit card with the gold K sculpted into it, which I wrap ten fifty dollar bills around for tips and other expenses, and then I call a driver.

  Jingle Bells is playing on the radio when I get into the car.

  “Turn that fucking shit off”, I say angrily.

  He turns it off. “Where to?” he asks, craning his neck awkwardly so he can face me.

  “Aces”, I say.

  “Coming right up”, he says, a nervous laugh to break the ice, and manoeuvres the car out onto the road.

  I was an actor for five years because I like being the centre of attention. The reason I stopped was because I like making money even more. The two worlds aren’t all that much different. You work stupid hours, nobody really understands what it is you do, everyone’s an asshole and they all think they’re better than everyone else at what they do. It’s just as a city trader the salary and the bonuses are a hell of a lot sweeter. It took a while to transition and a lot of hard work. People see how much money I earn and how much I spend, and they don’t think about the hard work I’ve put in that’s got me here. I was successful before and I’m even more successful now, but nobody put a million dollars in my bank to start me off, like some of the other fuckers I work with.

  Every cent I own I’ve earned, and I’ve busted my balls for it too. You put the hard work in, you’re going to reap the rewards. If you don’t, you’re either not doing it right, or you’re doing it wrong. It’s a s simple as that.

  We round the park and head down fifth. Snow has been cleared off the road here, but it’s piled up pretty heavily on the sidewalk. I see kids throwing snowballs at each other and it reminds me of doing the same at high school. It’s only ten years ago, but it seems so distant it could be a hundred. Traffic slows because of what looks like an earlier accident, so we divert around it. The driver seems to know what he’s doing, but I avoid telling him in case it means he thinks I want a conversation. He may have driven me before, maybe not. Something about his face is familiar, but I never pay enough attention to be able to tell. It’s a completely different world from mine and I don’t want any part of it.

  This city hides secrets most people never get to see. Behind closed doors, in basements and garages and bedrooms up and down this island shit goes on you wouldn’t believe. I saw a lot of that when I was acting, but believe me, nothing at all like what I’ve seen as a trader. Everybody has this image of actors and rock stars as the ones that party the most, but believe me, money corrupts. You work so close to it, it fucks up your mind so much you begin to see the whole world differently. Maybe that’s the reason so many people in this city are alone, walking about like fucking zombies with their brains already chewed out. This season is the worse for it, drunks falling asleep in banks of snow, drug addicts getting so strung out they tip over bridges and sink silently screaming into the Hudson, prostitutes every which way you look.

  Everybody’s on the game, and money makes the world go round. Some of us just know how to play it right.

  Violet

  I try my best to keep my jeans dry on the way to the bus stop, but it’s fucking impossible. Even though I roll them up well away from the ground, somehow the damp gets to them like it’s climbed there by itself. I have a pair of shoes that are supposed to be waterproof, but they clearly aren’t, because by the time I get on the bus and find a seat, I realize how cold and wet my feet are. It’s only 8pm and the bus is already full of drunks, and before we’re even five minutes into the journey someone’s already hitting on me.

  He’s sweet enough, but his breath stinks of alcohol and his lips are all red where it looks like he’s been drinking wine by the gallon load. He puts his hand on my thigh at one point, maybe just to balance himself, maybe because he figures boundaries don’t exist over Christmas, and I show him I don’t appreciate it at all, by getting up and standing over by the doors. At the next stop he gets out, along with about six other men in suits and stupid cone shaped kids hats, I presume from the same Christmas office party.

  ‘Bitch’, he says to me as he leaves.

  I flick him the bird when the bus pulls past them, but he’s already forgotten about me, lost in the huddle of his friends. Fucking asshole.

  When I get to the right stop, I have a ten minute walk through Greenwich Village to the bar Vicki has chosen to celebrate in. It’s fucking cold, despite the several layers I’m wearing, and I hug myself against it try and keep warm. It’s at times like this that I miss Daniel.

  I’m much better off without him, that’s for sure, and I wouldn’t want to get back together with him even if I could, but doing everything constantly on my own is beginning to make me feel much l
onelier than I ever thought would be possible. It’s especially difficult at this time of year too. What I really miss, much more than Daniel I suppose, is having somebody special, just to be there for me. Someone that would be able to hug me against this fucking cold weather. Perhaps someone with a car, or at least enough money to pay for a taxi to take us directly to where we’re meeting.

  Daniel was never going to be that person. I gave him a chance, but he fucked it up.

  As I hurry along, I wonder what he might be up to. We spent two awful Christmases together - one with his parents and one with mine, and I wonder if he’s back with them now, or still trapped in this city working, sucked in and lost in the system, like an incorrectly addressed Christmas parcel.

  From here, the city looks beautiful lit up for Christmas, but dominant too, overwhelming, at turns futuristic even. Even though it’s expensive, wildly fucking expensive, overpopulated, and never quite sunny enough for my liking, I do love New York. In my limited travelling experience, I’ve never found anywhere else even like it. I wasn’t born here - I don’t think many people are, but I’ve definitely made it my home. How long I can continue keeping it that way is another question.

  I’m one of the last to arrive, and Vicki’s pretty drunk by the time I get there. I get myself a drink, sit down at the table and Vicki introduces me to anyone she thinks I haven’t met before. Most of them I already have, but I laugh it off and let her continue. Someone slaps a Christmas hat on my head and hands me a tequila shot. I wouldn’t normally do it, and try and hand it back, but I get chanted on and Vicki won’t accept no for an answer. Fuck it, I think, and knock it back. Merry fucking Christmas.

  I melt into the sofa and sip at my wine. One glass turns into half a bottle, and suddenly I’m drunk and locked into a conversation with someone I’ve never met before who I think works with Vicki. He’s pretty intense, and as soon as I can, I look for an excuse to get away from him. Vicki reads the situation well, sees I’m stuck and pulls me away. We go outside to smoke, a rare treat I allow myself when I’ve lost the willpower to resist any longer, and while we are stood there chatting, a man dressed as Santa Claus comes over and coaxes us into giving money to a children’s charity. Vicki puts a couple of dollars into his bucket and asks for a kiss. I do the same so I don’t look cheap, but tell him he can give the kiss to Vicki, which he does.

  Vicki smiles at me.

  “Thanks for coming”, she says.

  “What else was I going to do?” I say, and we both laugh.

  “Bitch.”

  “Happy birthday”, I say and rub Vicki’s shoulder. “It’s good to see you.”

  “So, how’s the love life then? Chris not doing it for you?”

  It takes me a moment to work out who she’s talking about.

  “Fucking hell, him? No. He’s a bit intense isn’t he?”

  Vicki taps her forehead.

  “I think he’s got some issues he’s working through. You might have something in common.”

  “Touché”, I say and punch her on the shoulder.

  The cigarette tastes as foul as I always remember them being. I don’t even know why I bother smoking sometimes, I enjoy it much less than the wanting to do it. I take one more drag, just to be absolutely sure, and then stub the rest of it out against the ashtray.

  I stick close to Vicki when we head back inside, just in case Chris is waiting for me to rejoin him. Thankfully he’s already moved onto someone else anyway, his new victim trying her best not to look like she’s trying to escape from a weirdos grasp.

  This is it then. Another Christmas eve, another fucking year.

  I’m drunk, I’ve already lost my willpower and smoked a cigarette, there are cheesy Christmas songs playing on the jukebox, Vicki’s friends are all mental, and I can’t see any good reason not to throw myself into it completely until I either do something stupid and remember it, or do something stupid and black out. It feels like one of those nights. I mean, what’s the worst that can happen anyway?

  Bain

  Aces is pumping when I get there. A thousand dollar minimum spend, members only speakeasy style, slide door entry basement bar, where the girls come free with each table. This is a good enough place as any to start.

  “Here he is”, Mark says, and reaches a hand up for me to slap. Carter has his face over the table, a rolled up one dollar bill in his hand, hoovering up a line of white. I told you he lacked style. I push him along the low back leather sofa and sit down.

  “You in?”

  “Later”, I tell him, and he passes the note to the girl to his right, who looks like she’s been hitting it hard already. Sunken cheekbones and the kind of body that can only be maintained by sucking pureed food through a straw is not my kind of thing.

  “Nice suit”, Jack quips, a girl either side of him. In here, he can pretend, but everyone knows he can’t take them home. Here the trophies can be looked at, but when you leave they go right back in the cabinet. I open my blazer to show him the lining on the inside of the jacket, sharp enough to put holes in his retinas. It probably cost more than his last holiday.

  “Carter just bought a Ferrari”, Mark says.

  “No shit”, I say. “About time you got rid of the Porsche.”

  Carter has cocaine in his moustache and his eyes look like they are having trouble focussing.

  “It’s fucking fast”, he says. “I nearly killed myself this afternoon.”

  One of the girls pours me a drink. She must be almost six foot tall with tits that look like mini footballs. She sees me looking at them and smiles. Great tits, awful teeth.

  “Are they real?” I ask.

  Sandy comes over. He’s a friend of Carter’s from another firm. Hand shakes get passed around and he crouches in the space between the two sofas to engage us. His suit looks shop bought even though it probably wasn’t, and his shoes are from last season, worn too much at the edges. It’s a sign of a bad year and a small bonus.

  “You guys want to see something fucked up?” he says, excitement gripping the curves of his cheeks and turning them red. “Like horror movie fucked up.”

  Jack looks at Carter, and Carter looks at me.

  “Where?” I say.

  Sandy raises his eyebrows. “Come and have a look”, he says, pulling himself upright.

  There are rooms at Aces, fucking tunnels actually, like a labyrinth that runs under the building. A secret system. You have enough money you can do whatever the fuck you like here, even to the trophy girls. Like I say, as long as you put them back on the shelf when you’re done. Intact, in one piece.

  Sandy leads the way.

  “The boss has got her on a retainer”, he says while we walk. “A Christmas fucking special for the office.”

  Carter puts his hand on Sandy’s shoulder and whispers something in his ear. A moment later he slides a bag of something into his coat pocket, turns around and glances at me.

  We go through a curtained door, guarded by two bouncers that leads into a corridor. From there, we pass a number of rooms until we stop at ours, number six. Sandy has the key.

  “Are you boys fucking ready for this?”

  We go in.

  She must be no more than twenty, tied to a chair, with legs open and a ball gag in her mouth, trapped completely in a cube of glass. Nothing too unusual for Aces.

  “What do you think?” Sandy says. He stands there a moment staring at her, hands in his pockets, chubby face carved into a smile. “She’ll do, won’t she? Not the best I’ve seen, but tidy. Definitely tidy enough. Fuck.”

  On the table to the side he racks up four lines, more interested now in the cocaine than the life sized, real life toy.

  “Fuck”, Jack says, moving in front of her to get a better look and titling his head like a confused dog when every other action escapes him. “Go on.”

  Carter walks around her, arms crossed, as though she were some kind of modern art exhibit without a soul. Dehumanized enough to not be noticeable in her original fo
rm. “Huh”, he says when he’s come full circle. “How long has she been like that?”

  “Can she move?” Jack asks. I see him eager to test her restraints, to play with her, but not sure quite how. “Not that she would want to, but can she?”

  He goes to the glass to get as close as he can, kneels down in front of it. “Fucking hell”, he says. “You can almost see-.”

  All of a sudden, an almighty squirt of ejaculate hits the glass in front of Jack’s eyes, scaring the shit out of him. Carter buckles over laughing.

  “Fuck”, Jack says. “That’s insane.”

  “She’s wired up”, Sandy says, without even needing to look up. “Push the button, see what it does.”

  I get closer to the glass and look at her soulless eyes. She’s got her legs wide and hung in stirrups like she’s about to give birth, electrodes placed around her clit and underneath her tits, and something vibrating inside her asshole. She’s pretty. Good tits, nice legs, nice eyes too. I’d fuck her, but I wouldn’t pay for her.

  “Bain?”’ Sandy holds out the $50 bill he has already made good use of.

  “I’ve got my own”, I say, and take a silver tube out of my inner pocket, the top edge of which is engraved with my initials.

  “When the man’s got money”, Carter says and smiles.

  I lean over the line and Sandy rubs my shoulders.

  “This is grade A shit”, Carter says. “98% pure, Columbian, straight off the ship and $250 a gram.”

  “It’s shit”, I say, tapping the tube out on the table.

  Jack’s busy pressing the button on the side of the glass. He’s worked out it controls whatever huge toy she’s got inserted into her ass, and each time he gives the button a whack, the intensity goes up. She looks like she’s about to squirt at him again and Jack can’t wait for it.

  “How much did this cost?” Jack calls over, his eyes never once moving from her pussy hole.

  “You pay on the way out”, Sandy jokes.