Page 42 of Play Dirty

“Jordan,” Augustine says. “Let’s talk about that later. Let’s just—”

I stand up, pounding the table with both hands. Augustine startles, jumping with the silverware. “Tell me,” I growl. “Or I’ll walk out right now. I won’t participate in bullshit like this. I won’t become you, Alexander.”

“That’s precisely the point,” Augustine says. Too loud. Not a yell or shout, but too loud. “You’re not him. You’ll never be him,” she snaps.

And for some reason I take that as an insult. That he is somehow better than me. This asshole who likes to hit her to get off is better than me.

And she allows it. She wants it. He stopped and she dragged him here. Made him leave LA and come to Denver to find me. So they can continue this… this sick version of love they’ve cultivated since I left.

“Look,” Alexander says. “I can’t help what I like. I’m sorry I ever started doing it with her. Because—”

“Because I love it,” Augustine says. “It’s fantasy. It’s pretend, Jordan. You of all people, the fucking game master himself, should be able to see this for what it is. A game.”

“A lifestyle,” I correct her. “This isn’t a game. This is a top-bottom lifestyle.”

“Not really,” Alexander says, then takes a sip of wine. He swallows, puts his glass down, and then continues. “Because I don’t want her to submit to me. I want her to fight me.”

My brain is on fire, doing an internal search for a memory of any such game. I cannot recall ever hearing about this. “Who gets to win?” I ask. Because it matters. And I need to make sense of this.

“We both win,” Augustine says. “When the game is over and we’re satisfied and happy.”

“So… so you don’t want to be tied down and… you know. Kinda forced?”

“No,” Augustine says.

“And you don’t want to force her?”

“God, no. It’s not a rape fantasy.”

“But you want her to fight you?”

“Yes. But she won’t fight back,” Alexander says.

“If I fight back, he stops,” Augustine says.

“Because I lose control,” he clarifies. “And I don’t want to lose control.”

“OK.” I put up a hand. “Hold on here. You want her to fight you?” I look at Alexander and he nods. “You refuse to fight back.” I point to Augustine.

“Because he’ll stop,” she says again. “I will fight back,” she says, looking at Alexander. “But only if we keep going and see it through to the end.”

I think about this as we all sit in silence. Then I say, “I have to admit, you guys, I’ve never heard of this one. I… I don’t think it has a name. I’m gonna have to get some advice first. I can’t—”

“No,” Augustine says. This time it’s her pounding her fists on the table, making the silverware jump. “No. Tonight.”

“Tonight? No. Fuck that. I… I… I don’t even know what this is.”

“Well,” Alexander says, placing his napkin on his plate. “We can show you.”

They get up at the same time. Eyes locked. And they nod.

And once again I get that feeling about them. That they are truly connected. That they know each other so well.

He walks over to her and says, “You invited this asshole into our house?” Before she can answer he slaps her across the face again.

This time Augustine is instantly breathing heavy. Like that excites her. Which is normal, I’ve seen that before.

But then… but then her arm is in motion, her hand connects with his face, and her slap is much louder than his.