Page 51 of Play Dirty

I find a playlist called Deep Dark Moods that has about forty songs you can fuck to and stream that through the speakers hidden in the ceiling.

Talking with Lucinda this afternoon has given me a whole new perspective. A new goal to aim for. A new possible outcome.

And, of course, a plan.

A plan, I have found, can fix almost anything in life. A good plan can turn a shitty outcome into an opportunity. And a great plan can turn your whole life around.

This plan might be spectacular.

I take a seat at the desk, one ankle propped up on one knee, and sip from my cut-crystal glass of Hedonism as Portishead pours out of the speakers like smooth waves of velvet.

The gate opens and my eyes are trained on the driveway as I peer through the window. They’re late —almost twenty-five minutes—but they show.

I knew they would.

Let the game begin.

“Welcome,” I say, watching them come up the front walk through the open front door.

They are holding hands and I catch a slight tightening of their grip as Augustine says, “Sorry we’re late. I’m hopeless when it comes to being on time.”

Which is a lie. But I don’t care. This whole fucking thing is a lie.

“Let me take that,” I say, letting my fingertips brush against Augustine’s soft skin as I drag the black silk wrap down her arms. Underneath she’s wearing a tight red dress. It hugs her hips and breasts like skin. Silk, like the wrap, and soft, I can tell just by looking at it. I admire the choker of diamonds she’s wearing around her neck, the matching cuff at her wrist, and… her rings are back. Wedding band and the obscene rock Alexander gave her when they got engaged.

Well… I smile at Alexander as the shawl comes loose and then pivot to hang it in the foyer closet.

“Come in, I hope you had a nice evening. Did you dine out tonight? Or eat in?” I direct my question to Alexander. He’s wearing a charcoal-gray suit with a light gray shirt and a deep blue tie. And the first thing that occurs to me is they don’t look like a couple. Not that couples should color-coordinate, but there is no cohesion here. A definite line of separation happening.

“We went to that new place over on Stout. The Italian one,” he answers.

“Sure,” I say. “I’ve seen it but haven’t yet stopped in. Was it all you hoped for?” Now I’m looking at Augustine.

“It was good.” She shrugs.

“We weren’t going to come,” Alexander says.

I smile and wave him into the office. “Then I’m delighted that you did. Wine, Augustine?”

“Yes,” she says, rubbing a hand down her arm.

“Are you cold?” I ask, placing my hand on her hip and pulling her into me. I lean down, inhale her scent, then whisper in her ear. “You won’t be cold for long. Don’t worry.”

She backs away from me. Not startled. She won’t startle that easy. But put off a little. They both have that vibe to them.

There was an argument tonight. And it was about me.

“I have a special whiskey for us,” I say, motioning to the Hedonism Quindecimus as I open the bottle of wine and pour a glass.

Alexander picks up the whiskey bottle and studies the label. No doubt admiring the beautiful woman on the front. Or maybe wondering if it’s supposed to remind him of his wife.

“What’s this all about?” Alexander says.

This is the kind of game I love. The one where tables are turned. Game pieces scattered on the board. And the rules, such as they were, are thrown out and new ones made up as we go.

“Your invitation, of course.”

“You put up a fight all this time and now you’re what?” This is Augustine. “Just going to play along?”