Page 7 of Play Dirty

“We’re going somewhere,” Augustine says as I approach them in the lobby. “You don’t really have to work today, do you?”

“I guess not,” I say, glancing at Alexander. He’s wearing board shorts, a white t-shirt, and sneakers.

“You’ll need to go home and change,” Alexander says, eyeballing me eyeballing him.

“We’ll follow you. Alexander can drive us.”

“Follow me?” I’m not following.

“To your house,” Augustine says. “To change.”

I stew about this turn of events the whole way over to my place. How she just assumes control over us. And yeah, I’ve been in plenty of threesomes where I’m dude number two and take orders, but I’ve never taken orders from the woman.

Sexist? Maybe. But I’m not one of those submissive guys.

Maybe Alexander is. Maybe he’s OK putting up with her dominance. But I’m not. And right now— as I wait for the gate of my ridiculous seven-million-dollar monstrosity to open, glancing back at them in my rear-view mirror—I’m kinda pissed off.

I pull forward when the gate is fully open, park in my usual spot in front of the carriage house, and get out just as Alexander turns off his engine.

Augustine is already getting out, looking up at the house with wide eyes. “You live here?”

I nod. “Yup.”

“Why?” She laughs.

“Because I liquidated all my assets to buy my fucking club back.” It comes out like venom. I’m not proud of that because I hate letting people in on my feelings, but she’s pissing me off.

“Show me around,” Augustine says, pretending that everything is cool.

“No,” I say, walking around to the front door. I don’t know why I always enter at the front door since I park in back, but I do. Maybe because the office is near the front door and I just want to pretend the rest of the house doesn’t exist.

“Holy shit,” Augustine says as we enter into the two-story foyer. “That’s some chandelier.”

I look up at it, probably for the first time in months, and notice there’s still a camera bulb up there from when I made Ixion play a game here with Evangeline Rolaine.

Augustine walks forward into the long hallway that runs the length of the house. But I say, “There’s nothing to see here. The place is empty except for the office.”

She doesn’t seem to care. Because she disappears around a corner, her fingertips tracing the wall as the last thing to fade away as she goes off to explore.

“So where are we going?” I ask Alexander. He’s walked into the ballroom and is looking up at the intricate design on the coffered ceiling. “So I know what to wear,” I add, when he doesn’t answer me.

“Wear what I’m wearing,” he replies back. Like it’s an afterthought.

“I don’t own cargo shorts,” I say.

“Wear whatever the fuck you want,” he snaps.

OK.

I go into the office, start rummaging through the portable clothes rack that holds about a hundred and fifty thousand dollars in suits, and find a t-shirt.

It’s plain, dark blue, and brand new with tags. Which I rip off with my teeth and spit into the trash can by the desk.

I take off my suit coat, unbutton my shirt, take it off, and when I turn around, arms already in the sleeves of the t-shirt, Alexander is watching me.

I smile at him. “You can watch if you want. I don’t care.”

He looks away, wanders out of view, and I go rummage though the built-in drawers that now hold all my foldable clothes instead of office supplies.