[ChicletPrime]

Tentación

I hate myself every time he touches me.

He hasn’t, yet. Take another sip of the dry white while I watch him ignore me. The gun is in pieces now on the coffee table, his hands methodically stripping the segments to clean them with a rag he always produces from somewhere. The slim bottle of oil is already leaving a smear on the exquisite polish. He doesn’t care, of course, that the table he’s working on has more zeroes attached to it than his last payout; the intricate amboyna burlwood smuggled in from the dirty market of an impoverished country, the intricate carvings on the legs created by last craftsmen of a dying art. All he cares about is that it’s flat.

Turn my gaze to the window so I can stop staring and tap the glass to my lips instead, savoring the crisp smell. This high up the view is just spectacular with the darkening blue of the sky reflecting in the pool, merging them both into a single slice of heaven. The warm water takes up most of the cantilevered balcony, the slide of sunset sparking dull flares in the chrome railings. A few elegant deck chairs ready for lounging and the thrusting spikes of the skyscrapers across the river complete and frame the picture. Somewhere out there no doubt there’s a man with a telephoto lens, looking for something interesting to shoot through all this glass.

The gold chain with its single charm chooses that moment to wink at me and I find myself idly inspecting it, turning my ankle to make it flash again. Rich, but not ostentatious, like everything else here. It’s about keeping up intended appearances, of course. It wouldn’t do to give the wrong impression; getting my picture taken at parties for the morning gossip rags, purchasing expensive cars and wrecking them, spending my evenings dating dried up old men or leading the hungry young boys around or both. Just another bubble-headed heiress with more cash than sense, let’s all have a yawn about it.

Not that I would object to playing the part if it brought me what I needed. But no, everything in the apartment is arranged for a purpose, displayed meticulously for a reason. That includes the street address of this particular building with the terribly expensive coffee table he’s using like a cardboard box, the ever so tasteful artwork on the walls that would never dare to clash with the muted pattern of the designer sofa I’m sitting on. Everything, right on down to the pencil skirt and tight waisted suit jacket in a charcoal gray chosen specifically to set off the colour of my hair - the thousand and one touches that proclaim in a quiet, superior tone that I am untouchable.

At what price, freedom? All the money I have can’t buy it. Well, have access to really, but as they say, horseshoes and hand grenades. For the moment the world continues to be my cherry picked oyster. But what’s that saying again? That the key to strategy is not to chose a path to victory, but to choose so that all paths lead to victory. There is no reason at all not to use everything I’ve been given; born with, earned or found.

Even him. Or perhaps especially him.

Not, of course, that he particularly cares.

The gun starts to go together faster than it came apart, the assembly swift and precise. The sounds are sharp enough to cut and I continue to stare at my ankle so I don’t have to watch his hands. He slides back the top of the pistol finally, letting it snap into place. He loads the magazine at the last and then the snub nose of it disappears beneath the coat. He shrugs his shoulders, no doubt to settle the weight. Underarm holster, as best I can tell.

“Why do you carry a gun if you don’t use it?” I wonder out loud.

He shrugs. “I like options.” He wipes his hands a few times on the rag before swiping it a few desultory times at the table. Apparently the effort is close enough and he disappears it and the little bottle somewhere into the shapeless khaki jacket. Cleaning the gun seems to be a downtime ritual, that much I’ve pieced together. I’ve never seen him use the thing at any rate.

“Pour me some more wine, darling?” I waggle the nearly empty glass at him. He snorts at that, leaning back then to stretch an arm over the back of my sofa’s twin, hitching a leg up to rest an ankle on his knee. Bare, of course, apparently socks are just not done these days. Picture of a soldier for hire at rest, cue the appropriate soundtrack. I’m sure there’s one out there for the occasion.

“Your arm broke, Prissy? Pour it yourself, I ain’t no cabana boy.”

Purse my lips but swallow down the automatic retort because I realize I can’t meet his dark eyes properly. Oh, that won't do at all. Busy myself with bottle, pouring slowly and taking the time to nestle it precisely back into the ice bucket at a nice, breathable angle. He looks around with a noncommittal expression on his face as if he sits in million dollar penthouses like this every day of the week.

“Got anything real to drink around here while we’re waiting?” The tone at least is belligerent, asserting himself into the space. I wave my glass towards the back wall.

“Help yourself to the bar, sweet thing. I’m sure there’s something in there that wasn’t aged properly.”

He swings himself up to check, the motion pulling his jacket open for a second and I’m treated to the line of his body in the tight shirt beneath it. Take another automatic swallow of wine to clear the unwanted taste from my mouth.

I cannot afford this distraction, because that’s what it is. Dangerous, thrilling, sick, distraction. When I choose to take a man to bed, it certainly won’t be him or anyone like him; not with his rough street bravado, the ragged magic he carves out of the world without any attempt at finesse or even control, certainly not with the anger he wields like the knife he so often prefers for all the things he’s never had the chance to have. When I choose, it will be somebody like Steven. Elegant. Refined. Eminently accommodating and chosen for the victory condition he’ll give me.

He's got a bottle in each hand, clearly unable to decide, when the discreet earpiece I’m wearing starts to buzz.

The conversation is short, a few choppy sentences with the essentials. When I look up again, he’s staring at me.

“You got it?” he asks.

Drain the wine in one sweetly slick rush, clicking the stem down on the table. Take a moment to adjust a cuff to precise alignment and stand. “But of course, darling, the Eye sees all. And almost on schedule. Shall we go meet the others?”

He half shrugs, staring at his hands. One bottle thumps down and he spins the top open on the other. From the shape of the container I’m going to guess a single malt scotch. His throat bobs a few times before he pulls it away from his mouth, licking his lips. No culture. No class. Certainly no real prospects.

But the close cropped buzz of his hair is like fur that just begs to be touched. His profile is clean and sharp as he starts to walk, snatching up the machete he’d leaned against the wall when we first came in. The dark tattoo riding high on his cheek is both exotic and frightening. All the possibilities of violence swirl around him like an aura I can barely see. Whatever lessons he was taught while I sat in my classrooms over my dutiful books, they include fast judgements and even faster reactions. Spilled blood just makes him stronger.

I meet him at the door and I slide my fingers over his even as his hand reaches to engage the keypad.

“Ah, no, darling. Beauty before age.”

I hate myself every time he touches me. Because brushing past him into the private elevator, I’m the one that can’t help it.