Page 2 of Play Dirty

He doesn’t open his eyes and I’m grateful. Because he kinda fascinates me and those heavy-lidded eyes come with an intense gaze when they’re open.

It gives me an opportunity to look at him.

“I only ever did it for you,” Alexander replies. “It was always you who liked this.”

I could make him change his mind. I could. I’m that good. But I’ve given up on the dream of a bonded threesome.

Those feelings have long since passed. I live in a reality of my own making. Which might not be a hundred percent real these days, but it’s a lot more realistic than Alexander ever getting used to the idea of me.

I grab his hand and remove it from my cock.

This is enough to make him open his eyes.

“What are you doing?” Augustine asks.

“Leaving,” I say.

And I do.

I go home. Which isn’t a home. I live in a seven-million-dollar, ten-thousand-square-foot historical mansion next door to the Denver Botanical Gardens. I bought it last fall in foreclosure with the hope of…

What?

What was I hoping?

I live here now because I’m liquidating. I have hopes and dreams too. I need things. It’s all I’ve got left and I don’t want it unless…

There are seven bedrooms, eleven bathrooms, two media rooms, two offices, two kitchens, a game room, a library, and a ballroom.

And I live here alone.

There’s nowhere to drop my keys as I come in the front door because the place is empty. A family lived here before their luck changed. And they left everything behind when they sold it. Even photographs. The happy couple on their wedding day. Pictures of their kids, and I can only assume they did that because they have digitals in Dropbox or some shit, because that part is pretty cold.

Pretty.

Fucking.

Cold.

(But who am I to judge?)

They left everything like it was a holiday home and whatever they kept there was just… extra. Like they went shopping and bought two of everything and so all this was just the spare set.

Except it wasn’t.

But it’s all gone now. I packed up the photographs in a box and gave them to Lawton. Did he ever return them? I have no idea because I never asked. Then I sold all the furniture in an estate sale last month and bought a desk and a couch from IKEA and had it placed in the fifteen-hundred-square-foot office on the main floor.

I’m pretty sure the IKEA delivery people thought I was crazy, but I don’t care. And anyway, it might be true.

I live in the office. I don’t even bother using the main kitchen because I don’t cook and the office has a wet bar—because all gentlemen who own ten-thousand-square-foot-homes have a wet bar in their office—and it even has a dishwasher to wash the cut-crystal glasses I drink bourbon out of every night before bed, so who cares about the industrial-sized chef’s kitchen on the other side of the house?

On the desk there’s a laptop and on the wall there’s a fifty-five-inch TV, except I don’t have cable, or Netflix, or Hulu, or even Prime, so why I bought the TV, I couldn’t tell you.

If anyone saw me these days I’d get a label.

If I was lucky that label would be… eccentric. But more likely than not, they’d call me… sad.

And that would be accurate.