Edge Play X (16 page)

X slapped him and he clutched at her
wrists.

He came in close to her and said,
“You’re the Virgin Mary, huh? You go around fucking bartenders but when we want
you to do something for us, you won’t give us an inch.”

“You’re watching me?” she said, enraged.

“Of course we are. We weren’t positive
that you fucked the bartender but now we know.”

“Look,” she said, “it’s
Compton
and that’s it.
Nobody else.
And after you get the information you need, I want out. I want free.”

Overhead, the seagulls were shrieking
as if mocking them.

Simeon pulled out a small thumb drive
from his interior suit pocket and handed it to X.

He said, “We need you to put some
software onto his computer. It will install automatically and only take a few
minutes.”

“He’s never going to let me onto his
computer.”

Simeon rubbed his chin, moving his
thumb over the slim scar on his jaw.

“Your brother,” he began, “the lab
where his drug tests go, it’s in
Pasadena
. He’s got another one coming up soon as I understand.”

X stared at him with disdain. “Don’t
you think he’ll get suspicious if he sees me fiddling with his computer?”

“Then tie him up and do it then.”

“Fine,” she said, putting the drive
into the pocket of her jeans.

X began walking along the sand, the footprints
she left accompanied by Simeon’s beside her own. Bright rays of sun cut through
the clouds above, illuminating them.

“I have something to ask you,” she
said.

“Sure.”

“You said that
Compton
is funding the movement of artillery through the
Middle East
. Why would he do that?”

“To destabilize the
region.”

“But why?”

Simeon stopped and looked out to the
ocean. X stopped with him.

“When
Pakistan
and
Palestine
and
Syria
have weapons, it makes
Israel
nervous, and then
Israel
buys more weapons from the
United States
. When
Israel
gets nervous, the
U.S.
produces more weapons for itself. And Compton,
who owns large amounts of stock in weapons factories, makes himself a fortune.”

“But Steinberg, his assistant, is a
Jew. That’s a Jewish name.”

“
Compton
doesn’t care.”

“He should.”

X thought about the Jews, Christians,
and Muslims. They were all sons of Abraham. God’s poor dysfunctional family.

Simeon put his hand on X’s arm for the
sole reason that he wanted to touch her. “You assume that Steinberg cares.
Neither of them cares. Steinberg does whatever
Compton
wants; he’s the closest thing the man has to a
wife. Look, the information that you get for us will help to stabilize the
global community. I know that’s difficult to believe but it will. We’ll have
our access person let
Compton
know that you are going to accompany him and Steinberg will let you know where
and when to meet him. But there is something important you need to know. Every
year in
Paris
,
Compton
attends a masquerade ball. He will want you to go
with him.”

“To a ball?
Fine.”

“It’s an orgy,” Simeon divulged.

“Whatever. I’ll take him on a leash
with me.”

“And I may be there observing,” he
said.

X was visibly surprised. “You? How are
you getting in?”

“That is not something you need to
know.”

“Fine. Just leave me alone.”

Simeon took hold of her shoulders, a
touch that brought to him a thick and heavy awareness of the power he held over
X and likewise, the power she held over him.

“X,” he said, “I want to know,” his
voice trailed off. “What do you do to him that drives him so crazy?”

X looked Simeon in the eye.

“Why don’t you let me show you?” And
then the pair agreed on a time to see each other again.

15.

Simeon had spent the rainy day passing
the time, trying to compress the seconds, minutes, and hours between the moment
he had awoken and the pre-determined hour when he would see X again. He
attempted to organize his closet and then lost interest half-way through. He
tried the television but could find nothing to satisfy him. The man considered
beginning a project on the house but decided it would take too much energy and
attention. When he realized the frequency with which he glanced at his watch,
Simeon took the thing off and threw it across the room where it collided with a
baseboard. Nothing, it seemed, could make the time go faster, and thinking
about it only slowed it down more.

Just when it seemed that time would
stop, just when it appeared that the world would pause eternally in obdurate
banality, a crash of thunder rolled through his house, through his entire body,
in fact, breaking up the miasma around him. And then, instantly, he knew what
he wanted to do.

Simeon found his running shoes and
dressed quickly before exiting his house and beginning to run full throttle
into the rain. It fell in heavy sheets as he propelled himself into the drops,
the water hitting him hard at first, stingingly almost until the chill of it
numbed his skin to the sensation. Above him, lightning flared, the bolts
followed by the multi-layered sounds of thunder, crashes that seemed to wallow
in the sky before crumbling to its periphery.

He ran on the sidewalks. He ran on the
thin shoulders of dark roads while cars sprayed him as they passed. He ran
through the park, his feet soaked and muddy by now, each step squishing the
earth below him. And yet, no matter how fast he sprinted, no matter how he
varied his terrain or his pace, he could not escape the thought, the knowledge,
(one that threatened to reduce him and melt him into a mere etching of his
former self), that X would soon do to him whatever magic it was that she
performed on Compton, a man who could have anything that money could buy, a man
who could have anything but wanted only X.

Simeon ran, knowing that he, like
Compton
, longed to taste a particular ambrosia, that he
wanted to experience the same pleasure that had made
Compton
, epicurean and libertine as he was,
its
captive.

Finally, as if his body returned him
to his home without his mind consciously deciding to end his run, Simeon
arrived at his house, tired, spent, and soaking wet. He peeled off his clothes
and showered, resisting the urge to masturbate in his shower stall as he had so
many times before. A few minutes later, the man was in his bed, hoping to pass
those last few hours in the hermitage of sleep, a shelter which eluded him, for
whenever he closed his eyes an image obtruded into his mind, a remembrance of
the photo of X dressed in her full and radiant splendor.

16.

It was an impressive chair, black
wrought iron, regal, a striking work of art. A lover had made it for X years
ago as a birthday gift, and were it not for the conspicuousness of the metal
wrist and ankle restraints and the heavy rings welded here and there, X would
have displayed it proudly in her home. But most of the time it sat in the
corner, enshrouded in its
vesperal
covering, hidden
away.

Once when Daniel had visited, X had
caught him peeking under the cover, but he had never asked her where it was
from, who had made it, or what function it served. But today, the chair was
uncovered and it sat in the center of X’s living room, waiting for Simeon.

X had already dressed, rolled smooth
stockings over her legs, contorted her arm to zip her leather corset, the black
hide split down the middle by its heavy metal scar. Soft waves of hair had been
piled up loosely and clipped into place, leaving a few escaped curls to fall
over her shoulders. She wore riding boots, footwear purchased from an
equestrian shop, boots that had been delivered along with a selection of crops
and whips.

It was dark outside, and the rain hit
the window in heavy sheets.

And then, there were five quick knocks
at the door. Simeon had arrived. X put on a robe and let him in.

Simeon was dressed in a suit and
shades, eyewear which he removed as soon as he entered and placed on the
console in her foyer.

This was the way she wanted it to be,
she and Simeon alone in her apartment, the man vulnerable, anticipatory. Let
him be blinded by her loveliness and distracted by his lust, unable to
anticipate her intentions. Beauty had its own power; it stunned. And after he
was successfully blinded and restrained, X would give him what he deserved.

X invited him to sit on the couch and
asked him if he would like a glass of wine. He eyed the metal throne and X
noticed this.

“Yes, that would be great,” he
answered. X opened a bottle of Riesling and poured them each a glass.

“You have a nice apartment,” he said,
making small talk.

X, her own glass in hand, relaxed into
the arm of her soft couch. It seemed to her as if she and Simeon were on a
date, and the strange sensation lingered for a few moments before evaporating.
In another situation, maybe, she would have dated him, gone out with him a few
times, loved him and left him.

“I am going to ask you a few
questions,” X said, “an interrogation.” He let out a nervous laugh. “Do you
have any experience being dominated?”

“Not by a dominatrix,” he answered.

X lit a cigarette, feeling no guilt
for smoking in front of him—it had been his fault, after all, that she had
picked up the nasty habit again.
 

“Have you ever heard of a safe-word?”
she asked.

“Yes.”

“You will need to choose one,” she
told him, “and while I am doing what I do, if you say this word, then I will
stop. But I will only stop if you say the word. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

X finished her cigarette and crushed
it out in her ashtray. Once Simeon had finished his glass of wine, she took the
empty glass from his hand and put it on the counter.

“May I use your bathroom?” he asked.

“Yes, of course. While you are there,
find your word if you haven’t thought of it already.”

When Simeon emerged from the bathroom,
X asked him if he had chosen his safe-word.

“Yes, I have.”

“Tell me.”

“Amnesty,” he answered.

X removed her robe and recognized the
awe in Simeon’s eyes. He had only ever seen her dressed in such a way in the
photograph, one that he had looked at many times and returned to in his mind
again and again. He noticed the way her corset accentuated the indent of her
waist and the fullness of her breasts, noticed how her skin, lightly bronzed
and freckled, seemed to shimmer in the soft light.

“You look beautiful,” he said.

X moved her bag of gear next to the
chair.
 

“Take off your belt and give it to
me.”

He obeyed.

“I am going to tell you this just
once. Do not speak unless I speak to you. If you must speak you may ask
permission.”
 

Simeon shook his head in
understanding, and then X sat on the wrought iron throne, its back extending
far past her head with its scrolls and forged leaves at either side.

“Come here and take off your clothes,”
she commanded him, “everything but your underwear.”
 

Simeon came to stand in front of X and
began to undress. He wasn’t wearing his holster today, hadn’t brought his gun,
and X was glad for this. First, he removed his shirt and let it drop next to
his feet. He undid the button of his pants and unzipped his slacks, pushing
them down over his hips before stepping out of them. He fumbled with his socks,
but removed those, too, until he was standing in front of X in just his boxer
shorts, the noticeable bulge of his erection under the gauzy material of his
undergarment. He had a lean body, well-defined, and he knew this. He was proud
of his musculature and enjoyed being looked at.

“Get on your knees,” X said, and
Simeon dropped down. “Interlace your hands behind your head,” she said, and
after he did so, X slapped a pair of cuffs over his wrists.
 

Then, X went to his pants and found
his wallet. She pulled out all his bills, returned his wallet back to his
pants, and tossed the garment to the side of the room like a rag. As he
watched, she began to count the bills.

“Twenty, forty, sixty, eighty,
hundred,” she began. “They give you a decent wad of cash to carry around,” she
said as she continued counting to herself before announcing the total,
“three-hundred-eighty-three dollars.” X took the money and put it into her bag.