Just a Game.

Prologue

I didn't ask for any of this shit.

The alcohol coursing through my bloodstream has me searching for anyone, any-thing else to blame. Hazy bodies move like molasses in my peripheral vision, but my eyes are only focused on one thing:

him.

Immediately the heat in my cheeks intensifies; I suddenly feel more sober than I have in weeks.

Nope, just kidding, I can barely walk.

To think I put myself in this position, this place, with these people, is quite literally beyond ridiculous. To think I could handle this life, this environment, this...line of work? I'm from fucking Milwaukee. I worked at a fucking Dairy Queen through high school. I played the recorder.

I wonder what my friends from my hometown would think of me if they saw me right now.

I peer down at the state of my body; tanned and oiled skin adorned with strappy black heels, leading upwards to a bright red lace lingerie set and a thin, faux silk black robe. Meticulously curled hair, exaggerated winged eyeliner. Anything to fit in with these literal models strutting around me like prizes to be won. There's no way my makeup is still intact; I'm sure it faded or smeared 4 drinks ago. How many drinks have I even had?

Clearly too many if I have to ask myself this.

I hear the music but I can't make out the words. I know I know the song, but my brain can't seem to put it together.

Why can't I stop looking at him?

It's at this exact moment that he notices me staring. I might as well been drooling with my jaw on the floor; could I be any more obvious?

I feel my breathing quicken as I glance around me — is he...is he beckoning me? No...he can't be. There is a girl here who was literally Miss Australia in 2019. There's no way he's asking for me. No way. Not again.

There's no one around me though; the signs point to the fact that this man wants me to sit with him...a second time.

Fuck I'm too drunk to play it cool. Just go. Just do it.

My body takes steps towards him; I guess my brain will follow later. I pass through the dimly lit house, past the large, circular tables of drunken, rambling, intense men in suits more expensive than my tuition betting and losing more money in a night than I will likely see in my lifetime. My lips crack into a tiny smile at the absurdity of it all.

I finally approach his table, waiting patiently for his next instructions. The cards in his left hand are gripped tightly; his knuckles are white and calloused, his brow furrowed in a feigned deep concentration. His mind seems...elsewhere.

He doesn't even allow his eyes to meet mine, simply pats his lap with his right hand once firmly.

"Sit."

It's not an invitation, it's an order. One I'm getting paid to obey. I lean to sit and nearly topple over; alcohol and heels are really not playing in my favor recently, but I regain composure quick enough for no one to notice. Or at least...no one pretends to notice. I sit cautiously on one of his legs and lean lightly back, barely pressing up against his chest. His suit is warm from the heat of his skin, it almost feels relaxing. The Poker game, momentarily paused while I nearly fell on my face, quickly resumes without a single acknowledgement of my presence. The cards quickly move, back and forth, the chips making occasional sounds as I do everything in my power to NOT look like I'm ridiculously fucked up and hyperventilating on this stranger's lap. His free hand snakes around my waist and his hand rests dangerously high on my thigh, and I nearly throw up from the feeling it gives me.

This is so fucked up.

I didn't ask for any of this shit.

But why do I like it so much?