Title: The Masochism Tango
Summary: She trades in sex and secrets. He trades stocks and bonds. She's the belle of New York and he's the wolf of Wall Street. When they meet it's a pleasure without conscience, a reckless worship of lust and desire. But all complex inclinations have a price.
Rating: M
Pairing: Endgame Bonnie and Kai
A/N: Dark Bonnie/Dark Kai but all dark things must seek light eventually…If you have a strong moral compass, this fic might not be suitable for you.
-oooo-
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul
-Pablo Neruda
-ooo-
-BLACKEN MY EYE, SET FIRE TO MY TIE-
-ooo-
Life is too short, that's why you need a short cut for everything.
"Take Broadway, its faster." She tells her driver then leans back into the cushy leather seat of the town car. They drive past an art gallery with cool white walls and a scattering of installations. She watches people move from painting to painting, circulating the sterile space and mindful of steel sculptures jutting from the wooden floor.
She flinches when a bike messenger slaps the side of her door before pushing off into the belly of traffic. She's been away from New York for too long but it hasn't changed. Manhattan is still composed of stand-still traffic, the ineffectual hooting of yellow cabs and the hostile New York sidewalks.
"….EBay stock dropped 4 percent after the company issued a…" a voice streams from the radio before she closes the glass pane between the drivers compartment and herself. She loves New York in spring though; everything dazzles from the asphalt stretching before them to the sunlight glinting off car hoods. She tips her head toward the sunroof and squints at the Trump Tower soaring above them. Wall Street captures the spirit of New York. It's so raw, vulgar and greedy that she can almost smell gluttony in its filthy, exhaust-pipe air. Her mobile phone vibrates in her fold-over clutch bag. Pulling the phone out, she scans the screen and her lips edge into a slight smile.
"Monsieur Vanchure" she greets with an air of professionalism in case it's his wife who's dialed her number.
"Carla, "he purrs into her ear trying to incite some excitement from her. Bonnie plays her part by offering him a few bashful giggles. His name is Thierry Vanchure. She met him at Flavio Briatore's party in Cannes last spring and he is an avid fan of pegging.
"Ca va?"
"Je suis bon, cherie"
"I miss you, Jolie Bonnie"
"I miss you too, darling" she sighs, examining her polished nails.
"I'll be in town in two weeks and I'd love to see you"
"That can be arranged" she promises and they talk about Paris for a while, they discuss the current shows on Broadway and he mentions something about seeing the Ginger Roger's musical when he's in town and she vows to see him.
After the phone call, she peers out of the window yet again and reapplies her rouge. She glances at her vintage Breitling watch again; she'll make it in time she reckons. She's missed working in Manhattan, missed the ignoramus, power hungry bankers who make up Wall Street. She can't fault them though because as flawed as they are, they always made up the bulk of her business. Like now, her appointment at the Waldorf Astoria is with an oil trader, a referral from a client she met during her stay in London. Marcel told her that he was a friend of a friend who was in town on business and like most men who venture into strange cities, was looking for company.
Most of her clients come from referrals; it's all about building a good client base so that she doesn't have to market herself anymore. She fingers the locket around her neck, tracing the chain along her collarbone to rub the pendant that hangs down her décolletage. She used to love the anonymity of the industry but now she has played so many roles that she has started to forget the identity of the real Bonnie. Clients buy into an idea when they buy her time and so she becomes whoever they need her to be. She was never sexually abused, never grew up in a foster home in fact some would say she had quite a pleasant upbringing. She was born and bred in Park Avenue, attended Chapin School before moving to London to spread her wings. She studied international law at Oxford and her father is a lawyer for the United Nations. She often laughs when her clients ask, why and simply replies, why the fuck not?
When they finally arrive at the Waldorf, her driver comes around to open the door for her and she slips out of the vehicle, a light breeze picking up her curled hair.
"Should I wait?" Harold asks, taking off his chauffer's hat. She doesn't hide what she does from her driver, nor does she discuss it but he knows that his standard waiting time is two hours when she sees clients.
"Wait ten minutes, if I don't like him then you can go and have lunch or something"
-ooo-
She locates the elevators to her right; being quite familiar with the lay of the land. She waltzes past the gleaming dark-wood desks and ornate marble pillars, her stilettos clanking on the granite floor. When she finds his penthouse suite, she raps her knuckles on the door twice and then waits patiently for the client to open for her. The door swings open and she's caught in a pair of sensitive eyes, slicked back brown hair and a strong jaw. He's attractive, she thinks as her eyes take him in.
"You must be Carla" his eyes sweep over her, careful not to linger on the inappropriate places. Bonnie thinks this is rather charming since they are both meeting for purposes of sweaty, passion filled sex.
"In the flesh" she grins, leaning her weight against the doorframe.
"Please, come in"
"Konnichiwa" she smiles, regarding his blue kimono with curious eyes as she saunters inside the mammoth space. Her eyes flit over luxurious champagne drapes, thick oriental carpets and velvet wing chairs.
"I was in Tokyo for some investment meeting. I find these rather comfortable, "he explains as he pulls at the stiff collar of his kimono, "I hope you don't mind"
"Not at all, it makes my expedition far more enjoyable" she smiles, tracing a finger along the seams of his robe until her hand settles on its belt. Her green eyes stay fixed on his, observing the bob of his Adam's apple as he swallows. She can tell that he favors subtle seduction over direct manipulation.
"I'm Elijah" he says with a quiet, unassuming nod of his head.
"The pleasure's all mine" her hand rubs his forearm, the electric buzz of fabric and skin shooting sparks through her veins.
"Well," he clears his throat, "make yourself at home" he gestures to the space and at no fixed point particularly. As Bonnie's eyes flicker from him to her surroundings, he coughs in the awkward silence.
"We should probably settle the matter of your gift first" he says as if reading the situation and Bonnie nods, "If it's not too much of an imposition"
"Not at all" he walks to the nearest drawer, pulls a gilded handle and slides the thing open. Plucking out a white envelope, he hands it to her with a reserved smile.
"Thank you" she bites her bottom lip, then quickly adds, "I need the little girl's room"
After he shows her a restroom close to the exit, Bonnie slips inside and presses her hips against the dark-wood cabinet weighing my face in the gilded mirror. She feels the weight of the envelope before opening it. Inside, in neat little rows is her fee for her companionship. She takes out the wad of cash and counts it, assembling it into neat piles of five hundred dollars. The notes equal to four stacks of five hundred dollar bills which totals to two thousand dollars for her two hour minimum fee.
"May I offer you a drink?" Elijah asks behind the door.
"Double bourbon" she opens a faucet to muffle the noise for she is about to do, "make that a triple"
She takes out her small bag of cocaine, two credit cards then makes two skinny little lines. She leans over the basin; a neat hundred dollar bill rolled up in her hand and shoots a beautiful line. Titling her head back, she feels that glorious tickle down her throat. Cocaine surges through her body like a hurricane. Fuck those whores who say they don't drink when they're working, no self-loving escort would fuck a total stranger sober minded, she doesn't care how liberal you are. She polishes her nostrils with her manicured fingers, grins at her reflection and steps out to entertain Elijah.
She scans the room, discreetly checking for any recording equipment before she stalks over to him. He's already seated in one of the massive wing chairs, a glass of alcohol in one hand. Unbuttoning her silk shirt, Bonnie lets it slide over her shoulders. His eyes follow it as if glides to the floor, rippling on the carpet like an undulating black tide. Next, she unzips her pencil skirt and gives him a full view of her ass as she bends over to slide the fabric down her legs. His eyes burn her back, glisten with anticipation as she begins to sway to the music in her head. She tosses her dark hair back and glances at him over her shoulder, a seductive smile playing across her lips. His eyes roam over the smooth lines of her back, past the undulating muscles to the suspenders snaking over her hips.
Turning around, she plants both hands on her hips and asks him, "Do you like what you see?"
"Hai, anata wa hijo ni yo utsukushidesu"
"Arigato" she purrs and strolls over to him, one foot after the after like a cat stalking its prey.
"Is this your first time?" she asks, raking a hand through his silky hair. She likes the feel of it around her fingers; it's like she's stroking a feline's fur.
"No" he tells her, his gaze roving her breasts. She can tell that he's content, that he likes women playing with his hair and Bonnie reckons it stems with his mother and suckling at her breasts. It always stems from the mothers, all her client's diseases, all their passions and obsessions can be traced back to the mother.
"Do you like it soft and slow" she flicks a tongue over her lower lip, "or hard and rough "She plants a spikey heel on his chest, pressing it against his clammy flesh. Elijah looks up at her with big watery eyes and she can tell that he's holding back. She straddles him, strong thighs helming him in as she cradles his face with her hands.
"Elijah, "she breathes against his lips, intertwining her fingers in that hair that she's grown to like. He kisses her first, hands sliding down her back until they slither down to grip her lush buttocks. Bonnie moans into the kiss as her fingers tangling in his hair. Her kiss seems to breathe fire to him and Elijah bolts up and carries her to the big, sprawling bed. He wraps his arms around her much like a lover, he hisses against her neck but his eyes beg for something that even he cannot admit to himself.
"You feel so fucking good" he groans, raising her knee and anchoring it on his hip. Bonnie moves against him, draping her rented arms around him until his silent, restrained release.
-ooo-
She drapes a terry cloth robe around her body, tightening the belt until it feels snug around her waist. Looking out the penthouse window at the rush of Manhattan, Bonnie takes a slow sip of her bourbon and feels the dying bursts of coke leaving her body. It never lasts, she thinks, it's not the same. She spots Elijah's reflection in the glass, notices the way his eyes sweep over her and smiles.
"You're very beautiful" he says, walking over to her "Can I ask you a question?"
"Go ahead"
"Not to pry or anything but why are you doing this?" he arches an eyebrow and Bonnie can feel herself wilt a little bit. He had such promise, she thinks as Elijah quickly explains "You seem like a pleasant-"
"…Descent girl with so much potential?" she gives him a throaty chuckle, her fingers gliding to her necklace again.
"You must get sick of that question" he rubs a thumb along the rim of his glass and she chooses not to argue.
"Why are you doing this?" She asks instead and grabs his hand to places it on swell of her breast. When his fingertips trace the swell of her puckered nipple, she knows that he's cured of his sanctimonious delusions-even if it lasts a mere fifteen minutes.
-ooo-
Kai wants to bash her head against the table until she bleeds into the starch white table. He'd like to see her blood spew over the table and color the monochrome tiles with it. This vulgar thought makes his skin tingle. Damon Salvatore says something about the aviation IPO being favorable in the green market and Kai imagines the client's wife bent over the table as he plunges into her. He wouldn't say that he finds her attractive because he can hardly see her beyond the confines of her hijab dress but the fact that he cannot objectify her in a proper manner infuriates him.
She laughs behind her veil but her eyes seek him, always seek him while they're taunting him. He wants to hurt her; he knows this because ever since he was little he's had a deep desire to hurt things. Money and Wall Street have taught him that he can hurt things; he just needs to pay a shitload of money so they can be fixed. His grips his glass of water firmer in his hand as his eyes dart from Damon to their client. Silently, he checks his watch and makes a mental note to ask Isobel for an English Rose tonight, he wants to see the bruises on her skin. He wants to appreciate the art he sculpts with his whip on her alabaster flesh. His fiancé, Rebekah Mikaelson is English but she's as appealing as a wet rag.
"Mr. Abbar, we're talking about solar powered airliners, I think we can safely say the mile high club has never looked this good" Kai lifts his glass, blue-grey eyes glinting at the client.
No one can sell bullshit like him, no one. He closes all the time and he owns Wall Street, the Trader knows it and Wall Street Journal knows it. Kai Parker knows how to play the market and he has yet to meet anyone who can beat him.