The Devil You Know
"Go and tell that long-tongued liar
Go and tell that midnight rider,
Tell the rambler, the gambler, the back-biter
Tell them that God's gonna cut 'em down…"
-Johnny Cash
"I had a rich grand-uncle who died and left me everything. No idea he existed. Once I got the money, I just hired a good investment counselor and here I am – go figure."
Well, at least the second part is true. The first part is bullshit, and it's amazing how many people buy it without asking a followup question. But they do. Indifference and sheer, mind-numbing stupidity is universal. Sometimes she wonders if humanity is a failed experiment in some god's lab, abandoned when it didn't give publishable results.
Stupidity, gullibility, whatever you want to call it, is also the reason for the ability of the games to continue. She has never tried to deceive herself by thinking she'd been the first winner, or the last. Experience, years of it, is the only thing that could explain the brutal efficiency, the scale, the secrecy, and the sophisticated arenas.
She snorts. That's the right fucking word. Arenas. And people like her were gladiators, putting on the performance of their lives, for a shadowy, rich, and undoubtedly perverted audience. It could be a synonym for life, really.
The thought stabs her. It happens a lot now, even through the haze of alcohol and smoke, that she finds herself recalling that week with alarming clarity. It has been nearly a decade, almost to the day, when a well-dressed woman approached her in the 59th Street subway station. She'd been twenty-five then, dismissed from medical school with a quarter million in loans to repay. The woman's offer seemed like a good idea at the time, but then again, lots of things seem like good ideas that aren't.
Like that guy at the bar, for example.
She'd been watching him for a while, not least because he sticks out like a sore thumb in the mass of shiny, thigh-flashing twentysomethings grinding and swaying their way through the night. She has not gotten a good look at his face yet, far away and up on the VIP balcony as she is. But his tailored suit and sleek hair make him look like a Wall Street wannabe. He's almost too put together to be out after work, looking like he just walked out of a Gucci commercial.
She downs her drink, sighing. This is New York City, for God's sake. There are lots of men dressed like him, in dozens of clubs just like this, on this very night. But fucking no, she can't just look at a guy without being suspicious. The games have left their mark. "Watch for anything out of place." "Trust nobody." And her favorite – "just because you won, you're not free."
That last one cost her more than her fair share of relationships. Or maybe it was the curse of sudden, massive wealth, her drinking, her inability to trust, her shitty personality—
"Ma'am?"
She recoils as if burned, nearly knocking over the proffered drink. The waitress gives her a strange look.
"Sorry," she mutters, taking the glass and willing her hands not to shake. "Thanks. Put it on the tab."
The waitress recovers admirably, flashing a smile too white not to be veneers. Veneers in someone that young, she thinks. Is anything real anymore?
"Actually, this one is already paid for. By a gentleman down there."
She rolls her eyes. She was wondering when the first vulture of the night would show up. Like Suit Guy, she's also oddly dressed for this club, her skirt much too low and her cleavage too covered. But she's rich and eccentric and uses the VIP seats a lot, so the young men continue to hover, hoping for… what, a sugar mama? If they only knew.
"Do me a favor. Put his next drink on my tab in return, and tell him I'm flattered but married." She is actually neither, but that line usually works. Her introversion is incongruous with her presence in this crush of people nearly every week, but it is actually one of the most soothing things she does. To be invisible in a crowd is a rare and beautiful form of privacy, and she does not enjoy having it violated.
"Who is he, anyway?" she asks, turning back to the balcony railing. Better to know his face so she can avoid him when she leaves.
The waitress points. "Right there at the bar. The Asian guy. Talking to the girl in the red dress."
She nearly drops the drink.
Holy shit, it's Suit Guy.
She can see his face dead on now, his height dwarfing the drunk girl, who is teetering sideways, her drink sloshing around. She lays a long-nailed hand on his suit, trying to pull him closer. He gently but decisively moves the hand away, and looks up.
Right at her.
She stands on the balcony frozen, gawking like a fool, drink forgotten. She didn't expect him to do that so brazenly, but even in the semi-dark and the flashing lights, the direction of his gaze is unmistakable. It's a laser sight, shooting above the dance floor, right into her eyeballs.
She can't see for sure, but she swears his lips turn upward, curling into a little smile. Almost like he already knows he's going to get what he wants.
"Oh, get fucked," she snarls quietly.
"Excuse me?" Belatedly, she realizes the waitress is still there.
"Nothing. Just please do me that favor. Thanks."
As the waitress walks away, she sneaks another glance at the stranger, but he is gone. She looks around the dance floor, but the amalgamation of limbs, heads and drinks looks like one of those mating balls that she saw on a nature show about snakes once, and she can't pick anyone specific out.
You should run, the evil little "game voice" tells her, and she viciously downs her drink in a single gulp and sits down on her usual VIP couch. Its familiar comfort makes her feel a little better. She licks her lips, and actually takes the time to taste what she'd just drunk so uncouthly. It is a very decent white wine, again unusual for club fare. Suit Guy had picked that, for her. Interesting choice.
No, she tells herself. Not interesting. What's true in childhood is true now… you do not go home with strangers. Not even good-looking ones who wear suits and buy wine in a club. He's probably a serial killer or something.
Then again, so is she. Her actions caused the deaths of at least twenty people, toward the end. She might not have enjoyed it, but she didn't stop, either. So what's worse, the psychopath who doesn't know what remorse is, or the person who intentionally suppresses it to win?
She sighs. This has to stop. Maybe it's because it's close to the date she entered the games that she's thinking about it so much. It never ends in anything except nightmares and daytime unease.
Time to drink some more. She picks up her leftover champagne from the table and pours, the light dancing in the bubbles.
The music is near deafening, but she swears she hears feet stop just outside the velvet cords that surround the VIP area. She lets out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding, and turns her head.
It's Suit Guy. Of course it is. Up close, she can see the aforementioned suit is dark blue, not black, and gives off an expensive sheen even in the dimness. She almost laughs at the absurdity of noticing the color of his clothes, but something about him makes her want to memorize everything carefully, almost like she will have to describe him to the police later. Along with the suit, he's still wearing the half-smile he had downstairs. She is surprised to note he is not younger as she'd surmised, but closer to her age, even older perhaps. He is clean-shaven, his hair impeccable, undeniably handsome, dark eyes glittering like jewels with some private amusement.
She rifles through the pages in her memory. No, she has never met him before; she would have remembered a man with such an aura of self-possession. A flash of envy skirts her consciousness. Only those who haven't been in a life-or-death situation carry themselves so easily.
Or those who have been in such situations a lot, the game voice says slyly.
She's not sure what kind of look she has on her face, but it is enough to deter him from crossing the threshold of the VIP section. He hovers outside the perimeter of the velvet cords, like a vampire waiting to be invited in. From here, she can see the deceptiveness to his build; there is power in those shoulders, carefully clothed and ironed but still sharply visible to those familiar with physical force. The experience of nights huddled in a fortress of mattresses and bedframes during the games has seen to it that she always knows when a man is capable of overpowering her.
But it's been ten years since those nights of terror and blood, ten years of jiu-jitsu. She's not the same girl. She stops slouching and looks right at him, crossing her legs lazily to let him know he doesn't impress her. His half-smile lifts, just a touch.
"Is this seat taken?" he asks, indicating the couch. His voice is deep, his English perfect. She doesn't know why she expected him to have an accent, and the thought itself seems silly. But there is a hint of foreignness to him: the European tailored clothing, the way he moves when he lifts his arm. His mannerisms are smooth, precise, intentional. There is a quiet grace to him, uncommon for an American.
"It is," she replies, raising her voice slightly to be heard above the din. "By me. Thanks for the drink, but I'm not looking for company tonight."
"My apologies," he says, raising his hands as if in surrender, sleeves retracting slightly to flash a Jaeger LeCoultre watch. The fingers are well-manicured, not a callus on them. A businessman, then, and a wealthy one; that watch is at least 20 grand, and he doesn't seem like the type to wear a fake. "It was not my intention to offend you."
She hasn't heard an inflection that cultured in a while. He'd probably fit in with the audience of the games. Well-dressed, confident, brazen. Very much like the others in the world of untold wealth and power she had killed to enter, but not like her. His whole being spoke of old money. He'd never had to fight for scraps. He would never straddle two worlds like she did, even now, even when she did not need to worry about rent or food ever again.
She turns away, ignoring the twinge of regret for dismissing him. Sorry to disappoint, buddy, but go find someone else to fuck tonight. That's all you're here for, anyway.
"May I ask what night I should return?"
She swivels back to him almost not of her own free will, arching an eyebrow. "Are you serious?"
His tone is almost playful, contrasting with his serious appearance. "You said you're not looking for company tonight. Which would mean that you may be amenable to it another night."
She laughs despite herself. Other men she'd rejected had reacted very differently, ranging from anger to false hurt. But in his voice there is no ego, no irritation, only poise. Certainly, this man would have no trouble walking away and finding a hundred other women who'd be easier. But here he stands, for some unfathomable reason.
"Well," she says, "at least you get points for being original."
"I hoped I would, both for the drink and for my word choice," he replies easily. He is standing in a high-traffic area on the balcony, but people part around him like river water around a rock. "And I would like to win more points, if we are playing a game."
Something in his tone jerks at the over-stimulated amygdala in her brain, a stab of thrill with a hint of fear. She really shouldn't have gone out tonight when she's like this; seeing shadows everywhere, even in innocuous statements. Before she realizes what she's saying, she chuckles and takes a sip of her champagne, watching the bubbles pop. "I'm not very good at games."
His voice carries to her, smooth and sharp as a knife blade. "I beg to differ, Aubrey Leigh Jones. I think you very much are."
The world falls away. She is alone on the couch, as if the rest of the club has fallen into a black abyss around her. Her senses, hyper-aware of only her body and the man a few feet away, bring the two of them into sharp focus. Fight or flight.
Player 71, pass.
She is back in the games, and she realizes that she has never left. She's been waiting for this, holding her breath for the last decade, waiting for them to come for her.
She turns her head to look at him. His smile remains, but he gestures to the couch again. "May I?"
Almost imperceptibly, she nods. Her body is screaming at her to run, but her instinct glues her to the couch. She knows he'd find her, and there is nowhere to run from these people, not even for someone with her means. Besides, notes the game voice, running like a coward is insulting.
He sweeps aside the cords, entering her space like a boxer going into the ring. Her heart hammers, threatening explosion, and she wills it to slow down, to beat more quietly so she can think. Flexing her fingers to keep them from trembling, she lifts her glass and takes a long, slow sip. When she speaks, her voice is clear and unshaken, a feat she didn't think she'd accomplish in ten seconds. "Are you here to kill me?"
He reaches the couch, towering over her, easily six feet tall. Even when sitting, he dwarfs her. The switch has flipped, and his voice is now familiar, amused. She has heard voices like it before, ten years ago. "If I were, I would have done it already, don't you think?"
Immediately, she glances at the empty wineglass on the table, the one the waitress had brought. Her blood runs cold, and he seems to read her mind.
"I could have paid the waitress to poison your drink, yes," he says, and the implication is that he, thankfully, had not. "I could have killed you in the alley you like to use as a shortcut from here, the one you use only once a month so that no one notices the pattern."
She narrows her eyes, her fear giving way to anger. How long had he been watching her? As she looks at this impudent intruder, her anger rises, unbidden and probably unwise; but then again, her temper had never been wielded wisely. He sees it, and his smile turns into something decidedly more wicked than the mild one he'd projected a few minutes ago.
"Or," he continues, "I could have been less charitable than I am being tonight. I could have maintained the charade, struck up a conversation." He looks at her pointedly, now every inch the predator she should have seen at first glance. "I could have made you relax enough to invite me to bed… and strangled you while still inside you."
The image is both horrifying and arousing in its sudden intrusion into her mind. The hubris of it, the shock of how easily he'd switched from fear to sex to taunt her, almost makes her slap him. But her logical brain stays her hand, tells her he's bluffing. He might be dangerous, but he hasn't acted on anything he'd threatened so far, which means that, at the very least, she has something he wants. He wouldn't show his hand if he didn't need her alive.
She forces herself to swallow her fear. There is no reason to hold back now. Aubrey Leigh takes a step back, and it is now Player 71 who gives him a reptilian smile, all teeth, no eyes.
"All talk, no action," she says, retrieving one of her trusty cigarettes out of its silver case. "The delivery is good, but your pickup lines could use some work. Not every girl gets off on murder."
She registers a brief surprise on the handsome face. His eyebrows rise, brown-black eyes sparkling with mirth and now, a bit of interest. "Ah, so the lioness remains a lioness even when cornered." He produces a lighter from his jacket and offers the little flame to her with an elegant sweep. She obliges, proud that her hand doesn't shake, and takes a deep, calming drag.
"I watched the footage of your final game," he continues as she exhales the smoke. It rises between them and dissipates into the darkness of the ceiling. She is amazed she can hear him over the music, but her brain is so focused on him it can hear nothing else. "You had quite the attitude. And to think someone let you into medical school, once upon a time." His voice has a taunt again, and this time, she is prepared for it. "But they did dismiss you, didn't they? Specifically for that attitude, if my memory serves me well."
She ignores the jab, and mulls over his words, looking for anything she can use. Footage, he'd said. So she had been right; the games were recorded. She'd seen the cameras, of course, in the players' quarters; she had assumed they were for surveillance, but it made sense to keep records. In case anyone wanted to relive it. She shivers inwardly, with both fear and another emotion that remains unidentified.
"Their loss," she replies breezily.
"I have no doubt."
She taps the cigarette on a tray, mind working furiously even as his proximity threatens to unravel her composure. "If you weren't sent to kill me, why are you here? I won the games, fair and square."
He nods. "So you did. The first female United States winner in fifteen years, and the youngest in nearly twice that." He looks extraordinarily pleased with himself. "I admit I asked for this assignment because I was curious. It took some work to send me here."
United States. Which meant there were other countries this had taken place in. Twice fifteen… thirty years. So many games. So many years. Jesus fucking Christ.
"North Korea?" she guesses. No way they wouldn't host a game.
"South," he smiles. "So much more civilized."
She scowls. "Of course, civility is so important to you people."
"They didn't like it when I asked to come here," he says, pretending not to notice the insult. "But I insisted."
"Am I supposed to be flattered?"
"Yes," he says simply, lighting his own cigarette, his movements a dark mirror to hers. "I convinced them. Not least because I wanted to meet the woman who ruthlessly dispatched her own sister to win."
Her anger surges again, and this time she doesn't hold back. He dares to mention the one thing he has not even the faintest idea about, no concept of the choice she had to make in that hell. If Alice were here, she'd slap him too.
"You evil fucking piece of shit," she hisses, and the murder in her eyes makes him laugh in earnest, leaning back easily into the cushions, long legs splayed out, his knee almost touching hers.
"A woman after my own heart," he finally chuckles. He's as beautiful as an angel, except for his eyes. Wreathed in the smoke of his cigarette, they are anything but holy. "I see your considerable wealth hasn't robbed you of that acerbic mouth." His gaze trails down her face and lingers on her lips, and her insides constrict. He doesn't need to tell her what he is imagining.
"I thought you people were all business," she interrupts her own thoughts before her brain gives her mental images she doesn't need.
"We are. And you, of all people, should know that in our business, you can use your body to pay."
She has heard that phrase before, at the subway station ten years ago. When she lost her game of checkers, the woman had told her the same thing. She inhales a sharp breath.
"You're a recruiter," she deducts. It makes sense now. Handsome, charming, disarmingly polite. How many more like him are there, human-cloaked sharks roaming the dark places of this world?
He gives her a small, polite bow. "I prefer the term salesman."
"Selling death."
"Facilis descensus Averno," he quotes. Easy is the descent into hell.
"Hoc opus, hic labor est," she fires back with the ending of the passage from the Aeneid. This earns her a smile that is positively feral; he clearly hadn't expected her to know it.
"I made my ascent back to the light," she declares, continuing Virgil's words, referencing the difficulty of rising back out of the abyss once you've entered it. "You have no right to go after me. You people are obsessed with fairness, and killing me wouldn't be fair. So I repeat, tell me why you're here, or get the hell out."
Ever casual, he pours himself a drink from her champagne bottle. She watches his Adam's apple bob as he swallows, seemingly in deep thought. He tilts his head at her, his eyes still bright. "You don't want me to leave, really."
She stamps out her cigarette with more force than she'd intended. If he's just here to mock her, he can go back to the hellhole he came from. "Ohh, the fuck I don't."
The salesman leans forward, his face alarmingly close, and she gets a scent of his cologne. He smells of winter and spice, chilly and pale as his skin. A hint of the smoke from his cigarette lingers on top, mimicking a fire inside the deep snow. "Trust me, Miss Jones," he says, "you don't."
She is about to protest, but he leans in closer, pinning her with a look. "Because I can walk out, if you wish me to. But once I do, you'll have to put the curtain up again. The one you've kept up for nearly a decade. You haven't told anyone what you went through."
That was, unfortunately, true. Not even her parents knew, before they died. She knows he would know that, if he had done his research. No one was aware that one summer day in 2011, Aubrey Leigh Jones had left and returned a week later as an entirely new person, a person unfamiliar to everyone who knew and loved her. A twisted shadow of what she once was, sharing a part of her soul with something that was her, and yet was not. And Alice had not returned at all.
"You float through life wearing a veil no one else knows is there," he says, his knees touching hers now, an invasion of space that barely registers. "You wrap your rage in a boring, comfortable blanket hoping it will tame you. But no wine bottle, no empty rutting with men who don't understand, no money will substitute for what I can give you tonight."
Despite protests, the part of her that is Player 71 leans forward with interest even as she recoils. "And what's that, pray tell? You're going to take away the nightmares? You'll bring my friends back? My sister? What do you have to offer that I could possibly want?"
He eyes her meaningfully. "The truth. The simplest, most devastatingly beautiful gift one can offer. And very generous—"
She interrupts; the part of her that is Aubrey Jones has heard enough. "Take your generosity and shove it up your ass."
His hand shoots out, quick as a snake, and grabs hers as she rises. It is like being encased by an iron glove, and she glowers at him. His dark eyes remain on hers, unrelenting.
"I offer you the magic behind the curtain," he says, the promise etching into permanence inside her head. "No masks, no veils. I know exactly who you are, what you've done. Think about it. For a night, you can drop the act with me. We know you better than you know yourself. That's why we picked you to begin with."
She considers, temporarily ceasing her retreat. She doesn't know the extent of what he's offering exactly, but from the look in his eyes and the mellifluousness in his voice, it's not going to be just an enlightening conversation about the games. A chance to say and do whatever she wants, with complete abandon. But she also knows that nothing from someone like him could ever be free.
"What do you want in return?"
He smiles, removing a small gift-box from his jacket and placing it in her captured hand, closing her fingers around it. "Just this… that you consider an offer."
She doesn't need to open the box to know. She sinks back down on the couch in shock.
"Another game," she breathes. "I don't believe it. You're recruiting for another game." As quickly as that realization comes, so does another. "And if I'm a player, then all the players must be past winners… otherwise it wouldn't be fair."
His smile widens in genuine pleasure, the cat that ate the canary. "You're the first to guess correctly. Very impressive, Miss Jones."
She shakes her head, her voice trembling. "You people are unbelievable. Haven't you had enough? If you think, for one second, that I'm going to go through this shit again, you're out of your mind."
His eyes flash a warning, dark enough to still her next words. "I'll warn you only once before you make your decision. All I ask is for serious consideration. I assume the gravity of this offer will take at least a few days to ponder, now that you have more to lose. Do not dismiss it prematurely, or we will assume you haven't taken us seriously."
She tries not to shudder at the implication behind that. He must sense it, and the tone becomes gentler. "You can get what you want tonight, and still decline our offer later… if you decide to. Surely, it's a win-win?"
She rolls her eyes; at least on this, Aubrey Jones and Player 71 are in full agreement. "Only a brain-dead moron would believe anything is a win-win with you. You prey on the unsuspecting, the desperate, those who have no choice, for the amusement of some perverted fuckers. They probably pay you so they can watch us die and jack off to it. The only ones who win here are you."
The salesman seems unperturbed by her vitriol, as if he's heard the accusation many times before. One carefully manicured eyebrow rises as he considers her, looking at her as if she were a sad little idiot. "Did you not have a choice?" he asks mildly. "Did Alice? Were you dragged by your hair, kicking and screaming, into the games? Or did both of you walk back in voluntarily after the group vote, knowing you could die?"
Right again. She vividly remembers the conversation with her sister, in a dingy McDonald's downtown not far from here, their heads bent together in furious discussion. They had both survived the first game (duck, duck, goose), but were summarily ejected back into the world after a group vote to end the games. Alice had been crushed.
I'm going back in, she had said when they got the cards. She had always been the risk taker, the adventurer who jumped out of planes for fun. At twenty, beautiful and free, she feared nothing. She was immortal, and would live forever. It was exactly why they'd chosen her.
Aubrey Jones, on the other hand, had returned to the games not because of her debt, but because she couldn't talk Alice out of it. She tried to stop her, going first to their parents, then to the police. Everyone was nice, but even she had to admit her story of a secret death game sounded ridiculous. They must have thought she was a little bit mad, twisted by the trauma of being denied her dream of becoming a doctor. And after a few days, it became clear her choice was already made for her.
You're so stupid, Alice. And I won't let you go in alone.
Funny how things turn out.
"You do my organization a disservice, Miss Jones," the salesman continues, breaking her reverie. "We are the ultimate choice. The perfect antidote to the capriciousness of life, provided you have the strength to make difficult decisions. You said it yourself… you won, fair and square."
She sighs. While he isn't wrong, she is still going to tell him to take a hike. But if she flat out denies him now, he might kill her; the threat to take her time deciding had been ominous. She might as well prolong the night, so that it looks like she is taking him seriously. Yes. That's the reason. Nothing else. Not the way he seems to know everything about her, not the way she doesn't need to explain any of the darkness threatening to breach its walls within her. And definitely not the way he is drinking in her whole being with his eyes, as if he is trying to memorize every inch of her. She supposes the ability to make you feel like you're the only person in his world is part of the game.
"Well," she finally says, finishing the last of her champagne with a theatrical flourish and standing up, "if we're going to drop the act, I need a name."
He gives her an innocent shrug. She insists.
"I'm a victor. It's not fair for you to know my name, and for me to just keep calling you Suit Guy."
Both of his eyebrows arch with amusement. "Suit Guy?"
"I've kept secrets for ten years, I have no reason to stop now. And if I join, I either die with your name or win with it, which brings us back to right here, keeping secrets." She quirks a corner of her mouth upward as she echoes his words from earlier. "Surely, it's a win-win?"
The angelic face reveals nothing, but she's clearly hit her mark. His long legs unfold as he rises, takes her glass from her and sets it down on the table. Warm, strong hands envelop hers. She feels a shift in the atmosphere. The doorway to hell.
Knock, knock.
For the second time tonight, he inclines his head in a bow. "Sang-hyun."
For some reason, she is elated at this tiny victory. It isn't even probably his real name, but it's something she can work with.
"Bree," she says, using the nickname reserved for close friends. In a macabre way, this man is now closer to her than any friend she has.
"Miss Jones," he corrects, refusing to grant her more than a single concession. She smiles, resisting the urge to bristle at the rejection and give him another reason to gloat. "We should dance."
They maneuver through the crowd downstairs onto the floor, where the music has blessedly subsided to something slower. She doesn't think he's the type to grind like an animal in heat, and is glad when he leads her into a mostly secluded space, away from the center. The spotlights illuminate his black hair, giving it a bluish sheen. He takes her in his arms easily, comfortably, and waits.
"You promised me the truth," she says. He is a least a full head taller, and she has to crane her neck to look up at him, trying to read his expression for falsehood.
A nod. "I did. Within my limits, of course. One truth, in exchange for another."
Ah, so that's how it's going to be. Her curiosity can't help but pull her forward. "Why did you really come to recruit me personally? There must be dozens of others."
"I told you the truth," he replies. "I knew it would be a challenge, and I enjoy challenges. And I've always liked the States. How often do you think about your time in the games?"
Well, if he considers her a challenge, she is determined not to disappoint. "Every day," she says, injecting biting derision into her tone. "How often do you feel remorse for sending people to their death?"
He smiles. Despite his words about the organization, she doesn't think he's a true believer, just a practical man on business. "I don't send people anywhere. So, never. Do you regret participating?"
She pauses, Player 71 grinning deep inside. Come on, fess up. That's the point of tonight, isn't it?
"I wish I had never been recruited," she finally says, trying not to choke on the horrible truth as it leaves her lips. "But do I regret what I've done, once I entered? No."
His smile now reaches his eyes. "How interesting."
Her next question comes out more sharp than intended, a question she had pondered since Alice's death. "Has there ever been more than one winner in the final game?"
"The game allows for… creative possibilities," is the cryptic response. She takes that as a yes. "What are you thinking right now?"
"Honestly? That you've told me too much to keep me alive if I refuse to play," she says fearlessly, and turns the query around, looking straight into the inscrutable black eyes. "What are you thinking right now?"
"That I enjoy my work far more than is probably appropriate," he replies, drawing her nearer, the undercurrent of the message clear. "How do you feel being close to me?"
She should say 'terrified,' but that's not true. They share a sinister past that makes him familiar; the devil she knows. Aroused, maybe. Not just sexual, but physical—the proximity of his body sets her teeth on edge, makes her as wary as she had been during the games. Her mind continues to work even as her traitorous body leans into his touch. His hands rest on her hips with a casual indifference, the sort that is definitely intentional. He is restrained, teasing her, rattling the door handle to the abyss. The absolute conviction in his eyes, the implication that she'll walk through that door sooner or later, makes her both angry and hot. She isn't about to give him that answer, however, so she substitutes for another truthful one.
"Vigilant. I assume because this game consists of only past winners, the recruitment pool is small, and if you've reached back as far as a decade, you can't afford to have anyone refuse. You need to convince us at any cost, and it has to be voluntary. It won't be fair if we are forced. Am I right?"
Another cryptic smile. "Ask something else."
She's close then, which means he can't coerce her into the game. She has to enter of her own volition. She's not sure if that is worse than being forced. If she considers it, what does that say about Aubrey Jones?
"Did they order you to use any means necessary to recruit us if fear didn't work?" she asks, already knowing the answer.
The hands on her hips tighten, ever so slightly, the voice deepening, blanketing her into its warm embrace. "Yes. Do you think I'll have to use a method other than fear on you?"
"Are you planning to?"
She had not given him an answer before she asked the question, but he doesn't seem to care. His voice undulates between them and into her very core. "Very much so. Would you like a taste of my method? No charge."
"Seducing me won't help your cause."
The dark head tilts down, closer. "I have a feeling it will."
Temporarily stifling Player 71, Aubrey Jones bristles at his arrogance. "And if I refuse? Are you going to rape me?"
He pauses in his advance, utter disgust passing over his face. "That's insulting. I won't need to."
Her heart is pounding now. He had said it like it was an option. Another bluff? Or has he committed sins more unspeakable than murder, in the name of his employers?
"I can bite your tongue off," she warns, narrowing her eyes at him, trying to ignore how close his mouth is. "If you watched my games, you know I've done worse."
"I'm quite aware of what you're capable of," he says. "I also know that you won't. Before the games, you were one person. But now you are another. Player 71."
Her other self rears up in delirious joy. He recognizes me. He knows me. He wants me.
"And Player 71," he continues, his voice creeping around her like a spiderweb, "has never been known outside the arena. Until tonight. Even if you want to miss the opportunity, she won't let you. Not now. She has protected you all this time, saving you from death in the games. It's time to let her out. No reason to be afraid."
"I am not afraid. Of her, or of you."
"I believe you," he smiles. "Once you've been through the games, few things can truly frighten."
They are so close now, and the way he'd spoken, she wonders if he is a past winner too. Has she read him wrong? Is he just like her, walking between worlds, or is it another mirage?
"I could still refuse your offer," she whispers, "tomorrow."
"You could," he agrees, the cool skin of his forehead touching hers. "After all, it's just a game." His eyes are heavily lidded, fixated on her mouth, his voice hypnotic but distant, as if he is trying to convince not only her, but also himself. "All of it."
His hand leaves her waist, and gently tilts her head sideways. "So I'm supposed to believe," she murmurs against his lips, "that you'd just go home with nothing."
He shakes his head ever so slightly, as if incredulous. "Nothing? Is that what you think?"
Needless to say, she doesn't bite him. The initial shock of having a stranger so close is quickly surpassed by the roiling fire he is pouring into the kiss. It gives her no time to think, only to hold on as his restraint crosses the threshold and his hands crush her to him, one hand on her head and the other on her waist, his mouth devouring her without mercy. There is no gentleness or hesitation here; this man is selling his craft, zero to ninety in two seconds.
Early on, after the games, she'd taken strangers to bed without vetting, trying in vain to bury the horrors inside her head. They never lived up to their potential, no matter how charming they started out. But this man knows everything already, and this kiss is different. His passion is certainly not faked; she feels it. Maybe for non-victors he'd be more aloof, but not here. Here, he must be convincing. Or perhaps he, like her, has to go through life wearing a mask, and this is a release for him too.
She is far from a virgin, but even she is taken aback by the force and skillfulness of his assault. Her breath is quickly being stolen, as if he is trying to bring forth her very soul from her and consume it. Her hands clench his jacket, feeling the ripple of taut muscle underneath, a glimpse of the raw power behind the demon sent to tempt her back into hell.
Well, that's a problem, she thinks, but he just tastes so damn good and he knows, he knows everything… she doesn't have to pretend. So Aubrey Jones relents, and Player 71 kisses him back in earnest, gleefully, hungrily, meeting him with equal ferocity, moving to his lapels and pulling him into her, wordlessly telling him she'll take all he has, and then reach into his chest and take his life too. Their tongues battling for dominance, she lets him lead her into a whirlwind of fire. The world disappears.
As abruptly as it had started, it stops. He dips his head, stopping at the angle of her jaw, his breath hot as his lips brush her skin. Shit. His control is impressive, but she still notices the catch in his voice— perhaps he is flustered too. Or maybe it is all part of his game, pretending to be vulnerable. If he is recruiting victors, he isn't just any common lackey on the subway. He is high up. He wouldn't let himself lose control that easily.
As if reading her mind, he murmurs, "Almost as good as ddakji."
She freezes at the unfamiliar term. "What?"
"My game of choice."
She licks her swollen lips, understanding. His method of recruitment, like her checkers game. "What do you do when they lose, and have no money?"
He pulls back, leaving her bereft of warmth. His perfect hair is askew, falling into his eyes, his face slightly pink, his lips as bruised as hers. So, not quite controlled after all. The victory makes her flush with heat. Even as Aubrey struggles, Player 71 wants to see his control break entirely, wants to see him unrestrained, stubbornly dismissing the danger that places her in. She's more like Alice that way. Maybe that's why Aubrey can't let her go.
The sly smile returns as he regains composure. "I slap them across the face."
Her eyebrows rise in an attempt to escape her forehead. The woman who recruited her had just made her go dumpster diving when she lost. It had been disgusting, but certainly not painful.
"And they keep playing after that?" she asks, shocked by the thought of such casual, public, invited violence.
He smiles, as if the answer were obvious. "Of course they do."
She can understand that. Desperation makes people do crazy things. "For how long?"
"As long as it takes."
She imagines it. Losing whatever this ddakji game was, preparing for the blow. It would leave a mark for sure, if the power of his grip on her now had any indication. But somehow, the idea of a slap from him pulls at her insides in a decidedly inappropriate way. He has been scrutinizing her carefully, still holding her waist, and the thought must flash across her face long enough for him to notice. He grins. Check.
"Well, fuck," she breathes softly, and he nods, obliging.
The trip upstairs to the hotel situated above the club doesn't take long. She notes that he activates the penthouse button using a special key, and briefly muses on the fact that they both spend money earned with the deaths of others. In the elevator, they are blessedly not alone, and she takes the time to move away from him, shaky on her heels. She tries to convince herself to stop, and there are certainly plenty of good reasons to.
She shouldn't be alone with someone so dangerous, even if she can fight back these days. She shouldn't allow him to influence her mind. She shouldn't look at him like that. She shouldn't allow him to win. But the look he throws back at her is full of such promise that it robs her of anything except the should. Player 71 is still in control and she wants him. And, watching her over the heads of the others in the elevator, he knows it well.
When they are alone again, he is on her the moment the door closes. His kiss is hard, almost as if he's punishing her for even considering leaving. He breaks away, no restraint now, soft lips trailing fire down her neck. He doesn't bother with the buttons on her shirt, ripping it open with a single yank and scattering them everywhere on the floor of the elevator. She begins to protest as the door opens again and he pulls her into the penthouse.
"I'll buy you a new one," he silences her before she has a chance to speak, and then she's lifted up in his arms and carried quickly down a hallway into a very well appointed suite. Her eyes take in a living area, an office, and a kitchen (with plenty of knives, she notes automatically) before they enter the bedroom and she is deposited back down, to stand near the bed. She can see her reflection in the huge window that overlooks downtown Manhattan and the anthills of its lights. Only arousal keeps her from bolting; his strength had reduced her to near weightlessness when he lifted her, as if it took him no effort at all. She can fight him if needed, for jiu-jitsu is less dependent on size, but it would be a challenge.
Well, in for a penny, in for a pound.
The backs of her knees hit the bed, but she stays stubbornly upright as he methodically, carefully strips her, his hands now moving with purpose rather than blind abandon. She watches, admiring the efficiency, her brain disembodied from the part of her that is Player 71, all lust and death and pure id. He pauses, steps back and takes her in, now clad only in panties, goosebumps rising on her skin in the cool air. His gaze carefully travels up and down, his breath stilled, an obviously massive effort. As he looks at her, far from feeling like meat, she feels he is assessing her as if she were a work of art at the Guggenheim.
"Stunning," is his conclusion, and her body wakes from its stupor. She steps forward and starts to remove his jacket, and he obliges, shrugging out of it, her hands sliding over his powerful shoulders as their mouths meet again. The jacket is followed quickly to the floor by his tie. She's halfway through his shirt (much more careful with the buttons, as she senses he will not be as forgiving) before he stops her hands.
"Later," he growls impatiently, and gives her a push backwards. She falls on the bed and he looms over her like a predator about to feast, still nearly fully dressed. She remembers his threat to strangle her earlier that night, and decides the sight of him above her just might be worth the risk.
He kisses her deeply again, entwining his fingers in her hair and pulling back sharply, his other hand moving to her exposed neck. He squeezes slightly, enough to make her gasp, and then moves on, his mouth following his hands down her body in a track of fire. He spends a considerable time on her chest, teasing until she is as breathless as he is, then drags the last shred of clothing down her legs before he settles in between them, kneeling before her at the edge of the bed like a supplicant before an altar. Ironic.
He has to kill me after, she thinks through the haze of pleasure. He can't risk anyone knowing he does this.
Uncannily, he reads her mind again; he must have sensed her tension. She feels as much as hears his voice against her as he kisses the inside of her thigh, dangerously close.
"You think I debase myself by doing this, don't you?"
She doesn't answer because her position is much too vulnerable to even contemplate insulting him, and it's never good to insult someone with an obvious capacity for murder. But he's right. She has always performed her version of this act grudgingly, if at all. It felt servile, kneeling and pleasuring another; and Bree Jones was many things, but a servant wasn't one of them. Obviously, she has not required the complementary act from any man in turn. She hadn't met anyone who enjoyed doing this to women, anyway. They were only too happy to fuck her and be done with it.
But this man is something else entirely. She feels him smile against her skin.
"Americans," he scoffs. "Didn't anyone teach you who has the power in these things? Who moves… and who trembles?"
And she has to admit that he's entirely in control here, the tremendous force of his lust pinning her to the bed with an invisible hand. She wonders, absently, how many people he's seduced into the games, how many other methods he'd employed to reach into someone's weak spot and twist.
You could do his job too, you know, says Player 71 in her head. Maybe if you survive the games, he'll hire you. Wouldn't that be fun.
The idea of being a salesman intrigues her just long enough to forget the presence of his head between her legs, until she's brought back sharply when he turns his full attention to her. And he doesn't stop. He takes her, first gently and then harder, with his mouth until she is a mess, hoarse from screaming. Some of the things she says to him during those minutes are downright embarrassing. After the third orgasm she's sure she's never invoked God so much in her life, and he isn't even undressed. She hopes that he's not recording this for his organization, although she wouldn't put it past him.
She musters her strength and regains some of her thought process, looking up at him as he rises, wipes his mouth and finally removes his shirt. God, he is perfect, almost to the point of ridiculousness, and it is difficult for her to think. She crawls closer, sitting on the bed as he stands before her. Her hands reach out, briefly splaying over his muscled abdomen, then grasp his belt before he can reach it.
He looks down at her, dark eyes questioning. She gives him a look of need. For the first time in a long time, she wants to kneel for a man, and make him as undone as he's made her. It might very well be the last night she has with anyone, so it makes sense for it to be different.
Why does this feel so much like every night in the games? So much like dying?
It's because Aubrey Jones did die, in that arena. You're just catching up.
She unbuttons his pants as he nods in answer to her unspoken request. His voice is controlled, but his hands tremble slightly as they settle in her hair. "I am flattered, Miss Jo—"
She glares at him, and thankfully, for once, he relents. "—Bree."
She proceeds. She wishes she was better at this, more skilled at the one bedroom task where enthusiasm alone doesn't carry far enough. But she must be doing something right, because the fingers in her hair tighten, fighting with his obvious need to grab her head and push her further. She senses he won't, and voices her appreciation for his thoughtfulness, taking him as much as she can, determination clear in her actions. The vibration is clearly too much because his silence cracks with a soft "fuck… so good…"
She is lost in ecstasy, from an act that has never brought anything but disgust in the past. Curious, she looks up. Seeing him above her, wanton and disheveled and at her mercy, beating this demon at his own game, makes her ready to die right there, right now. She doesn't even need the games. She's already won.
She's preparing for the end when he suddenly yanks her off him. She all but yelps as he grabs her and pulls her upright. His perfect hair is slick with sweat.
"Not like this," he tells her, capturing her mouth with an urgency that is crushing. The taste of both of them, mixed with his cologne, her perfume, their shared arousal, creates a cacophony of flavor. Even in his haste, he is a masterful kisser, turning her thoughts to mush. There is nothing gentle about him now as he leads them toward the nearest wall, his hands wrenching her thighs open, hooking one of her legs around his elbow as her back hits the cool stone.
"Tell me, am I still going home with nothing?" he says roughly, breathing hard, inches from her face.
Her reply is strangled as he slides against her center, setting her on fire from her core outward. If he waits much longer, she might combust. "I—the games—"
He hovers at her entrance now, hot and large. "I don't care about the games. You will go, or you won't. But I have this …. And this…is not nothing."
The point is made, and now she knows he can't be recording, because what he says is surely blasphemy that would get him killed.
"If I came here just for this," he continues, sounding much less cultured than the polished man in the club, "it would fucking be enough. Look at me."
She does, and doesn't break her gaze as he fills her in a single, slow, deliberate thrust. His eyes are so dark she can see her own reflection in them, and when he reaches the hilt, she feels like he's deep enough to have impaled her heart.
The control, the precision with which he moves inside her is mind-boggling. They rock together within the rhythm, their faces a hair's breadth apart, not kissing but just watching, in both competition and cooperation, each of them seeing the other inch closer to the finish line. He has delivered on his promise; there is no veil between them, and there can never be one again. The darkness of the games, the force that permeates their whole existence, flows freely like a tide, from the Salesman to Player 71 and back. She can't get enough of him, the way he looks at her, the way he sees her.
I see you too, she thinks at him fiercely. How many can you fuck freely like this? How many others can say they know what you are, and not care?
She almost confesses to him. Her mouth almost speaks aloud the sudden onslaught of desire that she didn't know she had, that she wouldn't dare voice in her soft, bland life—- to enter the games again. To feel the fear, and the blood, and the incomparable thrill of coming out on top. To kill them all, and win.
Almost. She's not a monster yet.
They sway, attention fixed on one another. The tide swells. Their breaths fall short and sharp, increasing in cadence as the pleasure builds. She didn't think herself able to reach this peak again tonight, but he's uncovered a lot she apparently didn't know about herself.
He knows it's coming, and smiles at her, self-assured and devious. He stops moving, drawing out the inevitable, making her whine in protest but unable to do anything as he has all the control. Pinned against the wall in every possible way by his hands and body, she's too far gone to be angry, but she has her own weapons.
"You just showed your hand," she pants, their breaths mingling. "Your mask is off."
"Fair," he concedes, shifting inside her oh so faintly, so damned close to where she wants him but not quite there. "I admit it. I wanted you since I saw your first game, the fire in your eyes. Can you blame me? You might not have wanted to be there, but you were born for it."
She tightens around him, earning herself a hiss. "I'm not like you."
"Yet here you are, about to beg me for your release." His eyes sparkle with challenge. "So which of us wins?"
She leans the rest of the way forward within his grip, ghosting her lips across his.
"The game… allows for creative possibilities," she repeats his words from earlier that night, and that does it. With the hand that is not holding up her leg, he reaches in between them, stopping above the place where they are joined, and moves his fingers there in maddeningly perfect circles. His absolute control over her pleasure is both frustrating and scorching. Her nails dig into his shoulders hard enough to draw blood, but he doesn't even flinch.
"Say it," he orders, the demand in his voice unmistakable, imperious. "Tell me how hard you want me to fuck you."
It's too much now, the exact place he's touching, the heat of him inside her, stretching her. She can't bear it anymore, and finally breaks eye contact, her head falling back in defeat.
"Please…"
He doesn't relent, though he is clearly straining to resist her. "Please what?"
"Finish it… please…Sang-hyun, please…"
The tremor in his motion, the sudden tightening of his grip, are slight but unmistakable. She knows now, without a shadow of a doubt, that he had, against all fucking odds, given her his real name.
She has no time to consider the implications of that. His fingers pick up speed, increasing the shockwaves of her pleasure into the stratosphere, making her incoherent, incandescent. He can feel her teetering on the edge, melting into complete pliancy in his arms, and urges her forward. "Yes… yes, that's it…let me hear it..."
She finally catches the feeling she was chasing. As she falls into the abyss, he follows, and she can tell the exact moment he decides he's denied himself long enough. Switching to hold her tightly with both hands, his mouth capturing hers and swallowing her screams, he rocks into her with brutal, annihilating force. She is amazed the wall doesn't break behind them. He isn't holding anything back now, all his strength focused on driving into her. Clearly needing more leverage, he suddenly pivots them back toward the bed, his body only leaving hers for a moment to flip her on her stomach. A few seconds later, he lifts her, weightless again, and slides a pillow under her hips. She grabs onto the mattress, seeing stars with the perfect angle he hits in the new position.
"Oh God…" Her voice is partially muffled but her body is alive with tension, an instrument under his skill. The vestiges of her high build again, much too quickly to be normal, the wave cresting so soon after the last one that they almost overlap.
"Higher," he commands from behind her, every thrust hitting a sensitive place inside her body that she cannot even name. She arches, lifting her hips as much as she can to meet him. Pleasure hits her so suddenly that she cries out, tears falling from a decade of buried emotions finally coming undone. His movements grow more erratic, holding her in a bruising grip as she continues to ride the high, moaning his name and pleading with him not to stop.
"Bree…fuck…" he groans roughly, and she feels him spill into her. He leans forward, out of breath, arms supporting himself on either side of her, his forehead on her back, muscles shining with exertion. She is glad to note he doesn't seem to make good on any threats of murdering her.
After a moment of what appears to be self-collection, he pulls her backward against him, still inside her, kissing the sensitive part where her neck meets her shoulder, hands tracing light patterns on her chest. She shivers, turns her head and takes him in. His gaze is softened, less scripted, and she instinctively knows this is a side few have seen. She tries to memorize it because she's sure she won't see it again. The next time they meet, if ever, he will be back in the fancy suit, all business. She feels a pang at the thought despite herself. Of course, this has all been only business, nothing more. It's just one of his more creative methods.
But she can pretend otherwise a little longer, she decides.
A few hours later, she stands on the room's balcony, smoking. It is still dark, the city lights twinkling far below, cars moving in the glittering, silent arteries of the streets.
He materializes at her side like a ghost, his feet bare, waist wrapped in a towel. It is a warm summer night, and the lights glint across his smooth chest.
"Penny for your thoughts, Miss Jones?"
She smiles; the English phrase sounds funny, coming from him. "Worth more than a penny."
A chuckle. "What would be an appropriate price?"
She bites her lip, not meeting his gaze. "A promise you'll never harm me."
"A hefty price indeed." He shifts to stand behind her, strong arms encircling her shoulders and avoiding the flame of her cigarette. "You know I cannot promise that."
She leans into him, Player 71 pushing her luck. "After what we just did, could you really kill me?"
"Yes," he says without malice, and it is exactly what she expected. "I am bound by the organization and its rules, even when it comes to clients whose company I enjoy. I certainly won't do it of my own volition." He pauses, as if considering something, and his tone shifts to near-rueful. "But if I must… I will ensure it is painless. If that makes you feel better."
"It doesn't, but thanks."
He smiles into her hair. "It is more than I have ever promised anybody."
"I feel so damn special."
"You should. Now, what were you thinking about?"
She sighs, deciding to be truthful. In between bouts of sleep, she had spent the last few hours thinking about this. "I was considering your offer."
His nimble fingers play with the hem of her bathrobe. "And?"
"And …I can promise you I'll take it seriously. I do have a few days to decide, as you mentioned."
"Indeed you do." The fingers untie her robe, slipping inside and roaming underneath, stirring her body back into heat despite his having claimed her so recently. His scent is like a drug to her, a winter chill on this hot night. A beautiful grave, lined in silk.
"And what will you do in the meantime?" she asks, trying and failing to keep him from slipping the material off her shoulders. Surely he has done more than enough for his assignment, but he seems not to remember that, his hands drifting lower to caress her.
"Buy you a new shirt so you can leave the hotel," he replies. "Eventually."
Player 71 laughs, openly and freely, as the salesman takes her hand and leads her back into the dark.
Fin
Author's Note: A little one shot that was crawling out of my skull and needed to be written. Once I saw the super creepy and super sexy Gong Yoo as the Salesman in Squid Game, he needed to be written about. I even gave him a promotion. Could turn into a full story if people like it. Think of the Quarter Quell in the Hunger Games. :) The whole idea behind the organization, the Salesmen, how it all works, is just so fascinating. Oh my oh my…