John started visiting me at the club once a week, sometimes two. It was always an amusing sight when I caught it; the way he hobbled through the center trying to touch as little as possible, constantly reeling his eyes as though someone objectionable might find him there. My insufferable coworkers began to recognize him as my regular and inform me whenever he arrived, which was their one positive use.
Miss Ginny hadn't said anything further about my work habits, which was utterly suspicious. He had an addictive personality; wouldn't let up until he was absolutely sure he had his way. I suspected that he was fully aware of where I'd been the day I went to the coffee shop, how long I'd been there, and how little profit I'd brought back from it, in which case he was probably planning something very inconvenient which he would have intended to be very hurtful. Such is the overconfident inadequacy of humans. Always afraid to go all the way.
These suspicions didn't bother me. If anything, I was bothered by the fact that his plans were taking so long to come to light. My daily routine of sleeping, thinking, dancing, and sexually pleasing the occasional bearable human became more mundane every day I continued with it. I was running out of things to learn about the male sexual appetite.
That's why I favored John's visits. His sex drive conformed with many of the standard patterns that the rest of my clientele had familiarized me with, which is what had made it possible for me to seduce him in the first place, but he added an additional column to the spreadsheet, a new aspect to interpret and subjugate. He incited something in me.
It was not unusual for me to conduct business in a domestic setting like I did with John, but his flat came to mean something different. It was an escape from the standardized atmosphere of morbid sensuality, a place where I could feel at home with the only reminder of falsehood being my payment, which I quickly stowed away. He didn't treat me like anyone but an individual person. He didn't flatter me and then use me as a tool for the short time that it was convenient. When we weren't doing something physically intimate, he was communicating with me like he would with a friend, which to me was more intimate than any relationship I'd ever had.
When we lay together and he told me about his life and his endless banal troubles, not once considering his own practical privacy since that first time when we met, I was entrusted with something much greater than a collection of common trifles. For the first time I recognized the depth in small happenings. I learned those things that a surface deduction had not and could never tell me. John was teaching me who he was, and I felt the value of it, and with every word he spoke I felt it grow heavier in my hands; it was a treasure I could not sell off or even explain to any outsider, the type that I had always thrown out before. He walked me through his days as if I were a part of them, and I actually cared.
Once he told me about a mate he had in secondary school who became determined to find him a girl one week before prom and, through a number of completely unrelated bribes, managed to set him up a date with the most individualistic young lady on campus. They danced for one and a half minutes, he offered to fetch her refreshments, and she responded with a bitter remark about how he kept holding doors open for her and coincidentally knocked him headfirst into the punch bowl.
Looking back, this told me volumes about how the entirety his teenage years must have conspired, but in my habitual affectation I started to believe I was ordinary when I was with him, and I listened without analyzing, and I was someone who could relate. All I could think to say was, "Did it have a pleasant flavour?"
"A bit too much coconut. I've never been one for island flavours. I suppose it fit since the theme was supposed to be paradise that year. Certainly wasn't for me."
He glanced over at me. I imagined him in a red-stained tuxedo with a guilty look on his pubescent face and started laughing, quietly at first, and then he laughed with me, and we laughed so hard that we didn't notice the knocking on his door until the third or fourth try.
When he recognized the sound, his face turned blank.
"Shit," he muttered in a half-suppressed voice, and he was out of bed in seconds. "I'm sorry about this. You need to come with me. Quickly."
I was surprised by the level of resolution in his voice, as if some switch inside him had been triggered and the prospect of danger had pulled him apart from the usually mellow and passionless John. That was obviously what it was - danger - since his first priority was to get us both out of the house through the back window, where nobody would see.
He squeezed through first to set an unneeded example, assisted me, and then shut it carefully so that it didn't make a noise. His sights lingered on the top of the brick wall several yards away but he decided against that route, probably for my sake, and then took my hand and ran along it on ground-level instead.
All the while I'd said nothing, because my mind was back on high alert and I was trying to figure everything out for myself. The signs were simple enough to read.
"They know about this back way so we have to hurry. I'll explain everything after. Sorry," he told me again while we were running, but all I could focus on was the warmth of his hand as he led me forward, which made the danger seem far away and all its risks inconsequential. I knew that someone was after him with negative intentions, but that as long as he was with me he had nothing to fear; I had all the best intentions to cancel it out. I knew that the someone had either hired or was working in tandem with several others, but since they were more than likely all idiots I could easily find a way to take them down myself. I knew that John cared about me because he wasn't scared and he was running anyway, choosing to postpone and likely exacerbate the unpleasantry for a time when he could deal with it by himself. I found his actions to be brave rather than stupid.
I was suddenly irritated with myself because I wasn't supposed to care, and I did. I wasn't supposed to feel protective over a simple client, and I did.
Because John wasn't a simple client. He never had been.
Soon we emerged from the alleyways into the more populated suburbs, where we could blend in with the passerby, and he let go of my hand and leaned on the stone railing overlooking a lower street, preparing his story in his head. I stood beside him and gazed around, distinguishing impromptu weapons and escape routes just in case they managed to track us this far. I doubted they would.
"Last week, three burly fellows I recognized from university appeared at my doorstep and informed me that I had debts to repay. When I told them I had no idea what debts they were talking about, they forced passage and gave me a beating inside my own home. Apparently it was about a silly bet I made while drunk at one of the first parties I went to. Thank god it was also one of my last. I never fit in in the middle of all that rumpus." He glanced over at me as I joined him against the railing, satisfactorily aware of our surroundings. "Anyway, they told me they'd be back. Never did clarify how much they wanted in order for the debt to be repaid, and I don't remember."
"What are you going to do?" I asked, in the manner of the interested companion.
"I'll figure it out when I get there. No use calling the police. One of them has a brother in the police."
"Terribly convenient for him." I watched as he stared down at the pavement in contemplation. The excitable adventurer had retreated inside him once again. I missed it already, but there was nothing to do but move on. "There are some private rooms back at the club if you'd like someplace else to spend our time. They're generally put off for reservations, but I can't remember the last time all of them were occupied at once."
He considered. "I think I'd like that."
"Come on, then. I'll get your mind off the bullies in a hurry."
"I won't get hit on by another four fruitcakes within a minute of entering, will I? I'm getting a bit fed up with that."
"I can take my shirt off upon entering if you think that would distract them."
"It definitely would."
And it did, quite effectively, in fact.
"Dear god," I heard him say as I took him aside and entered one of the private rooms, locking the door behind us. The rooms were almost completely soundproof, blocking us out from the world outside so that any desired environment could be created. There was a old-fashioned record player for the romantic and a chest full of goodies for the hedonist. John made it very clear within the first few seconds that he didn't want to bother with these things. He had me up against the wall with his hands in my hair and his mouth relentless against mine. "To bed," he whispered between assaults, and it was a command meant for me to carry out, since he couldn't seem to stop himself. I guided him there, with some difficulty, through the forceful handling of his hips.
He pushed me beneath him and gazed over me from my eyes to my abdomen, entranced in the false oasis of my skin against the desolate backdrop of reality. There was a story in his eyes; he was alone, and every time he tried to find sanctuary it turned out to be another mirage, and he hoped beyond all hope that I wasn't one. I wanted to reassure him somehow, but I knew that any reassurance I gave would be just as false, a mirage within a mirage, and I didn't have the heart to plunge him into so deep an illusion. He already deserved better than me.
I could, however, remind him that he was allowed to take what he was paying for.
"You can touch, you know. I'm all yours this hour."
He smiled and pulled his hands from their unassuming position atop the sheets to run them over my skin, shoulders to hips. He had never touched me so deliberately. He always confined himself to what was necessary, as if he respected me too much to explore without permission, which was much more than any customer had ever done for me.
"Funny to think that a couple months ago I never would have found this attractive," he murmured.
"Now you can hardly look at me without popping your trousers open."
"You are very skilled."
It wasn't until I unbuttoned his shirt and he winced, almost imperceptibly, that I saw the bruises. I shouldn't have been surprised, since he'd told me about the beating, but the size and multitude of them made me realize that his face, in contrast, was left completely untouched. Like I was the only one meant to see them.
"John," I started, trying to keep the logical side of my mind in full jurisdiction of my body, which was usually a simple and subconscious task. "Those men; do you clearly remember them to be present at the time of the bet?"
"I had a few encounters with them around campus. I can't remember seeing them at the party, but I hardly remember seeing anyone at the party."
"Did they bring it up first or did you ask them?"
"I asked if that was what it was about. They said it was."
My suspicions were confirmed. The bruises were a message for me, sent with regards from Miss Ginny. He must have located the bullies and paid them to give John a visit, with the promise that such an unsociable man would have some leftover score to settle that he would mention himself. The plan had been successful, and I was to blame.
"You alright?" he asked, glancing down at the clenched fist gripping his shirt. I forcibly calmed my demeanor and placed my hand on the back of his neck, looking up at him affectionately.
"I just don't like the thought of them hurting you."
If he was unsure before about whether or not I was genuine, the saccharine sentimentality of my excuse hit home somewhere in the outfield of his heart and overshadowed any logical doubt.
"Don't worry about me. I'll take care of them next time and then they won't bother me again."
He tangled his fingers in my hair and kissed me as though he loved me. I felt angry and guilty and wonderful all at the same time, when I should have been feeling nothing at all.
There was a vibration in my pocket that both of us felt. I wanted to believe that it was something innocuous when I knew that about this time during the month it could have only been one thing. One thing that would irreparably shatter the illusion; one thing that I could not ignore, for John's sake, even though it would seem like just the opposite to him.
I answered the phone. "Hello?"
"Mr. Hambleton would like to see you. Come outside immediately."
"I can't," I said, though I knew the conversation would end the same either way.
"Are you dying?"
"No."
"Then would you like me to forward the connection so you can explain to him personally why you can't?"
"No." I paused, and for a moment all I could see was John, watching patiently with the assumption that I would finish my call and then we would go right back to what we were doing. I couldn't, because I had an obligation to monetary efficiency, and if John was the cause of me breaking it, he would be ensured even more pain than before. "I'll be outside."
The line went flat. I returned my phone to its place and kissed John a last, gentle time before slipping out from beneath him.
"Where are you going?"
"Business meeting."
"What do you mean? You're a-" He stopped as realization dawned on his face. I had another client who was more important than him. "Oh."
"We'll see each other again soon?"
"Yeah," he responded glumly, and from the image of him sitting on the edge of the bed, partly unclothed, left behind, I assessed exactly how much damage had been done. I told myself I would make up for it somehow, someday, once I had figured out how to attain my freedom.
The road to Thomas Hambleton's little palace was driven in silence. I did not hate the chauffeur himself, seeing as he was only fulfilling his paid duties, but suddenly I hated his job description. God damn Thomas Hambleton's not-so-urgent needs.
Of course, he had no way of knowing that any damage had been done. Ordinarily his calls meant the opposite of inconvenience for me.
When I entered he was already prepared for me, concealed under the covers with folded red satin tied loosely around his neck. This was different. Under normal circumstances I might have been pleased.
I moved toward him, plastering a smile onto my face. He had a tube of lubrication and two matching lengths of thick red ribbon in his hands.
"Have no mercy," he told me as I crawled over him and took the first length of ribbon. I grabbed his wrist and secured it against the bed frame, pulling the tie so tight his lips formed a silent expression of surprise, and then did the same with the other. As I pulled the blindfold around his neck up to cover his eyes, I left the ghost of a kiss on his forehead.
Then I unclothed myself and did exactly what he had commanded me to. That evening he screamed louder than he ever had before.
When I was finished with Thomas Hambleton, I went home and straight into Miss Ginny's office. He wasn't surprised to see me.
"Such extreme consequences were completely uncalled for," I said, before he could spit out any sort of sappy greeting remark.
"You call that extreme? You underestimate me."
"I'd prefer if my clients were not harmed on my behalf."
"Don't bother trying to sound so professional, dear. I know how you feel about him. It happens to every employee at some point. Usually I let them go, but I haven't the heart to lose you yet."
"What do you mean, 'it happens'?"
There was a pause as he retrieved a cigarette from his desk drawer, stationed it gracefully between his crimson lips, and lit it. Interesting what a stickler for the rules he was with everyone else when, for some reason, they didn't even apply within his office. "You've fallen in love, dear," he declared.
"That's ridiculous. I simply don't think it fair to make someone else to suffer for my insufficiency."
"It's the only explanation for your recent actions. That insidious emotion has been implanted in your heart which naturally overrides all other established conventions, including our mission statement. You are not to blame. As such, I will use the life of John Watson to blackmail those…defiant emotions."
"His life?" I uttered, my voice rising.
"I have friends in some very low places, Sherlock. Don't make it necessary for me to call on them."
His entire demeanor sickened me. He should not have known John's last name, or even his first. He had done his research thoroughly, and now that he was finally paying attention to our conversation, he was flaunting his ability to treat a man's life like a joke.
"I could call a police investigation and have this entire establishment shut down in a matter of hours," I suggested experimentally.
"But you won't, because I'd make sure John was dead by the time I saw my jail cell."
As I thought. After years of being in his service, I'd come to realize that Miss Ginny was slightly above the common idiot. He was latently gluttonous and therefore overcautious, which, paired with some level of intelligence, turned out to be a dangerous combo.
I made a point to glare at him with as much outward malice as was already manifest inside my mind, and said, "I could just kill you."
"My friends already know who to take revenge on if I die."
"Am I really that critical to the success of this place?" I asked, and it came out sarcastic.
"No. But why give you up if I don't have to? You love him, so my scheme prevails. Ta-da! Such an unlucky emotion, love, but I'm sure you already knew that. Too bad you forgot it when you met John." He took a long drag from the cigarette, blew the smoke languidly in the general direction of my face, and then smiled cheerfully. "I will not prevent you from seeing him," he continued, lapsing into an even more light-hearted tone. "But if you stray from the guidelines of your contract again, you will lose your privilege."
"Understood," I finally said, my voice even, but when I got back to my room I threw a chair against the opposite wall. For the first time since my tumultuous childhood, I could hardly keep myself from screaming.
"Idiot," I hissed, hurling my fist against the wall shortly after the chair had reached its destination. "Arrogant idiot. It was not a game. I treated it like a game." I fell down onto the edge of my bed and clasped my hands together in front of my face, mentally retreating to the original conundrum, the problem I'd never solved, the roadblock. It was the source; it was the key to devising my escape from this pathetic thralldom and with it, John's safety. I had never before developed a stratagem for a plight I didn't fully comprehend, because I'd never had to. I always understood. I had to understand before I could resolve.
So what was it that was so troubling? Had John really put up the roadblock, or had I? Why did something so inherently simple seem so complicated?
Was this frustration, this anxiety, this weighted pit in the center of my stomach, the breathlessness caused by it, and by the depth in his eyes when he looked at me, the happiness that infected me when he smiled; was this love?