They didn’t grow the pie, didn’t retire. They stayed. Sat on the nest, getting fatter, tighter. Locked their grips on whatever scraps were left, and called it progress. That’s what they told themselves—progress. Progress for who?
Not for us. Not for the ones who came after. The ones who had to scrounge for the crumbs, knowing we’d never even get close to the table. They made sure of that. They built the table for themselves and bolted it to the floor.
And now they want us to care. About the next election. About who’s up and who’s down, as if it matters. They want us to act like there’s something left to win, when the game’s been rigged for years. Decades. But here’s the thing: we already saw through it. We watched them smiling in their campaign photos, in their oversized suits and rehearsed sincerity. We watched them call it a new day every four years, watched them pretend to pass the torch while keeping both hands on the damn thing.
The Xers, we figured it out early. You play along for a while, maybe, make a show of it. But deep down, you know it doesn’t make a difference. Voting for what? A slower slide? A softer landing?
They tell us if we don’t vote, we don’t have a voice. But what voice did we ever have? They drowned us out long before we ever knew how to speak. They sold the future, left us with nothing but nostalgia for a dream we never even had. And now they want to sell us hope, too. Like it’s something we can afford to buy.
But we’re done buying. Done caring about elections, promises, progress. Maybe that’s what they don’t get, what they’ll never understand. We’re not angry—we’re just done. We’re ghosts in their machine, and the worst part for them is, we don’t even want revenge.
The boomer gave a tight smile, the kind that looked like it hurt. He stood up, dusted off his khakis like he’d been sitting in dirt, not in the power seat he’d carved out for himself all these years.
“Well,” he said, his voice a little too casual, “I guess that’s it then. Can’t change everyone’s mind.”
He turned, slow and steady, like he had all the time in the world. Like he could just walk away, no consequences, no reckoning. It made Jim’s blood boil, the arrogance of it. The absolute certainty that he could slip out, avoid the mess, move on like nothing happened.
“Where you going, pops?” Jim said, his voice like gravel underfoot.
The boomer froze. He didn’t turn around right away. That was smart. It meant he’d heard something in Jim’s tone that didn’t sit right. But then, just as Jim expected, the guy’s ego kicked in. He couldn’t help himself. He turned around, smiling like a politician at a town hall, trying to stay in control. He even held up his hands, palms out, like it was all some misunderstanding.
“Listen,” he said, “I’m not your enemy, son. We’re just—”
“I haven’t finished,” Jim cut in. His voice was low now, coiled tight like a spring about to snap. “You think you can just walk away? Like you always do? Leave us holding the bag, trying to clean up your mess? Not this time.”
The boomer’s smile slipped. He was sweating now, just a bead at the temple, but it was there. Jim took a step forward, slow, deliberate. The room felt small, airless.
“What do you want from me?” the boomer asked, voice cracking a little.
“I want to watch the lights go out behind your eyes,” Jim said, almost conversational, like he was talking about the weather.
The boomer backed up, a hand going to the chair like he thought it might save him, like it was a barrier. Jim could almost laugh at that. He moved in closer, close enough to see the panic, to smell it.
Jim reached into his coat and pulled out the knife. Not big, but sharp, curved just right for what he had in mind. He held it up so the old man could see it, could see what was coming. No rush. That was the key. Make him feel it, make him understand just how long the screws had been turning.
“Now, hold on a second,” the boomer said, voice high, pleading. “You don’t have to do this.”
Jim smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile. “Sure I do.”
And then it happened fast, like it always did. The knife flashed, just once, sliding into the soft spot under the old man’s ribs. He gasped, eyes wide, grabbing at Jim’s arm, like he thought he could stop it. But Jim twisted the blade, felt it catch on something inside, felt the boomer sag against him, the life draining out in slow, wet breaths.
He lowered the old man to the floor, watching the light fade from his eyes just like he promised. It was quiet now, except for the faint gurgle from the dying man’s throat. Jim stood over him, feeling nothing, just a hollow calm.
He looked down at the body, wiped the blood off the knife with a handkerchief, and stuffed it back in his pocket.
“Now we’re finished,” he said, and walked out into the night.
<>
Jim walked down the alley, the knife still warm in his pocket. He kept his pace steady, but his mind was racing, faster than his feet could carry him.
He made me do it. He was just standing there, acting like he was above it all. Like he hadn’t seen the world crumble under his own weight. His own doing. Telling me how powerful he was, like I hadn’t heard that my whole life. Every damn time they opened their mouths, it was the same thing. Power. Legacy. What’d I ever have? Not a legacy, not a stake in the game.
The streetlights buzzed overhead, casting long shadows on the cracked pavement. I hadn’t made anything of myself? Jim scoffed under his breath, shaking his head. Is that what he thought? Like I didn’t try? Like it was my fault the deck was stacked, like I was the one who folded the cards.
Power, he thought again. That word, it sat like acid on his tongue. The kind of word they toss around when they’ve got everything, when they can afford to sit back and watch the world burn while pretending they’re holding the matches. But he didn’t buy it. Never did.
I had a right, he thought. A right to take something back. To show him, to show all of them, that I wasn’t just another body drifting through their mess. I’ve always been right here. Watching. Waiting. But they never saw me, never cared to look.
Jim’s fists clenched in his coat pockets as he crossed the street, the city around him feeling distant, like it wasn’t even real anymore. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe nothing’s real except what you take for yourself. I took something tonight. Doesn’t matter how they spin it, how they try to twist it in their papers, their reports. I took it because it was mine to take. And if that makes me a monster, then what the hell were they?
He stopped in front of a diner, staring at the flashing neon sign through the window. The smell of stale coffee and grease seeped into the night air. For a second, he thought about going inside, sitting at the counter, ordering something like a regular person. Pretending. But that was over now. He wasn’t regular anymore, if he ever had been.
He was just there, wasn’t he? Saying it like it was the goddamn gospel, like he had any right. And me—what was I supposed to do? Stand there and let him keep talking? Keep smiling that fake smile like he knew better?
Jim’s breath hitched, the adrenaline starting to wear off, leaving a hollow in his chest. He was just there, he thought again, softer now. That’s all. He was just there. And maybe that was the worst part. Maybe it wasn’t the words, or the power, or the arrogance. Maybe it was just him being there, standing in the same space, breathing the same air, like they were equal. Like Jim hadn’t been left in the dirt, left to rot while they soared high above, telling themselves they’d earned it.
He started walking again, eyes forward but not really seeing.
It was me or him. That’s all there ever was to it. He had his time. His chance. And he pissed it away, like they always do. He thought he could walk away. Walk away from everything he did. Well, not tonight. Tonight he stayed. Tonight, he paid.
Jim’s thoughts slowed, settling into a grim calm. It had to be this way. It had to.
He turned a corner, his footsteps growing softer against the asphalt. The city stretched out ahead, dark and endless, and for the first time in a long time, Jim felt something close to peace.
I finished it.
-<>
The diner was dim and half-empty, just the way Jim liked it. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a sickly glow on the linoleum floor. The smell of burnt coffee and grease hung in the air, thick and clinging. He sat at the counter, stirring a cup of black coffee, not because he wanted it, but because it gave him something to do with his hands. Something to keep them from shaking.
That’s when she walked in.
She wasn’t dressed up, not like the dames you see in movies. No, she wore a leather jacket a little too tight, jeans clinging to her hips like they were the only thing keeping her from slipping away. But it wasn’t the clothes that got you—it was the way she moved. Like she was born to make trouble, with just the right mix of confidence and weariness to make you want to find out what side of the coin you were gonna get.
She slid onto the stool next to him, not asking if it was taken. Didn’t have to. She had a way of filling up space that made you feel like you were the one intruding.
“You got any money?” she asked, her voice low, like a threat wrapped in silk. She didn’t look at him when she said it, just stared straight ahead, fingers drumming lightly on the counter.
Jim took a breath, kept his eyes on his cup. He didn’t want to look at her too long. That was the first mistake, always was. Look too long, and next thing you know, you’re wrapped around their finger, doing things you swore you’d never do. “Depends who’s asking,” he said, voice steady, but there was a tightness in his throat he couldn’t quite shake.
She gave a short, bitter laugh, finally turning her head to him. Her eyes were sharp, but there was something tired behind them, like she’d seen too much already and wasn’t expecting to see anything better. “Don’t play coy with me, sugar. I’m not here for games. Just need to know if you’ve got any money or if you know someone who does. Or is this town just a piss-pot excuse for fentanyl overdoses and male fragility?”
That last part stung. He flinched, just a little, but enough for her to notice. She smirked, lips curling at the edges like she’d found his weakness. And maybe she had.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jim said, finally looking up at her. “I’m just passing through.”
“Yeah?” she said, leaning in just enough that he caught the faintest whiff of her perfume, something cheap but trying real hard to smell expensive. “Funny. You look like the kind of guy who’s been passing through his whole life. Bet you don’t stick around anywhere too long, do you? Not long enough to make a real mess.”
Jim didn’t answer, just took another sip of his coffee, even though it had gone cold. He knew better than to get pulled into whatever game she was playing. But damn, if she didn’t make it hard. The way she looked at him, like she could see right through him, past all the bullshit, straight to the core of whatever was left inside.
“What’s your name?” she asked, her voice softening a little, but not enough to fool him. There was a barb in every word she said.
“Jim,” he muttered. No use lying. She’d see through that too.
“Jim,” she repeated, like she was trying it out, seeing how it tasted. “Well, Jim, let me give it to you straight. This town’s circling the drain. Guys like you? You’re just along for the ride. So unless you’ve got something for me—money, connections, a way out—I’m wasting my time.”
Jim looked at her, really looked this time. There was a hardness in her face, but it wasn’t the kind you’re born with. No, this was the kind that got carved out over time, with every disappointment, every hustle, every man who thought he was in control until he wasn’t.
“You think I’ve got money?” he asked, his voice quiet now, almost amused.
She shrugged. “I think you might know where to find some. Or maybe you’ve got some other use.”
Jim smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Lady, I’m a gentleman,” he said, leaning back a little, trying to put space between them. But she closed it again, quick as a snake.
“Gentleman,” she repeated, and there was a bitterness in her voice now, a sharp edge that cut deep. “Don’t tell me you still believe in that bullshit. No one’s a gentleman anymore, not in this world. Not when we’re all fighting for the same scraps.”
Jim didn’t say anything. What was there to say? She was right. He’d known it for a long time, longer than he cared to admit. But hearing it from her—he felt something twist inside him, like a knife. Because the truth was, he did believe it. Or he used to.
She stood up, tossing a crumpled bill on the counter to cover her coffee. “Thanks for nothing, Jim,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Enjoy your stay in this piss pot.”
And with that, she was gone, the door swinging shut behind her. Jim watched her walk out into the night, a part of him wanting to follow, wanting to see where it led. But he knew better. He knew dames like her didn’t leave trails you could follow. They left wreckage.
He turned back to his coffee, staring into the black, bitter liquid. It wasn’t the first time a woman had walked out on him, but it felt like the last.
Yeah, maybe this town was a piss pot, he thought, but what did that make him?
<>
Jim stared at the door for a long moment after she walked out, the air still carrying the scent of her cheap perfume, her words slicing at the corners of his thoughts. The diner felt emptier now, quieter, like she’d taken something with her, left him sitting there alone with nothing but his coffee and his regrets.
But then he smiled, just a small curve of the lips, like something had clicked into place.
He stood up, tossed a crumpled bill on the counter, and stepped out into the cool night air. The city hummed around him, the low rumble of traffic, a distant siren, the soft whispers of people just trying to survive the night. It wasn’t much, but it was enough.
He caught up with her just outside the diner. She was lighting a cigarette, her face bathed in the soft orange glow of the lighter. She didn’t even look surprised to see him. Maybe she expected it. Maybe she knew he couldn’t leave things like that.
“Got an idea for you,” he said, standing just far enough to give her space, but close enough to make sure she heard him.
She raised an eyebrow, the cigarette dangling from her lips, a curl of smoke drifting into the night air. “Oh yeah? You got money after all, Jim? Or are we still playing this gentleman game?”
Jim chuckled. “No, I don’t got money. But I know someone who does. Or might.”
That got her attention. She took a drag from her cigarette, eyes narrowing a little as she considered him. “Go on, then. Don’t leave me in suspense.”
“Sean,” Jim said, his voice steady. “Sean’s the son of the only guy in this town besides his stepfather that has any real money and hasn’t kicked the bucket from fentanyl. His old man’s some kind of big shot, but he’s holed up in his mansion, hiding from all this shit. Sean, though, he’s still around. Still looking for a good time, still acting like he’s invincible.”
She smirked, flicking ash onto the sidewalk. “Sean. I know him. Rich, dumb, and reckless, right? His stepdad’s even worse—shady as hell, always working some angle.” She paused, eyeing Jim with a sly smile. “So what, you think Sean’s our ticket to a payday? I’m listening.”
Jim shrugged, keeping his expression neutral. “Maybe. He’s got money. And from what I hear, he’s looking to blow it. Could be we show up, have a drink, see where the night takes us.”
She took another drag, her eyes searching his face for something. “You mean party the three of us?”
The words came out slow, deliberate, with just the right amount of danger laced behind them. Her lips curled around the word “party” like it was something forbidden, something you shouldn’t say out loud.
Jim didn’t flinch. He knew what she was playing at, knew the stakes now. “Yeah. Maybe that’s what I mean. You, me, and Sean. Could be a good time. Could be more than that.”
She exhaled slowly, smoke trailing from her lips as she considered him. For a second, he thought she’d laugh it off, tell him he was dreaming. But then she smiled, the kind of smile that wasn’t warm, but sharp, like she was already two steps ahead of him.
“Alright, Jim,” she said, flicking the cigarette away. “Let’s see where this night takes us. You get us to Sean, and I’ll do the rest.”
Jim nodded, though there was a tightness in his chest now. He wasn’t sure if it was excitement or dread, maybe both. But it didn’t matter. They were in motion now, and there was no turning back.
He started walking, and she fell in step beside him, her presence like a shadow he couldn’t shake. The night stretched out before them, a long, dark road, with Sean waiting somewhere at the other end. Rich, dumb, and ripe for the taking.
And Jim? Jim wasn’t sure if he was the gentleman tonight or something worse. But he knew one thing for sure—the game had started, and the stakes were higher than ever.
<>
They found Sean where Jim figured they would—at the dive bar on 3rd, the one that pretended to have a little class because it still had a pool table. The place was dim, all neon signs and cheap whiskey, with the faintest hint of sweat and cigarettes in the air. It wasn’t the kind of joint Sean was born to be in, but it was the kind of place he liked to play at. That’s what rich kids did—they played at being poor, slumming it for the thrill.
Sean stood by the pool table, a cue in one hand, leaning against it like he owned the place. He didn’t see Jim at first, not with his eyes locked on the girl he was talking to, some blonde half his age and twice as bored.
When Jim and the woman walked in, Sean’s eyes slid past Jim like he wasn’t even there. But when he caught sight of her—Jim’s femme fatale—he perked up, pushing the blonde aside like a discarded magazine.
Jim could see the flicker of recognition in Sean’s eyes, just for a second, before the contempt settled in. It was always like that with Sean—he’d see you, remember who you were, then decide you weren’t worth the breath it would take to acknowledge you.
“Well, look who it is,” Sean said, his voice smooth as whiskey. “Jim. Jimbo. Thought you crawled outta this dump a long time ago. Guess I was wrong.”
Jim smiled tightly, ignoring the jab. “Still around. Same as you.”
Sean chuckled, running his fingers through his perfectly styled hair. “Yeah, well, some of us have choices.” His eyes flicked back to the woman standing next to Jim. “And some of us have company.”
She smiled at Sean, a slow, dangerous smile that made it clear she knew exactly what she was doing. “Mind if we join you?” she asked, her voice like honey dripping on broken glass.
Sean looked her up and down, licking his lips like she was the prize on display. “I don’t see why not. Grab a drink, sweetheart. The night’s young.”
Jim slid into a booth while she went to the bar. Sean followed her with his eyes, leaning on the pool cue like it was a crutch. When she returned, drinks in hand, Sean tossed Jim a pool cue without even glancing his way. “We playin’ or what?”
They started a game, the three of them. Sean was all cocky angles, showing off every shot like he was auditioning for something. The woman played along, laughing at his jokes, leaning in a little too close when he lined up his shots, her hand resting on his arm just long enough to make him feel like he had a chance.
Jim played it cool, keeping quiet, sipping his drink, but he knew how this game went. Sean wasn’t here to play pool. He was here to see how far he could push, how long it would take before Jim snapped. But Jim wasn’t snapping. Not yet.
They were halfway through the second game when Sean leaned against the table, his eyes narrowing as he looked at Jim, a smirk curling on his lips. “So what’s this, Jim? You pimping her?”
The words hung in the air, heavy and sharp, cutting through the noise of the bar like a knife. Jim felt the blood rush to his face, but he didn’t move, didn’t blink. He just looked at Sean, his fingers tightening around the pool cue.
She didn’t flinch. She just laughed—low, throaty, the kind of laugh that made Sean lean in closer, thinking he had the upper hand.
“Sean,” she said, her voice smooth, dripping with venom and sweetness, “if Jim was pimping me, you couldn’t afford me.”
That wiped the smirk off Sean’s face for a split second, but then it twisted back into something uglier. He stood up straight, pretending the comment hadn’t stung, but Jim could see it had. Sean never could take a hit, not even a verbal one. Too used to getting everything handed to him.
Jim stepped forward, his voice calm, steady, even though he could feel the tension creeping up his spine. “She’s not for sale, Sean. Neither of us are.”
Sean snorted, taking a swig of his drink. “Yeah, sure, Jim. Whatever you say.” He turned back to the woman, ignoring Jim again, like he wasn’t even there. “So, sweetheart, how ‘bout we blow this joint? I got a place up the hill, a lot nicer than this dump. We could have ourselves a real party. Leave this loser behind.”
She glanced at Jim, just for a second, a quick flick of the eyes. He couldn’t read what she was thinking, but he didn’t like the way the night was turning. Things were unraveling fast, the way they always did when Sean got involved.
Before she could answer, Jim stepped in. “We’re sticking together, Sean. All three of us.”
Sean laughed, shaking his head. “Sure, Jim. If that’s how you want to play it. But if you’re smart, you’ll get out of my way. Otherwise, I’ll bury you. Again.”
Jim clenched his jaw, but didn’t respond. He wasn’t here to fight. Not yet. He wasn’t here to win, either. He was here to survive. He was here to finish what had already started the moment she walked into the diner. But looking at Sean now, all smug and careless, Jim knew it wasn’t going to end quietly. Not tonight.
He could feel it—the slow, inevitable slide toward something darker, something violent. And no matter how hard he tried to steer clear, he knew he was already too deep.
The girl leaned on the pool table, watching the two men, her eyes glinting like she was waiting for the spark that would light the whole damn place on fire.
“Maybe we could go party,” she said, her voice casual, like she hadn’t just set off a fuse. “The three of us.”
Jim swallowed hard, knowing damn well that “party” wasn’t just about drinks and pool anymore. It was about power. It was about who’d be left standing when the dust settled.
Sean grinned, tossing his cue onto the table. “Now you’re talking, sweetheart. Let’s get outta here.”
Jim didn’t move, just watched as Sean swaggered toward the door, thinking he’d won, thinking he had the night in his pocket. But Jim knew better.
Because this night? It wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.
<>
The apartment was everything Jim expected—expensive but tasteless. Sean had led the way, stumbling through the door, barely able to hold his liquor, while the woman floated in behind him, eyes scanning the place like she was already thinking about what she could take. Jim followed them in, slower, more cautious, feeling like a spectator at his own funeral.
The night was spiraling. Drinks were poured, shots thrown back, and soon the music was cranked up loud enough to shake the walls. It started innocent enough, Sean cracking crude jokes, the woman laughing, her hand trailing up and down his arm like a promise. They danced a little, swaying to music that none of them could hear. But the heat in the room shifted, went from fun to something darker, more dangerous.
At some point, the three of them had fallen onto the couch, Sean in the middle, her legs draped over his lap, Jim off to the side with his drink. Sean leaned in close to her, sloppy, whispering in her ear, his fingers fumbling with the buttons on her blouse. But Jim could see it wasn’t working—Sean was too drunk, too far gone. He was trying to be the guy, trying to show off, but he wasn’t pulling it off. The booze had him stumbling through the motions.
Jim stayed in his corner, sipping his drink, watching like he wasn’t part of the scene. Maybe he wasn’t. Maybe that’s all he’d been this whole time—a guy on the outside, watching the rich kid make a fool of himself.
The woman’s eyes flicked over to Jim once, then twice, like she was measuring him. She whispered something into Sean’s ear, soft and sweet, and Jim saw Sean nod. They got up, Sean dragging her by the hand, and disappeared behind a closed door, leaving Jim alone in the living room, with nothing but the sound of his own breathing and the whiskey burning in his chest.
The minutes stretched out, the silence creeping in behind the muffled thump of music from the other side of the wall. Jim poured himself another drink, letting the numbness settle in, but something gnawed at him, something cold and sharp. He wasn’t sure if it was jealousy, anger, or the sense that he was the punchline to a joke he didn’t understand.
Then the door creaked open.
Sean stumbled out first, shirt half undone, eyes glazed over. He looked rough, more disheveled than Jim had ever seen him, like a man who couldn’t hold his liquor or his pride.
“She… uh… she wants to talk to you,” Sean slurred, rubbing the back of his neck. “Don’t know why, but… yeah, she’s asking for you.”
Jim’s stomach twisted. He set his glass down and stood, walking toward the bedroom door, feeling the weight of Sean’s drunken gaze on his back. He didn’t look at him. Didn’t need to. Whatever this was, it wasn’t about Sean anymore.
The room was dimly lit, curtains drawn, the scent of perfume hanging in the air like smoke. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, legs crossed, looking completely composed, like the whole thing had been planned from the start. The sheets were rumpled, and there was a half-empty bottle of whiskey on the nightstand, but she looked cool, in control.
“Jim,” she said softly, her voice low, beckoning. “Come here.”
He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. Sean was still outside, but it felt like he was a million miles away now. Jim could feel her eyes on him, like she was seeing him for the first time. Really seeing him.
“So what’s this about?” Jim asked, leaning against the doorframe, keeping his distance. “Sean not doing it for you?”
She smiled, but it wasn’t a warm smile. It was a knowing one, the kind that said she’d already figured out how the rest of the night would go. “Sean… well, let’s just say he’s not in the best shape for a party right now.”
Jim nodded, not sure where this was going, but feeling like he was walking into a trap.
“I didn’t call you in here for him,” she continued, her voice smooth as velvet. “I wanted to talk to you, Jim. About Sean’s dad.”
That caught him off guard. He stiffened, the mention of Sean’s old man sending a chill through him. “What about him?”
She uncrossed her legs and stood up, moving toward him with slow, deliberate steps, her eyes locked on his. “You knew Sean’s dad, didn’t you? I mean, you went to school with Sean, but you knew more than that. You knew his family.”
Jim swallowed hard. “What are you getting at?”
She was standing in front of him now, so close he could feel the heat of her body, smell the faint scent of her skin. “Sean’s dad has money, real money. And power. He’s not like these other junkies in town, Jim. He’s the kind of man who can get things done. Or make people disappear if he wants to.”
Jim felt the tension coiling tighter in his gut. “I don’t know anything about his old man.”
“Don’t lie to me, Jim,” she whispered, leaning in closer, her lips just inches from his ear. “I’m not interested in Sean. I’m interested in what his father can do for me. For us. You want to be part of that, don’t you?”
Jim’s mind raced. He could feel her trying to cut Sean out of the picture, trying to pull him into something bigger, something darker. He didn’t know where this was going, but he knew it wasn’t good. She was cutting the middleman, and now he had to decide if he was going to play along—or find a way out before things spiraled even further out of control.
Jim stood frozen as she leaned in closer, her lips brushing his neck, her breath warm against his skin. He knew the look in her eyes, the kind of look that could set a man on fire, burn him down to nothing, and leave him craving more. His mind told him to walk away, to leave now before he got pulled under, but his body was already betraying him.
Her fingers slid down his chest, unbuttoning his shirt one by one, slow and deliberate, her eyes never leaving his. She knew she had him—had him the moment she’d asked him into this room—and Jim knew it too. But he didn’t move. He couldn’t. Not now.
“Why me?” Jim asked again, his voice a little more breathless this time, the question more of a delay than a real inquiry.
She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she pressed herself against him, her body soft, warm, intoxicating. Her hands slid down his sides, over his belt, and lower, until she could feel the tension building in him. “Because, Jim,” she murmured, her lips brushing his ear, “I think you want this just as much as I do.”
Jim’s mind screamed at him to stop, to think, but his hands were already moving—gripping her waist, pulling her closer. She kissed him then, hard and deep, and any last shred of doubt dissolved into the heat of it. They stumbled toward the bed, her fingers tugging at his clothes, his hands roaming her body as if the consequence no longer mattered.
The sex was frantic, fueled by lust and something darker—an undercurrent of power, control, desperation. Every movement, every touch felt charged with something that went beyond just the physical, as if they both knew this wasn’t just about bodies but about roles, about who held the cards. Jim felt himself sinking deeper into it, every kiss, every gasp pulling him further from reason, further from whatever scraps of self-respect he had left.
But just as it reached a fever pitch, she stopped. Pulled back. Her eyes locked onto his, glinting with something cold and calculating. She wasn’t just here for this. She was here for something more.
“Pretend to be him,” she whispered, her voice low, hushed, like a secret. “Pretend to be Sean’s dad.”
Jim blinked, his body still buzzing, his mind slow to catch up with what she was asking. “What?”
She slid on top of him, her hands pressing down on his chest, her eyes boring into his. “Just for a moment. I want you to pretend you’re him.”
Jim felt a chill crawl up his spine. “Why would I do that?”
Her smile returned, but it wasn’t the playful one from before. It was darker, sharper. “Because, Jim, I think you know how to survive in this world. And I think you know that to survive, sometimes you have to be someone else.”
The request hung between them, strange and unnerving, but Jim couldn’t look away from her. She was still pressed against him, her body, her scent, everything about her keeping him tethered to this moment. He knew this was wrong, twisted even, but he could feel the pull. Could feel the power in it.
He closed his eyes, swallowed hard, and let the words slip from his mouth, low and rough. “Alright.”
She leaned down, kissing him softly, her lips brushing against his as she whispered in his ear. “Good. Now, Jim… be him.”
Jim let himself slip into the role, into the character she wanted, and as he did, he could feel the line between who he was and who she wanted him to be blurring. She moaned softly in his ear, guiding him, telling him what to say, what to do, and Jim followed, even though it made his skin crawl.
He wasn’t Jim anymore. He wasn’t even Sean’s friend. He was someone else entirely. Someone darker. Someone who could give her what she wanted, even if it meant losing a part of himself in the process.
When it was over, they lay in silence, the weight of what had just happened hanging between them like smoke. She didn’t say anything, and neither did Jim. There wasn’t anything left to say. They’d both gotten what they wanted—or maybe, what they needed. And now, all that was left was the fallout.
Jim lay there, staring at the ceiling, wondering how the hell he’d let himself get pulled into this. Wondering how much further he was willing to go before he couldn’t come back.
The woman stirred beside him, pulling the sheet around her, her eyes still sharp, still calculating. “You did good, Jim,” she said, her voice low, almost a purr. “You really did.”
Jim didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Because deep down, he knew she was cutting Sean out, cutting the middleman, and that he was next in line. He’d played along tonight, but he wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep pretending.
And he wasn’t sure what would be left of him when it was all over.
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