Cash Out

by Greg Bardsley

  “And you know I’ll do it.”

  I can only imagine the looks on their faces when they tear off my shirt and find the camera wire streaking across the fabric, the lens in my shirt, the tape box under my belt. Not to mention my shaved, purple-and-yellow genitals. The thought makes me queasy. “Fine,” I grimace, and push against her lower back. “Just ease up a little.”

  Burly Buns looks back, her lids low, and grinds harder.

  “Please,” I moan.

  Her crushing dance continues, and I feel like I’m seconds from passing out. The room narrows and the sounds go hollow. I lock my jaw and growl.

  Fitzroy hollers into the air, “He’s gonna blow.”

  From the tangle, a collective “Eeeeeee-eeeeew.”

  I lean forward and try to close my knees, reducing the contact for a few seconds until Burly Buns pushes them open again and burrows back into the center.

  “On the knee,” I whisper. “On the knee. Grind on the knee.”

  “What’s wrong?” she says, and laughs. “Gonna blow?”

  Krista watches, her arms folded, her brows low, her mouth tight. “That’s disgusting,” she mumbles and looks away. “He said he was married.”

  I quiver and moan. I feel tears welling.

  Fitzroy says, “Here he comes.”

  More eeee-ews and cheers.

  I decide to go with it. Hell, might as well fake it and end the torture now. So I hiss and oooh and ahhhh and shudder, to a chorus of louder cheers and eeee-ews, until I cross my eyes and force myself to go limp. Louder cheers and louder eeee-ews as Burly Buns stands up, picks her bikini out of her crack, and struts away. “Got ’im.”

  Krista notices the tear streaking down my cheek. “Hey, you’re . . .”

  I crawl to the bathroom.

  I’m hugging the toilet, about to retch. The pain is still launching convulsions of agony through my body, and I feel my stomach surging.

  The door opens and shuts. “Hey.” A gentle whisper. “You okay?”

  I look up. It’s Krista taking tiny steps toward me, her face drawn.

  “You’re not okay, are you?”

  I sniffle, wipe my eyes. “Been better.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  I feel it coming, so I lean into the bowl right as I vomit.

  Krista is touching my shoulder. “It’s okay.”

  I retch again, and she flushes the toilet.

  “C’mon,” she says, tugging at my blazer. “Let’s get this off you before it’s ruined.”

  I let her do it, and spit into the bowl, gasping, “I gotta . . .” Spit. “. . . get . . .” Spit. “. . . out of here.”

  She hands me a wad of tissue, and I wipe my mouth and spit again. Finally, the pain is fading a little, and maybe that’s why I’m able to hear my cell vibrate and ding with a new text message. Shit, it’s probably High Rider with more instructions. I struggle to pull it out, glance at the message.

  This is an automated reminder from Dr. Douglas to be a real man and meet your commitment tonight: Don’t forget to make Kate a proper full-course meal—and remember, NO MEAT PLATTERS.

  Krista flushes the toilet again, kneels beside me, and rubs my back. “Who is that guy?”

  “An asshole,” I gasp, and pocket the cell. “A very rich asshole.”

  Her hand settles on the small of my back, and before I have my wits about me, she’s untucking my shirt . . . and pulling on my tape box.

  Her voice sharpens. “What’s this?”

  I try to swat away her hand, but it’s too late.

  “What the fuck is this?” She yanks the wire. “You’re taping us?”

  I struggle to stand up right as she lands a roundhouse into my mouth. “That’s . . .” I manage to yank the tape box from her before she uses her other fist to land another roundhouse into my nose. “. . . mine.”

  My nose explodes, driving nails of pain into my eyes.

  Empty-handed, her face cherry-red, she turns and runs out of the bathroom. “He’s got a camera. He’s got a camera! He’s been taping the whole thing!”

  Nine

  Fitzroy pulls himself out of the flesh pile and stands up, his pants bunched at his ankles, his black boxers propped up by his boner. He looks at me, then at Krista.

  “Camera?”

  Krista darts toward the girls, yanks a vase off the end table, and heaves it at me. I duck, and it bounces off the bathroom doorframe.

  I hunch down, ready for attack, one eye on the door.

  Fitzroy stands there. “Camera?”

  “Stephen,” I hobble toward the door. “It’s . . .”

  “Danny, what are you doing? A camera?”

  Krista heaves a huge picture book at me—pages fluttering—and misses badly.

  “Danny, what is this?”

  The girls are way ahead of him. They start to shriek and scatter. A can of Coke sails wide right, but a glass coaster nails me in the gut, brings me to my knees.

  “Stephen.” I get back to my feet. “It’s just . . .”

  Fitzroy sees the shame on my face, realizes something is really wrong, and takes a step, only to trip on the wad of gabardine around his ankles. He crashes to the ground and struggles to look up at me. “What the hell is she talking about, Danny?”

  “The camera.” Krista nearly growls. “Get it.”

  Burly Buns booms, “Perv.”

  Another one yells, “Stop the perv.”

  But they all back up.

  Fitzroy sits up, kicks his slacks off, and gets right-sided. He gazes at the contraption in my hand, mumbles wide-eyed, as if in a daze, “Camera?”

  “Stephen.” I stick the tape box in my back pocket, bunch my shoulders. “It’s a long story. Little Red and High Rider.”

  “What?”

  “They made me do it.”

  Now it’s really sinking in. His face reddens. “You’ve been taping me?” He steps forward, realizes my size advantage, and halts.

  “I’m sorry, Stephen. . . . This thing . . . I mean.”

  Fitzroy glares at me, then springs into action, shouting: “Four thousand dollars to the girl who brings me that tape.” He points to Burly Buns. “Lock that door.”

  At which point, more than a dozen half-naked college girls spread out.

  Encircling. Closing in. Their lips curled back, their shoulders in.

  Projectiles loaded and ready for launch.

  Within seconds I am swarmed and brought down. Hammer fists rain down on my face. Hard kicks and, worse, stomps to my chest. Legs and arms and breasts and even asses press against my face, my throat, my stomach, my arms and legs—all of it fused into a hot, sticky mass of aggression.

  I twist and roll, in mad, searing pain, clenching my back pocket in a final, desperate attempt to keep the tape.

  Get up, Danny. Get up now.

  “Sit on him.”

  “No, roll him over.”

  From the couch, Fitzroy sounds so casual. “Okay, five thousand.”

  The frenzy intensifies. They roll me over. Someone pulls my fingers in opposite directions. I pull back and cry for mercy. My fingers pop, and pain explodes up my arm. I pull myself loose. But finally, of course, a small hand digs into my back pocket and snatches out the tape box.

  A petite blonde thrusts the box above her head. “I got it!”

  “Bring it here, baby, and claim your reward.”

  Burly Buns roars, “No, I had it.”

  Another girl says, “I’m the one who got him to let go.”

  The mob shifts off me as they follow the blonde. I sit up and cradle my hand as Burly Buns, Krista, and four others tackle the blonde.

  “That was mine.”

  “Get off.”

  “We should split it.”

  “I said, get
off me, you moose.”

  “Hey . . . ow!”

  “Stop!”

  “You stop!”

  “Hold her down.”

  “Bitch.”

  The hotel room is starting to resemble a rugby scrum: bodies pressing, teeth gritting, people moaning. The blonde is in the middle, and Burly Buns and another girl have her arm. The tape box goes flying, and the girls scream. Soon it’s being kicked and swatted all around the room, as each of them struggles to gain possession.

  “Bring it here,” Fitzroy drawls, “and get your five thousand.”

  Krista picks it up and darts to him, only to get gang-tackled by the mob.

  Then . . . a heavy pounding on the door.

  Silence.

  More pounding. “Open up!”

  I recognize that voice immediately. What the hell is he doing here?

  The girls freeze, looking at each other, wondering what to do. Fitzroy gets up and reaches for his slacks.

  “Hotel security. Open up now.”

  The girls scramble, some darting to the bathroom, others grabbing their clothes.

  Fitzroy steps into his slacks. “Coming,” he chimes sweetly. “Just a sec.”

  And I notice the tape box under an ottoman.

  Fitzroy opens the door and looks down.

  It’s High Rider, in a powder-blue collar shirt, orange Bermudas, and yellow flip-flops. He’s talking into a bullhorn, through gritted teeth.

  I can’t believe he’s here.

  Fitzroy squints down at him. “You’re not hotel security.”

  I crawl to the ottoman, shove the tape box down my front pocket, and stand up.

  Fitzroy turns to me. “Is this guy your partner? He’s the brains and you’re the muscle?”

  High Rider steps forward and barks into the bullhorn. “Back up, Fitzy.”

  Fitzroy stumbles backward, and High Rider clicks the door shut.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Through the bullhorn: “Collecting what is mine.”

  “But you wanted me to—”

  “Follow the plan,” he snaps. “Which you obviously couldn’t accomplish.”

  Krista steps forward, tries to pull up her jeans, and huffs, “Who’s got the tape?”

  High Rider yells into the bullhorn, his tiny voice gravelly. “Back up, hussies.”

  No one does.

  High Rider bluffs a charge, and they back up a little.

  Fitzroy has his cell to his ear. “Five thousand dollars, ladies.”

  High Rider points at him. “Put that down.”

  “Someone secure the door,” Fitzroy says. “In fact, three thousand dollars to the girls who can control and detain our little friend here.”

  I get ready to bolt.

  Krista is scanning the floor. “Where’s the tape?”

  Fitzroy keeps the cell to his cheek and turns away from us. “Hey, Ed. It’s me. Listen, I have a problem here.”

  “PUT THAT PHONE DOWN.”

  Some of the girls are creeping up on High Rider, others are searching the room.

  Fitzroy glances at us. “Yeah, the InterContinental. . . . No, they’re here.”

  Burly Buns hollers, “Now!”

  Mayhem.

  High Rider screams into the bullhorn, which is quickly yanked away and heaved against the wall. Within a flash he’s pulled down, swallowed up by the pack.

  I backpedal to the door.

  Krista frowns at my front pocket and points. “He’s got it.”

  Lamps and wine bottles are suddenly inbound, end over end.

  I duck, turn, and bolt for the door.

  “STOP THE PERV!”

  Scrambling down the hotel stairway, grimacing, I can hear them close behind.

  Get off on a random floor, Dan.

  Footsteps getting closer.

  The others will be waiting for me in the lobby.

  Someone in heels, closing in.

  Get off on a random floor, find a service closet.

  Suddenly, the heel clicking ceases and I’m slammed from behind. Someone clamps on to my back and sends me stumbling forward, seconds from crashing into the stairs. Krista’s red hair slides over my eyes. “Perv,” she grunts, and sinks her nails into my forehead and brows. “Fucking greedy little perv.”

  I stop on the landing for the third floor and twirl, trying to shake her. Nothing doing. She slides a forearm under my chin.

  “I got him,” she yells into the air. “I got him.”

  She bites into my ear and growls, the hot vibration sending shivers down my body.

  More footsteps in the stairway.

  Oh God.

  I bite into her forearm and shake violently. Krista screams and releases me, tumbles to the floor. “ASSHOLE,” she yells, tugging her bikini top back into place. “You fucking ASSHOLE.”

  I dash down the stairway, faster than I would have thought possible, the clamor of this cadre of motivated women in lingerie and two-pieces intensifying behind me, their cash lust and vengeance churning to a froth.

  The stairway exit dumps me into a side alley, where I find three more bikinied women. One of them yells into her cell phone, “He’s here. Down in the south alley.”

  Another one says to the others, “We split it. We get the tape here, split the money three ways.”

  I square myself.

  They charge.

  I feel my lip curl back.

  Ten

  One summer, as a teenager, I worked at the mall selling cheese for Hickory Farms. Most of the time, I had the evening shift, meaning I’d work the store alone and just stand there and gaze out at the empty mall as I waited for closing time. Some nights, not one person would enter the store. Even so, I was required to “dress up” for the job, so I’d tuck an oversized shirt into a pair of tight slacks, the only pair I had, and make the best of it.

  One night two girls walked by, glanced in, and giggled.

  Was that flirting?

  A minute later, the girls returned, red-faced. The brunette with freckles and giant green eyes asked for a free sample of cheese. Her friend with dirty blond hair glanced at my crotch and grinned to herself.

  Which was when I looked down and suddenly understood.

  My fly was open, and out of it flowed my shirttail—like a massive, flaccid dong reaching halfway to my knees. The girls burst into laughter, turned around, and marched off arm in arm.

  To see yourself as you truly are—that is tough.

  I hobble to the beach, where I curl into a ball and wait for dawn.

  The light breeze washes over me as I screw my eyes shut, trying to prevent the images from snaking through my head. But it’s useless; the replay rolls. I see the girls charging me, one of them swinging some kind of pipe and missing by a hair, another going for my knees with a sweep, dropping me as a third comes in for a soccer kick and nails me in the ribs, sending pain everywhere. I see the bright alley opening in front of me. See the looks on their faces as I push through them and run toward the light. Nearly feel it again when one of them lands on my back and drags her nails across my throat until I toss her off, turn the corner, and hobble into the dark.

  Is this all for real?

  I shake my head, open my eyes. There’s no way I can return to my hotel room and get my stuff—way too risky. I’ve become a FlowBid fugitive, curled into a ball on a deserted strip of sand, with just two critical items in my possession: my wallet and a tape worth more than a million dollars. Then again, the tape might be worth way more than that, considering how much damage it could do in the wrong hands. For the first time throughout this whole ordeal, I feel small and selfish.

  I look down at my cell. I want to call Kate so bad. But I’ve caused her enough pain already.

  Then the cell lights up in my
throbbing hand. S. Fitzroy.

  I stare at it a minute, finally answer the call.

  Long silence on both sides. Shit, I bet he can hear the waves.

  Then his voice, nearly whispering.

  “Danny.”

  Nothing.

  “Danny, listen.”

  He’s calm, like he’s brokering another $100 million deal for FlowBid, like a high-stakes play he’s made countless times before. “Listen, kid, whatever this is, whatever kind of deal you struck with the little guy. You have to know I could make you solid, set you up far better than he ever could.”

  Nothing.

  “I mean, have you thought about what you want?”

  Finally, I mumble, “Cash out.” I look around, see nothing. “I just wanna fucking cash out.”

  “Then let me help you.”

  Silence.

  “There’s no reason, Danny. There’s no reason I can’t make you square. Better than square.” He pauses. “Whatever the little guy is offering, I can do better.”

  If only it were that simple.

  “Danny, if it’s money, that’s easy. If it’s something else, that’s probably easy, too. You know I can move mountains. You know that, Danny.”

  “Stephen, listen. The little guy.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Where is he?”

  He sighs hard. “He got away.”

  “Stephen, he made me do this.”

  He pauses. “Does this have to do with the ass stuff? Because I can—”

  “No, listen. Well, kinda. It’s bigger than that.”

  “That’s okay,” he soothes. “But now we can work together on this.” He waits a second. “Do you still have the tape?”

  I say nothing.

  He waits.

  “You see, Stephen . . . The little guy? The little guy has something on me.” I look out to the bay, stare at the expanse of deep purple. “If I don’t play nice with the little guy, I lose everything.”

  Finally, he snaps. “No, you don’t,” he yells. “Think about who you’re talking to here.”

  “I do lose everything.”

  “Danny.” So irritated. “Whatever it is, I can make you solid. He’s got you by the nuts some way, I can square you off with a new life, a lot of money—new everything.” He pauses. “More money than you’ve ever had.” He waits awhile, adds, “So let the little guy take his best shot.”