Edge Play X

by Wilson, M. Jarrett

  “But only a few people know that Mr. Compton and I are friends,” X said, using Steinberg’s word. It felt awkward and uncomfortable in her mouth.

  “That, I am afraid, will not be a secret much longer,” he returned.

  “Why would that be?” she asked.

  Steinberg seemed taken aback with the simplicity of her question.

  “I would not be surprised if it were mentioned in a paper here and there that you and he were traveling companions here in Paris. Some people will take notice of who you are.”

  “His dominatrix?” she asked cynically, wondering what his response would be. He knew the truth of the situation.

  “An artist who is accompanying Mr. Compton and sightseeing in Paris with him,” he corrected.

  “I have a question, Mr. Steinberg. Will I need a bodyguard when I return to California?”

  “Our initial security briefings say no. Europe is somewhat more dangerous due to its proximity to the Middle East. But we’ll be evaluating the situation daily and if there are any security concerns, a bodyguard will be provided for you, of course.”

  “Fine,” she said. “Thank you.” And with that, Steinberg was gone.

  After he left, X walked through the suite, pausing at the glass doors of the terrace and looking outside to the lights and architecture of the Paris skyline. She ran her hands over the antique furnishings and admired the original paintings before putting her coat back on and stepping out onto the chilly terrace to have a smoke. Before X had finished it, Compton had opened the doors and joined her.

  Like X, he looked over the city, surveying the panorama of lights and sounds. What struck X as she looked out over the rooftops was the lack of modernist buildings in the cityscape, one which seemed devoid of the green space that X so desperately needed to have in close proximity wherever she lived.

  Still, as the sun set over the city, the sky above them awash with pinks and oranges that reflected from the many window panes, X felt a sense of amazement as she took in the view. The architecture of many of the buildings was illuminated now, the warm lights accentuating the details of each building, imbibing them with a sense of distinction and nobility. No wonder her mother had loved Paris.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” Compton asked.

  X nodded her head yes and then crushed out her cigarette on the metal railing.

  “Dinner is on its way,” he said. “Are you hungry?”

  “Yes,” she admitted. She was.

  “Good, so am I.”

  X followed him inside as hotel waiters pushed a stainless steel cart of food into the room. They pushed it next to a small round table and laid out gold-rimmed china place settings for them. It seemed to X that the men were nervous to be in Compton’s presence, knowing that a word from him to the management could get them fired in an instant.

  Only one of them spoke as they sat down. He had a thick French accent.

  “To begin, the duck foie gras en papillote, cooked in a truffle-infused pot-au-feu broth. Also, there is a creamy Jerusalem artichoke soup. The entrees, as you requested, are the split-roasted crown and saddle of lamb with chick peas and the pan-fried venison with juniper berries and black truffle cannelloni.”

  The waiter placed the beginning course onto the smooth taffeta of the tablecloth and then filled their glasses, the ice cubes dropping into their glasses in quick plops. He draped a towel over his arm and stood next to the cart, ready to serve the next course.

  “You can leave the cart here,” Compton told him.

  The waiter, slightly taken aback by Compton’s request, said, “Yes, of course, I will open the wines for you before I leave,” and after he had removed the corks the waiters were gone, leaving Compton and X alone to their meal.

  Compton reached over to the cart and filled their wine glasses.

  He said, “I don’t like it when people watch me eat if they aren’t eating as well.”

  As they ate their appetizers, Compton asked X if she would prefer the lamb or venison.

  “I assumed you eat meat, but if you want something different we can order it from the restaurant.”

  “The lamb will be fine,” she said as Compton took the covers off the entrees and set them on the table for them. X took a bite and the food melted in her mouth.

  He asked, “Have you had truffles before?”

  “No, I’m afraid not.”

  Compton cut off a piece of cannelloni and set it onto her plate.

  “You must try it. The flavor of truffles is an experience to be savored.”

  X took a bite and decided he was right. It was delicious. Incredible. Compton was enjoying the food as well and he looked happy and energetic.

  “The peasants used to trade truffles to the nobles in exchange for bread,” he informed her.

  X laughed, and Compton, hearing her chuckle, poured some more wine into her glass.

  “That doesn’t seem like a fair exchange,” she said.

  “No, I would say that it isn’t,” he agreed.

  X glanced outside at the lights and then took another bite of her food. The jet lag was affecting her but she was invigorated by being in a new city.

  “Do you always eat so well?” X asked.

  Compton seemed pleased that she was speaking to him more than civilly, almost kindly.

  “If I always ate so well, not only would I be fat but I would also not be able to enjoy exquisite food as much.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Why is that?”

  X took a drink of wine and then licked the last taste of it from her lips.

  “Well, you live in such opulence that I would think that you would grow used to it, not appreciate it.”

  “I appreciate it,” he said. “I have seen how most of the world lives. I’m a well-traveled man.”

  They continued to eat their meals as an awkward silence hung between them.

  “But doesn’t it seem strange to you that what you pay for this hotel room for a few nights is more than many people in the world will make in their whole lifetime?”

  Compton set down his fork and wiped the corners of his mouth with his napkin. He ran his index finger around the mouth of his wine glass.

  “I could buy a place in France, a chateau or an apartment, but I don’t. I know that this hotel is expensive, but it’s still less expensive than buying something.”

  “Do you always justify yourself by saying what you could do?”

  “The world is an unfair place, X. You know this. Wealth exists. Poverty exists.”

  They ate a few minutes in silence.

  “A small percentage of society controls the bulk of the wealth and you are that small percentage. We live in what is essentially still a feudal system.”

  Compton lifted his wine glass and swirled the liquid around before taking a drink.

  “That’s true. Very true. But look at how the peasants live.”

  “What?”

  Compton continued to eat, speaking between swallows.

  “The quality of life has greatly improved. The lifespan has improved. Now, even the poor have more variety of food than the kings and barons had centuries ago.”

  “If you are speaking about the United States, perhaps. That doesn’t apply globally.”

  He wanted to tell her that egalitarianism went out with the Stone Age, but did not.

  “Somebody has to control the wealth,” he said. “People in our society have the opportunity to make it to levels that they were shut out of due to birth until recently.”

  “But don’t you feel,” X asked, “guilt?”

  “What most people spend on a car is more than most of the world’s people will earn in a lifetime, X.”

  “It’s different,” she argued.

  “How so?” He seemed curious and his tone was non-argumentative.

  “You are one of the wealthiest men in the world.”

  “The principle is the same,” he said.

  “And what principle is that?”


  “That most people do not give everything they own to the poor. Do you think they should?”

  “The wealthy have more of a responsibility to the world’s poor,” she said.

  X couldn’t eat another bite. She had lost her appetite.

  “Every human being has a responsibility to the poorest, to alleviate suffering,” he added.

  “The rich should do more. They have more power and more money. But instead they spend it on airplanes and Bentleys and artwork.”

  Compton swallowed a bite of food.

  “X, I give millions of dollars a year to charities. Millions. Some to charities that the U.S. doesn’t exactly approve of.”

  X thought about what he said. Maybe that was really the reason why the government was interested in him. Who could ever say what those spooks were up to anyway?

  “More than what is a tax write-off?” she asked with a scathing tone.

  “Yes.” Another awkward silence came and X drank from her wine and stared out the doors of the terrace.

  “How much money do you have, Terry?”

  Compton was surprised at her question.

  “What?”

  “I want to know.”

  “Why?”

  “Curiosity.”

  “It’s difficult to say,” he said. “It fluctuates depending on the markets. It changes by the day, by the minute, actually. I’d have to consult an accountant to give me the answer and even then he could only give me a ball-park figure. Why does it matter?” he asked. And when she did not answer, he returned the question, “How much money do you have?” Again, she was silent.

  Compton set down his fork and took a drink from his water glass, the cubes jostling against each other in the glass.

  “If all of the money that I have could alleviate the suffering in the world, remove it entirely from the planet, X, I would give it all, every last cent of it in an instant and live the rest of my days as a pauper. But the world doesn’t suffer because I have wealth or because anyone else does. The world suffers because it is the human condition. The world would be inequitable even if money did not exist. It’s always been that way and it will always be that way.”

  Compton reached across the table and placed his hand gently on X’s own.

  “My father was a teacher, X. My mother worked at a shoe factory. She cleaned people’s houses for extra money. I went to college on a scholarship. Our beginnings are not so different. In fact, I would say that yours were more privileged than mine.”

  X pulled her hand away and topped off her wine glass.

  “Congratulations. You pulled yourself up by your bootstraps. The American dream in action.”

  “So I should be punished because I have a gift for understanding the markets? Do you punish virtuosos for being gifted at music?” He laughed to himself. Now he was getting argumentative. X had offended him finally. “Maybe you do.”

  “You are a man of the world. That is true. But you are isolated from the world. You live in a gated mansion, fly in private planes, stay in the most expensive hotel in the city. Your every need is taken care of by other people because there is always someone who wants to make a buck. You want a woman like me to make you experience pain because it’s the only time you witness suffering. Even then, it’s on your terms. You can stop it with your safe-word. A man like you should experience real suffering, see what it’s like to starve. It would be good for your soul. But you don’t believe in the soul, isn’t that right, Mr. Compton? You say that you have seen how most of the world lives. Then you should know that what you paid for our meal and that wine and your fucking crocodile loafers could feed a thousand hungry people.”

  “I told you I appreciate it, that I am grateful for what I have. Why don’t you believe me? Does this meal make you feel guilty? This place? Is it just my presence? Or my sheer existence?”

  X stood up and turned away from him, unsure what to say anymore.

  Compton came over to X and kneeled down in front of her, bending over to kiss the tops of her shoes. She could see the back of his head, the sharp line of his collar, the subtle age spots on his neck. A man with more money than she could conceptualize was kissing her shoes. Did he think that her forgiveness was the forgiveness of the world? She wished that he would shed tears, make his gesture more like that of Mary Magdalene washing Jesus’ feet.

  Finally, Compton looked up at her and said ever so meekly, “Punish me. I deserve it. I deserve to be punished. You are the one to do it.”

  Then, X walked over to the phone, picked it up, and dialed the number that Steinberg had given her. When he answered, she said, “Mr. Steinberg, please arrange for a car to meet me in front of the hotel,” and then she put down the receiver.

  Compton came over to X.

  “Don’t leave,” he implored.

  “Oh, you’re coming with me,” she said as she put on her coat.

  Compton followed her outside where they were met with a bodyguard and a private car. When they entered the vehicle, X told the driver, “Take us to the best tattoo parlor in Paris.”

  And when they arrived, the car waited for them outside and the bodyguard entered along with them.

  After X had said hello to the tattooed man at the counter, the man asked them in English what he could do for them.

  “This man would like both his nipples pierced,” X replied, and within a few minutes, so it was done.

  4.

  When they returned to the hotel room, Compton took off his coat and X could see the faint outline of the horseshoe shaped nipple rings under his dress shirt. He looked down at his chest and then felt the fresh piercings under his garment, touching them ever so gently. His nipples were sore and would remain so for some time.

  “How am I supposed to go to business meetings with these?” he asked her. “You can see the outline of them under my shirt.”

  “Who is going to care if you have nipple rings or not? You’re rich. You’re allowed to be eccentric.”

  “Believe me, some of them would care.”

  “Then just put band-aids over your nipples in the morning.”

  Compton went over to the small bar and began to pour himself a drink. He brought one over to X as well.

  She took it from him and sipped it. “Take your clothes off,” she commanded.

  “Why?”

  “We aren’t finished yet. Don’t argue with me.”

  Compton had asked her to come to Paris as his traveling companion, but their interaction had turned into a play of submission and dominance again. It could be no other way between them, something they both understood.

  Compton took a drink and then set his glass on a table. “Yes, I’m sorry.”

  Compton began unbuttoning his dress shirt, and when he was finished he draped it over a chair. He kicked off his dress shoes and then removed his pants and boxers and socks until he was naked.

  X walked over to him and touched his tender nipples. He flinched a little as the rings moved.

  “Come out to the terrace with me,” she commanded

  “X, I am naked.”

  “Don’t argue with me.”

  Compton followed her out into the cold night, shielding his little penis with his hands.

  X pulled a cigarette out of her pack and lit it.

  “It’s chilly out tonight, don’t you think?”

  Compton was lifting his feet up and down on the tile as if jogging in place.

  “Yes, cold,” he said. The breath out of his mouth condensed into white mist as it came out and then disappeared into the thin night air.

  “Are you enjoying your cigarette?”

  “Yes,” she replied. “Why do you ask?”

  “Smoking is a masochistic activity.”

  X chose not to respond. Beyond them, Paris stirred, all lights and noise and electricity. As X watched Compton and saw him naked and uncomfortable on the terrace, she was coming to a realization. X had fully concluded that Compton was not a murderer, had determined that the man didn’t ha
ve it in him. Maybe she was wrong, she knew, but that was her assessment. The other realization, this one carrying with it a tinge of dread, was that X was actually starting to like the man.

  When she finished her cigarette she crushed it out on the tile of the terrace.

  “Go inside and into the bathroom,” X said.

  Immediately, Compton opened the doors and returned to the warmth of the hotel suite. X followed him into a large bathroom that was next to the bedroom that she had chosen as her own. The room had a large glass enclosure, a two person steam shower with metallic seats on either side. X touched a cluster of buttons which turned on a line of colored lights and caused the water to begin raining down from the ceiling.

  “Go into the shower,” she commanded.

  X checked the water with her hand to make sure it was a comfortable temperature. Compton entered. As the water hit him, Compton’s skin, rosy and covered with goose bumps from being outside in the cold air, seemed to grow redder under the barrage from the showerhead. He let out a moan, from pleasure or pain X was unsure, but he had finally stopped shivering.

  X found a razor and a can of shave cream in her toiletries and handed them to Compton in the shower.

  “Shave your legs,” X said.

  “What?”

  “You heard me. Shave them. Your whole leg, the whole way up. I want them nice and silky.”

  Compton gave her an uncertain look but then he squirted some shaving cream into his hand and started to rub it over his lower leg. X watched as he rolled the razor over his shin, cutting a line through the white cream.

  Then, X left the room and entered the other bedroom where Compton’s suitcases sat on the bed. Quickly, she unzipped one and looked for his laptop, jutting her hands through socks and boxers and toiletries, but there was no laptop or laptop case to be found, so she zipped the suitcase back up. X searched his other suitcases but they also contained only clothing.

  She went to her purse and pulled out her cell phone and quickly called Simeon.

  When he answered, X told him, “I can’t find the laptop.”

  “Did you look through his bags?”

  “Yes.”

  “Check the upstairs of the penthouse. He might have put it there for the meetings he’ll be having tomorrow.”