Edge Play X

by Wilson, M. Jarrett

  “Hold on.”

  X took the phone and darted upstairs with the external drive Simeon had given her. On a large conference table, a black laptop sat next to a notebook and pen. Once it was open, X turned it on, but it sat still at a password screen.

  “Do you have his password?” she asked. “It’s asking for his password.”

  “No, I don’t have it. Try his safe word.”

  X typed in laissezfaire.

  “It didn’t work. What should I do?”

  “Turn off the machine. Keep the USB plugged in. Now start it back up and as soon as it is on, hit F10.”

  “OK, I did it.”

  “You’ll need to change to boot sequence to the USB.” Simeon walked her through the steps. “There is software on it that will find the password.”

  “How long will it take?”

  “Not long, a few minutes.”

  “I better check on Compton. Hold on,” X said, leaving the phone next to the computer and then running down the steps.

  Back in the bathroom, the glass shower doors had fogged, but X could see Compton inside busily shaving his right leg. It looked like he had finished his lower leg and he was shaving his knee in short strokes, flinging the shave cream off the razor every now and then.

  “How are you doing in there, Terry?” she asked.

  “Fine,” he answered.

  “When you finish, just stay in the shower. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” She darted upstairs again and picked up the phone.

  “It’s done,” she told Simeon.

  “Press enter and it will give you his password.”

  She did so and the magic word appeared. Laissez-faire. She had neglected to add the hyphen the first time around.

  “Now you need to reset the boot sequence and restart it.”

  X followed his directions and then entered the correct password when the screen appeared.

  “It’s open,” she told him.

  Simeon told her which software to run from the USB. “It’s loading.”

  “It will be done in a few minutes. When it’s done, just turn off the computer and he won’t be the wiser. Where is Compton? Do you have him tied up?”

  “He’s in the shower. I told him to shave his legs.”

  Simeon let out a quick laugh before he told her that she was all set and said goodbye. X nearly forgot the drive after she turned off the computer but she took it and her cell phone downstairs. Once they were safely tucked into her purse she went to check on Compton.

  “I finished,” he informed her and then turned off the water.

  Compton exited the enclosure and X threw a towel to him. The man began to dry off, rubbing his head and then his body.

  “Get dressed,” she commanded, but the man only put on his boxer shorts. He followed her into the bedroom.

  “X, let me sleep next to you tonight.”

  “No,” X said, “I don’t like to share my bed.”

  “Please. Not for sex, just for sleeping.”

  X considered his request. The truth of it was that it felt good to have Compton desire her so fully, to have him long for her touch and attention so completely. An intimacy was developing between them. They understood each other on a basic, intrinsic level, one that they did not need to discuss or rationalize. X had seen parts of him that his business associates and the world would never be aware of or understand. They shared a particular and unique bond. The feelings that she had when she first met Compton, X was coming to realize, were in part because she had detested the idea of him more than the actuality of him.

  “No,” X said firmly. “That’s my answer.”

  Compton looked dejected.

  “On the floor then, next to the bed,” he said.

  “You’re always bargaining, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you ever stop?”

  “I can’t seem to.”

  “Fine,” X said, throwing a pillow off from the bed and onto the plush carpet. “You’ll have to get your own blanket.”

  X took her nightgown into the bathroom and dressed while Compton retrieved a woven blanket from the closet and took this back to the side of the bed where he laid down like a dog next to its master.

  X entered the room and saw him there on the floor, amazed that this man who valued comfort and luxury so much, a man who had reserved a suite in the best hotel in Paris, was willing and eager to spend the night on the floor just so he could be next to her.

  X climbed under the bed coverings and rested her head onto the pillow, listening to Compton’s breathing and the faint sound of traffic from the street below. A few minutes after closing her eyes, X had drifted off to sleep on the soft mattress.

  5.

  In the morning when Compton awoke on the carpet next to the bed, his back was aching from the unyielding plane of the floor, his shoulders tense and uncomfortable, the pains a bodily reminder of his increasing age. He laid there motionless for a few moments, listening to the faint breaths X took as she slept on the bed above him. And then, quietly, ever so quietly, he pushed himself up onto his knees and put his elbows onto the downy mass of the bed. There, he watched X as she slept, her face so relaxed and peaceful as to be nearly angelic, her lips parted ever so slightly, her eyeballs moving quickly under her delicate skin of her eyelids.

  Compton stood then and went into the bathroom where he closed the door. He saw his reflection in the mirror and tried to ignore it. The crumpled pile of clothing that X had removed the night before was still on the floor. Compton went to it and located X’s socks, panties, and bra from the folds of clothing. And then, starting with a sock, he placed each garment against his nose and inhaled deeply, relishing the scents that lingered in each, whether fragrant or sour, natural or synthetic. He smelled the pungent armpits of her shirt (somewhat acrid, as X generally shunned deodorant); he pressed his face into the crotch of her panties as if inhaling a drug, the smell both marshy and sweet, dark and loam rich. His mouth watered.

  His desire had not subsided. There was an understanding deep within him that X would never truly give herself to him, never love him (but what a sweet victory it would be if she did). The knowledge brought with it a sense of comfort—as long as she did not love him, he would long for her, he would dissolve in his attempts to please her. He did not feel a need to search for equality in his relationships, whether business or personal.

  He was aware that his business associates and Steinberg would be arriving soon for a day of meetings. He would have to go into the other room where his suitcases were in order to get dressed.

  Compton turned on the sink, splashing his face with cool water and then drying it with a soft towel. X awoke when she heard the running water. It was early still—the day was just beginning to break the night, and the softest light entered through the long windows of the room. She rested in bed and waited for him to finish in the bathroom, and when he entered the bedroom finally, wearing just his boxers, she greeted him with a simple hello. Compton’s nipples, still slightly red from the recent piercings, attracted her attention. The ornaments made him look younger, hipper.

  “My business meetings will be beginning shortly,” he told her as he sat on the bed next to X. “At ten o’clock, David will take you to a boutique nearby where he’ll introduce you to a woman who will accompany you to the shops today.”

  “Yes, he told me already,” she said.

  “Good.”

  As X looked at his bare chest, she noticed that a few of the hairs there were white.

  “Then this evening, after my meetings are done, we’ll go to Versailles. I’ve arranged for a private tour.”

  “I want to know something,” X said.

  “Sure,” he said, leaning closer towards her, “anything.”

  “If I allowed you to share my bed, what would you do to me?”

  He seemed contemplative, thoughtful. Then he answered very simply, “Everything.”

  6.

  After Compton left her,
X showered, dressed, and ordered breakfast, a plate of strawberry and peach stuffed French toast. As she sat at the table eating the food and drinking her coffee, she watched as a procession of suited men entered the hotel room where they were greeted by Steinberg, the man energetic and affable. X knew that Compton regarded Steinberg as a good assistant. The man was inconspicuous, friendly, and obedient, everything Compton needed. As she watched Steinberg hand each participant a packet of materials and then direct them to the upstairs room where they would be meeting with Compton, X thought that he was sheepish and mechanical, two other traits Compton wanted.

  Simeon had told X to note who Compton’s business partners were, and she tried to commit to memory the particular physical differences of the attendees. Although the men varied in their degrees of height, baldness, fatness, and age, the group appeared remarkably similar to X, appeared to be heads floating above the static suited mannequins below them. So, instead of bothering with a task that she knew she would ultimately be unsuccessful with, she simply went up to Steinberg and asked him for an agenda of Compton’s day. He thumbed through the pile of papers that sat cradled in his forearm before pulling out a sheet with an accomplished “ah-ha!” and handing it to X. She glanced at the paper, seeing that all the attendees were listed at the top. Then, there was another knock at the door and Steinberg was busy again, so X took the paper into her room. She slid it into her purse before going back to the table and finishing her breakfast.

  Soon thereafter, when all the men had arrived and the meeting had begun upstairs, Steinberg told X that it was time to go to the boutiques. She followed him down to the lobby where they met their bodyguard, the same giant oaf who had accompanied X and Compton to the tattoo parlor. Once they were out of the hotel and on the busy Parisian street, they walked a little while before entering a small boutique, X hoping that the excursion did not take very long, anxious to see the city.

  Steinberg told the bodyguard to wait outside, and as Steinberg and X entered the boutique, a few employees took notice of their entrance and greeted them with upbeat bonjours and happy smiles before turning their attention back to their work or clients.

  They made their way past racks and shelves to the rear of the store where a petite young woman was organizing a display of handbags. When she saw Steinberg she immediately stopped what she was doing and greeted them enthusiastically. With her fair skin, rosy cheeks, and dark curly hair, she reminded X of Snow White.

  “Bonjour!” she said, kissing Steinberg on each cheek.

  “It’s good to see you Madeleine,” he said in return, his voice happy and light.

  The woman cast her attention to X, waiting for Steinberg to introduce them.

  Steinberg introduced X with her real name, and the sound of it felt foreign to X’s ears. Compton only ever referred to her as X, and she preferred it like that.

  Madeleine kissed X’s cheeks as well.

  “It is so good to meet you,” she said in her thick French accent. “I have been looking forward to taking you to the shops.”

  “Take as long as you like,” Steinberg said. “Mr. Compton will be in meetings all afternoon.”

  “Yes! I will wear her out, I am sure of it!” Madeleine exclaimed. X smiled politely, feigning excitement.

  From his coat pocket, Steinberg pulled out a leather zippered bag and gave it to Madeleine. X guessed that it contained credit cards and a good deal of cash along with Madeleine’s payment for her services. X assumed that the woman would also get a commission from whatever X bought from the shops that they would soon visit. Madeleine took the pouch from him without saying a word.

  Steinberg bid them goodbye, and then Madeleine went over to the counter and got her purse, tucking the leather pouch inside of it. The other women at the store cast their gazes to X sporadically, careful not to let them linger too long and seem rude. Had X not arrived with Steinberg, she assumed, their treatment would not have been so polite. She guessed correctly that the saleswomen were assessing her clothing and appearance, noticing that the clothing she wore was relatively inexpensive, off-the-rack department store pieces, and that after leaving with Madeleine they would critique her and perhaps openly question how a woman so simple and un-stylish had managed to be a companion to a man as filthy rich as Terry Compton. X thought to herself that if only they knew how small his penis was, they might not think him such a catch, and she laughed to herself.

  Madeleine, however, if she made any judgments about the people who entered the boutique, was careful not display her opinions. There was a warm, friendly air about her, a persona that seemed so natural to X that she had to believe it was more than just the woman’s sales technique. As X went with her out into the street, she felt at ease with Madeleine and was genuinely happy to be in her presence. X’s mother had been the same way, and it made X wonder how she had turned out the way she had.

  Once out on the sidewalk, X pulled out a cigarette and lit it, wondering if Madeleine would think less of her for her dirty vice.

  “In France,” she informed X, “you used to be able to smoke anywhere, the cafés, the shops, but now it is not allowed there, but it is still alright on the street.”

  “Do you smoke?”

  “Not anymore, not since I had my son,” she answered. “He’s five.”

  X walked with Madeleine on the sidewalk and the bodyguard followed behind them. When X finished with her cigarette, she threw it in the gutter. Cars whizzed by them, horns blaring every so often, the drivers appearing either overwhelmed or in a hurry. Above them, the sun popped through the winter clouds every few minutes, casting bright rays down to the city below.

  Finally, when they arrived at the first shop, X tentatively followed Madeleine inside, leaving the bodyguard to wait for them on the street. The women inside were expecting them, and shortly after they entered, Madeleine greeted a sophisticated matron of a woman, her blond hair in a tight bun on the top of her head and her slim glasses perched on her nose.

  “This is Mr. Compton’s friend,” Madeleine said, introducing the women.

  “It is a pleasure to meet you, my dear,” she said in an English accent as she surveyed X’s body.

  “You look like an American size 8. Am I right?” she asked.

  X nodded her head yes, impressed.

  “We have the most lovely pieces to show you this morning.” Pieces, she said, as if the garments were art. Behind her, the shop girls scurried around, and within a few minutes, both Madeleine and X had mimosas in their hands.

  At the rear of the store was a dressing area full of mirrors and seating, and Madeleine sat down as one of the girls brought over a blouse and a pair of pants for X. Once Madeleine reviewed the garments she told X to go ahead and try them on.

  “Right here?” X asked.

  “Oui.”

  So then X removed her clothes and handed them to one of the sales girls. Immediately, Madeleine stood up and came over, a look of concern on her face. She placed her hands on the bottom elastic of X’s bra and pulled it a little, then said to the older woman, “She needs new undergarments,” and the older woman shook her head in agreement.

  X did not see anything wrong with her undergarments and Madeleine noticed X’s surprise.

  “The proper undergarments are the foundation of any outfit,” Madeleine said. As one of the sales girls measured X, Madeleine continued, “You will be able to feel the difference as soon as you are wearing undergarments that fit you properly.”

  When the sales girl returned with a few bras, X removed the one she was wearing and the older woman took it out of her hands.

  “I hope you don’t mind, dear, if I dispose of this. It pinches you in all the wrong ways. You have too good of a figure for that.”

  X slipped on one of the bras that they had brought for her and admitted that the women were correct, it did fit better.

  “Oh, much better! Très bien!” Madeleine said excitedly. “We will take all of those,” she said to the girl who was holding the sa
me type of bra in a few different hues, “and bring me some matching panties in her size, please.”

  The older woman came over and cut the tag off the bra X was wearing, and when X saw the price on the tag, she was speechless at the exorbitant cost. Next, X tried on the shirt and pants and turned toward Madeleine.

  “What do you think?” Madeleine asked her.

  “It fits well,” X said.

  “I agree, but the color, it washes out your skin. Margaret, bring me the same top in another color, s’il vous plaît.”

  Madeleine expertly gave X reasons for why each garment worked or did not, and only a few times did the women disagree on an item. The women dressed X as if changing the clothing on a paper doll, as if they could change her essential being by altering the materials which covered it. And this was the routine they developed, X trying on clothing and Madeleine judging the garments and giving her approval or disapproval until they had nearly filled a nearby rack with a mélange of chiffon, organza, silk, acetate, wool, twill, gabardine, angora, gossamer, and cotton.

  Finally, X told Madeleine that she wanted to go outside and have a cigarette, and Madeleine asked if she could accompany her, to which X responded yes, of course.

  Once they were outside, the sales women inside commented quietly to each other about X. She was pretty, they admitted, pretty but not beautiful like the models—no, she could stand to be thinner (but they made this remark about all but a few women who entered the store), and while we’re at it some Botox wouldn’t hurt and neither would a good dermabrasion to take off a few years. Mr. Compton, they continued, could get a woman much more beautiful than her, and then they each silently and internally compared themselves to X and wondered why that particular woman had garnered the attention of such a wealthy, prominent man while they had not.

  What the women did not understand was that Terry Compton had already fucked many of the most beautiful women in the world, women whose loveliness was so incredible as to be almost otherworldly and ethereal, beings whose pulchritude was so great as to elicit a sense of the divine in others, for certainly a God existed in order to create such a lovely and angelic creature. But in each case, Compton had fucked them and then reliably grown tired of fucking them, fully aware of the delightful transience of their beauty, something he had enjoyed and relished while all the time longing for something more.