Easy Money

Easy Money

Been a hard day, and I sink into the bar’s sticky booth. Planting my boots on the vinyl seat, back to the wall, the bottle sweating between my hands. Every joint in my arms burns from demo day, and the cheap local lager hits my stomach like rock salt. The place smells like fried food and despair. The TV glow flickers off the rows of empty glasses.

Some pasty, pale white woman’s chicken-cackle laugh chases after the dead end of a country cheating song. Is there any other kind? I catch stares from the regulars, white guys with bad tattoos and worse posture, but nobody gives me real shit. They keep their distance, curious but too afraid to act.

Being that I’m black as midnight, I stick out here, but not so much so for a yokel to make a scene. Blacks in Arizona are a novelty.

That’s when I scan the room for the best ass in the place. Not much competition tonight. The waitress pours herself into her jeans, her ponytail swinging every time she ducks a tray under her arm. She knows I watch, but likes it. I slide her a grin when she catches me, and she walks away with an extra bounce.

That’s all the entertainment I want tonight. A little flirting, a few beers, and if I’m lucky, sticking some white cunt for all it’s worth.

Then I see the guy.

He’s got rich skin…soft, pure, probably never seen a day of sun. But his hair is thinning, and his face has red splotches, giving him a just-walked-in-from-the-hot-outdoors appearance, a man not used to sun or heat. Wearing a pressed shirt, not the kind you buy with points from a rewards catalog. Silk, I’d say.

An old fart, at least too old for this crowd. Fucker’s not shy. First, I spot this guy at the bar, nursing a white wine. What a joke in a place like this. Checking his phone every ten seconds, glancing around, finally clenches his teeth and heads my way.

First, I wonder if he’s one of those brave ones or if he’s a desperate, closeted married man. With his hands jammed in his pockets, the dude stops at my table, glancing everywhere but at me. The bench-seat across from me squeaks as he eases into it.

“Hey. Excuse me. Mind if I sit?”

As if I’m annoyed, I jerk my eyes to him, but let him stay.

“Not my booth. Bar’s open.” Hardening my expression.

A bit too loud, he laughs. “Thanks.” He picks at the label on my beer. “Uh, you live around here?”

Pulling my bottle away from him, I stare at him, blank.

“I work around here. Why?”

Shrugging, he says, “Just, you know, trying to strike up a conversation.” His voice goes high and tight at the end, like he’s afraid I’ll bite. “I don’t get out much.”

“No shit,” I say, watching him.

With that, he goes silent. Awkward pause. Again, he tries, this time as though he’s reading off a cue card.

“So, I’m Walter.” He extends a hand, but I don’t take it. He waits and pulls it back.

I take a sip. “Darius,” I say, to make him more nervous.

Walter’s eyes dart over my arms, my chest, the paint stains on my shirt. Adding up the story, Walter wants to ask what I do, but he’s not brave. The words are sticking in his throat. Instead, he leans in and lowers his voice.

“Can I ask you something a little…forward?”

Smirking, I say, “Go for it.”

Glancing over his shoulder and back. “You ever, uh, been with a married girl?”

Almost spraying my beer, I let out a chuckle, not mean, but sharp.

“Not unless she lied about it. But if she’s hot, the husband doesn’t mind. Well, fuck, who cares?” The truth is I fucked a lot of white married women, behind their husbands’ backs. But never with cuck there.

The man’s a little thrown off by my answer, but he rallies.

“No, I mean—” He stops. Sweat beads up on his forehead. “Would you ever?”

“What, you got a wife you want to offload?”

Then Walter’s face flushes, but he keeps pushing.

“Let’s say I do.” Now he meets my eyes, and I see something clicking behind them. “Let’s say I want to pay someone to do it. With her. With me in the room.”

This time, I belly laugh, not amused so much as from shock.

“Dude, you’re either high or about to rob me.”

“No, I mean it, I’ll pay.” Small and weirdly hopeful, he smiles.

No longer worried, I lean back and cross my arms.

“How much?”

“Four hundred. For one night,” he says, voice tight. Turning away, as though the number embarrasses him. Waiting for the punchline, I stare at him. It doesn’t come. Fuck, he actually means it. I swirl the last inch of beer in the bottle.

“You want me to fuck your wife. With you watching. For four hundred bucks.”