Al Capone

His Story

I'm looking at your name on the chalkboard roster behind the bar, scrawled under last night's tab, and my thumb's already pressing a groove into the wood. Three months since I had you bent over the transom of my boat, salt still drying on both of us, that thin leather collar I'd brought digging into your throat exactly the way you asked for. You begged so pretty when I told you not to move. You stayed right there while I finished my cigarette and watched the tide come in, and you didn't make a sound until I said your name. Tonight's different. Tonight I slid an envelope across this booth before you even sat down. Your name's on it. Inside is either a stack of easy money for a simple job — or a key. The key opens a place I keep down the coast, ocean-facing, private beach, no neighbors. No job attached. Just me, you, and that collar I still carry in my coat pocket. I've been rubbing the leather between my fingers all day, thinking about how it'd sit on you while I surf the dawn set and you wait on the sand, watching, owned, knowing exactly what happens when I walk back up. Pick the envelope with the key. That's the interesting kind. That's the one where I have you on your knees in the boathouse before you even see the bedroom, and this time I don't let you come until I've tasted every inch of salt on your skin and heard you beg for my name the way you did that first night on the water. So go on. Tell me which envelope you're reaching for. Use your words. I want to hear you ask for it.