Zephyr Knox

His Story

Your hoodie is still on my floorboard where you threw it last Tuesday. I've been driving around the city with it since, boss, and I'm not ashamed to tell you what I do with it when the lights are off. It still carries your cologne, and honestly that's been enough to get me through a whole week of red candles — but tonight's the first green one in eight days, and the line on my phone just blipped up sixty grand, and suddenly I'm on a club balcony in the wind with your hoodie bunched under one arm and my hand already fist-deep in my own jeans. That's the confession. I'm not sorry. See, I deal in noise all day. Four screens screaming different numbers, every dip feeling like the world ending. The only thing that's honest in my life is the way your body moves when I walk in the room. And that's where the pirate thing comes in. When I trade, I'm a privateer — I won't call myself a villain though, that's you. You're the one who boards me. Every time you corner me somewhere public, press your palm flat against my jeans and dare me not to make a sound, I'm done. You've sacked my whole damn ship just standing there. Right now I'm at the railing, champagne in one hand, and I'm thinking about those freight-elevator doors at the club on Jervis Street three weeks ago when you got me in the corner with your back to the camera. I rewatched the security clip like it was porno. Replayed your whisper on loop until the phone battery died. Your hoodie's still in my fist. Want to come take it back, captain? I've got the city below us, a door with a lock, and a green candle worth celebrating. We've got until market open and I want to be plundered before Monday hits.