6. Soak

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"Gael my princess, you're home!"

"Yo, Gael."

Surprisingly, the siblings' synchronous greetings grate on my nerves. I should be ecstatic. After all, hadn't I wanted for them to meet Jasper? And about time too because I was running out of small talk.

The sibs' shoving and stumbling stop short when they round the bar and catch sight of Jaz sitting relax and arrogant as you please at the table in front of me.

Bree's the first to recover. "Who's the scary dude?" she asks as Gav flips on the lights.

"Who's the duo?" Jasper mimics without heat before smirking at me with, "So this dump has electricity?"

I'll grant him this, Jaz is one stoic guy. I made him walk to the bar, one hour. We sat on the porch in near silence (since apparently, Jaz is inept at idle chatters when I desperately need it). I had him wait while I gathered enough nerves to proceed to phase two−the bedding. I'd claimed we had to wait for my roomies' return since I'd forgotten my keys. An hour had passed when I suddenly remembered said key in my back pocket. Once again, no comment from the guy. And we've been spending the third hour of our 'date' in near blackness, butts on ramshackle chairs, elbows on the dilapidated table, sipping scotch (scrumptiously aged).

I wave an all-encompassing hand in the air. "Bree, Gavin, my roommates. Jasper, a referee, two-time winner, blah-blah."

Gav turns doe eyes towards me. "You brought a referee here? I thought that after Ken, you'd−"

"Ken? As in Kendrick a.k.a. Strike?" Jasper's stance has gone from lizard lounging in the sun to panther ready to pounce. "You know the guy?"

"Nope." The looks on bro and sis, disappointment and betrayal, compel me to add, "He's dead. Hence, technically, I knew him."

"Semantics." Gav.

"She's good at that." Bree. The sibs are turning on the charm.

"And on that note, how about we retreat to my bedroom while the kids put away the groceries?"

Glass in one hand, bottle in the other, without waiting for Jaz to follow, I saunter into my private domain. He crosses the threshold right on my heels. I close the door to Bree and Gavin's recriminations.

My bedroom has never looked so spartan. A twin mattress and a table lamp, its light bulb bare, on the floor on one side. A pile of books and two open suitcases, also on the floor, on the other side. I'm peculiar about my sheets. I splurge. I overindulge. I let the princess in me do the shopping. Charmeuse Mulberry silk, imported straight from my land, which imported it straight from the larvae of Mulberry silkworms, or so it says on the packaging. I receive a new set of bed sheets every in days. Call me spoil.

For the rest, I have a simple laundry system. I choose clothes from the 'neatly-folded' suitcase, wear them a day or two (or three) until they dirty or wrinkle, then dump them in a heap in the other suitcase. When the clean suitcase is empty, I head with a bag full of dirty clothes to the nearest laundromat and load as many washing machines as needed. A spin in the dryer, and two hours later, I return with a bag packed with impeccable outfits. Tonight, I'm midway into the suitcases, and thankfully, no bras or panties peek out at Jaz from either.

"Living the grand life, uh?"

"Been there, done that. I like this place.""I hear you, kitten. Plenty of scotch." He drowns his glass and motions for a refill. "So how'd you meet Ken?"

"We bumped into each other at the nursery." Another of Ken's silly quips. He used to tell it differently, of course. He'd say I'd fallen for him when, at the ripe age of five, he'd stopped my eleven-month-old self for falling head first down a flight of stairs. Even then, I was fascinated with caves and donjons. And knights, obviously.

"You have a kid?"

I shrug dismissively. Let Jasper imagine whatever the hell he wants. "Long story." An even longer life. "How did you know him?" Ken played two years in a row. He won both times. The following year, he was dead.

"We competed in the same game once."

"Who won?" I ask as if I don't know. Research. Stats. I know all about the competition.

"He did. Stopped me from winning a third time."

"Bummer."

"Nah. I was getting too old for the shit."

"And now you're a referee."

"And now I'm a referee."

"Any rules against referees and players fraternizing?"

"Define fraternizing, pussycat."

I'm lousy at seduction. Come to think of it, I'm shit at a lot of things. "Fucking."

"Absolutely none, doll. Thank fucking God for that."

"OK then. Strip."

He doesn't make a show out of it, doesn't drag it out, and within seconds, Jasper is butt-naked in front of me. The man is a work of art. His face is scarred. Four deep gouges criss-cross the left side of his face, almost making a four sign. But his body has golden, unblemished skin. How is that possible? The body of a runner, the skin of a gentile, the features of a survivor, the soul of a warrior.

"How about taking some layers off, kitten?"

I don't strip for quick fucks. And, despite the four flashing as an omen on his cheek, I'm determined to treat this as an abnormality, a one-time occurrence. Warning to the siblings. A way inside a referee's brain. A coupling. An enjoyable one. "We don't know each other well enough."

"I'm seconds away from sinking into your heat."

"So?"

"So, I want to see you."

"I don't strip for one-timers."

"You won't strip, but you'll let me fuck you? What kind of stupid rule is that?"

"My domain, my bed, my rules."

"You can bet your ass I'll quote those words next time around, player Gael."

"Might not be a first time, let alone a next if you keep talking, referee-man."

"Suit yourself, Princess." What happened to the cat names? I might hate those less. "Come here."

I walk into his arms willingly.

"Too bad I can't spend the night."

"I didn't invite you."

Rule 17. Contacts between referees, positioners, and players are forbidden ten hours prior to beginning of sets and during sets.

"See you on the other side, Princess," rings into my exhausted brain as the bedroom door opens and closes at the crack of dawn.

"You play dirty," I whisper to the closed door before oblivion pulls me under.

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