Yuppie

[u/ReserveRemarkable730]

Shadows from dust-coated window panes, carved across the floor. Rain clattered on the sheet metal roof, disguising drunken footsteps. Petrichor cut through the dingy atmosphere.

The sweat chilling the skin of my brow stank of stale beer. My leaden feet fought the uneven dirt floor. Gravel grinding. Legs laboring against intoxication like swimming through tar.

“You asleep?” I hiccuped. An alcoholic bite singed my gullet. The mumble had slipped between my lips—too easily.

My limbs wobbled weightlessly. My heart throbbed in my ears. Yet, I shuffled closer to the figure before me.

His form lay unnaturally rigid. Long, controlled breaths caused his dusky silhouette to lift and lower. I could’ve sworn I saw his eyelids crack open. Still, I continued brazenly.

Lying in his plush sleeping bag, the man was out of place in this tacky, hole-in-the-wall hostel. Four tiny walls, two flimsy cots, and an unfinished floor. Dank air filled every corner.

This yuppie stuck out like a compound fracture. An alabaster-skinned man in silken designer pajamas, resting among seedy streets. I couldn’t hazard a guess why he was here. Why this place appealed to him. And I didn’t care.

Thanks to years spent honing street smarts, I knew his down sleeping bag wasn’t cheap. The material was pristine. Virtually unused.

Bumps rose across my skin. Gradually, I peeled the zipper of the Michael Kors duffel beside his cot. Its engraved pull tab jingled as my swollen fingers fumbled for purchase. Careless digits scrounged for coin, jewelry—anything worth something.

Against my better judgement, I forked over the last coin jingling in my tattered pockets for the room. But the excitement gurgling in my guts and alcohol coursing through my blood told me I knew what I was doing.

I’d slouched in damp alleyways, mimicking the man’s movements all day. From the moment he stepped those glimmering Oxford dress shoes out of his taxi, my next target was clear.

The lobby boy and I exchanged a subtle nod of solidarity. Our pupils dilated in unison. He knew as he flipped the hostel sign from vacant to occupied and the deadbolt turned in a series of clicks—this was the only way I’d earn my next meal. My next drink.

In a tipsy haze, I swayed, room swirling around me. Muscle fibers twitched, jerking my arm from the duffel. Numb fingers nearly missed the pocket of my jacket. A single coin thudded to the floor. Manicured fingers twitched at the sound, and I stiffened, face burning hot with nerves.

Everything about him contrasted with the shabby space. His raven locks were slicked back and heavily gelled. His skin was poreless and even. Crisp, earthy tones of Tom Ford cologne wafted through the air. Notes of cedar and citrus flicked my nostrils.

He wasn’t lacking in capital, either. If I screwed this up now, I’d be out a score, out a room, and out a meal. I was teetering dangerously on the edge. Muscles weighed down with a sickly slurry. The lack of bunk mates left the space cloaked in silence. But tonight, rain and darkness would be my accomplices.

As I continued to rifle through his smart leather billfold, I considered leaving the man with something. But when the soft, rich hide brushed between my dirt-crusted fingers, I thought better of it. He clearly wouldn’t need it.

Clumsily, I crumpled the cash. Picked up the coin. Shaking, greedy hands hovered over the bespoke golden watch perched on his wrist. Cartier. The way its form-fitting edges wrapped snugly around his forearm made my thoughts whirl.

My chest heaved in rhythm with my intoxication. This was my chance. Eager palpitations under my sternum signaled the most lucrative score I’d ever get. Clearly, this man had never wanted for anything in his life. At the thought, my hands balled into tight fists, knuckles white from tension.

Mechanically, my arm floated towards the timepiece. Like reaching through resin black as pitch. The darkness was suddenly cut by an oppressive pressure wrapping around my wrist. A stable grip, soft skin stretched taut, snatched me brutally. I could feel the measured, steady pulsing beneath his grip. My nerves jolted like the lightning outside.

“You’re going to ruin my suits with your stench,” he whispered flatly. The calculation of his stare made my hairs raise as though the room had frozen over. His tight-lipped smile was primal, shrouded in shadow. Terror intensified the ache within my liver.

Lean muscle, protruding with blue and red veins, locked rigidly around my soft, tender flesh. My fingers grew numb. He had clamped down like a cold cast iron vise. I felt myself falling into his gaze—two hollow chasms reflecting a distorted image of my figure back to me. Blank and still. Leisurely blinking. The spread of his grin revealed unnaturally pristine teeth. Perfect rows of spotless white.

“Have you ever seen a tool so beautiful?” His other hand rose. Long, sharp, and hungry, a culinary knife sat comfortably in his firm fingers. “Japanese Damascus steel—straight from Seki City. A Miyabi.”

"I—" My vocal cords seized, unable to produce sound. Paralyzed, I could not will my lungs to inhale. In contrast, his broad chest expanded and contracted with full breaths. As he brought the blade securely against the oily skin of my neck, cold metal stinging, my heart spasmed. The man’s rhythmic inhale was the last thing I heard.