Role Playing - 3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3:

After work, I start reading the papers Cecil gave me on Monday. It’s time to start orienting myself to my character. I’m not going to concern myself with lines yet, there’s no point. If I can’t get a feel for who this guy is, how am I supposed to deliver my lines effectively? If I’m not comfortable being with men, how will I pull my weight in making this play successful? I suddenly feel very self-conscious about my ability to fulfill my obligations in this role. Fear settles deep within me. Intimacy is hard enough with a woman; what’s it going to be like trying to make it happen with a man? And one I’ve never met before. I sigh. I can do this.

If Cassie were here, she might tell me the same thing. I have to admit that even with her betrayal, I miss her. I miss her personality, sense of humor. The way she looks.

I wonder how everything went south so fast. One day everything is wonderful, and the next she leaves for another business trip. I was going to propose to her the day after the charity auction at Fulton Gardens; she was like a new person that night.

Exhaling, I shake my head. My lungs feel lighter and the headache that threatened to pinch me into submission has faded. Cassie Thorneberg, she is my bane, my beauty. It might be a good idea to get out some of my frustration before I start reading the required materials for this production. I’m tense, and tension makes me a worse actor.

I slip on a pair of workout shoes and change shirts. I need something I can move in and t-shirts get in the way of what I’m about to do. My soft cotton pants will do for now, at least they don’t touch the tops of my shoes; I have no fear of slipping on the varnished surface of my makeshift gym.

In the guest room of the apartment, I installed a punching bag and have mirrors on the walls so I can practice kata, punches, and strikes. Before I get into the mindset of a teenaged sex slave in the 1930s, I need to loosen up. What the hell does a sex slave do exactly? I mean, sure, they deliver all sexual goods, but what exactly will I be simulating in this play?

Fuck, I can do this.

I’m going to have to practice an Arizona accent – unless Cecil plans to change the period. Who knows what he will do… This is Cecil! The man can make beauty seem ugly with a simple word; it changes your entire perspective on things. I don’t get it. How can he be so calculatingly cold? I almost want to call it a talent, but then again, he isn’t famous for his viper-like tongue. If he is with Jenna, I don’t think I want to know.

When I reach my pseudo-studio, I stretch, feeling all of the lactic acid twist and churn, until it no longer plagues my body. I guess the fever took its toll on me more than I’d like to admit. Thankfully, I’m feeling better now. The fever is gone and mainly I’m feeling some light muscle pains. There is still some burning when I piss, but the medicine will take time to work through my system.

First, I stretch my legs, bent and taut, pulling the muscles as hard as I can to feel that delicious sting as they elongate and my body erupts with calm. Then I move up my body, stretching my trunk, and then arms, shoulders and neck. It feels good to release some of the pent up tension; now I might actually be able to get something done.

The sun beams brightly into the room and I soak up its warmth. Even in September, Scottsland is nice and warm. Leaves are changing slowly, making the world seem brighter with their fading colors. As the leaves fall, they tiptoe across the wind and slowly hit the ground. I close my eyes and remain motionless as I centre myself. With my feet shoulder width apart, and my body at attention, I prepare to begin a kata. My fists are rolled tight in front of my hips and I open my eyes, focused.

If someone were to grab my wrists, I simply need to show respect, as the word rei insinuates, and with the roll of my elbow, the slide of my left foot and my fist connecting with the other making a half circle, I can press my knuckles into their gut. I can be free from their inexperienced hands. To an innocent onlooker, all I did was rotate my arms and then bend forward after breaking the connection. A trained eye would see the truth. It amazes me that the smallest moves can be the most deadly; in this case, showing respect isn’t deadly, but to look at my hands and body I’m simply bowing elaborately. This is one of the first things taught in the dojo, the ability to show respect to our art, our sensei and ourselves.

My arms glide swiftly across one another as I raise them and mould them into each block, strike and punch. One crescent step forward, a front snap kick and a back fist; I continue the motions, speeding up as I go. Feeling my muscles protest at the exertion, I press on. There is no reason to hold back, and I don’t when I finally release the loud kiai. It bursts from my throat and lips, and I tremble to the core with the force of energy that expels from my body. With every striking movement, I breathe out, feeling the chaotic tension leaving behind only my focus and determination. My muscles flex like bamboo and I stop finally with another loud kiai. I bring my feet together, left foot first and bow out slowly. My limbs no longer protest; instead, they lie limp with the intensity of my actions. In my chest, my heart beats wildly and I feel free for the first time in weeks. I no longer feel the need to fight losing battles; instead, I will finish another kata, fighting off the ghosts that now haunt me.

I begin again, a new kata this time, feeling the form in my arms and legs, not even thinking. My body remembers the movements so my brain doesn’t have to, and it feels wonderful. Sweat is beading on my brow and above my lip, but I don’t care. I keep going until it begins to drip in my eyes. When I finish the movements, I wipe at my face, a salty sting reminding me how much I needed this.

Aching and feeling more or less calm for the first time in ages, I prepare to jump in the shower. I turn on the radio and select a song from my ipod and crank up the volume. No point in holding back, no one else can hear it. Despite what most people think, I don’t only listen to show-tunes. In fact, the variety of music in my collection ranges from classical to hip-hop. This must be one of Cassie’s playlists because I hear the husky voice of Poe start up. As I listen to the lyrics, I find that they are ever fitting to my predicament. Everywhere I look, Cassie is there. Even if all her things are packed and back at her parents’ house, she is still here with me in some way. Come here. Pretty please. Can you tell me where I’m? Please? Won’t you say something? I need to get my bearings…I lather my body, feeling the stress melt away. I no longer feel like a hooligan; instead, I feel like a real person. I’m haunted, by the lives that wove the web, inside my haunted head…

Don’t cry, there’s always a way. Here in November in this house of leaves we’ll pray... Why do I find it so hard to forget? We had good times, but now, looking back, we never spent much time together after college. Did I think that by proposing, she would just stop travelling all the time? Did I really think it would matter? Sometimes I do, sometimes it did matter. This time it didn’t. She is gone, and all that resonates when I hear her voice is the sad sobs when she admitted our child is dead. Oh, how true this song rings. I’m haunted.

The song ends, and a new one begins. I leave it blaring as I brush my teeth and shave. There is no point in being hostile or even trying to mend these wounds with salves. Inside I feel broken, no matter how many of the pieces I put back together. For the time being, I’m content with the knowledge that I seem to have a place in the world, if only temporarily.

I dress in a pair of loose slacks, no point in trying to look good for myself. I don’t even slide a pair of boxers on - there’s no point. I might as well just admit defeat for the time being, because I think I’m going to lie in bed until I have to leave for the club. At least if I get the small details, I can start putting them into action tonight. I don’t know if I should mention my exact role to Miller—no, Isaac—or not. I have to remind myself to call him Isaac.

Maybe that is the whole point of my life, always playing some role. Assignation doesn’t occur for just any reason; maybe I’m just fit for roles – the lives of other people, fictional or not. My life could lack meaning, but I don’t think that. I guess this is just one of the many roadblocks I’m forced to face.

I settle down in the bedroom with all of my papers strewn across the bed. The script lays in a pile to my left; I will look at it later. For now, it is time to learn about who I will morph into for this role.

A sixteen-year-old boy, tied down to his master. This is who I’m. I’m a punk—a sex slave—to my jocker—master. In essence, I’m a sex slave, trading my body for protection, housing, etc. My jocker, is a Hobo, who lives in a shantytown near Flagstaff, Arizona. The year, 1931, and my characters is desperately seeking refuge from his master when he meets a normal gay couple. He grows farther away from Charlie as he sees all he is missing when meeting Leland and his lover. Then there is Ace and Snake Eyes, a very strange relationship indeed. Snake Eyes is a straight, married man, proudly so – but eventually even he cannot deny the comforts that Ace, a male trick, can offer him. I wonder what wonderful costumes they will come up with for this play… I’m sure something that shows lots of skin, or at least that leaves little to the imagination. I chuckle, I suppose in some way I’m perfect for this. I’m constantly asked how old I’m anyway; maybe Cecil made a good choice for a change.

Although the whole submission thing… that’s not something I’m entirely comfortable with; honestly, I don’t think I know how to be out of control. Maybe that is the whole point of this exercise with Isaac; Cecil did say he wouldn’t force my boundaries physically. But what about emotionally?

I seem to have been thinking about Isaac more in the past day than I have Cassie. What does that make me? Does it make me less devoted to what we had? Should what I shared with Cassie even matter anymore? I can take the experiences and count them on one hand, knowing that sometimes there were highs and sometimes there were lows, but we always made it. Now, now I just sit and think about what I did, and how I failed as a man. I keep going round and round with this, because it couldn’t have been my failure as a man, at least I don’t think so. I was loving, devoted, honest – the things she wasn’t. Her job meant more than the relationship we shared. There was always something coming between us, some argument that we easily could have avoided.

I’m pulled from my thoughts when my cell rings. I hear it, but I can’t find it right away. I jump off the bed and start looking as the tone makes my body tingle with adrenaline. I don’t know why, but my heart is racing like a Formula 1 at the Grand Prix as I search for the silver-shelled phone. Finally, after stubbing my toe, I find the damned thing dancing on the floor. Cecil. What the hell does he want? I finally pick up the vibrating mass and flip the cover, cursing as I hear his snort of derision on the other end.

“Yeah, Hullo?” I say, sitting on the bed to inspect my big toe.

“Archer. Isaac has just called me and asked me to inform you that tonight is a costumed event. Please be prepared. And for Christ’s sake, let that little fop know I’m not his answering service,” Cecil growls. I want to scream. Why do I care about some damn costume?

“Yeah, whatever. Thanks, Cecil.” The line dies. If I didn’t like the man, I would have called him back to share a few choice thoughts with him.

I throw my phone on the bed, scream from the dull, throbbing pain that has settled in my toe, and see the digital display of my clock on the bedside table. I lost track of time, because it’s fifteen minutes to eight and I’m supposed to meet Isaac at nine. What the fuck am I going to wear as a costume?

*****

When I arrive at the club, I feel horribly self-conscious. I don’t know if that is my brain attaching itself to the submissive role I have studied all afternoon, or if I’m truly nervous. Not only that, but damn if I want my costume to be what sets me apart from everyone else; I need to mingle, I need to touch and be touched. If I flinch when touched, I fail, unless it is within the context of the character that is. The lines and other actors should be shaping my actions, not the other way around. I just need to get used to touches, kisses and being naked in front an audience. This should be an interesting night…

I arrive at the club with five minutes to spare, but I wonder if that is enough. Isaac doesn’t seem like the patient type, and I honestly don’t want to be on his bad side. I hurry to the door and the Asian girl from the previous night is there. I’m beginning to wonder if I dressed appropriately because she’s wearing some leather nurse’s uniform. The material is bright white and the entry-lights gleam off of it. She barely looks at me, but waves me on through the door and once inside, I know I’m out of place. I wonder if Cecil did it on purpose. How was I supposed to know that costume meant something leather, lace or just plain risqué? Oh well, it doesn’t matter now. There is nothing I can do to change it, and I’m not going to worry about it. Maybe I should give Isaac my mobile number, because an hour was not enough time to think of something or even buy something. It’s not as if I keep a stash of fetish clothes lying around the flat.

I push behind the red curtains to the door with the security panel and quickly punch in the numbers. The light blinks and the door clicks and I head up the three flights of stairs to Isaac’s office. It’s slightly open, but I knock anyway. It inches open as my knuckles rap the surface and I hear his lazy voice from beyond, beckoning me inside.

After seeing him, I feel like a complete idiot. His platinum blond hair is framing his face beautifully as he looks at some of the papers of his desk. I gasp, I can’t help myself, it’s more of a reaction to his piercing gaze than any thing – I think. When our eyes connect, I feel a shiver stampede down my spine, and I slowly enter the office. I feel horribly exposed, even with clothing. I don’t know if that’s just one of his powers over people, but I feel like less of a man suddenly.

“Ryan,” he says softly and waves me forward. He doesn’t stand; instead, he almost ignores me and looks back at the pile of papers in front of him. He sits with an air of power, even the way he moves the pen across the paper. Each stroke is precise, almost planned for minutes before the ink spills from the ball as increasing pressure is applied. The absurdity of that thought hits me, but how often do we really stop and think before the pen in our hand reacts to each nerve impulse, and begins to outline our thoughts with words?

“Isaac,” I greet him. I can’t stand on ceremony, especially when I don’t know what that is. This is a working relationship, nothing more. I know nothing about him.

“I have to finish these papers, just give me a moment,” he says politely, looking up. A small smile crosses his face. It reminds me of the look he gave me yesterday at the center. I’m not alarmed by it, not as I was yesterday. Instead it almost feels like we are friends, but Isaac could be a better actor than I. Yesterday I felt like his eyes betrayed something, uncertainty? I have the feeling that Isaac doesn’t like people to know how he feels about things; he’s hiding from something. I wonder if it’s anymore than I’m hiding from; anger, sadness, frustration – all of these things that continue to build until I’m ready to explode. I feel like a bloody volcano. Everything keeps getting harder, the more I do, the more I see and experience… I don’t know if it is worth it. My thoughts are back to the complete lack of substance in my life. "All the world’s a stage, the men and women merely players." If all the world is a stage, Isaac could be a star. However, I get the feeling that isn’t the life he wants. Even if William Shakespeare was a bloody fraud, that saying resonates.

He’s biting his lip, I wonder if that is from frustration or concentration. People do the strangest of things when they are thinking, without realizing it. Some bite their lip, much like Isaac is now, others tap their fingers or click the top of pens. Some pace, some bounce their leg and others talk to themselves – funny how I can watch others and tell them what their little habits are, but I can’t identify my own. Cassie told me once I ran my fingers through my hair when I was frustrated, but I don’t honestly care anymore. At the moment, there is too much gel to do so without pulling a large clump of it out. I can’t believe I dressed like this. Never again.

I take a seat in front of the desk and admire his costume. Dark green leather stretches across his chest, without any sleeves. Only a small bit of cloth holds the jerkin on his sinewy shoulders. The buttons that adorn the front are silver, with dragons engraved on the face. There is no padding like armor; instead, the leather clings to his body like a second skin. His pale skin contrasts nicely, he has style. The front is stitched with silver thread and the neckline dips lower than usual. The normally neck high piece is scooped low enough to view the juncture of his collarbones, displaying a delicious dip.

“Would you like a drink?” Isaac asks, still looking at his papers. A drink might be nice, a good way to settle the atmosphere and start us on a good foot.

“Sure,” I reply, nervously fumbling with the hem of my shirt. I have to stop doing that, nervous ticks aren’t becoming for an actor. But am I an actor right now? I’m just Ryan, right? I want to think I’m twice the man I once was, but at the moment, I feel like a little girl; cheeks blushed and eyes flattering everything in sight. It’s a very strange feeling indeed. Isaac looks at me over his shoulder and smiles; if only I knew what was going through that mind of his…

*****

Isaac stands and I watch as his body gracefully moves from his desk to a cabinet on the left side of the room. I don’t pay attention to my surroundings enough because now that I look closely, there is a door to the rear of the office. For a man who seems dark and brooding, his office is surprisingly comfortable. There is a dark leather couch to the left and a case full of books on the right, while his desk sits in the center of the room with two leather chairs in front of it. Everything is a black.

When he walks from behind the desk, I see that his pants are just like the jerkin. Dark green leather, skin tight, leaving nothing to the imagination. The only thing I can’t see is the outline of his cock, which I suppose I should be grateful for, but I can’t help admiring the way the clothes fit his body. There is no sag in the rear like most clothes; his ass fits the material perfectly. It moves with his body, and once again, I feel the flush of shame not realizing the kind of costume I should have worn. I notice that as he stops and pours the drinks, the pants look like a set of dragon scales and in the soft light, the jerkin is the same way. Shimmering with various dark colours, screaming, “Look at me!”

“So, anything before we begin?” he asks, and I can’t resist the words eager to spill forth.

“Yeah, actually. How do you get into those trousers?” I ask seriously.

“Why, you just ask,” he replies and smiles, and I feel the blush rise on my cheeks. He bats his long, full eyelashes at me and those grey, stormy eyes scrutinize me. He starts to laugh so I’m sure he sees it, even through the makeup on my face.

“I – I didn’t mean that.”

“I know, but I needed to play with you some. A good laugh might lighten you up, even if a few drinks don’t.” He stands. I wonder what the hell is going through his head!

I feel my face burning against his words. I don’t know if I like his obvious flirting or not; I don’t know how I feel about anything. I’m ready to get this started, though, I know that for certain.

“Oh, look, take my cell number, please don’t call Cecil again. He did not sound happy when I spoke to him and I don’t know if that was your fault or mine. So let’s just eliminate the middle man, yeah?” I say, hoping to change the subject a little bit.

“Why, Ryan, if you want just me, I’m happy to oblige. I’m not that big on sharing, so if you had hopes of a threesome, I’m afraid I’m not your man,” he says and I flush harder. He smiles. He’s enjoying this, I can tell. He’s intentionally being obtuse and I want to slap him. Slap him? Am I finding him too delicate to deck? I shouldn’t. He’s as much a man as I’m, though he carries himself like a wealthy brat.

I think my skin is on fire, but it can’t be; Isaac hasn’t offered to douse me with water yet.

“You know what I mean,” I manage. His cheeks are still full from the smiles and I sit, bowing my head.

“Yes, I do. But like I said, you give me such good openings,” he says, removing his cell phone from a pocket that only his skin knows exists. “What’s your number?”

I recite the number, watching as his fingers nimbly dance around they keypad.

“That’s easy enough,” he says, and dials the number. I feel my phone vibrating and open it to see his number on my screen. I ignore the call and save it to my contact list. I wonder if I should list him as Isaac Miller or as Isaac.

Isaac turns and looks at me, still smiling. I wonder how long his usually cold face will allow such an action. He seems so emotionally distant, so why do I feel like I can trust him?

“You ready to dance?” he asks finally. I nod and follow behind him, watching the leather cling to his body for dear life. It looks painted on. The secret of the tight leather pants will have to wait for another day, but I will eventually find out how to get into those trousers.

When we reach the landing where the main club is, we step from behind the curtain and there are people everywhere. Lights flash in all directions, pulling me towards the dance floor. Red, blue, green, yellow, and a plethora of colors to entrance the mind, as the body moves in time with the thudding bass of the best house music in the world. Costume night must be a big deal, because I have never seen so many people dressed like this and not be in the middle of a performance on stage. Every one of these people clings to the possibilities of sybaritic release at the end of the night. At least their costumes indicate their desire to be noticed, fondled and fucked hard. I’m the only one out of place…

There were women who wore large wings, some feathered, and others that were vinyl like bats or demons. Their dresses cling tight to their bodies, and their breasts are pert and bulging over the front of their clothing. Then there are men walking around with leather, lace and anything in between. Some are collared and led around by their Master, others have an array of whips, chains and gags readily available. It is impressive. Vampires, gods, werewolves, goblins, demons and fairies are melted against one another and I feel silly. Everyone seems so content and me, I’m just watching like a shocked child. It’s like a giant Halloween party in the middle of the week!

The music blares around us and Isaac takes my hand, leading me towards the bar. I don’t mind and for a moment, we wait while drinks are mixed. A cold glass ends up in my hand and I drink it without question. I have never felt so strange in my whole life… I feel like nothing matters, and that I could fuck someone in the middle of the dance floor and no one would care, including me. I don’t know what Isaac gave me, but it is sweet and packs a punch.

The drink doesn’t last long; the empty glass is pulled from my hand only to be replaced by another. Everything I have been holding in feels like it can flow freely and no longer hurt me. I think that’s the alcohol talking, but I won’t argue. There is no point bitching at your psyche when usually it knows better, what you need – the id, Freud’s answer for the most primitive of feelings, desires. My ego can rest for tonight. Logic and reason do not work in these situations and I do not plan to argue with that.

Isaac could be Iago to my Othello, but I have a feeling that there is a lot more to him than even his closest friends know. Even after having a day to contemplate turning this offer down, I’m down to learning the secret of Isaac, not of this play. Each look is something different, something exciting.

There are various men eyeing me, but soon Isaac, the obviously attractive one, captures their attention. It’s not as if I care if they find me attractive, not really. I’m not gay. I’m enjoying my drink and watching the crowd, so I don’t notice at first the lines of hopeful lovers approaching Isaac. They each make their way slowly to him, dancing seductively as he smiles and nods his head. I wonder if the nod is in appreciation or just acknowledging their attempts to lure him to their bed. He’s enjoying the attention, which is fine, except I’m here for a reason. If he’s admiring every walking cock in the room, he isn’t helping me.

After the fifth hopeful approaches, I actually walk away and head to the balcony. People don’t congregate up there as much. I can’t stand to sit there and watch him pick up anyone else. My first stop is the bar; to hell with control, I’m supposed to touch men and be touched in return. I haven’t been intimate in any way with another human since Cassie, and I’ve never been intimate with a man. The closest to intimacy I have ever been was sparring matches and ground fighting. I’ve never kissed a man, I’ve never even kissed my uncle. I can’t remember if I ever kissed my father, I was too young to remember their deaths.

I’m right, the balcony is basically clear and aside from a few askew glances, no one pays me any attention. I go straight to the bar and order a drink. I need it, my nerves are a mess. I have never been this fearful in my life, so why now? What is it about this place and this atmosphere that I’m so afraid of; is it Isaac that ignites this fear within me? Fear of the unknown?

After the second drink, Isaac finally appears on the stairs. I know because I was facing them, keeping track of how long it took him to arrive. By now I’m angry, and I couldn’t even say why. Maybe because it was eleven o’clock and I do have a semi-normal routine during the week. I won’t mess that up for anyone. I hope he’s had enough attention by now, because I’m ready to leave, but I can’t. I feel like Cecil has some invisible rope tethered to my body, chaining me to these walls. I lean against the bar and watch various couples; two women are kissing to my right. I’m not sure I ever really found it as attractive like some of my counterparts at the college. The dark-haired one is dressed in a French maid dress, and the other, I’m not sure, but she looks like an elf. My attention drifts, but my eyes are always closely watching the stairs. I wonder if he will figure out where I’m, or if I will have to go searching for him. I’m not moving, just simply watching as Isaac finally makes his way towards me through the few people congregated on the second floor.

“Hey,” he says smoothly.

“Hey,” I reply, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of seeing my disappointment.

He puts a hand on his tight leather pants and runs it from his thigh to his hip, a gesture used to gain my attention, no doubt. He looks at me with those stormy grey eyes and smiles sweetly, just like he did yesterday and I feel that damn tingle down my spine. “Are you pouting?” he asks.

I look at him challengingly. “No,” I say. “What makes you think that?”

“Because you ran off as soon as the sheep joined the herder.” He chuckles.

At this point, I’m aware he has enjoyed one too many drinks and I wait, patiently. I do not want to be rude, but my mouth opens and word vomit occurs before I can stop myself. “I suppose all those sheep are going to warm your bed tonight then?” His feelings are of no concern to me. Not really. It isn’t my place to play keeper for the man. He’s old enough to keep track of his own responsibilities.

He looks at me, affronted, but I’m not sure if that is it or not. I try to ignore it.

“Come, dance with me,” he says, extending a hand. His wrist is up, and I see the small, bluish veins through his pale skin. He presented me with an erogenous zone, I wonder if he realizes it or if it was just a fluke. I’m tempted to caress the exposed flesh before taking his hand. I think better of leading him on and remind myself this is a dangerous game.

I take his hand, feeling a shiver travel from my palm where our hands are connected, all the way to my stomach. It settles uncomfortably as I try to fight it off, but it stays like a stone lodged within me.

When we arrive at the crowd of writhing bodies, he pushes us to the middle, displaying his moves. His hips are like water, flowing slowly and with very specific stopping points, then they rotate again and I wonder where the hell he learned to move like that.

For the first few songs, we dance separate, with only our hands touching briefly for a spin that he makes look like some remixed version of ballet. I wave my hands, encircling them, ready to break into kata just for show. Slowly our bodies move closer together, my hands reaching out bravely to take his hips, feeling their lithe power beneath his leather trousers. In the moment I drop my guard, he spins me so that my ass is pressed into his groin. He humps lightly as his hands travel to my hips, pulling me closer and closer.

“You can touch me, you know. I don’t bite,” he purrs in my ear like a lusty cat, and I feel his breath against my neck in soft, warm puffs. The scent of alcohol drifts to my nose. Then I smell the scents of his body, the bitter sweat mixing with patchouli and almonds. I put my hands on top of his, slowly getting used to touching him. With delicate caresses, I feel the goose bumps flare to life on his thin hands. I stop when my arms are jammed and slowly wrap them around his neck, ghosting the tips of my fingers across his sweaty neck. I’m not sure what I feel, but it doesn’t feel as wrong as it should. It feels like the most natural thing in the world to have my body pressed against his, and I hope it’s the alcohol playing tricks on my senses.

Then, without warning, he pulls away and stumbles through the crowd towards the bar. I don’t know what the problem is, but I’m sure to find out soon enough. I follow Isaac, stopping to stand beside him. He is perched on one of the many stools at the bar, sipping a drink. For his sake, I hope it was his. There is no telling what someone put in the damn thing.

“Are you all right?” I ask, leaning in close. He pulls away and nods. “Look, Isaac, I will see you tomorrow, OK? It’s almost two, and I need to take care of some things in the morning,” I say, turning to leave.

“Archer!” he yells, getting my attention. I face him; his face is flushed.

“You did well tonight,” he says and stands up. “See you tomorrow, OK?”

“Yeah, tomorrow,” I say as he walks passed me, barely touching my shoulder with his.