Buy Me, Sir

Mr Austin also believes I can get him off the hook every time, just so long as he pays me enough money.

He’s right.

Like I said, he’s an arrogant prick, but so am I.

And so we go again. The firm handshake, the pat of his hand on my arm, the warm, fake, professional smile. The same old routine as he bleats about how thankful he is that I came to his rescue last night, how it wasn’t his fault. They’ve set him up, again. Jealous assholes. Barely even a double shot of whisky.

I take the same old notes and nod in the same old places. And then I do what I always do.

“I’ll deal with it,” I say.

“Good man,” he replies, just like always.

And just like always, I deal with it.

This business is as much about connections as it is about the law. It’s about saying the right things to the right people, with the right air of confidence. That and knowing all those tiny little loopholes that infuriate the prosecution every fucking time.

They hate me more than Brenda does, just as much as they hated my father before me. But that’s okay.

You know what they say. You’re no one unless somebody hates you. And judging by those rules, I really am someone. Just ask my ex-wife.

Today is like any other day at the office. An endless carousel of the same old faces making the same old fuckups.

Mr Austin, and then Mr Rand, the oil tycoon with a penchant for picking up women on street corners. Mr Kingsley, the dot com boomer who does far too many drugs and gets into scrapes with the law far too often for sanity. Some court paperwork, and a crappy board meeting that sees me staring numbly at my officially retired father for an hour across the boardroom table, and I’m done.

Once upon a time, before life – divorce – turned me into the cynical, jaded asshole I am today, getting people off the hook was all the exhilaration I needed. The rush of a serious court case, the heated negotiations behind the scenes, the high-end networking, and the money, always so much money. I loved it. All of it.

But these days it’s not enough.

I’m barely out of the office foyer when I pull my second phone from my inside pocket. It’s identical to my work handset in virtually every way, except this is an unregistered pay-as-you-go, topped up using cash only, and never in the same location twice.

My fingers feel clammy as I unlock the screen.

I scroll through my previous messages, the ones that I should have deleted minutes after bidding is closed, as per the rules. I used to follow them. I used to be careful, guarded. Sensible.

This week’s offer is still in my inbox.

Britney Jane. 26. Brunette. 5’10. Athletic. D-cup tits.

The pretty girl stares out from the handset, lips pouted like a cheap porn star, legs spread to show the pretty pink slit of her pussy. She’s had surgery, that cunt is far too perfect to be natural.

I hate perfect, but that isn’t why I haven’t placed a bid on Britney Jane. The list of ticked boxes beneath her photo show her as far too vanilla to warrant any kind of investment.

Far too vanilla for me.

I scroll back through the listings.

Candice. 21. Natural blonde. 5’2. Curvy. C-cup tits.

She’d been worth every penny and then some. The girl had very few hard limits listed under her photograph, and she’d been telling the truth. Believe me, I know. I pushed her on all of them.

I arrive at my car, and my mouth is dry and my jaw feels tight, waiting for the thrill that zips up my spine whenever a fresh listing appears, like an addict craving a hit. It’s about time I went cold turkey for a few months, logged out of the network and weaned myself back to a state of mind closer to equilibrium.

But the thought is unwelcome, the prospect one of nausea.

I need this.

Need.

That’s the downward spiral before me. The cycle of dependence and escapism that leads me down the rabbit hole. The same cycle I see every day in my office, rich men taking ever greater risks to get their rocks off, chasing the elusive thrill that comes from the shadier side of wealth.

Gambling. Drugs. Fast cars.

I’ve seen billionaires shoplift costume jewellery just for the rush of it. I’ve seen calm, responsible fathers snort a gram of coke from a hooker’s tits and take them out for a joyride through leafy London suburbs. I’ve seen men with beautiful wives at home, hovering outside public urinals for the chance to shove their dick in some seedy guy’s asshole before teatime.

I’ve seen it all, and I’ve excused it all, and somehow, somewhere along the line I became caught in the same rancid headlights.