Chapter 15: Beers and Confessions
The stale tang of spilled beer and ancient cigarette smoke clung to the worn leather of the booth as David traced a ring of condensation left by his pint glass. Neon signs from across the bar cast fractured, shifting colors across his thoughtful face – a flickering blue, then a sickly green. Jules sat opposite, nursing a neat whiskey, the ice long melted. The silence between them felt heavy, charged with the unsaid weight of broken chairs and Mark’s cold fury back at the penthouse.
"I get why Ben was scared," David finally said, his voice low, rough around the edges like the bar’s atmosphere. He kept his eyes on the scarred wooden tabletop, on his own blunt fingers circling the wet ring. "His whole thing with Sarah... fragile, y'know? Always walking on eggshells." He took a slow pull of his beer, the foam clinging to his lip briefly before he wiped it away. "But this bet? Our stupid, fucked-up bet?" He shook his head, a wry, humorless twist to his mouth. "It’s been a wake-up call. A really ugly one."
Jules watched him, the usual predatory stillness settling over him, though his eyes held a flicker of curiosity rather than triumph. David exhaled, a long, slow release of breath that seemed to deflate him slightly. "Chloe’s been unhappy for a while," he admitted, the words stark in the smoky gloom. "Quietly. Not screaming fights, just... this distance. This resignation." He met Jules’s gaze then, his own surprisingly steady, free of accusation. "And honestly? I think you might be the one to remind her what passion feels like. What it’s like to feel... wanted. Like that." He gestured vaguely, encompassing the raw energy Jules had unleashed.
Jules’s smirk, usually so effortless, softened imperceptibly. Surprise, genuine and unguarded, flickered in his eyes, quickly masked but not fast enough. The arrogant armor cracked, just for a heartbeat. He didn’t speak. He simply raised his glass – a silent, somber acknowledgment hanging heavy in the smoky air between them.
The amber liquid in Jules’s glass caught the fractured neon glow as he held it aloft, a wordless toast to David’s painful honesty.The silence stretched, thick with smoke and the low thrum of distant conversations. David stared into his own beer, the foam long gone flat.
He finally spoke, his voice scraping low, raw."I love her, Jules.Chloe. More than anything."His knuckles whitened around the pint glass. "But right now... what she needs... what she’s asking for..." He trailed off, a muscle jumping in his jaw."I can’t give it to her."
The admission hung between them, stark and ugly. David dragged a hand down his face, exhaustion etching deep lines."It’s eating me up.This fucking helplessness." He met Jules’s gaze directly, no evasion left. "But I can give her you."Jules lowered his glass slowly, the ice clinking softly. The predatory smirk was entirely absent now, replaced by a focused stillness. He studied David, the desperation laid bare."Give her me?" Jules echoed, his tone neutral, probing."Like handing off a problem?"
"Like giving her fire," David countered, his voice gaining a fierce edge. "Like reminding her she’s alive."He leaned forward across the scarred table. "She deserves that. Deserves to feel... pleasure and need. Whenever and however she wants." The unspoken echo of the shattered mahogany chair vibrated in the smoky air."Can you do that? For her?"
The amber liquid in Jules’s glass caught the fractured neon glow as he held it aloft, a wordless toast to David’s painful honesty. The silence stretched, thick with smoke and the low thrum of distant conversations. David stared into his own beer, the foam long gone flat.
He finally spoke, his voice scraping low, raw. "I love her, Jules. Chloe. More than anything." His knuckles whitened around the pint glass. "But right now… what she needs… what she’s asking for…" He trailed off, a muscle jumping in his jaw. "I can’t give it to her."
The admission hung between them, stark and ugly. David dragged a hand down his face, exhaustion etching deep lines. "It’s eating me up. This fucking helplessness." He met Jules’s gaze directly, no evasion left. "But I can give her you."
Jules lowered his glass slowly, the ice clinking softly. The predatory smirk was entirely absent now, replaced by a focused stillness. He studied David, the desperation laid bare. "Give her me?" Jules echoed, his tone neutral, probing. "Like handing off a problem?"
"Like giving her fire," David countered, his voice gaining a fierce edge. "Like reminding her she’s alive." He leaned forward across the scarred table. "She deserves that. Deserves to feel… pleasure and need. Whenever and however she wants." The unspoken echo of the shattered mahogany chair vibrated in the smoky air. "Can you do that? For her?"
Jules held David’s gaze, the fractured light playing over his face. He felt the familiar coil of anticipation, the thrill of the chase – but now wrapped in something heavier, darker. David wasn’t oblivious Mark or insecure Ben. This was a man knowingly sacrificing a piece of his marriage on the altar of his wife’s neglected desire. The city lights blurred outside the grimy window. He took a slow, deliberate sip of whiskey, the burn a grounding point. Jules set the glass down with a soft thud on the sticky table. His knuckles were tight. He met David’s anguished stare and spoke, the words flat and final, devoid of arrogance, heavy as stone.
He met David’s anguished stare and spoke, the words flat and final, devoid of arrogance, heavy as stone. "I can," Jules said, the syllables sharp in the smoky air between them. "But it’s not just about the sex, David." He leaned forward, elbows on the sticky table, his eyes holding David’s without mercy. "Chloe? She misses you. Not just the fucking." David blinked, a slow, stunned motion, his grip on the beer glass slackening slightly. "She misses being partners," Jules continued, the raw honesty surprising even himself. "Actual partners. In and out of the damn bedroom."
The fractured neon light caught the sudden sheen in David’s eyes, his jaw tightening as if physically struck. "What the hell does that mean?" he rasped, the defensive edge brittle.
"It means valuing each other," Jules pressed, the whiskey’s burn a dull echo in his throat. "Emotionally. Physically. Like you used to." He gestured vaguely towards the door, towards the city, towards the memory of a broken chair. "She doesn’t just want to be taken, David. She wants to be known. Seen." The bar’s low hum seemed to amplify, pressing in. "She wants you to want her, not just... manage her."
David flinched, pulling back from the table like the worn leather had shocked him. "That’s bullshit," he muttered, but the conviction was gone, replaced by a dawning panic. "I do want her. I built everything for her." He stared blindly at his hands, knuckles white. "The company, the house... the fucking chair..."
"Maybe she doesn't want the chair," Jules said, quiet but cutting. "Maybe she just wants the man sitting in it." A long beat stretched, filled only by the clink of distant glasses. David’s breath hitched, a ragged, broken sound. He looked utterly lost, the foundation of his understanding cracking under the weight of Jules's brutal clarity. The city lights blurred outside the grimy window, reflecting the chaos now churning behind David’s eyes.
The city lights blurred outside the grimy window, reflecting the chaos now churning behind David’s eyes. He stared at his hands, knuckles white on the beer glass, the echo of Jules’s words – She wants the man sitting in it – ricocheting inside his skull. A low groan escaped him, almost lost beneath the bar’s drone. "Seen," he whispered, the word tasting like ash. "Known." He finally looked up, his usual relaxed confidence replaced by a raw, haunted expression. "Is that what she told you? That I just... manage her?" His voice cracked on the last word.
Jules watched the genuine anguish ripple across David’s face, the familiar thrill of the hunt momentarily eclipsed by a heavier, uncomfortable weight. He traced a damp ring on the scarred table with a fingertip. "Not in those words," he admitted quietly, the honesty startling even himself. "But yeah. The feeling’s there. Underneath everything." He met David’s desperate gaze. "The distance, David. It’s real." David flinched again, shrinking back into the cracked leather as if physically struck. "She feels like a function. Not a partner. Not the woman who snapped your fancy chair."
Silence pressed down, thick with the scent of stale beer and desperation. David’s shoulders slumped, the fight draining out of him, leaving only a profound exhaustion. He ran a trembling hand through his hair. "Jesus," he breathed, the sound ragged. "All this time… the company, the launch hell, the constant pressure… I thought providing… that was being the man." He looked utterly lost, adrift in the wreckage of his own assumptions. The neon’s sickly green glow washed over his face, deepening the shadows under his eyes.
He lifted his gaze, locking onto Jules’s with a startling intensity. "You see her, Jules. Really see her. The fire." He swallowed hard, the sound audible. "Give her that. Please. Give her everything I’m not giving her right now. Everything she needs to feel alive again."
He held Jules’s stare, vulnerability laid bare, the stakes terrifyingly clear. Jules felt the familiar, dangerous pull of the challenge warring with the sheer, unprecedented gravity of David’s plea. He picked up his whiskey glass, the ice long gone, the remaining liquid catching the fractured light. He stared into its amber depths, then looked back at David’s shattered expression, the chaotic city lights reflected in both their eyes. A slow, decisive nod.
The neon’s fractured blue flickered across the scarred table, catching the tension in Jules’s knuckles as he gripped his whiskey glass. David’s plea hung in the smoky air – Give her everything I’m not giving her. The sheer magnitude of the ask, the raw vulnerability beneath David’s shattered expression, momentarily stunned Jules. It wasn't conquest; it was conscription. "Everything?" Jules repeated, his voice low, stripped of its usual lazy confidence. "David, that's... that's not a weekend fling. That's a fucking minefield."
David didn’t flinch. He leaned further across the sticky wood, desperation sharpening his gaze. "I know what it sounds like," he rasped. "But hear me out." He took a shaky breath, the scent of cheap beer heavy on it. "That first time, when she rode me in bed…and then the chair?" He shook his head, a grimace twisting his features. "That was just… ignition. A spark." His eyes locked onto Jules’s, intense, almost frighteningly focused. "I don’t want it to stop there. Not after one time."
Jules felt the floor shift beneath him. This wasn’t the plan. The bet was a quick, dirty thrill. This was something else entirely. "Keep seeing her?" he clarified, the words tasting strange. "You want me to… what? Be her…"
"Her outlet," David interrupted, the term stark, clinical. "Her reminder." He swallowed hard, the sound thick. "Until I can figure out how the hell to step up again. To be… him. The man who deserves her fire." He ran a trembling fingers over his face. "She deserves to feel that doesn’t fade when I walk out of the room at dawn because the shareholders in China are calling. She deserves to feel wanted. Craved."
The silence stretched, filled only by the clink of glasses from the bar’s low drone. Jules stared into the amber residue in his glass, the weight of David’s despair pressing down. He saw the broken mahogany chair flash in his mind, Chloe’s fierce abandon, David’s naked desperation. It wasn’t a bet anymore. "You’re asking me?" David pressed, his voice tight with anxiety. "I’m asking you not to end it after the first time. You keep seeing her. You keep making her feel…" He searched for the word, settling on a ragged one. "Alive."
“Please, man. I wouldn’t trust anybody else with her. She’s my life.”
Jules met his eyes. The arrogance was gone. Replaced by a cold recklessness, a sharp-edged acceptance of the chaos they were creating.
"Okay," Jules said, the word clipped syllable cutting through the smoky air the smoky air. "If she wants that, I’ll keep seeing her."
"If she wants that, I’ll keep seeing her." The words hung between them, stark and heavy, sealing something Jules hadn't fully grasped back at Mark’s penthouse. David slumped back into the worn leather, relief warring with profound exhaustion on his face. "Thanks, man," he rasped, the gratitude raw and unsettling. Jules tossed back the last of his lukewarm whiskey, the cheap burn failing to cauterize the strange hollowness David’s plea had carved inside him. They didn’t linger; the smoky air suddenly felt suffocating, thick with the scent of betrayal and misplaced trust.
Jules walked home through the damp city night, the neon reflections on wet pavement blurring like his thoughts. He pushed open his apartment door, the familiar click echoing in the sudden, oppressive silence. The lingering ghost of Sarah’s perfume hit him first, faint but unmistakable. His gaze landed on the worn, leather couch. The memory hit him like a physical shove: Sarah’s desperate grip, the frantic energy radiating off Ben’s wife, the sheer, reckless abandon of it. He moved past it, the cool floorboards underfoot, drawn towards the dim hallway. He paused in the bedroom doorway. Moonlight slanted across the rumpled duvet. Here, Chloe’s fierce kiss flooded back – the surprising strength in her hands pulling him close, the taste of expensive wine and pure, unadulterated hunger. He hadn’t fucked her here, not yet, but the promise had been scorching, undeniable. He kicked off his shoes, the sound loud in the stillness. He sank onto the bed, the mattress sighing beneath his weight. The city’s distant hum felt like white noise against the sudden roar in his head. He stared at the ceiling, the smooth plaster a blank canvas for the chaotic images replaying: Ben’s trembling excitement, David’s shattered expression, Mark’s cold fury, Olivia’s razor-sharp dismissal. The weight of David’s desperate plea settled onto his chest, crushing. Keep seeing her. Not a conquest. A responsibility. A continuation. He’d agreed. Readily. He traced the faint outline of Chloe’s lips in his memory, then Sarah’s frantic gasps echoed from the living room. The couch. The bed. Two friends. Two wives. He’d already fucked one and hadn’t collected on the bet and was being asked to keep fucking the other after the bet was over. How deep was too deep?
The whiskey’s cheap aftertaste lingered on Jules’ tongue, sour against the weight settling in his gut. What was he doing? The question pulsed with the thrum of the city outside his dark apartment window. He shut his eyes, but the images flashed brighter: Chloe’s fierce hunger, David’s shattered plea, Sarah’s moans, Ben’s trembling hope – a tangle of betrayal masquerading as generosity.
His phone buzzed violently on the nightstand, shattering the heavy silence. The screen flared, casting harsh light on the rumpled sheets. OLIVIA. The name glared back. He hesitated, the vibration crawling up his arm like an electric current. Swiping it open felt like lifting a rock, unsure what would scuttle out.
> Olivia: What exactly was the “disgusting comment” that got Mark seeing red tonight?
The words were sharp, direct, devoid of preamble. Jules exhaled, a dry rasp. She was circling, smelling blood in the water after the penthouse implosion. He tapped back, his thumb hovering.
> Jules: You know about Chloe and David’s… chair incident?
The reply was almost instantaneous.
> Olivia: Of course I know. Chloe mentioned it when she asked for my interior designer’s contact this morning. Shattered mahogany isn’t subtle, Jules.
He could picture her expression – cool, assessing, filing the information away. So Chloe hadn't hidden it. Interesting. The city lights blurred slightly as he formed his next text, a reckless energy replacing the earlier dread. If she wanted the comment, he’d give it to her, wrapped in barbed wire.
> Jules: Yeah. Well. When Mark was being an asshole… I told him I remembered you being quite capable of breaking furniture back in the day too.
He hit send. The message vanished into the digital ether, a grenade lobbed into the silent night. He stared at the screen, the ghost of his old smirk twisting his lips, waiting for the inevitable detonation from Olivia Thompson.
The phone screen glowed, bathing Jules’s face in cold blue light as the three dots pulsed. Taunting him. Come on, Liv. Bite. He could almost hear her sharp intake of breath, picture the precise arch of her eyebrow. The dots vanished. Then reappeared. Vanished again. His knuckle brushed the screen, smearing the glass.
> Olivia: You know good and well that bedframe already had a crack in it.
A surprised bark of laughter escaped Jules, harsh in the silent apartment. Relief? Amusement? Both, maybe. He typed fast, the smirk fully formed now, reckless energy flooding back.
> Jules: Sure it did. Must have been a structural flaw. Definitely wasn't the force of impact.
He hit send. Held his breath. The dots blinked once, rapidly. Then stopped. Silence. Complete, utter silence from her end. The screen dimmed, leaving him staring at his own blurry reflection in the dark glass – a ghost hovering over the glowing accusation of Olivia’s last message. The city hummed outside, indifferent. The silence stretched, thin and brittle. He tossed the phone onto the rumpled duvet. It landed face down, the glow extinguished. Pitch darkness swallowed the room. The phone didn’t buzz again. The weight of all the chaos settled back onto his chest, heavier than before. He lay still, staring into the black. The quiet felt like waiting for the next detonation.
Jules lay utterly still in the dark, the city’s indifferent hum pressing against the windows. The phantom scents of Sarah’s perfume and Chloe’s fierce kiss seemed to coil in the stale air, thick with the echoes of David’s desperate plea and Olivia’s razor-sharp dismissal. Keep seeing her. The words weren’t a conquest; they were shackles forged from misplaced trust and his own reckless arrogance. He pushed himself up, the sheets rasping against his skin. The cool floorboards under his bare feet offered no anchor. He paced the short path from bed to window, the city’s sprawl a chaotic mirror to the mess inside his head. Ben’s trembling hope, Sarah’s frantic energy on his couch, David’s shattered expression offering his wife like a sacrifice, Mark’s cold fury – it all collided, a cacophony drowning out the thrill of the initial bet. He stopped at the window, pressing his forehead against the cool glass.
The neon signs below bled into streaks of garish color. He’d agreed readily, hadn’t he? To Chloe, to David’s impossible request. Why? The question echoed, hollow. Was it the challenge? The sheer, dangerous novelty? Or something uglier, scratching at the secret insecurity beneath the charm? He saw Olivia’s assessing eyes again, her utter dismissal: Charm only works on the willing, or the oblivious. He wasn’t sure which category he fell into anymore. The weight settled, crushing, undeniable. She had always been the one who saw through the smoke and mirrors. It’s part of what made her equal parts irresistible and terrifying.
He turned sharply from the window, the movement decisive. He crossed the room in three strides, fumbling for his phone where it lay face down on the duvet. The screen flared to life, painfully bright in the darkness, illuminating his tense fingers. He scrolled past Olivia’s unanswered text, past David’s contact, past Ben’s hopeful messages about Sarah. His thumb hovered, then tapped decisively on a name buried deep in his favorites list, a card he had yet to play: Dr. Arlis. He pressed call, the dial tone a stark, rhythmic pulse in the heavy silence.