Page 28 of King of Players

My eyes instantly went from narrow to painfully wide. “R—Right now?”

I watched him hold up his phone, evidently to check the time. “If you don’t mind.”

“The only places open at this hour would be bars and clubs.”

“And a humble little joint I own,” he said.

“You own a restaurant?”

“One of the many private truths the media vultures haven’t figured out just yet.”

I smiled, once again feeling forced to ponder a suggestion of his. “Okay. This means that nobody should be bothering us, right? I mean… since you own the place.”

“Bother us?”

“Well.” I shrugged, looking away. “Let me rephrase that; I don’t want anyone at the foundation suspecting anything.”

Although the expression on his face slightly stiffened for a fraction of a second, he managed to skilfully change it into a grin. “It’ll be like our little private black hole, I promise.”

“Alright.” I stood up, leaning to put out my cigarette in a crystal ashtray. “Let me go freshen up.”

“Take your time.”

Walking back into the house, I could feel his gaze watching me leave. As soon as I was inside and away from the glass, I practically ran upstairs, feeling my stomach attempt to contain butterflies I thought I had long tamed. If anyone had suggested to my grandmother that Kaira would have been accepting an impromptu dinner date with an actor this late at night, she would have fallen from her chair laughing.

But here I was, checking my appearance in the mirror, adding a touch of color to my lips, and fixing my hair.

It wasn’t long before I was in Chad’s car with him behind the wheel, speeding away. An unfamiliar genre of music softly seeped through the speakers. A lot of the words sounded French, while a few of the instruments sounded completely alien to me. “Who’s that?” I asked, pointing at the player.

“Oh, the décor in your house sort of put me in a mood.” He chuckled. “His name is Khaled. He’s Algerian.”

“Do you understand what he’s saying?”

“Not even remotely.” Laughing again, he shook his head. “But sometimes we need to challenge our minds, even if it means letting our imagination run wild with what things could mean.”

“He could be singing about war or violence on the streets,” I argued.

“There’s beauty in that, too.”

I smacked my lips. “I guess? As an actor, I’m sure you try to see things differently.”

“As an intelligent human being, I’m certain you’re capable of the same.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t find beauty in war.”

“You can’t imagine what it’s like… when a man’s under fire, and his life’s on the line? The kind of thoughts that go through his mind? He may simply be scared for his life, or he could be wondering what he’s doing there at all, fighting a battle that really isn’t his.”

“I’m pretty sure he’d be scared for his life. The whole… romanticizing of suffering just isn’t my forte.”

“You don’t think that, in a way, sex is a painful experience?”

My heart started to race. “Whatever you mean by that.”

“The French call orgasm ‘la petite mort’… ‘the little death’, and I think in whichever way you look at that; it does entail a little suffering.”

“They call it that, because it’s a transient moment of loss or weakening of consciousness.”

He chuckled. “I don’t know about you, but the mere vulnerability in that can be terrifying.”

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