Stockholm Syndrome 2- 17 Black and 29 Red by Richard Rider

morals," he says, watching her use his credit card to separate off a little white heap. "That's a first."
     
"I'm not a dealer . Everyone needs a job through college, I guess I just don't have the right look for poledancing."
     
He's just showing off now, rolling up hundred-dollar bills into tubes. "What are you studying?"
    "Law," she says, smirking faintly, and it doesn't really register what she's said until his first couple of lines are gone off the tabletop and he's swallowing the medicine taste in the back of his throat and waiting that split second for the hit to take hold - it does, then he realises what she said and can't stop laughing, slumped there in his armchair feeling as if he's being dragged along behind a jet like a rattling can tied to the back of a wedding car.
"You've hardly got the look of a lawyer either."
    "Don't be so middle-aged, Sammy." They've been giving each other false names since the night they met, different ones every time like it's a game. They've been Sonny and Cher, Luke and Leia, Danny and Sandy. Two days ago they were Rick and Ilsa. Tonight they're Samson and Delilah. He wonders if maybe that's a bad idea, like a curse, but it's alright. He could snap her neck like a twig if she tries anything, but he doesn't think she'll try anything. Nothing bad, anyway. He watches her take her turn, the play of expressions over her face. She catches him looking and laughs, bright and euphoric. A while later, a couple more lines down, she's grabbed his hand to pull him out of the room, out into the corridor, running through the red carpeted halls without bothering to close his suite door, running downstairs in her platform heels until she stumbles and he grabs at her to keep her from falling, slings her over his shoulder like a fireman and into the lift for the last ten floors. The operator is there in his pristine uniform, clearly trained not to react at all to rich stupid people doing stupid illegal things. He doesn't even blink, he doesn't look twice.
"Where are we going?"
     
She's struggling against his hold on her but she's laughing as well so he doesn't let her go. "Asshole, put me down!"
     
"No."
     
"Put me down and I'll tell you."
    The numbers light up one by one like a countdown, then the G. The doors whoosh open and Lindsay stands her back on her feet and lets her hold his hand again, drag him running and laughing through the lobby and out the door to run down the street for no reason at all.
***
It's all a bit calmer after that, three nights later when his phone beeps a text through:
     
sid- takin it easy 2nite, last dance w/ mary jane? -nancy
    She rolls joints like she's been doing it for years, lightning-quick and perfect, and then makes a move like she's going out onto the balcony but Lindsay stops her with a hand on her wrist.
"It's raining. We can stay in here."
     
"What about the smoke alarms?"
     
"Disabled. This floor's private property, hotel rules don't apply. I own this whole building."
     
"You own this place?"
    "Yeah." He leans in closer to catch a light but doesn't feel like moving back again after so he stays there in the middle of the couch with his leg pressed against hers. It's not even the contents of the joint making him feel like this, it's the whole ritual of smoking, even when it's just tobacco. That's why he started rolling his own years ago, it was something about the feel of the paper under his fingertips, the way you control the whole procedure from construction to stubbing out the end. "Property. All kinds. Lots of hotels, holiday homes, bars. I don't do anything, I just own them."
"Are you like a billionaire or something?"
     
He laughs at that, blowing a lungful of smoke up into the air above his head. "Not quite. Oh, wait, maybe. Dollar billionaire, I think, not pounds." That includes slightly more illegal profits, but he's not going to tell her that.
     
"And I'm gonna be paying off my student loans until I die."
     
"I'll pay it. How much do you