Chapter 1

It was supposed to be easy money. A simple bet against a gullible idiot. How did it get so messy?

It started with a string of bad luck that emptied my bank account. Just one thing after another chipping away at my savings until I was faced with the possibility of having to sublet my apartment just to make ends meet. 

I had worked so hard to be able to finally rent a place by myself. To finally have peace and quiet when I need it, to not have to worry about considering others if I wanted to get a bit roudy, and, most importantly, no housemates to clean up after. 

I was so desperate to avoid having to share my space again I was grasping at any opportunity for a quick buck. 

Then one night I went out for a drink by myself. By which I mean I went out to a bar with the intention of finding some horny guy to buy me a drink because I definitely couldn’t afford to buy it for myself. Preferably a guy with enough of a sense of humour to at least be entertaining and easy on the eyes, but my wallet was empty enough that I wasn’t about to be picky.

The bar I picked wasn’t one of my usual haunts. It was rougher than usual, more blue collar and with a bit more of a punk feel than the clubs I typically frequented. I had expected that kind of atmosphere would attract a clientele who would be more likely to see someone drinking alone as a target to get drunk in order to then take advantage of their impaired decision making.

I had no intention of letting it go that far; two drinks and done was the plan. Well, unless they were hot and moved well enough on the dance floor to make me wonder how they would move in bed.

It went wrong from the start. I should have researched the bar more before choosing it. When I walked in, the first thing I noticed was that instead of a dance floor, there were tables and chairs, so I kissed the idea of getting any action goodbye. The second thing I noticed was that there was a stage with a mic.

A stage and mic with no cover charge? That could only mean one thing; open mic night. Just my luck. 

I took a seat at the bar and scanned the room, looking for someone’s eye to catch. I was surprised by how diverse the clientele was. Yeah, there were some more punk elements but they weren’t a majority. There was a wide range of ages and gender expression and rather than the lecherous leering I was expecting, people just seemed friendly. Those whose eyes I caught just smiled and nodded, clearly indicating that I was welcome to join them but without invading my space and plying me with drinks in an effort to pressure me into doing so. 

Essentially, I was there to take advantage of predators. I wanted to manipulate them into buying me drinks so I could have a few drinks and be able to walk away with a clear conscience because they deserved to get used for preying on others. 

I’d picked out this place specifically because I expected to be objectified and sexually harassed but instead found myyfeeling more respected than any night out on the town I’d had at any of the usual middle class, business casual type clubs I usually frequented.

It felt liberating, but at the same time deeply unsettling. It was so jarringly different from my expectation that there was no way to deny to myself that I was prejudiced against from a lower socioeconomic background.

I started the night feeling sorry for myself for my own financial troubles, set on taking advantage of others’ desire to take advantage of me and within ten minutes of entering had come to the realisation that the only sleazy one in the room trying to take advantage of anyone was, well, me. Everyone else was just there to chill and have fun, and sure maybe some were looking to get lucky but they weren’t being skeezy about it. Not like I was. 

The weight of the shame I felt was crushing. 

I had felt like I was at rock bottom before I entered but until then that feeling trapped because of money troubles I hadn’t realised that it could feel worse than that. That my true rock bottom would be when I  realised that rather than tightening my belt and knuckling down to work through my financial woes, i had sold out my morals and become some kind of sleazy, predatory parasite set on taking advantage of people to maintain a party lifestyle. 

I ordered a glass of tap water and kept to myself.

I was a storm cloud in that friendly blue collar bar and people were noticing. Those who had given me a friendly nod earlier were now shooting me concerned looks.

I was three quarters through my glass of water, contemplating how pathetic it was to be deep in my cups, becoming a sad drunk on nothing but water, when two people joined me, sitting down on either side of me.

“Hey, I hope this isn’t an unwelcome interruption, but we thought you could use some company.”

“Or a friendly ear, no pressure though.”

“Yeah, say the word and we’ll fuck off.”

“If you do though, you can change your mind and come find us later, so no stress.”

I looked up from my mostly empty glass of water to see two of the friendliest smiles I had seen in stars knows how long. One was older than me by a decent amount, or maybe they’d had a hard life, working outside all day. At this point, I didn’t want to assume. The seemed more youthful. Maybe a little younger than me. They both had powerful bodies, the kind you could tell came from working hard all day rather than a few hours at the gym each week. But for all that physical power, they had an aura of gentleness to them.

It was embarrassing how quickly I began to tear up at such a simple gesture of kindness.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” I sniffled. “You don’t even know me. I don’t deserve this.”

They glanced at each other over the top of my head. 

“It’s not about deserving; it’s about what you need.”

“Yeah, I know we’re strangers, but would you like a hug?”

I nodded as I wiped my eyes and was immediately wrapped up in their arms. The firm pressure of their embrace was calming. Despite that, I found myself struggling to stifle sobs and bring my breathing under control. 

“Hey Jim,” I heard one of them say. 

“Yeah?” The reply came from the bartender. 

“Can we…uh…you know...”

I felt one them gesture a little to their our right

I glanced up at the bartender. I must have looked like an absolute mess; my nose was all stuffed up and I could feel my eyes were puffy, probably some tear tracks on my cheeks.

Jim took one look at me and nodded. 

“Yeah, of course.”

He poured a couple fresh glasses of water and tilted his head towards the door behind the bar. 

“Go on then. I’ll let folks know the show’s starting late.”

He then looked behind us. 

“Actually , never mind. Looks like like they’ll figure that it out for themselves.”

The knowledge that everyone had noticed my breakdown was mortifying. 

I let myself be led to the back office, face burning with embarrassment when I saw the room full of concerned looks directed our way.

It was a small room, big enough to seat a band before heading out to play for their fans, but not comfortably so. For the three of us it was perfect. Cozy without being claustrophobic. 

They sat me down on a lounge chair and pushed the coffee table in front of it back a bit before both taking a seat on it diagonally across from me, our glasses of water between them. 

“So,” one said while passing one of the glasses to me. “I guess we should introduce ourselves and shit, eh?”

“What Sam means to say, is hi,” the other interjected. “I’m Dylan, it’s nice to meet you, though I wish it was under better circumstances. Sam’s pronouns are they/them, mine are he/him.”

“Oh, um. Hunter… they/them as well.” It was surreal declaring my pronouns to total strangers. I’d never felt like I could do that right off off the bat. “Thanks for, well, you know.”

Sam leaned back to rest their arms behind them. 

“So what the hell was all that about?” They asked, bluntly. 

“Fuck, Sam”, Dylan sputtered. “Don’t be a dick! We’ve talked about this, you can’t just say shit like that!”

“Why not?” Sam replied. “If they didn’t want to talk about it they wouldn’t be here. They’d have told us to fuck off ages ago.”

Dylan responded by shoving Sam.

“Not the point.”

They glared at each other until Sam rolled their eyes and raised their hands in placation.

“Fine, whatever”, they said and gestured for Dylan to continue. 

“Ok, so…” Dylan started, “what the hell what that all about?”

He caught Sam’s arm as they attempted to slap him in the solar plexus. I couldn’t help the wet chuckle that escaped my lips. 

“So you can say it but I can’t? That’s bullshit!” Sam complained. 

“You were being a dick. I was breaking the tension. It’s called comedic timing, dumbass.” Dylan cracked back at them. “I can’t believe people think you’re the funny one when we’re on stage.”

“I wasn’t being a dick,” Sam grumbled.

Their bickering was putting me at ease. I guess seeing them so at ease bickering in front of me, a total stranger, made me feel like we were old friends or something. It definitely felt like we’d known each other far longer than the two minutes we had. 

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it.” I replied. “I guess… I’ve been under a lot of stress. Had a lot of shit go wrong and It just all caught up with me… I just don’t know what to do.”

I shook my head to myself and ran a hand through my hair, considering how honest I wanted to be with these two strangers that had been so kind to me.

On the one hand, I was ashamed at my predatory intentions in choosing this bar and the prejudiced assumptions about the bar’s patrons that had guided my decision. Part of me wanted to hide it deep down, so no one would ever know what an asshole I was. On the other hand, I felt like I didn’t deserve their kindness and needed to explain why they shouldn’t be bothering with human garbage like me. And on yet another, part of me wanted to tell them because maybe owning up to it would mean that I wasn’t as awful as I thought I was. 

“I… I, ummm…” I looked to the side and sighed. “Fuck, it’d be so much easier if someone else would just tell me what to do.”

Coward.

Sam and Dylan looked at each other. “Sounds like you’re in quite the pickle,” Dylan replied and looked at Sam with a raised eyebrow.

“So… uh,” Sam began, considering their words carefully. “Do you have, like, support at home and shit? Someone to talk it over with or help while you’re figuring it out?”

I chuckled bitterly. “No. That’s literally half the problem. I live alone and I love it but… well… maybe I’m just not cut out for it.”

I was avoiding telling them that my troubles were financial. I just… I don’t know. I guess I felt so ashamed about it that I couldn’t bring myself to speak the words out loud. It was as if giving voice to it would make it real. If I didn’t say it, I could pretend it wasn’t happening. I could make-believe I was successful enough to be, living by myself in an expensive city. Saying it out loud would have meant admitting to myself that I was a failure.

“I just wish someone would make it so I stop making bad decisions, but it’s not like someone can just snap their fingers and turn me into a different person.”

Dylan and Sam looked at each other and smiled.

“Wanna bet?” they asked.

If I hadn’t been so damn proud, things may have turned out differently. If they’d known that my troubles were financial, maybe they wouldn’t have offered that bet.

Actually, there’s no doubt about it. They are pure and good and kind; there is no way in hell they would have made that bet if they’d known. But even their kindness had a limit. Their beliefs about being honest while gambling were so strong that they almost turned into different people. The kind of people that would take extreme retribution to punish those that tried to take advantage of their kind nature. It was part of the culture of the bar, or maybe the area more generally. Bets are a big deal when everyone’s living pay cheque to pay cheque.

I don't blame them for what they did to me. No, the fault was mine alone.