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Beat Him To The Punch

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Spot scans the club slowly. He may not be that tall, but he’s definitely perfected the art of looking cool and detached - it makes him look desirable and allows him to find the perfect mark without looking suspicious. And his position near the back corner of the club only elevates his aloof demeanor. 

“I propose a bet,” Albert says, sidling up behind Spot. While Spot is good at what he does, Albert is good at what he does, which sometimes allows him to sneak up on Spot. Sometimes. 

Spot grunts in acknowledgement. He wishes Albert wouldn’t stand so close to him, he’s ruining his image; Spot looks like someone who will give you the greatest one-night stand of your life and then you never see him again, while Albert looks like someone who will call you afterwards. But, never one to back down from a challenge, Spot’s listening. 

“Whoever gets the most money by the end of the night wins,” Albert continues. 

“Cash money, or resale value?” Spot and Albert have very different styles, and as such, this is an important clarification to make. 

“Resale and cash.”

“Ground rules?”

“I’m limited to whatever I can get in this club, you’re limited to whoever in this club you go home with, no switching targets once you’re outside.”

Spot nods, simple, standard, fair. “What do I get if I win?”

“If you win, you can pick one meal for me and I’ll eat the whole thing, plus you get to pick where we get takeout from for the next week. If I win, I pick.” Albert offers. 

It’s tempting. 

Very tempting. 

“You’d eat a whole salad?” Spot asks, Albert’s willing to try the nastiest foods, but refuses to eat a simple salad. 

“Only if you win.” Albert’s got a cocky grin on, and Spot would love to knock it off. 

“You’ve got a deal, DaSilva.” Spot spits into his hand, and Albert mimics the action, and the two shake on it. “Now get lost, you’re killing my vibe.”

Albert gives him an easy salute and disappears back into the crowd. 

Spot smirks. This should be easy. 


It was not easy. Not easy at. All. 

Spot had stayed in his corner for another half hour before finally finding someone who caught his eye. He wasn’t usually so picky, but tonight he had to find someone rich enough that one hit will allow him to beat Albert, who can hit multiple targets throughout the night.

The man he’d picked had been around his own age, tall, skinny, fairly average clothes for someone in this club. None of these factors suggested that his man would be a good target. What did suggest this, is his how he had held himself. He stood tall and wore a smirk that said ‘I’m better than you and I know it.’

Confidence like that usually meant ‘big money,’ and ‘entitled bastard.’ Spot’s favorite target. 

So he’d done his usually shtick. The guy had been heading towards the bar when Spot had spotted him, so he’d met the guy there. 

“Can I buy ya a drink?” Spot had asked, standing slightly closer to the guy than was strictly necessary. 

The guy had turned an appraising eye on Spot, scanning him up and down before smirking. “I suppose you could convince me.”

And that smirk - that goddamn smirk. Spot had interpreted it as someone who thought that they were hot shit, and was reveling in the attention. 

Oh how Spot had been wrong. 

They’d had their drinks, then the guy - who’d said his name was Alex, but Spots doubts that that was his real name - had asked him to dance, and really, Spot couldn’t refuse. Dancing was a gateway to being invited home, and Spot needed to get into this guy’s house to steal all his junk. 

A few songs had gone by, and Spot thought that he was well on his way to getting in this guy’s bed, when the guy had wrapped his arms around Spot and started leaning in for a kiss. It had been perfect; his mark had been doing all the right things. 

Until Spot closed his eyes. 

He’d closed his eyes right before their lips had met, but no kiss had come. Instead, the guy had completely disengaged and was already running off by the time Spot had opened his eyes again. 

It’d been weird. 

But he’d heard an amused snort from behind him, and when he’d turned and looked, he’d found Albert standing there. 

“What?” Spot had demanded, he hadn’t caught on yet by that point. 

“He stole your wallet, dude,” Albert had answered, trying - unsuccessfully - to stifle his chuckle. 

“WHAT?” Spot had grabbed for his wallet, but Albert had been right, Spot’s wallet was gone. “That fucker!”

All of this brings Spot to where he is now: angrily walking home while Albert laughs at him. They’re walking home because Spot doesn’t have money for a cab, and Albert is an ass who won’t pay for one when “we can walk just fine.” Spot had quit the bet after getting his wallet stolen, but Albert’s still insisting that Spot had lost, so they make a deal, Spot doesn’t have to eat whatever nasty-ass thing Albert thought of for him, but Albert still gets to pick where they eat for the rest of the week. 

 “Fuck this, fuck Albert, fuck Alex,” Spot mutters under his breath. 

“Aww you’re just mad that he beat you,” Albert teases at full volume. 

“I’m gonna beat his skinny twink ass if I ever see his face again!” Spot growls louder. 

Albert hums noncommittally, already planning on finding the bold pickpocket again. If nothing else, then just to fuck with Spot.