The Surrender Gate: A Desire Exchange Novel

by Christopher Rice

“No. None of them hurt me. And I don’t hurt them. That’s not what I offer.”

  “What do you offer?”

  “Whatever they want…within reason. Most of them are like Dugas. They want to watch me jerk off, or watch me with someone else, like their boyfriend or their husband. Some of them want to talk. Others…they just want the usual.”

  “And what’s the usual?”

  “Mostly they want me on top, but every now and then…”

  “What if you’re not attracted to them?”

  “I carry a pill with me just in case.”

  “Valium?”

  “No,” he says, laughing. “More like a performance enhancement drug.”

  “I see. The other V.”

  “I’ve never had to use it. You train yourself, Em.”

  “Train yourself how?”

  “There’s usually a part of each of them…sometimes it’s a body part, sometimes it’s just the way they say a certain word. Sometimes they remind you of someone. But there’s usually something you can latch on to. Something your desire can reach out and hold. Focus on that and the rest is easy.”

  “I see. So being a hooker has taught you to see the inner beauty in everyone?” She manages to make it through the entire question before she bursts out laughing.

  “Em! I’m serious,” he says, giving her a light slap on the shoulder.

  “And you’re always safe?”

  “Well, yeah…” He pushes himself up on one elbow and turns her gently so he can stare into her eyes. “If you consider making love to your best friend safe.”

  “Making love? Is that what we were doing? I thought we were just putting on a show.”

  “You tell me, angel.”

  His nickname for her hasn’t just been changed, it’s been forever charged. From here on out, whenever he calls her angel, she’ll see his strong jaw lathered in her juices, the starry-eyed expression on his face when he saw how hard she’d made him.

  “You, mister,” she says, cupping his chin in one hand, “have done some of that stuff before. I want names.”

  “Oh, God.” He grimaces and makes a show of trying to turn his chin from her grip, but it’s no use. “Please don’t make me, Em.”

  “Oh, now you have to tell!”

  “Lacey Colter,” he mutters out of one side of his mouth.

  “What? No! Lacey was, like, the worst person in our high school.”

  “She got me drunk!” Jonathan whines.

  “Lord, so you’re like the opposite of most men. Three beers and suddenly you’re in bed with a girl.”

  “I didn’t need any beers to go to bed with you,” he whispers.

  “So it wasn’t just for show?”

  He rolls onto her carefully, reaches up and presses her wrists into the pillows, grinding his erection against the inside of her thigh. “If it was all for show, I wouldn’t have been able to finish. We guys can’t fake it the way you girls can.”

  “Yeah, I know. We girls would be a lot less sticky if you could.”

  “Emily Blaine, you are being very inappropriate,” he says, beaming. “And I like it.”

  “Whatever. You’re just all sexed up from the…scene.”

  “The scene? What do you mean?”

  “You know, the forbiddenness of it all.”

  “Forbiddenness isn’t a word, English major.”

  “Actually, it is. But thanks, Closeted Frat Boy Major. Whatever. You know what I mean. Getting caught. Dugas ordering you to have sex with me. The scene. That’s what did it.”

  “Dugas didn’t order me to have sex with you. You did when you accepted his offer.”

  “Fine. But it’s the scene that got you going, is what I’m saying—”

  “Em, I’m not going to give you a prize every time you say the word scene, so you can stop already.”

  “Nice evasion there but I’m not one of your clients, Michael.”

  “Damn straight. If you were just one of my clients, I wouldn’t bother to do this.” He licks his way up the nape of her neck. “Or this,” he adds, gripping one hand over her mound. There’s so much heat coming from his palm she can feel it through her jeans.

  “Or you’d just charge extra,” she whispers.

  When he feels her eyes on him, he stops his ministrations. His sigh is that of a teenager who’s been caught making a beeline for the front door ten minutes after curfew.

  “Uh oh,” he groans. “It’s the face.”

  “I just…I mean, it was good. Don’t get me wrong. It was like great good. But…come on, Jonathan. Let’s not pretend I’m going to be enough for you in this department, okay? There are certain pieces of equipment I just don’t have.”

  “Or we could stop pretending like we know what’s actually happening and just sort of…go with it.”

  “Just go with it? Since when are you such a Buddhist?”

  “Since when do I go down on my best friend?”

  “Jonathan!”

  “Hey, listen. If you want to make this a one-time thing, that’s fine. But personally,” he returns his hands to her mound, rubbing it forcefully and steadily with the heel of his hand. “I think there’s a lot more research we should do before we make a final decision.”

  “Yeah, well, what if I just blew the door off and now you’re going to be eating pussy all over town?”

  “Gross! Don’t use that word!”

  “Wait, seriously? My hooker best friend, who just plowed me in front of a stranger, is going to get all bent out of shape about what I call my poo-nanny.”

  “That’s worse!”

  “My penis washing machine, you mean.”

  “Emily! Stop it!”

  When he rears up and away from her, she goes for his tickle spots. He curls into a fetal position, trying, and failing, to shield himself from her two-handed attack. “My bearded clam!” she cries.

  “Gross!”

  “See. If you can’t handle all the words for a vagina, how are you gonna handle vaginas? Plural!”

  After a brief tussle, he grabs both her wrists, forcing her back into a seated position like his own.

  “I don’t want anyone else’s vagina.” He’s started the retort with a smile, but then the seriousness of his proclamation settles over them both. The mirth vanishes from his expression. They’re suddenly silent, save for their breaths, which are as deep and heavy as if they were in the midst of sex itself and not just talking about it. “Just yours,” he adds in a whisper.

  “But you’re not going to stop wanting other men,” she finally says because it would be more painful not to.

  “I don’t know,” he whispers. “I mean, it’s not like I planned this.”

  “Neither did I.”

  “But we both wanted it. So what does that mean? I mean…how long have we wanted to do this and not acted on it?”

  Through the open doorway, she can see the spot where the gutter sends off a small jet of spray down into the courtyard below. But the reality fades before a vision, a speculation, really of what The Desire Exchange might be. How did Jonathan put it? Rich old farts having some kind of orgy inside a barn, while Ryan Benoit…does what exactly? Takes turns on each of them? Passes out cocktails in a waiter’s outfit?

  “I don’t know. And honestly, I don’t have time to figure it out. I’ve got a lot of work ahead of me already.”

  “Yeah, inheriting a fortune really takes a lot out of a girl.”

  “You know that’s not what I mean. I’m talking about Ryan Benoit.”

  “You’re talking about The Desire Exchange.”

  “Right now, they’re the same thing.”

  “Maybe. Either way, you’re not going alone.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean whatever The Desire Exchange is, I’m going with you.”

  “Jonathan, the price of admission is literally a million a person. You have that kind of cash lying around?”

  “Arthur does. He’s leaving it all to you anyway. And it’ll im
prove your chances of finding his son without being…violated by a bunch of rich old men.”

  “And women, possibly. Dugas didn’t say how many there’d be of each.”

  “Yeah, and I wouldn’t count on him to say much. That’s not his style. He’ll want you to suffer through it by yourself and then he’ll want to hear all the details.”

  “It can’t be that dangerous, Jonathan. If George Dugas came back in one piece—”

  “George Dugas is a millionaire real estate developer with a history of criminal activity and a knack for destroying people who get in his way. Emily Blaine is a restaurant manager with an English degree who tries to see the best in people even when they’re stealing from the register.”

  “Wow. I actually thought I was kind of jaded.”

  “You are. But you’re not a sociopath. And George Dugas is most definitely a sociopath.”

  “Alright, well, maybe he’s lying to us about the whole thing then?”

  “He’s not.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “What does he gain from lying about it?”

  “He got to watch us go at it.”

  “There are other ways he could have pulled that off. No, Em. I think he really liked you. As much as a man like him can like anyone. My point is, whatever The Exchange is, he wants you to go through what he went through. And that makes me nervous. And that’s why you’re not going alone.”

  Or you’re jealous, she thinks. She wonders if he’s reading her mind. Just then he does what he always does when he’s angry. He crosses his arms over his chest and pouts, which always looks a little silly and endearing given what a big guy he is.

  Lightning flashes outside, strobing his biceps, his chest, his cute little pursed lips. Then they’re back in the shrouded intimacy of the dimly lit room. My hero, she thinks, but saying it aloud would feel unbearably cheesy. My jealous and suddenly protective hero.

  “Fine,” she whispers.

  “It’s been a long night,” he says quietly.

  “Yeah. I should go.” She’s halfway to her car keys when Jonathan wraps his fingers around her wrist. Anticipating her move, he crossed the room in a flash.

  “No, you shouldn’t,” he whispers into her ear.

  “Jonathan—”

  “What’s the matter? You sleep over all the time.”

  “Before…”

  “Before what?”

  He lifts the wrist he’s just grabbed up to one side, as if they’re about to start a slow waltz around his bedroom. He smells like vanilla body wash and the last hint of whatever musky cologne he spritzed himself with before visiting George Dugas. It’s not his usual fragrance, something he’s reserved just for his clients. Or just for Dugas. Does he have a different scent for every customer? Will he have a scent that’s just for her?

  “Before I…” The words leave her as she’s barraged by fresh memories of their lovemaking.

  “Before you knew what my tongue felt like inside you?” he asks, and when she doesn’t answer, he pulls her closer to him. “So you’re afraid we won’t get any sleep? Is that it?”

  “Or I value our friendship and I don’t want to ruin it.”

  “Oh, I won’t ruin it. Especially now that I know how good it can taste.”

  “Jonathan,” she groans.

  Drawing them together, he releases his grip on her wrist, drags his fingertips down the inside of her forearm, and opens his mouth against her neck. Now there’s real fear riding the throb of passion, and it forces words from her mouth before she can measure them.

  “You like being wanted, J Man. You always have. At the bar, you never go home with the hottest guy. You go home with the ones who make you feel like a stud.” Rigid, he pulls his mouth from her neck. But it’s not enough to stop her. “Don’t fool yourself into thinking you can be someone you’re not just because…”

  “Because you want me inside you again?” The way he’s said it makes it sound like an accusation. And all at once it feels as if they’ve just left the embrace of a comforting dream and now they’re walking on a cold, hard floor, rubbing sleep from their eyes.

  “I’m tired,” she says. “I just… Let me get some rest and then we can—”

  “You think too much, Emily Blaine. You think too much and you have too many names for things.”

  When he turns his broad, naked back to her, she feels as if he’s given her a light slap.

  “I’ll call you in the morning,” she mutters. Then she’s on the stairs outside, shoving her keys and wallet into her back pocket, half expecting Jonathan to pursue her down the rickety wooden steps. But he doesn’t come after her, and the full implication of Jonathan’s parting words hit her once she’s outside.

  Surrounded by rain-slicked parked cars and townhouses, Emily freezes like a lost tourist trying to get her bearings back. Her keys are in hand, but she can’t bring herself to take another step toward her Camry. She couldn’t care less she’s getting soaked for the fourth time that night.

  What did Jonathan mean? Would they have tasted each other’s flesh before now if she weren’t such a thinker? If she wasn’t so busy coming up with words for things? Could the insane bliss she’d experienced earlier that night have been hers to enjoy years before if she hadn’t been so caught up with labels and categories? Well, it’s not like it was her fault, for Pete’s sake! Jonathan was the one who came exploding out of the closet like a giant gay hurricane when they were just sixteen. Labels, T-shirts, bumper sticker, blowjobs and all.

  Why is it so difficult to give pleasure to the people we care for the most? Dugas’s question echoes in her crowded mind. It’s the only real detail the man gave her about The Desire Exchange, his assertion that if she surrendered to the experience of it, she’d be forced to answer questions just like this one.

  Well, she’s got a damn good opportunity to answer it right now.

  Before she can ponder what she’s about to do, Emily is back inside Jonathan’s courtyard and mounting the steps to his apartment as quietly as she can. The front door glides open as soon as she places her hand on the knob. He left it unlocked, for her. He sits up in bed, the comforter sliding down his smooth, sculpted torso, his expression unreadable in the dark.

  He doesn’t move, just watches her through the shadows as she peels off her wet jeans and then her panties. When she climbs up onto him and straddles his chest, all without pausing to remove her wet shirt, he sinks back into the pillows.

  “I lied,” she whispers. “I’m not tired.”

  Then she’s straddling his face and when she drives her sex against his mouth, his lips part and his tongue goes to work instantly. She grabs the headboard with both hands and he grips the back of her thighs with both of his. All the anger and frustration and confusion turns to grinding hot lust as she rides the indisputable power of her best friend’s skillful tongue.

  Whatever happens tomorrow, or the next day, whatever secrets await them at The Desire Exchange, it’s her turn to have a taste of Jonathan Claiborne. No aliases, no hourly rate, no strange bargains. She’s been a witness to his smoldering sexuality for too long. It’s her turn to feel his fingers and his tongue.

  She grabs the back of his head in one hand, the headboard in the other, and drives his flickering tongue against her clit as the second orgasm of the night lightnings through her from toes to skull.

  When she collapses onto the tousled comforter next to him, he spoons into her. Once she’s caught her breath, he starts to peel her wet shirt from her skin. She lifts her arms over her head so he can slide it off the rest of the way, and then they’re both naked and curled against each other, listening to the rain.

  “Now will you sleep here?” he asks.

  “I think I just gave you my answer.”

  He laughs gently and nuzzles his mouth into her neck.

  The music from next door has stopped. Now there’s just the rain, Jonathan’s hard and confident embrace, and the wet traces of desire they’ve left to dry across
each other’s bodies.

  5

  “My God, Emily,” Arthur Benoit whispers. “What have I’ve gotten you into?”

  The man has uttered some variation of this question at least ten times since Emily started recounting a highly edited and distinctly G-rated version of her meeting with George Dugas. Each time, Emily allowed for a polite pause before continuing, but now she has reached the end of her story (and her bizarre request) and the silence inside Magnolia Gate’s vast master bedroom feels electric.

  Jonathan sits quietly in one corner, eyeing their palatial surroundings with a bright new awareness in his eyes. Someday soon, all of this will belong to Emily. From the portrait paintings of long dead, plantation-owning Benoits, to the grand four-poster bed, its columns carved into replicas of cornstalks, its large wood-framed canopy full of tufted burgundy fabric. The thought of inheriting just the contents of this bedroom feels so overwhelming, she can’t allow her eyes to wander to the soaring window and its view of the expansive gardens outside, lest she collapse from the shock of it all.

  “Jonathan…” Arthur whispers, one frail hand extended in the man’s direction. Like a dutiful suitor, Jonathan pops out of his chair and approaches the bed. He’s dressed the part of her reliable, stalwart best friend; a sober pair of pressed khakis and a mint green Ralph Lauren button-up—none of his usual flash and glam. No Prada, no Gucci, no patent leather. “You have agreed to this?”

  “Going with her, you mean? I’ve insisted on it.”

  “You’ve insisted that Arthur pay for you, which isn’t exactly the same—”

  “I’ll pay,” Arthur answers. “I’ll pay for all of it. Even though we have no real idea what this even is…I mean, an experience? Is that what Dugas said?”

  “Yes,” Jonathan says before Emily can. “Honestly, sir, whatever it is, I don’t think it’ll be all that impressive. Probably just—”

  “Impressive?” Arthur cuts him off. “Some sort of secret…sex cult fails to impress you, does it?”

  When Emily gives Jonathan a threatening look, he bows his head, knowing he earned it. They agreed to let Emily do the talking for just this reason. Arthur Benoit’s been presented with enough new information for one day; Jonathan doesn’t need to flash his credentials as a sex worker.