Turning Point Club Box Set

by JA Huss

  “You,” I say, walking the circle, pointing to them one at a time as I pass, “are not the woman you were when you first came here, are you?”

  “No,” they say. This time they don’t yell. Two of them are crying, one is holding it in, but doing a horrible job, and the other three are taking deep breaths as they look skyward with their eyes closed. Just the way I taught them.

  “You are brave,” I say, touching each of them on the shoulder as I continue to walk around the circle. “You are strong,” I say. “And your past does not define you.”

  They stare at me. All of them are crying now. But it’s not a sad cry. It’s not desperate and confused. That was who they were when they came through my doors two months ago on day one.

  Who they are now, at the end of day sixty, bears no resemblance to who they were then.

  “Ladies,” I say, stopping to smile. “I pronounce you graduates of Issy Grey’s Go Fuck Yourself Masterclass.” My assistant, Suzanne, hands out their certificates and I shake their hands, keeping the affirmations going.

  I am proud of each and every one of them. All of them are changed.

  I did that.

  Well, they did that. But I definitely helped.

  It’s a fulfilling feeling. To help. To make others your priority. To take them in all broken and sad and give them the tools they need to succeed.

  This job isn’t a job. It’s a calling. And when I’m doing it, I am complete. I need nothing else.

  Thirty minutes later the office has cleared out, Suzanne is cleaning up after our final exam—which started with kickboxing and ended with wine—and I’m peeking out the window in the door, watching Chella Baldwin as she looks both ways, crosses the street, and then bustles into my storefront, bringing the cold and snow with her.

  “Whew!” she exclaims. “Stupid cold out there tonight. I saw your grads leave, congrats!” She holds out one of her cute pale yellow takeaway teacups that say Chella’s Tea Room on them in swirly black calligraphy. She also has a pale yellow box tied with black string which I know contains one or two of her delicious lemon tarts.

  “Thanks,” I say. To all of it. The tea, the tarts, and the praise. “What’s going on over there?” I nod my head to her shop. “You’re so busy tonight.”

  Chella cocks her head at me with one of those are-you-fucking-kidding-me looks she gives me often.

  “What?”

  “It’s Valentine’s Day,” she says.

  “Oh.” I’m so not interested in thinking about that right now. So I start shuffling papers on Suzanne’s desk to make that clear.

  “You’re coming over.”

  I smile at her. Because she’s Chella and she’s sweet, and smart, and beautiful, and so that’s what everyone does when she tries to butt into their lives for what she feels is a very good reason. She’s old-money rich. Her father is a senator. Walcott is his name. Senator Walcott. He’s been in DC for like thirty years. Which makes him powerful. Very powerful. I’ve never met him, so maybe my opinion of him is off, but on TV, when he’s standing up there preaching to people about morals and ethics, all I see is… lies.

  And that’s what I expected when I heard his daughter owned the tea shop across the street. But that’s not what I got once she came over to introduce herself.

  She is nothing like her father. I almost can’t even imagine her sweet face next to his sour one. I brought him up once to try to feel her out, see what kind of relationship she has with him, because she’s never mentioned him. Not once. But she just said, “Smith and the baby are my family now.”

  “I am not going over there.” I say it with firm conviction. That’s what I do. That’s who I am. Issy Grey, life coach extraordinaire. Filled up with the firmest of convictions.

  “You are,” Chella says. “Remember that game I told you about?”

  “Oh, God, not this again. Come on, Chella. You know I’m not interested in that stuff. Just let it go.”

  “Listen,” she says, leaning into my ear like she’s gonna whisper a secret. “I have the game master over there. He almost never takes meetings with clients. It’s almost always done anonymously. But for you, he made an exception.”

  “Am I supposed to be impressed that some man has made time for me?” I almost snort.

  “This isn’t any man, this is the game master.”

  “My answer is no, Chella. I’m not interested in a fantasy fulfillment game. Especially”—I do snort this time—“if it’s sexual. I can think of nothing I’d like less than that.”

  She wraps her hands around my arm and leans in again. “That’s because you haven’t tried it yet.” And then she winks. “I played,” she says. “Couple years ago.”

  “You did?” I’m surprised at this. Not that I should be, I guess. Considering who her friends are. Who her husband is. But Chella? She’s so sweet, and smart, and put-together. What in the world was she thinking?

  “Mmmmmhmmm,” she coos. “It’s how I met Smith.”

  “Real-ly?” I drawl, more than a little curious now.

  “Yup. And let me tell you, it was the most fun I’ve ever had in my life. Plus, you know”—she wiggles her diamond at me—“I got marriage and a baby on the way out of it. Not to mention a bunch of cool friends.”

  Elias Bricman. Quin Foster. Yeah, those are some friends, all right. They’re well known around town, but not for the things one typically wants to be known for. Kinky sex games, secret clubs, masculine power.

  “Just come over and talk to him about it.”

  “Who?” I ask. “Smith?”

  “No, silly. The master. I can’t tell you his name. He tries to keep all this stuff on the down low because of his day job. But you already know him, so…”

  “I know him?” I ask, blinking at her. Because despite my resolve to get away from her as quickly as possible so I can go home and just take a long, hot bath alone, I’m so very, very curious now.

  “Yes. Personally.”

  “Are you fucking with me right now?”

  “No,” she insists. “Come over and see. Otherwise this little secret will eat away at you, Issy Grey. Forever. You’ll be kicking yourself tomorrow if you don’t satisfy your curiosity. And I know you,” she says, poking her finger into the fleshy part of my upper arm. “Your curiosity is insatiable. Just two weeks ago I mentioned a woman I know from the Denver Women’s Tea Brigade who found out her husband was cheating on her and emptied their bank accounts to get ready to bail, and you—”

  “I found her,” I finish before she can. “And helped her. That’s all.”

  Chella gives me one of those knowing looks, the kind with the raised eyebrow and a smirky grin that says, That’s all, huh?

  I hesitate, my resolve faltering. Because I am insanely curious about who this stupid game master is. Especially if I know him. I look around, thinking about who it could be.

  “Come on. You’ve got nothing to lose. You can say no and that’s that. Game over. But at least you get to know something practically no one else knows.”

  I think about this for a second. “Why would he out himself to me?”

  “Because, like I said, you already know him. And he trusts you.”

  God, I’m dying now. He trusts me? Who the hell? And Chella knows I’m dying because she says, “Get your coat and walk over with me. Have a cup of tea, enjoy the festive atmosphere, and have a nice conversation with a handsome man about sex. It’s Valentine’s Day.” She winks. “And your plans involve a date with your bathtub.”

  “How do you know?” I ask, defensive.

  “Because you’ve been my best friend for almost a year now, Issy. Ever since you moved into this office last spring. It’s my job as Denver’s premier busybody to know what you’re up to.”

  I can’t stop the smile. Or the laugh. “Fine,” I say, giving in. “But just one cup of tea. And I’m not playing this game. I’m only going to see who this mastermind is.”

  “Perfect,” Chella sings. “Get your coat.

/>   The Tea Shop is right next door to the old Turning Point Club, which went out of business a little over a year ago and no one ever reopened it. Which is surprising, since it’s prime real estate. But I’m not looking to have the business I run associated with a sex club, so the building next door to Chella’s shop being empty was actually one of the reasons I decided to rent space here. I mean, yeah, the name of my business is Go Fuck Yourself, but that’s badass. And the women who come in afraid, desperate, and sad leave feeling empowered.

  I do good here. The name has nothing to do with it. I’m not gonna apologize to anyone for the name, even though the city tried to make me change the sign and served me with an injunction three days after we opened. But that’s another story. And I won that case anyway. In many different ways.

  “Pfffft,” I say to myself as we cross the snowy street.

  “What are you huffing about?” Chella asks.

  “Nothing,” I say. “So what kind of game does this master mastermind?”

  She looks over her shoulder as she reaches for the handle of her shop door and smiles. “Just wait. You’ll see.”

  We go inside and there’s like a bazillion couples having romantic… dinner? Afternoon tea? Wine? It’s some combination of the three, I think. But the whole place smells wonderful. Like your grandma’s kitchen at Christmas and a French bread shop all mixed together. “Mmm,” I say, taking in the scents. “What’s on the menu? That’s not just cookies and cakes.”

  “I’ve got one set up for you and your date. So you’ll see soon enough.” She winks at me.

  “My date? This is a meeting, Chella. Not a freaking date.” And why is she winking at me? It’s like she’s got some secret plan going on here. And not just this sex game she’s trying to rope me into, either. Something else. Is she trying to set me up with this guy?

  “Where are we going?” But she doesn’t respond, just leads me through a maze of tables to the private room in the back. “OK. Look, I’m gonna need some more—”

  But before I can get the rest of my objection out, she opens the double doors and waves me in.

  “Jordan?” I say.

  Jordan stands, buttons his suit coat, and then walks towards me with his hands outstretched. He leans in to kiss my cheek and gives me a friendly hug. Says, “Nice to see you again, Issy. How’s business going?”

  “You?” I ask, pulling back, dumbfounded. “You’re the… the… sex master?”

  “Surprised?” he asks, arms out wide as if to say, This is me.

  “But you’re… you’re a lawyer,” I stammer. “Not just any lawyer, my lawyer.”

  “Not true,” he says, waving me over to the table. I oblige him and sit. Mostly because he pulls out my chair and nods his head, but also because I’m eyeballing that bottle of wine on the table and sitting means I’m one step closer to drinking. “I was your first contact at the firm, but technically, Stratford was your legal counsel. How’d that all turn out, anyway?”

  All that is in reference to the legal battle I had with the city over the word ‘fuck’ in my storefront sign. “I won,” I say, lifting my chin. Because technically, I did.

  “I heard you settled.” He’s pouring us both a glass of wine. “And the sign above your store says Go F*ck Yourself. With an asterisk.” He winks.

  Fuckin’ winkers. Why is everyone winking at me today?

  “I did settle, but I still won. Glenn Stratford gave me some good advice and I took it. It was the best possible outcome. And if you already knew this, why are you asking?”

  “Just filling the empty spaces, Miss Grey.”

  “They paid me to change the sign. Almost ten thousand dollars. And,” I stress, “they paid my legal fees too. It would’ve been counterproductive to continue the fight. I won.”

  Jordan smiles. He’s one of those dashing men. Tall, square jaw, nice suit, expensive watch and shoes. Always put together. Brimming with confidence. Old money. “Indeed you did, Issy.” He lifts his glass in a toast. I clink it, more to get that first swallow of wine down than to celebrate. I don’t know what it is about Jordan Wells, but he’s always made me nervous.

  If I were one of my clients I’d say it’s probably because he’s so handsome. So bold. So self-assured. And even though I sell bold self-assurance right along with kickboxing and jujitsu classes, it’s a show. It’s always a show. People are people, and ain’t no one figured out how to be in control all of the time. They just learned how to fake it better than most.

  I’m an excellent faker. So no, that’s not it. His looks and arrogance aren’t what make me nervous.

  “Anyway,” Jordan says, cracking open a briefcase sitting on the empty chair next to him. “Business, huh?” He takes out a tablet and starts tapping on it.

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  “Your application.”

  “I didn’t apply.”

  “Chella did that for you.” He looks at me over the top of his tablet. “You know that. That’s why you’re here with me on Valentine’s Day and not out with… who would you be out with if you weren’t here?”

  “Fuck you,” I mumble, then take a long gulp of wine.

  Jordan just chuckles to himself.

  Why am I even bothering?

  You’re bothering, Issy Grey, because you really don’t have plans tonight. And at least you’re out somewhere. And there’s wine. And a handsome man to look at across the table, even if you do want to punch him in the face right now. And Chella will bring us dinner.

  And all that sounds a whole lot better than going home and binging Netflix while I drink wine in the bathtub tonight.

  “OK.” He sighs, like my application might be giving him a headache. “Let’s just go through the questions to see if you’re a good candidate for a game.”

  I blink at him. Three times. Slowly. To exaggerate the fact that this whole thing is ridiculous. “I never said I wanted to play a game. Chella did.”

  “But you’re here,” he says. “And you sat down. And you’re drinking my wine and, presumably, going to eat dinner with me. So… you’re interested.” He pauses for a beat. “Correct?”

  “I’m curious,” I say, feeling defensive. “Possibly intrigued. That’s it.”

  “Am I wasting my time?”

  “Jesus Christ, Jordan. Just get on with it, OK? I’m not gonna play a game with you at this table. I’m tired. If you’ve got something interesting for me, something that might put a new spark into my life, then let’s fuckin’ hear it.”

  He looks back down at his tablet, smiling.

  I roll my eyes and sigh. Loudly.

  “So you’re interested in our Panic Game Package?” He’s still looking down at his tablet.

  “What? What the hell is a panic game?”

  “You know,” he says, tapping away on his tablet like this is no big deal. “You need to be pulled out of your comfort zone.” He raises his eyes to meet mine. “Choking. Strangulation. Domination. Stuff like that.”

  “What? No!” I actually laugh. “Who the hell—”

  “Lots of people, Issy. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “I’m not ashamed. I’m aghast at how you could’ve gotten me so… wrong!”

  “Oh,” Jordan says. “Well, this wasn’t me, remember? This was Chella.”

  “Chella actually thought I needed a choking game?” I’m… perplexed. To say the least. Chella knows more about me than anyone these days. Which isn’t saying much, since I’ve kept most of my past hidden. I’m not ashamed of it—I just don’t feel it’s productive to wave my mistakes around like a banner. Plus, my entire career was built on the premise that I fix people like me, not am people like me.

  Which I do. I mean, I fixed me, right?

  “No. Chella thought you needed a panic game. Perhaps I misinterpreted her request for you. Shall we ask her?”

  “No,” I say. “Just… no. I don’t—”

  “OK, maybe I got it wrong. Panic can mean a lot of things, but mostly it is about co
ntrol. And let’s face it, Issy. You’re a superstar control freak. It’s pretty normal to crave a little submission.”

  I open my mouth to object again. But he hushes me with a raised finger. “Just let me finish. Panic can just mean you need a little…” He takes a deep breath as he thinks. “A little spontaneity in your life. A little chaos. Or a little bit of danger, maybe? Not everyone wants the danger part, so ignore that if that’s not what you’re after. I’m just explaining all the ways a panic game can go, that’s all.”

  I’ve got nothing for that. Before this conversation the words ‘panic’ and ‘game’ never went together.

  “So… which one is you?”

  “None of them.” I laugh. “I mean, I’m a control freak for a reason. I like a predictable life. I love order, and neatness, and clean lines, if you want my interior design taste. I have two God-given talents. Martial arts and the ability to make people believe the things I tell them. I’m satisfied with those two talents. I’m satisfied with what I have and I’m not looking for a panic game, OK? I’m not looking for any game. I only came because Chella talked me into it.”

  “That’s it?” Jordan asks. “You only came over here to discuss a sexual fantasy fulfillment game with me because your friend… what? Offered it up?”

  “Yeah,” I say, again feeling defensive.

  “So you have no interest in this?” Jordan raises an eyebrow at me. “Be honest, Issy. I mean, I’m just here to make you happy, OK? That’s my only job. So if you’re interested in this at all, just tell me. I can find you something you’d enjoy.”

  I start to answer, but he holds up a finger again.

  “Think hard,” he says. “You won’t get another chance to play. I’ll have to blacklist you. That’s just the rules.”

  I huff out a frustrated breath of air. “OK, then hold on. Let me wrap my head around this.”

  “Take your time,” Jordan says, sipping his wine.