by JA Huss
“I mean… I guess I could use some kind of game. I’m just not sure what. Do you have like… a menu? Or something?”
Jordan laughs. “A menu?”
“You know what I mean. Like a list of what you offer. What kind of games are there?”
“It’s your fantasy, Issy. Not mine. They’re all custom. You already said you don’t want to submit to anyone. So perhaps you’d like to be the top? Hmm? Is dominating a man your fantasy?”
“God, no.” I laugh.
“OK, how about ménage?”
I make a face and shake my head. “No, I don’t think so. Sounds so… messy.”
He huffs out a laugh at that, then mumbles something that might be, “You’re telling me.” He tabs a few things on his tablet and says, “Why don’t you just tell me what you like, Issy? No need to be embarrassed, OK? I’m a professional. This is my job.”
“You’re a lawyer,” I say, frustrated that I’m being cajoled into having a sex conversation with a man I hardly know.
“Which means you can trust me to keep anything you say confidential. I mean, I’m a man of my word, but if it makes you feel safer, we can sign an NDA.” He shrugs. “That way we can’t talk about it and we can forget about the part where other people find out.”
“Do you have one of those with you?” I laugh.
“Of course,” he says, pulling out a contract from his briefcase. “I sign them all the time. What you’re feeling is pretty typical.” He hands it to me. I take it and the pen he offers. “It’s really basic. We put the date, time, and place on there. Then we both sign. And that means we’re legally obligated to keep this just between us. If I breach, you can sue me. How’s that?”
It is a pretty straightforward contract. And that is all it says.
So I sign. Because I actually do have a fantasy. And fuck it, right? I think Chella did this as a friend. She means well. So why not? I pass it back and he signs his, then folds it up and places it in his briefcase.
“OK,” Jordan says, smiling at me as he leans back in his chair and takes a sip of wine. “Hit me, Issy. What’s your fantasy? And I’ll see if I can help.”
“Well… I have always…” I cringe, not sure if I should actually say it.
“Go on, you’re almost there.”
“Well.” I sigh. “Ever since I moved in across the street I’ve sorta had a secret fantasy about the club.”
“Club?” Jordan asks.
“You know,” I say, nodding my head in the direction of next door. “That place.”
“Turning Point?” he asks. “It’s closed. And I don’t have a sex club on my roster of games, so…”
“I know it’s closed. It’s not really the sex club part, but the… scene part.”
“Scene?” he asks, blinking, as if he’s confused.
Which just makes me heat up with anger. I want to slap him right now. “Are you or are you not a sex game master? Why are you acting like you have no clue what I’m talking about?”
“I just need specifics, Issy. Tell me what you mean by scene.”
“You know. People… watching. Lots of people. Like a whole crowd of people.”
“Public sex?”
“No,” I say quickly. “No, not public. Private, but in a place with lots of people.”
“A bar?”
“No. That’s not private.”
“So a sex club.” He laughs.
“Whatever. I guess so. I dunno. Sex with…” I think about what he was telling me about panic a few minutes ago. “With chaos. Yes. I think you got that part right. I want some safe chaos. That’s the fantasy I think about most. So can you make a game about that?”
He grimaces. Then sighs. Then looks up at the ceiling. Then stands up and buttons his suit coat. “Ya know, Issy, I don’t think you’re really a good candidate for this after all.”
“What?”
“Yeah, let’s forget the whole thing. I’ll let Chella know it didn’t work out, OK? You go ahead and enjoy the dinner. I hear it’s delicious.”
And then he puts on his coat, grabs his briefcase, and walks out.
“What the fuck?” I get up and go after him, but he’s already making his way through the tables of people, and it’s either let him leave or make a scene, so…
So I just watch him go.
“What the hell happened?” Chella says, coming towards me holding a tray of silver-domed dishes. “I was just bringing dinner.”
I take a deep breath. Deep. Count to ten.
“Issy!” Chella whisper-yells so the people all round us don’t hear. “Did he just walk out on you?”
“Yup,” I finally answer. “Said I wasn’t right for this or some bullshit like that.”
“Come in here and sit down,” Chella says, bumping her hip into mine to indicate I should retreat back into the little private tea room.
I do. But only because I left my purse in there and need to go fetch it. But by the time I walk those ten steps to the table two seconds later, I feel exhausted and just plop back into the chair.
Chella sets the food on the table and takes the place of Jordan across from me. “What do you mean? Like he turned you down?”
“Yes,” I say, both annoyed and defensive about the way she stressed the word ‘down.’ “Apparently I’m not a good candidate for his stupid game.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Chella says. “Let me go talk to him—”
But I reach over the table and grab her by the shirt sleeve before she can fully stand up. “No. You will do no such thing. I didn’t want to play, remember? It’s just… he was kind of a dick about it. So just fuck him.”
“Jesus, Issy. I’m so sorry. This is all my fault. I didn’t mean for it to make you feel bad.”
“I know.” I sigh, forcing myself to move on by lifting up the silver dome on the plate. “What’s this? Can we still eat?”
“It’s parmesan risotto with roasted shrimp. And yes, I insist you stay. I’m taking a break right now, so I’ll take that jerk’s place.” She lifts the dome off the other plate and starts spreading her napkin in her lap.
I do the same, but… fuck. This whole feeling of… I dunno… failure washes over me and I can’t shake it. “God, I hate him now. He was so rude, Chella.”
“Forget him, OK? I’m really sorry. And believe me, he won’t be getting any referrals from me again.” She takes a bite of risotto and then feigns orgasmic pleasure.
Which makes me smile, then laugh. And when I take a bite, I try to outdo her. Pretty soon we’re making so much noise, servers are poking their heads into the private tea room to see what’s going on.
“Don’t mind us,” Chella calls to them. “We’re just a couple of girls getting off on food!”
After that, we quiet down and just eat, drinking our wine. Well, I drink wine. Lots of wine, actually. But Chella is eight months pregnant, so she’s got sparkling cider. By the time dessert is served I’m pretty tipsy. It’s a beautiful, decadent strawberry tart with whipped cream on top. And believe me, the risotto was just foreplay compared to this treat.
“So,” Chella says, her lips wrapping around a spoonful of strawberries and whipped cream. “Did you… tell him your fantasy?”
I scowl. “I don’t want to talk about it. I’m feeling better about it now, so let’s just let it go.”
Chella takes another bite of tart and presses her lips into the spoon to get all the cream as she withdraws it. If you were a man watching her do that you’d probably mistake it for something sensual. And it does come off that way a little, if you’re a man and don’t know her. But I do know her. And I know that move. She does that at tea all the time when she’s got an opinion about something that differs from mine.
“What?” I ask. “Just say it.”
“Nope,” she says. “Moving on.”
“Chella,” I growl. “Just tell me what you’re thinking, for fuck’s sake.”
“Well…” She smooths her napkin in her lap. And now I really know sh
e’s got something to say, but doesn’t want to. “Just…” She looks up at me. “Was it a really weird fantasy?”
I think about this for a moment. “No. I mean, I’m pretty sure it’s common.”
“What is it?”
“I’m not telling you.”
“Come on, Issy! I’ve seen and heard it all. I used to go to Turning Point, you know.”
I make a face, unsure.
“Is it a ménage? Because that was mine and it was”—she laughs—“pret-ty fun.”
“No. Nothing so bold. I mean, all I asked for was a… scene. You know?”
Chella cocks her head at me. “A scene? As in drama?”
“No.” I huff. “Like a sex club scene. You know, where tons of people watch and you get off, and it’s safe, and a little bit anonymous.”
“Mmmm,” Chella says, smiling. “I had you pegged for a panic girl, but what do I know about people’s sexual fantasies?”
I’m about to protest her assumption about me, but then decide I can see her point. I can be a control freak. And it’s pretty common to assume a control freak wants control because they lost it once and never want to feel that way again.
Which, in my case, would be accurate. So I shut up.
But then she says, “I did that too.”
“What? A panic game?” Because that’s what’s still on my mind.
“No, the scene thing.”
“Jesus. Really? I thought you said Smith never let you do anything in the club?”
“We didn’t really. Well, one time he took me down there to watch. And we”—she cups her hand around her mouth and whispers—“fucked in front of a whole bunch of people.”
“Yes,” I breathe. “Like that. That’s what I was thinking. It’s not weird, is it?”
She shrugs. “A little.”
I narrow my eyes at her. “You never know when you should lie, do you? You’re supposed to say, No, Issy. It’s not weird at all.”
She laughs. “It’s not weird if you understand why you want it.” She stares at me for a few seconds. “Do you know why?”
It’s my turn to shrug. “It’s just… kinda sexy, that’s all.”
She inhales, exhales, then nods. “So… I’ve heard that when Turning Point was in full swing, Bric—he ran the place, so this was his thing, I guess—used to place his game player naked in the center of the lobby during private parties, blindfolded. Anyone at the party was allowed to touch her. Stimulate her,” Chella says with a knowing nod of her head. “So she had no idea whose touch it was. Was it male? Female? Never found out. Because Bric would take her upstairs and fuck her afterward. He was the only one allowed to fuck her, I guess.”
“Holy fuck.” That wasn’t what I was thinking, like at all. But it does sound kinda sexy if you’re in a safe place. And you trust the guy. But I don’t say that to Chella. Because what kind of empowered woman wants that, right? It would be the height of hypocrisy to tell my clients to be powerful and then in private willingly give up all power. To a man.
“Right?” Chella says. “Like, if I had known that was an option on the menu when I was playing the game, I might’ve requested it.”
I laugh. Loudly. Then look around to see if anyone heard me. “Wait, you’re saying that was a game? Like this really happened?”
Chella shrugs. “I’ve heard Smith and Bric talking. So yeah, I think that was real. But it wasn’t me.” She sighs. “Unfortunately.”
“So what I asked for was not so weird, right? Why was Jordan so freaked out about it?”
Chella takes a bite of her dessert and thinks about this for a few seconds. “I think Jordan misses the Club. And maybe what you’re asking requires him to put something Club-like back together. And maybe he’s worried if he does that, he’ll just say fuck it and reopen it under a new name.”
“Did someone buy the building next door?”
“Long time ago,” Chella says. “But they just started doing work in there a few weeks ago. I have no idea who owns it now. Or what they’re gonna turn it into. But I think Jordan regrets not buying the building. Regrets not keeping the Club open. And your request probably hit him close to home, ya know? So don’t take it personally. He just reacted like… well, a man. That’s all.”
“Yeah.” I sigh. “Makes sense. And I’m glad I stuck around and had dinner with you. Somehow you put everything into perspective. Have you ever thought about being a life coach?”
Chella almost spits out her tart. She covers her mouth with her napkin, swallows, then takes a deep breath and says, “Hell, no! Are you crazy? I’m a mess! I can’t be telling other people what to do.”
“You’re the most put-together mess I’ve ever met, Mrs. Baldwin. But OK. I get it. And I won’t bring it up again. But if you do ever want to get into the life-coach business, you call me first, understand?”
“Deal,” she says. “Should we call it a night? Or do you want to finish the wine?”
“Wine,” I say, laughing.
So I do. Chella sips her sparkling cider and we talk. And laugh. And it’s probably the best night out I’ve had in ages.
By the time the Tea Room is ready to close, it’s quiet and nearly empty. I put on my coat and make my way through to the front of the restaurant to pay.
Chella waves me off, saying I was her date tonight and dinner’s on her. And so I head to the front door, ready to go back to the office to get some work, in case I can’t sleep tonight, and then go home to my small, hundred-year-old house and just… decompress from all this introspective thinking.
But that’s when I see the flashing red and blue lights.
That’s when I notice the street has been shut down and there are dozens of cops and men in suits, and…
“What the fuck is going on?” Chella asks, coming over to stand next to me.
“Dunno,” one of her servers says. “They came in here about forty minutes ago, said no emergency, but they were shutting down the street to traffic, so if anyone had a car parked outside, they should go get it now. About a third of the people cleared out immediately.”
“What? Why didn’t you tell me?”
The server smiles, then shrugs. “He said nothing to worry about. And you were having fun.”
“But…” I stutter. “But they’re in my office!”
I push through the door, cross the street, and even though at least four people try to stop me with a mad grab at my coat sleeve, I yank free and continue walking until I’m stepping right up to the man in a suit who seems to be in charge. “Just what the fuck is going on here?”
He looks down at me. He’s a tall guy, mid-thirties, maybe. Dark hair and dark eyes. His suit says high-ranking government asshole. But his mouth says, “I’m afraid someone was pranking you, Miss—”
“Grey,” I say. “What do you mean, pranking me?”
“We got an anonymous tip that there was a meth operation being run out of this office.”
“What?”
“And then we got a search warrant, so we went inside.”
“You didn’t even call me?”
“Not sure if you understand what a search warrant is, but it gives us permission to—”
“Don’t mansplain to me! I know what a fuckin’ search warrant is!”
“Good,” he says, opening up a small notebook and writing something down. “Then you understand why we didn’t try to get your permission first.”
I look at my office. There are dogs in there. Cops everywhere. Guys in special uniforms I don’t even recognize.
“Special Agent Ivers?” a man with a giant German Shepherd says, snapping my attention back to the guy who seems to be in charge.
“Yes,” Ivers says.
“We found something. You better come have a look at this.”
CHAPTER TWO - FINN
My father died on a Tuesday.
It was a dark day. Late last fall when the trees around DC were turning gold, and red, and brown, and the city air was nothing but a mean, cold
wind that sliced through you like a knife. The funeral was short and small.
He was the rock of my world for most of my life. A guy with big ideas, and the nerve to see them through, and the gall to take what he wanted if no one gave way.
And even though there were a lot of things I didn’t like about my father, he didn’t deserve to go out the way he did.
I take a drink of my whiskey-laced coffee, not caring that I’m working. My boss has been giving me light days ever since I landed here at the FBI satellite office in Denver, so I’m expecting this to be another one of those. Boring, meaningless hours that add up to twenty-four and then start all over again.
“Hey, Finn,” the waitress—Darla—says as she positions a pot of coffee, ready to refill my cup. I put a flat hand over the cup to stop her. Don’t need the whiskey watered down any more than it is or it might lose its kick. “Need the check then?” she asks.
“Sure,” I say, not looking her in the eyes. Not looking at her at all. Just staring out the window at the approaching night.
“You doin’ OK these days?”
“What?” I ask, forcing myself to stop looking outside and focus on her instead.
“You seem so… distracted lately. Everything all right?”
“Sure,” I say. “What could be wrong?”
She offers me a small smile. We had something once. Maybe. But it’s gone now. At least that’s how I see it. But she’s nice. She’s always nice. So I rein in that dark part of me that wants to tell her to go fuck off and leave me alone, and instead channel my father. Say something he’d say. “Thanks for the coffee.” He always was polite. Right up until the end.
“No problem,” she says. Another smile as she writes something on the check and sets it on the table. And then, thankfully, she’s gone and I’m alone again.
I like the alone.
The door opens, a bell jingling, which draws my attention to the front of the diner where Declan Ivers stands, looking around for a few seconds before he spies me. I can’t hear it over the din of conversation, but then again, I don’t need to hear it. The long sigh he lets out once he spots me is something you can see. And then he’s heading my direction.
