Turning Point Club Box Set

by JA Huss

  She doesn’t take the bait. Just chews her lip and stares at the bland, grey cinderblock wall.

  “Issy,” I say. “It only gets worse if you refuse to cooperate.”

  “Lawyer,” she repeats one more time. “I want to see Jordan Wells and I want to see him right the fuck now.”

  “Well then.” Declan sighs. “We’re gonna do this the hard way then.” He leaves the room without further comment, which means it’s my turn to take over and convince her the lawyer is a bad idea.

  I lean back in my chair, trying to appear unaffected and casual.

  Issy Grey sneers at me.

  “Nice Valentine’s Day, huh?”

  “I’m not talking to you, so save your breath.”

  “I mean, you were over at the tea place, right? Having dinner with your boyfriend before all this happened?”

  She rolls her eyes at me.

  “Oh, I get it,” I say, laughing. “No boyfriend, then? You were there with all your single-girl friends? Trying to forget all about this day? Trying to make it go away? Trying to—”

  “I’m not going to fall for it.” She squints her eyes at me, her gaze lingering on my chest, like she’s looking for a badge. But of course, there is no badge. I’m in a suit, not a uniform.

  When her eyes meet mine I say, “Finn Murphy. Special Agent Finn Murphy.”

  She shrugs like it hardly matters.

  Declan comes back into the room, slams the door behind him, walks over to the table, plants both hands on the hard, stainless-steel surface, and says, “Got a backup lawyer? Because it appears Jordan Wells is out of town and unreachable.”

  “Bullshit!” Issy says, her voice high-pitched and agitated. “I just saw him a couple hours ago. We were going to have dinner!”

  “Ah,” I say, snapping my fingers and pointing at her. “So that’s why you didn’t want to talk about it. He broke up with you, didn’t he? And on V-day too! Jesus, what a dick.”

  But she doesn’t take the bait. Just looks down at the table, like she’s having some sort of private revelation.

  Finally, after several long, silent seconds, she says, “Then call his partner, Glenn Stratford.”

  “Can’t,” Declan says. Which has me curious as to what he’s playing here.

  “Why the hell not?” Issy yells.

  “Because the whole office is shut down for the mid-winter holiday.”

  She scrunches up her nose. It’s a nice nose. Small, with just a slight upturn to the end of it. Which, I have to admit, is kinda cute on her. “What?” she breathes.

  Declan shrugs. “That’s what the answering service told me. On mid-winter holiday for the next week.”

  “But that makes no sense,” Issy whispers under her breath.

  “Why not?” I ask.

  “Because,” she says, “it… he… we were… never fucking mind why, OK? It just doesn’t. There’s no such thing as a mid-winter holiday!”

  Declan and I exchange a glance. He picks it up from there. “So… you can either find another law firm and spend the night being booked and violated as your internal cavities are searched for drugs while we get another warrant and seize the contents of your house”—he stops to smile and spread his hands wide, like he’s about to offer a gift—“or you can just make this easy. Make it all go away by being cooperative.”

  I chuckle, mostly at the aghast look on Issy Grey’s face at the mention of a cavity search. But also because Declan plays bad cop pretty well.

  A knock at the door makes all three of us look at it. Declan walks over, has a whispered conversation with whoever is on the other side, and then nods and takes a file folder from the visitor. He turns back to us and closes the door behind him.

  “Well, this might be your lucky day, Ms. Grey. Seems like we’ve picked up some chatter about your case. Come with me, Finn. We’ve got news.”

  I take one more look at Issy Grey, whose wide blue eyes are darting back and forth between us with equal parts curiosity and fear, and leave the room with my partner.

  Back inside the observation room I say, “What the hell was that?”

  “For real,” Declan says, easing himself into the chair in front of the monitors. “We’ve got chatter. Seems like she might be telling the truth. The DC office just sent us an alert about a terror cell using unsuspecting female-owned businesses as fronts for a massive campaign.”

  I can’t stop the laugh that bursts forth. “You’re joking, right?”

  “Why would I joke?” Declan asks.

  “Because that’s… a little convenient, don’t you think?”

  He shrugs. “I’m just doing my job, Finn.”

  “So we’re just gonna let her go?”

  “No,” he says. “No. You’re going to take her up to the Silver Springs safe house and keep her there until we figure out what’s going on.”

  “Is that legal?”

  Declan smiles. “It is if she agrees to go. Just make her agree.”

  “And how the fuck am I supposed to do that?”

  “I’m sure you’ll figure something out. Go on, I’ll text you directions to the safe house and meet you up there later. And don’t underestimate this one.” He slaps the file onto the desk, opens it up, and points to something.

  I read the paragraph and yet another guffaw comes out in response. This tiny woman might be the most interesting thing to happen to me since I came to Denver. Because Issy Grey has the rank of seventh-degree black belt in Jujitsu. That’s like ten years of serious, disciplined study.

  “Who the fuck is this chick?” I ask.

  “That’s what we need to find out,” Declan says. “She might not be a terrorist, but I’ll bet you a hundred bucks right now she’s not who she says she is. Find out, Finn. And then call me. Because DC is all up in our shit about this new threat and we need to figure out her connection quick or lots of people might get hurt.”

  He leaves me there to figure things out. I study her file a little more. Mother was a veterinary technician, no father listed on the birth certificate, no college education, an assortment of odd jobs since age eighteen—including a Burger King in Waco, Texas, one Nate’s Auto Repair in Escondido, California, Hialeah Racetrack in Florida, and then a short stint as a cab driver in New York City.

  All of which is weird in and of itself. Her job history reads like a classic runaway, except she was already eighteen… so not a runaway. At least not an underage one. But the really curious thing is that her juvenile record was sealed. Not just sealed, but absolutely sealed. Meaning even the FBI can’t see it without a court appearance and permission from a judge.

  Which is unusual.

  You have to read between the lines a little to get it. You have to know what the empty spaces mean. You’d have to’ve been there yourself.

  Issy Grey isn’t who she says she is.

  Issy Grey is lying.

  CHAPTER THREE - ISSY

  Finn Murphy is lying.

  I’m not quite sure about what, but I know men, it’s my job to know men, and I know when a man is lying.

  First he and his partner came in here blustering about terror cells, threatening me with a cavity search if I didn’t waive my rights. Then some file got delivered, they disappear, and only Finn Murphy returns, this time trying to sweet-talk me into believing I’m one sleepy judge away from having the entire contents of my juvenile record unsealed and my house seized in a search warrant.

  And then he said I was in danger. Someone was looking for me, someone whose identity he wasn’t at liberty to divulge, someone who would hurt me badly if I was found.

  And that’s the only part of those threats that hit home.

  “So which is it, Issy? Easy way? Or hard way?”

  “How about my way?” I say.

  “Sorry, darlin’. Not an option. ’Fraid it’s this way or the highway.”

  I consider everything he’s told me so far. It’s a scary scenario. I mean, you tell anyone that a dangerous person is looking for them, es
pecially after they were just set up and hauled down to the local FBI satellite office for questioning, they tend to believe you.

  I just don’t believe him. I’ve been too careful. I’ve been free for a long time. And the only asshole I need to fear is already in prison.

  “I’ll take the highway,” I say, smiling up at him as the words come out. “I’m grateful for your offer of protection”—I have to control myself when I say that word to avoid rolling my eyes—“but I can take care of myself, thank you. So I’ll just be going.” I jingle the cuffs, which are still attached to the table.

  He pauses, thinking, then offers me a very fake smile and says, “OK,” as he reaches into his pocket to reveal a key.

  Too easy. So I’m still on high alert. But it’s all fake, so I play along.

  This is about Jordan’s Game, and as soon as the thought manifests in my head, I have to stifle a laugh. What a dick. He turned me down and then the game started.

  But I have to hand it to him, that dick is good at this. Because this shit is seriously real.

  “Something funny?” Finn asks.

  “Nothing you need to worry about,” I say, rubbing my wrists once he removes my cuffs. “Don’t forget the feet,” I say, nodding my head at the shackles around my ankles.

  Finn releases those and backs off, like he wants to keep his distance from me.

  I find that interesting. Because it means he has some idea of what I’m capable of.

  Would he know that if this was just Jordan’s way of starting the game he insisted I would never be playing?

  I shrug it off as diligence. Stand and stretch languidly. Like I have no cares whatsoever.

  Which is a lie. I’m a champion liar.

  I’m thoroughly intrigued by Special Agent Finn Murphy for two reasons. He’s either the man Jordan has assigned to me and is playing along like this performance will win him an Oscar, or—and honestly, I find this far more interesting—he’s got no idea he’s playing the game.

  I decide to find out.

  “Can I have my personal belongings back now? I need my phone so I can call an Uber.”

  He laughs, a loud, incredulous burst of joy that echoes off the ceiling. “I can take you home, Issy.”

  “Fine,” I say, feigning surrender. Take me home means sexual fulfillment fantasy, right? Why else would he make that offer? “Let’s go then. It’s late and I have to be up early to prepare for my next Go Fuck Yourself seminar at noon tomorrow.”

  He studies me a little longer, his hazel eyes searching mine, darting up and down my body with what might be a look of fascination.

  Men react to me in one of three ways. One—they find me annoyingly aggressive. Two—they find me inexplicably mysterious. And three—they ignore me completely.

  If I didn’t start this evening out with that meeting with Jordan Wells, I’d have chosen number three for good old Finn here. But we are in that game, he is the man I’m playing with, and as far as game pieces go—well, let’s just say… having Special Agent Finn Murphy fuck me in a sex club is probably gonna be the highlight of my life.

  He’s tall, a foot taller than me at least. His sandy brown hair is cropped short on the sides, but has some length on the top. Enough length to give him a bed-head look. You know the one, the just-woke-up-after-fucking-all-night kinda style. And his eyes are hazel. Not brown, not green, but both.

  He opens the door to the interrogation room by punching a sequence of numbers on a keypad, which he doesn’t even try to hide from me—yet another clue that this whole thing is bullshit. I wonder how he got his people to play along?

  Ah, but that would be Jordan’s job, right?

  Fuckin’ Jordan. Mid-winter holiday? Really? That’s all he could come up with?

  Then again, it was all that was needed, wasn’t it? Why bother with details that won’t matter? I called for him, his office gave me a plausible excuse, I accepted it, and we’ve moved on to phase two of the game now.

  Playing.

  Which is the best part, right?

  Finn waves me forward, through the door, into the hall, where I wait for him to lead me out of here. I’m ashamed to say I wasn’t paying attention when they brought me in, so I don’t remember the way. A slip in protocol, I admit. And if this wasn’t all bullshit just to set up the sex that will surely be happening tonight, I’d be harder on myself for the lapse.

  I just follow him instead.

  We pick up my stuff from a woman behind glass at a counter. My purse is returned in a large, clear, plastic bag. And once all that is settled, we make our way to the garage where his car is parked.

  He opens the rear door and smiles again. “I’m afraid you’ll have to sit in back, Issy. Civilians aren’t allowed to ride shotgun.”

  I shrug, giving in again. I really do have a seminar tomorrow and I like to be up early to prepare. It’s already getting late, so we need to wrap up the deviant sex game quick so I can get some shut-eye before dawn.

  I sit behind him, then scoot over to the passenger side so I can study him better as we drive. We’re at the Federal Building, all the way over in Lakewood, so the drive into downtown will take at least twenty minutes. I sit back and enjoy my view as he starts the car and makes his way out of the garage.

  “So… I got a glimpse of your file, Issy.”

  “Yeah,” I say, my mind on the shape of his lips as he speaks. They’re nice lips. Kinda full, but not too full. I bet they would feel wonderful between my legs.

  “See something you like?” he asks.

  It’s only then I realize he’s looking at me in the rear-view mirror. “I’m just curious, is all.”

  “About?”

  “You, of course. You know, how you got mixed up in all this.”

  He frowns in the mirror. Squints his eyes at me. “Mixed up in all what?”

  Oops. He must take this game stuff more seriously than I do. I guess I need to stay in character.

  “Wait,” I say, putting my actress hat back on. “What file do you have on me?”

  He glances in the rear-view, but only for a moment as we get on the 6th Avenue Freeway back towards Denver. “Same file we have on everyone once they get our attention.”

  “So you just put it together today?”

  “I didn’t, the department did. That’s what they handed to Declan when we got interrupted.”

  “Yeah, right before you guys decided to let me go. So what’d it say? To make you change your minds?”

  “It’s not the file that made us change our minds.”

  “Then what?”

  “The news that came with it.”

  “Which was?” Jesus. Am I gonna have to lead this guy into participating in a decent conversation now too? I mean, shit. You’d think banter would be included in the sex game package, right?

  “Chatter, Issy. Chatter about what happened to you tonight.”

  For a second I think he’s referring to my conversation with Jordan. There are several silent seconds of me irrationally picturing these guys listening in on that.

  “Were you guys spying on me while I was at Chella’s?”

  “Who’s Chella?”

  “The tea shop, you idiot! Did you have bugs over there? Did you hear—”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he says. “Calm down, ninja. We didn’t have bugs over there.” He glances at me in the rear-view again, cocks his head slightly as he squints his eyes. “Why, you hiding something? What was really going on over there?”

  I take a few moments to consider if he’s lying. I can’t imagine Jordan bugging the tea room. Like… this whole thing is about discretion, right?

  “Issy?” Finn prompts. “You got something you need to share with me?”

  I huff out a laugh. As if. I laugh again. As if I’m going to be the one to initiate the game play. Nope. If I wanted to ask a man to fuck me in front of strangers, I wouldn’t bother playing Jordan’s Game and letting all these people in on it, now would I?

  “You know there’s
a confidentiality agreement, right?”

  “What?” he asks.

  “Between me and Jordan. I signed it, he signed it, and that means he can’t talk to you about shit.”

  “Yeah,” Finn says, getting off the freeway and easing onto Colfax. “That’s typically what lawyers do.”

  “So did he talk to you? Did he tell you anything?”

  “Who?”

  “For fuck’s sake,” I yell. “Jordan!”

  “He’s out of town, remember?”

  I cross my arms and lean back into the seat. “Right.”

  We’re quiet after that, but I catch him stealing glances at me in the mirror. I don’t tell him where I live, but he finds it anyway—must’ve been in my file—and parks right out front of the fixer-upper I bought when I first came to town. It’s an old house that needed a lot of work, so I got it for the amazingly cheap price of just over a million dollars.

  It’s also the only single-family home within three blocks of the Capitol building and there were several developers interested in the property, if only to knock it down and sandwich another apartment building between all the other apartment buildings that have sprung up in this neighborhood over the past decade. There’s two tall, brick buildings flanking the long front yard on either side, and neither of them have windows facing me, so it’s unusually private for the city.

  Lucky me. I am the proud owner of one total piece of shit house. Because it needs everything. New roof, new windows, new floors, new plumbing, new electrical… you name it. It needs it. I have plenty of money to do all that, but time is something else altogether. You can’t buy time and that’s something I never have enough of these days.

  So I just live with it. And I don’t even mind all the noises the boiler makes, or the way the water takes forever to get hot, or how none of the electrical sockets work on the second floor and I have to run extension cords up the stairs to get light.

  After living there for almost a year, I find I actually love the place. Even though it’s practically falling down, it felt like home immediately. I love walking inside after a long day and just falling into the couch cushions and looking around at the mess.