The Experiment

by Holly Hart

  And this isn’t the first time Erik Moss, Magnus Gunnarsson, and Jack Brightman have made their love lives a team effort. Before Klara, Shazia, and Anne, there were Rita, Valentina, and Jane. Fiona, Maria, and Kate. Nine women in nine years, cycling between billionaires in groups of three. Uh, guys? They’re vaginas, not timeshares in Aruba.

  I highlight the last two sentences and hit delete. There are limits!

  Now, Countess BeeBee’s all in for swinging (and sex swings!), but this takes it to a whole new level! I mean, a year’s, like, an entire relationship. What happens if one of them falls in love? Or two of them can’t stand each other? How do they FIND each other? Is there a secret, super-exclusive swingers club I’m somehow not a member of? Some kind of...Tinder Groupon? Do they hold auditions? So many questions!

  I pull in an animated gif of a dog scratching its head. Caption: WTF?

  Erik, Magnus, and Jack share more than their taste in women. All three grew up in the Bronx, went to the same summer camp, and began their rise to riches with their surprise takeover of private military contractor Blakemoor, nearly a decade ago. All three served our country (thanks, boys!), Erik and Magnus taking to the skies with the US Air Force, while Jack was a big, bad Marine.

  I grab another photo. Jack’s definitely the most photogenic of the three, six-plus feet of sculpted Greek god. I take a moment to drink him in, shirtless in a GQ spread, black-and-red Cerberus tattoo snarling its way over one bulging bicep. Its three snake-tails wind down his forearm to whip around his wrist. He’s let his hair grow out since his military days, and it sweeps low over his brow, giving his eyes a mean, shadowed look. His upper lip’s quirked into something that might be a smile or a snarl. Caption? Hoo-ah!

  Magnus is more the Nordic prince type: burly, blond, blue-eyed. Erik’s the most military of the three, stone-faced, close-shorn, standing in his corporate portrait like a general surveying his troops. I add their pictures below Jack’s. Holy billionaire beefcake, Batgirls!

  What do you think, sweethearts? Would YOU sign up for three years of high-society hanky-panky with these hunks? Countess BeeBee says “Sirs, yes SIRS!”

  Vote below, and don’t forget to like, share, and comment! <3 <3 <3

  I add a poll: Where do I enlist? / This is totally Section 8! / Only if I get a Birkin bag out of the deal! ;-)

  I’m excited about this one. Tempted to drop it right away. But I click on Save Draft, instead, scheduling the post for tomorrow at noon. Because Countess BeeBee’s a total bathtub blogger. And because predictable update schedules equal better reader retention.

  There’s more to this story. I can feel it. All kinds of intrigue, bubbling under the surface. Kink, maybe—or what if there is a network, a club, some kind of...underground sex-swap empire? Dozens of people could be doing it. Hundreds, even. These three only pinged my radar ‘cause they’re hot and famous. But there could be others: bankers, judges, doctors, professors—a who’s who of the nation’s rich and boring.

  There could be enough for a followup, even a series. A book, if I play my cards right.

  The sun’s going down. I should at least try to push on with my actual book, the one I’ve been working on since I quit my nine-to-five. I switch BeeBee’s Favorites for Nostalgia, Wordpress for Microsoft Word, and dash off a couple of lines.

  I didn’t mean to look back, but halfway across the Ponte Regina Margherita, my eye lit on the rearview mirror. There it was, the sword of the Archangel, and the tip of his wing, intruding on the sky.

  I replace “lit” with “caught,” and “intruding on the sky” with “piercing the blue,” but none of it sounds right. None of it captures the moment. I delete it all, type My mother, and sit watching the cursor blink for a good five minutes.

  Well, shit.

  My alarm goes off at six. I fumble for the snooze, miss, and send it clattering to the floor. Well, now I’m up. I drape my quilt over my shoulders and head for the kitchen. Countess BeeBee would be doing her nightly walk of shame right about now, stumbling one-stockinged down Park Avenue, Jimmy Choos swinging from her pinky. She’d be falling out of some drapey Valentino thing with a high price and a low neckline. Pushing last night’s artful ringlets—this morning’s wilted rat-tails—out of her face. Still half-drunk, and already half-asleep.

  I set some water boiling and plop in an egg. Barefoot on the linoleum, watching the bubbles rise and burst, I plan my day. Got a tip about a gallery opening both Katya and Kylie Lederer are set to attend. Neither knows the other’s coming. Could be some juicy drama there. Later, there’s Gerome Heriot’s birthday bash. Everyone’ll be there—myself included. I didn’t expect an invite, after that one awkward date last summer, but looks like I’m on the list. No need to slip in as someone’s plus-one.

  When my egg-timer’s half done, I pop a slice of sourdough in the toaster. The smell of burning crumbs permeates the air. Just enough time for....

  Countess BeeBee @grandcountess * just now

  Heyyyyy, party people! <3 Little BeeBee's caught wind of three FILTHY rich piglets dipping their snouts into TRIPLE trouble! I know you're DYING for the deets, but first, your Countess needs her beauty rest! Catch up soon...usual time, usual place! ;-)

  And there’s my toast. I cut it into strips, fish out my egg before it goes from soft- to hard-boiled, and settle down to eat.

  I emerge at ten on the dot, freshly showered and primped. It’s a nice day, perfect for a walk. Figure I’ll hit the gallery around eleven, check out the...paintings? Photos? Contemplative installation-based explorations of natural pareidolia?...before the guests of dishonor arrive. Then....

  There’s a limo parked out front, midnight blue, tinted windows. A custom paintjob—someone’s private ride. Weird, for this part of Brooklyn. Whoever he is, he’s blocking in my Honda. Good thing I’m walking.

  I make it halfway down the block before I notice the limo keeping pace with me. Creepy, but it could be a coincidence. Maybe he’s lost. Or a real-estate developer, scouting the neighborhood. I slow down. So does he. He’s crowding me, hugging the curb so close he ought to buy it dinner. I stop and crouch down, pretending to shake a stone out of my shoe. He stops as well. I can hear his engine running.

  I don’t have any enemies. Haven’t even humiliated anyone online this week—not under my own name, anyway. Whatever this is, I doubt it’s a threat. Kids, probably, joyriding in Daddy’s limo, taking advantage of his tinted windows to fuck with pedestrians. They’ll chase me till I panic and run. I’ll end up in a viral video compilation: Women Running Stupidly in Heels, volume VI.

  I step up to the rear window and slap both palms to the glass. Someone jerks away: a shadow that’s there, and then not. A mean satisfaction blooms in my gut. “Yeah. That’s right. Grow up, in there!”

  The limo pulls ahead at the end of the block. Finally. Well, that was certainly—

  “Shitballs!”

  The driver hangs a sharp right, cutting me off. The back door cracks open. I take a step back, and another. “Okay. Joke’s over. Whoever you are, you can—“

  “Stella Rossi?”

  I freeze in place. That’s not a voice I know. “Who is that? Show your face!”

  The door swings wide, and a man steps out. He’s tall, gray, and built like a brick wall. Everything about him screams career military.

  “Mr. Brightman sent me to collect you.” Even his voice is scary, hard and clipped. This guy’s used to being obeyed.

  “I don’t know a Mr....” Wait. “Jack Brightman?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He holds the door open, gesturing at the back seat. “He’s waiting at the Tower.”

  The Tower? What is this, Lord of the Rings? The interior of the limo does have kind of a...Gollum’s cave vibe. It’s dark as hell in there. Cold, too: I can feel the chill of the air conditioning from here. Nothing about getting in there strikes me as a good idea. “Yeah, uh...I’ve got places to be. Tell your boss I—”

  “He knows your name.”

  Duh.
Clearly.

  Oh. “You’re blackmailing me?”

  “Countess Stella ’BeeBee’ Rossi. Has a certain ring to it, don’t you think?”

  “Oh, you wouldn’t!”

  “Wouldn’t I?” He taps the roof of the limo, twice, open-palmed. “Come on, Your Ladyship. Unless you want to make Her Majesty’s honors list?”

  I glance over my shoulder. I could still walk away. But he’s right. Being outed would fuck my chances of being taken seriously some day. Besides, what’s the worst that could happen? It’s a blog about swinging, not the Watergate papers. I’ll make a joke of it, swear I’ll keep mum, and be out in time for the party.

  “Well, Countess?”

  “Fine. Carry on, Jeeves.” My heels scrape on the sidewalk as I step around him. He doesn’t move aside all the way, forcing me to bend at an awkward angle to avoid brushing crotches. My ankle turns, and I barely avoid a tumble. Asshole.

  The limo pulls away from the curb. I melt into the plush leather seats like I haven’t a care in the world. Today’s not the day I cower before bullies.

  Chapter Two

  Jack

  I check the monitor: still just Katrina in the intake room. Starkey’s running late.

  Magnus follows my gaze. “Right. Time’s up. Let’s take her down and—”

  “She’ll be here.”

  He harrumphs. “Five more minutes.”

  I don’t acknowledge him. I’ve cleared my morning for this: it’ll take how long it takes.

  This is happening.

  Chapter Three

  Stella

  The Tower turns out to be the Callister Savings and Loan Building: imposing, but hardly the stuff of nightmares. There’s something comforting about the smell of burnt coffee from the Starbucks on the ground floor, the way the sunlight dances on the mirrored windows. It’s all so...bright and normal. Like a day at the office.

  BeeBee would sweep through those doors like she’d come to buy the place. No—like she already owned it. She’d set down her dog—a bright Tang orange, today, to match her bag—and let it dance about her feet while she waited for the elevator. No one would dare tell her no dogs allowed.

  I take a deep breath. Me and BeeBee, we’ve got this.

  Jeeves opens my door and I step out, thrusting my purse into his hands. “Hold this.” He’s startled enough to obey. Or maybe he meant to confiscate it, anyway. Maybe I just made his job easier.

  Whatever. I’m taking the win. I stride across the plaza like this was all my idea, hoping Brightman’s watching from on high—seeing me not take his shit. Really, a simple phone call would’ve sufficed. He didn’t need to disrupt my entire day. Soon, I’ll be telling him that myself.

  In the elevator, I slide myself between Jeeves and the buttons, angling my body to keep him at bay. My spiteful little power-plays are starting to irritate him. I can tell by the way his voice grates when he tells me “Top floor.”

  It’s a long, awkward ascent: forty floors of stiff-backed silence. Jeeves doesn’t get off with me when the car comes to a stop. “Follow the lights,” he says, and stabs a button. The doors hiss shut, and I’m alone.

  Alone. I really am alone. There’s...seriously no one here. A huge reception desk dominates the lobby. Two phones are ringing, and a couple of monitors are on, but all three chairs are empty. Nobody’s waiting on the plush sofa stretched out under some kind of modern sculpture—or maybe that’s a lamp. The water cooler’s still dripping, like someone just poured a drink... But if they did, they took it and went.

  “Hello?”

  No answer. I look up. There’s a security cam trained on the elevator, but the light’s out. Same thing over the reception desk. So no one’ll know I was here?

  Someone might still be watching. I draw myself up, forcing a smile. Why, no, that wasn’t a shiver. Follow the lights? Fine. I can do that. The hallway to my right follows a window-wall, lit only by the sun, but the one straight ahead has every third lamp turned on. Reminds me of a plane making a crash landing: emergency lights lining the aisle, leading to exits I might or might not live to use.

  I start walking. This isn’t some pitch-black fuselage, packed with screaming passengers. It’s a normal, boring office. With white carpets. So...they’re not planning to shoot me. Count one in the plus column.

  The lights march down a second, narrower corridor. The doors are spaced closer here, and the walls sport bulletin boards in place of paintings. This must be where the rank and file work. I step lightly, listening for any sign of life, but there’s nothing but the wind. One more turn, and there are no doors at all, just a set of long Plexiglas partitions sectioning off ranks of cubicles. I stare into the shadows, convinced I feel eyes on me, but nothing moves.

  It’s all starting to get to me, the dark, the quiet, the dead cameras. Everything’s dead in here, even my footfalls muted by the carpet.

  At last, I hit the end of the line. The last lamp beams down on a ficus in a red ceramic bucket. It looks like it’s auditioning for America’s Got Talent.

  “Is this supposed to be a joke?”

  Something clicks to my right. A sliver of light appears under a door I hadn’t noticed.

  I raise my fist, but—no. Fuck knocking. This has all been very intimidating, very cloak-and-dagger, but it’s time to take charge. I walk right in.

  “Miss Rossi.” There’s a woman here—blond, maybe fifty—at a plastic fold-out desk. She has a stiff, bullish stance that’s at odds with her Oscar de la Renta suit. I get the feeling if I screamed “Atten-hut!” she’d salute without thinking. Another grunt in Brightman’s personal army.

  I spot one more chair—fold-out, like the table—and a whiteboard on wheels, with a paint-spattered sheet draped over it. There’s a camera in the corner, powered down, like the others. The chair bumps along the carpet as Blondie pushes it out with her foot.

  “Take a seat.”

  I hesitate. “What is this place?”

  She gives the chair another nudge.

  “Listen, I have other things to—”

  “Then take a seat.” She’s writing something, not even looking at me. “Sooner you fall in, sooner you’ll get back to your day.”

  Or I could get back to it now. Walk out and never look back. But I’ve never been able to peel myself away from a mystery, especially one this bizarre. I sit down.

  “I’m Katrina.” She skates a sheet of paper across the table. “Sign here.”

  When I don’t move, she taps the dotted line with one bright red nail. There’s polish smeared on her skin: a single carmine smudge, just below the cuticle. It’s distracting. Offputting. I look away, shifting my focus to the contract. It’s a non-disclosure agreement, a standard “what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas” deal. Fine: it’s not like I could blog this, anyway. I scrawl my name at the bottom.

  “Now what?”

  “This is your invitation to the club.”

  “To the...club?” Surely, she can’t mean....

  Katrina taps her phone. “’Is there a secret, super-exclusive swingers club I’m somehow not a member of? Some kind of...Tinder Groupon?’ Your words, yes?”

  That post never went live. I swallow hard. “Well, yeah, but—”

  “So the answer is ‘yes’, and this is your invitation. In or out?”

  “I’m—” Out, obviously! Or...in? There’s a story here, but...no. No. The second I open my mouth, I’m Countess BeeBee forever. Unless I claim the blog was a ruse, all along, my ticket to a world of....

  “Well?”

  “I need more information. I mean, who’s in this club? How much say do I get, when it comes to partners? Do I—”

  “You misunderstand.” Katrina drops her phone into her purse. “This is a very exclusive club. The members you identified are the only members. And the next cycle starts next month.”

  “Cycle?”

  She exhales, exasperated. “You guessed it already. We do this in three-year cycles: one year each with Messrs. Brightman,
Gunnarsson, and Moss, following which you retire comfortably on a salary of between quarter of a million and one million dollars per annum, contingent on performance.”

  I realize my mouth’s hanging open, and shut it with a snap. “Performance!?”

  Katrina glances down, like she’s reading off a script. “Quality of companionship. Discretion. Adherence to the terms of your contract.”

  Quality of...what? People say yes to this? I jam my toes into my shoes under the table. They pinch. Yep: definitely awake. “The terms of my contract?”

  “There’s a code of behavior. An image you’re expected to project. And, of course, a confidentiality agreement.” She looks down again. “And in your case, a cease-and-desist on that blog. Your online activity will be limited to—”

  “Absolutely not.” No, no, and hell no. I stand up. The confidentiality agreement’s one thing: judges love striking those down. If I uncover anything illegal, I won’t even need a judge. But there’s no point to any of this, if I don’t have a presence—a place to break the story.

  “Miss Rossi, if you walk out that door—”

  “You’ll what? Tell on me?” I glance at her smeared nail. Suddenly, it feels like I’ve got the upper hand.

  “Your name will be released, but not only that—”

  I plant my palms on the table and lean in. “So, let me get this straight: you’ve brought me here under—”

  “Let me put this another way: you don’t set the terms here.”

  “You think?” I have the advantage—I know I do. “You’ve brought me here on pain of exposure, and now you’re demanding I sign a contract that strips me of my income, and possibly includes some kind of sexual congress—is that right?”

  “Sit. Down.” Katrina doesn’t move, or even raise her voice, but there’s something in her tone, something electric. Commanding. My knees turn to jelly. This place is claustrophobic—like an interrogation room. What was I thinking, trying to—