by JA Huss
Contents
The Pleasure of Panic
DESCRIPTION
PROLOGUE - JORDAN
CHAPTER ONE - ISSY
CHAPTER TWO - FINN
CHAPTER THREE - ISSY
CHAPTER FOUR - FINN
CHAPTER FIVE - ISSY
CHAPTER SIX - FINN
CHAPTER SEVEN - ISSY
CHAPTER EIGHT - FINN
CHAPTER NINE - ISSY
CHAPTER TEN - FINN
CHAPTER ELEVEN - ISSY
CHAPTER TWLEVE - FINN
CHAPTER THIRTEEN - ISSY
CHAPTER FOURTEEN - FINN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN - ISSY
CHAPTER SIXTEEN - FINN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - ISSY
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN - FINN
CHAPTER NINETEEN - JORDAN
CHAPTER TWENTY - FINN
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE - JORDAN
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO - ISSY
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE - FINN
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR - ISSY
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE - FINN
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX - ISSY
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN - FINN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT - ISSY
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE - FINN
CHAPTER THIRTY - ISSY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE - FINN
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO - ISSY
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE - FINN
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR - ISSY
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE - FINN
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX - ISSY
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN - FINN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT - ISSY
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE - FINN
CHAPTER FORTY - ISSY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE - FINN
EPILOGUE - JORDAN
END OF BOOK SHIT
About the Author
Edited by RJ Locksley
Cover Design: JA Huss
Copyright © 2018 by J. A. Huss
All rights reserved.
ISBN-978-1-944475-38-3
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
DESCRIPTION
From NYT Bestselling Author, JA Huss, comes a new sexy standalone in the Jordan's Game series. Issy is about to have the night of her life! Her sexual fantasy is about to come true thanks to Jordan Wells and his little fantasy fulfillment business. Or is it?
A new day. A new game. A new girl to (try and) please.
Issy Grey is a control freak. There's no problem she can't solve. Issy's also a successful self-help author, presenter, and life coach. She has every answer, every time you ask for it.
That is... until her BFF butts into her life and signs her up for a sexual fantasy fulfillment game she never asked to play!
Now she can't turn it off! She can't quit, because Jordan Wells refuses to admit she's even a player!
And she can't get rid of the man assigned to pleasure her with panic, because he's her new bodyguard!
Just... WTF?
PROLOGUE - JORDAN
The many ways in which people find sexual pleasure will never stop fascinating me, but those who enter my world typically fit into a few neat little packages.
You’ve got your standard whips-and-handcuffs people. Some like it soft, some like it hard, some stay right in the middle. But the one thing they all get off on is pain. The threat of pain, I should clarify.
Because then you’ve got your standard fighters. Lovers who like all the extremes in every direction. Anger and bliss. Honesty and lies. Loyalty and cheating. It doesn’t matter what the two extremes are, it is always black and white. They get off on pain too, but it’s mental anguish that lights their fire.
There’s a third category. The ones who crave drama outside the relationship. They’re adrenaline junkies, addicted to the portrait they paint—of themselves, of others, of the world—and how they can make people react. They like the rush that comes from unfortunate circumstance.
Then you’ve got your mind-fuckers. It’s pretty much an all-of-the-above kinda worldview. Physical pain that becomes pleasure, that becomes mental pain, that becomes pleasure, that becomes panic, that becomes pleasure.
I might be a mind-fucker.
But I don’t play the games, I just run them. So it doesn’t matter.
There are as many types of games as there are people who play them.
There are simple games, there are elaborate games, there are boring games—but who am I to judge?—and then there are games within games.
I’m sitting at the table overlooking the now-defunct lobby thinking about this next game, while Darrel Jameson, my full-time investigator since he quit the FBI and came to town to help find a lost girl for my friends, looks over the file in front of him. It’s pretty interesting if you know how to read between the lines. I do, and so does he. That’s why I use him.
“Huh,” he says.
“Right?”
“I don’t know what to think about this one.”
“So don’t think. Just get me what I need.”
“We’re gonna make waves.”
“I’ll ride them.”
“We’re gonna piss people off.”
“When don’t we?”
Darrel and I chuckle and do a fake cheers with the cut-crystal glasses we’re drinking from. There was still whiskey behind the fucking bar. Good whiskey.
“OK.” He sighs, then tips the rest of the amber liquid in his glass down his throat. He enjoys the burn for a few seconds before adding, “If you say so. I’m just the hired help.”
“Yeah, right.” I laugh. “I need it by Wednesday. This shit needs to happen on V-day, got me?”
“Got ya, boss.” And then he gets up, tips an imaginary hat, walks across the room, and disappears down the stairs with the file clutched in his hand.
I drink the rest of my Scotch, thinking about how this one might go down as I trace my target’s name in the construction dust that’s settled on the table.
I’m sitting in the old Turning Point Club. I broke in. Couldn’t fuckin’ take it anymore. I had to see what the hell was going on in here.
Which is a big, fat nothing. Just a lot of plastic over the tables and chairs downstairs, a lot of dust up here, and a lot of darkness, since the security shutters are all closed and the revolving door has been boarded up.
A whole lot of… emptiness.
Back when I used to play games, I came here. I fucked a lot of willing, deviant men and women here. But it was sold over a year ago now and it’s been sitting idle ever since. It’s driving me crazy. I’m on the brink of distraction wondering what will become of it.
I gotta get this under control.
So many things are happening in my life right now.
This new game I’m playing is risky, no doubt.
Never done anything like this before.
Probably won’t ever do it again.
So I better make it count.
CHAPTER ONE - ISSY
“Say it with me!” I’m yelling that to the ladies in my women’s empowerment masterclass.
“GO FUCK YOURSELF!” they all yell back.
“One more time!” I urge.
“GO FUCK YOURSELF!”
“What are you gonna do from now on?”
“BE IN CONTROL!”
“And how ya gonna do that?”
“TAKE NAMES!”
“And what are you gonna do with those names?”
“KICK SOME FUCKIN’ ASS!”
I smile, fold my hands in front of me, and admire my clients one at a time. I always do this at the end of my masterclass. I acknowledge
every one of them, hold their gaze for exactly two seconds as I picture how much stronger they are now than when they came here, and then repeat that until I’ve given everyone in the room their due.
“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 sa
y, 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—”
