The Pleasure of Panic

by JA Huss

  “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.

  “Fuck, Murphy,” he says, sliding into the booth across from me. “I’ve been calling you for hours. Why the hell didn’t you pick up?”

  I don’t even bother mustering up a shrug. Just hold my coffee cup in both hands, twirling it on the table.

  “Look, I got a job for you tonight, OK? You need to get your shit together.”

  I lift the cup, take another sip of my Irish coffee, and meet his gaze. He’s wearing a dark suit just like mine, only it’s a few steps up in the
quality department.

  I don’t wear cheap suits, but this asshole, you know the kind. They dress to impress. Cuff links, and silk ties, and shoes that cost a fortune. All accentuated with the status-symbol watch on the wrist and the haircut that never seems to change. I just take the fucking suit out of the closet, put it on every morning like I’m supposed to, and call it good. Though I do have a nice watch.

  I can’t decide if I like Declan Ivers or not. I mean, he’s not what I’d call good-natured, but he’s not really an asshole, either. So I’m just waiting him out.

  I don’t have to like him. I just need to get along with him.

  “What kind of job?” I ask, uninterested. I only have one job here and that’s… well, drinking this whiskey.

  “The kind you do,” he says, looking me in the eyes.

  We stare at each other for a few seconds, his gaze sorta challenging, mine sorta apathetic.

  “OK.”

  Declan pulls out his phone, starts stabbing at it, and then there’s a little whoosh sound that says he’s sending a message. My phone lights up on the table, the sound off, so there’s no incoming ding, but I glance down at it anyway.

  It’s a picture of a woman. She’s got blue eyes, long, dark hair, and an expression that’s something between a scowl and a smile.

  “Who’s this?” I ask, suddenly more interested as I pick up the phone and tab the message open from the home screen so it won’t disappear.

  “Issy Grey. She’s one of those life coaches. Motivational speakers or whatever.”

  “OK,” I say, looking up at him, trying to put the pieces together. “So what’s the job?”

  “We think she’s involved in something pretty big.”

  I wait for more, but he stops. Like I’m supposed to ask another question. I close my eyes and count to three because I hate this game he plays. Fuckin’ Declan is all drama all the time. How he’s still in the FBI, I’ll never understand. I open them, making myself breathe slowly, and oblige. “What kind of something?”

  “Well”—Declan sighs—“we got a tip earlier today that there’s some kind of meth operation happening in the office space she rents.”

  “Meth?” I groan. “Again?”

  “Somebody’s got to clean it up,” Declan says. “Today that’s us. We’re waiting on the warrant now, then we’re gonna meet up with DEA and head over there to take a look. So let’s go.”

  I stay where I am, wondering if I should get up and leave. Not leave with him, but leave this whole fuckin’ town. I mean… I guess it would be bad if I didn’t just toe the line. Shit would go off the rails, I’d be asked a bunch of questions, things would get messy.

  But then again, it always gets messy.

  “Look,” Declan says, lowering his voice as he leans over the table towards me. “I get it. He was your father. So losing him was a blow. He was one of us, and I liked him too. But he’s gone, Finn. And it’s not like he didn’t fucking deserve it. So pull your shit together and do your fucking job.”

  The anger inside me swirls like a wind whipping up a storm. But I hold it together, straighten my tie and pull out my wallet. I throw down a twenty, force myself to stand up, putting on my coat at the same time, and wait for Declan to follow.

  “We’re good then?” he asks, getting to his feet. But what he means is, You’re good?

  “Sure,” I say. Because why not?

  “I’ll text you the address. Meet me over there. And Finn,” he says, holding onto my arm as I start to move away. I stare down at his fingers on my coat sleeve, then raise my eyes to meet his. He lets go of my arm. “Don’t fuck this up. It’s important.”

  “Sure thing,” I say, rolling my shoulders a little to get rid of the building tension. “Just tell me what to do.”

  “Good man,” Declan says, shooting me a smile as he pats me on the shoulder.

  I watch him walk off. Keep watching as he smiles at Darla and heads out the door.

  She doesn’t smile back. He doesn’t notice.

  There are a lot of things Declan Ivers doesn’t notice these days. Which is ironic, since he’s FBI, just like me.

  But then again, he’s nothing like me.

  Whatever.

  I follow, passing Darla, smiling as I go, and say, “See ya later, Darla,” because I think that’s what she needs tonight. A nice goodbye from me.

  “You too, Finn. Have a nice Valentine’s Day.”

  I stop, look over my shoulder at her as I reach for the door handle. “What?”

  She’s smiling back at me. Cute girl, especially in her pink Cookie’s Diner waitress uniform. Kinda short and tiny. Red hair—little bit wavy—and blue eyes. “You didn’t even know, did you?”

  I shake my head.

  “So glad I gave up on you ages ago. You’d just break my heart, Finn.”

  “Yeah.” I shoot her another smile, a better smile. “Breaking shit is my specialty.”

  Outside it’s cold and the fading light is gone. There’s a little bit of wind, which I relish as I make my way down the street to my government-issued car, because the diner was kinda stuffy. When I get in and slam the door closed, the cold lingers. It lingers even after I start up the car, blast the heat, and start picking my way through the heavy traffic of downtown Denver.

  I check my phone, find Declan’s text, and press it to make the map app pull up. Then I reluctantly turn the ringer back on because… yeah. Gotta deal with reality, I guess. Which is a joke, of course.

  Go F*ck Yourself is located near the Capitol building. The sign is lit up white and the letters are bold and black. And for a moment I wonder what kind of woman names a business something like that.

  Apparently Issy Grey.

  The streets are still open when I park my car—Declan and crew still a few minutes away according to a new text—and I get lucky with a spot right out front. I wait there, car engine off, darkness all around me, and look across the street at a busy little place called the Tea Room.

  Inside there’s tables filled with couples, no doubt celebrating the most fake holiday on record like it actually means something. All smiles, holding hands, gazing into each other’s eyes like dumbasses as they wait for some equally stupid romantic dinner to appear in front of them.

  I bet some of those guys have diamond rings hidden in the food. I bet some of those guys will be asking that all-important question every woman seems to wait her whole life for. I bet some of those guys will end this day more miserable than when it started.

  A knock on my window draws my attention away from the Tea Room and back to the job. Declan is standing on the passenger side of my car making one of those roll-your-window-down gestures that actually has no meaning in modern times, since windows don’t roll down anymore. They slide down, as mine does when a button is pushed.

  “DEA and dogs are on their way.”

  “Sure,” I say, getting out of the car and joining him on the sidewalk.

  “We’re meeting them out back to keep this shit quiet a little longer,” he says, nodding his head across the street at the Tea Room. I narrow my eyes, trying to get his meaning. He says, “Grey is over there having dinner. Gonna keep this low-key as long as we can. ”

  “Ah,” I say, tugging my coat closed to keep the chill out. Well, called that one, right? Whatever poor asshole is having dinner with her tonight will most definitely be going home miserable.

  We slip into a narrow space between her building and the one next door and come out into a small parking lot off an alley. There’s a whole team of FBI guys at the door already, wearing black vests with large yellow letters on the front and back. The guy in front is holding a battering ram, poised in position, while the two behind him have guns drawn.

  I yawn. Declan sees me, closes his eyes for a second, misses the actual ramming of the door, and then opens them, still looking at me. “Be present,” he says. “This shit is no joke.”

  “I’m here,” I say.

  The three guys with guns go in first,
battering ram set aside now, and Declan and I wait it out as they search the place. TV makes our job look a lot more exciting than it really is. I mean, I haven’t ever had to go inside a building alone like Fox fucking Mulder and take my chances. You send in the real team first to do your dirty work, then guys like me go in after it’s all clear.

  By the time it is clear, the DEA has shown up with dogs, and Declan and I enter behind them.

  There’s no one inside so I just stand there, looking around.

  Lots of smaller rooms in the back. Like little offices, but with no computers or anything. Just tables. Maybe consultation rooms or something. There are motivational posters hanging on the walls. Posters that say things like, “There are no traffic jams on the extra mile,” and, “Success is not a destination, it’s a journey.”

  The front room is huge. Tall, industrial ceiling with open ductwork. One side has mats and punching bags hanging from the ceiling, like they practice kicking men in the balls over there. The other side is set up with low tables and big overstuffed chairs and it barely takes any imagination on my part to picture small groups of sad women sitting around them drinking coffee as they lament what their lives have become.

  Declan disappears out the front door. I stay behind, hidden in the shadows, and watch as a small woman with long, dark hair and fiery eyes comes running across the street, forcing her way through several Denver cops who try to stop her with a mad grab at her coat.

  Issy Grey.

  But she makes it and stands toe to toe with Declan, who is at least a whole foot taller, as they talk. Or, more accurately, she yells at him, her arms flailing as the whole what-the-fuck-do-you-think-you’re-doing act plays out.

  A guy with a dog brushes past me, goes through the front door, and stands next to Declan, waiting to be seen. I push past people after him, wanting to hear this part, and end up standing next to the dog as it pants, looking up at me with a wide dog-faced grin.