The Pleasure of Panic

by JA Huss

  “He’s dead now, so… whatever.”

  She pouts her lips a little. “Well, sorry about that. That he’s dead. It’s hard to lose people.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “And appreciated.”

  “Were you close at least? Even if you disappointed him?”

  “Yeah. I guess you could say we’re close.” Then I wince. Because I said that like he’s still alive. It’s so hard for me to believe he’s dead and… “I mean… I went into the FBI because he wanted me to, and I thought it’d make him proud of me.”

  “Is he?” Then she winces, and not because I’ve got the laces all undone and I’m reaching for her foot to slip it inside the boot, either. It’s because she’s talking about him in the present tense too. “Was he? Before he died?”

  “It depends when you asked him, I guess.”

  “OK,” she says, thinking about that for a moment. “Go on. We seem to be taking a while to get to the point here so…”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Right. DC. So I went into the FBI Academy in Virginia. Graduated pretty high up in my class. Not top, but near the top. And I guess that’s expected because of who I was and all.”

  “Come on. You’re taking way too long to answer one stupid question.”

  That’s because I don’t really want to tell her the next part. I deflect and wrap both hands around her calf, sliding them up to her thighs. I’m watching her face as I do this. She closes her eyes and sighs.

  Which makes me smile.

  “So on graduation day I’m standing there, all dressed up, feeling pretty fucking good about myself. And my dad comes over with a little box. A gift, ya know?”

  “Was it a watch or something?”

  My hands stop what they’re doing as I gaze off into space, thinking back on that moment. “No, it wasn’t a watch. It was a phone.”

  “Huh,” she says. “Like a cool new iPhone? Kind of a weird gift, but OK.”

  “No, it wasn’t a cool new iPhone. It was a cheap-ass thing you buy in the checkout lane at Walmart.”

  Now she’s squinting her eyes. Trying to fit the pieces together. I’m just about to give the big reveal when she says, “Oh. Shit.”

  “What?” I ask.

  “It was a burner phone, wasn’t it?”

  “How the fuck did you guess that?”

  “Was it? Was it a burner?”

  I nod.

  “Fuckin’ A. He was dirty, wasn’t he.”

  “How the fuck did you jump to that conclusion?” I ask.

  “Sorry. OK, well, good.” She draws in a deep breath and lets it out.

  “No,” I say. “He was the bad witch, remember. He was dirty as fuck, Issy. And that phone was… it was his way of saying, ‘Welcome to the family, Finn. Now you’re a bad witch too.’”

  “Shit. You had no idea?”

  I shake my head. “Not a fuckin’ clue.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I took it.” I look up at her as I say this, my eyes looking right into hers. “I answered it when it rang. I got a new one sent to me every few weeks or so. And I answered those too.”

  “So you fell in line.”

  “Yeah. That’s exactly what I did.”

  “So what happened? That you got sent to Denver?”

  I start lacing up her boot, winding the laces back and forth across the back of her calf, all the way up to that little dent behind her knee. And each time I poke the lace head into the eye, she makes the cutest little whimper sound. Like I’m driving her crazy. “So mostly I’m just doing my job. Sometimes it would be a month in between calls. But when it rang, that fucker rang, ya know?”

  “What did they make you do?”

  “Whatever.”

  “Kill people?”

  “Yeah, some. But they were all thugs, right? Enemies. Different gangs, different cities.”

  “Gangs?”

  “Remember when I told you I was Irish?”

  “Oh, fuck.”

  “Oh, fuck is right.” I inhale. Exhale loudly. I finish lacing the boot, tie it off at the back side of her knee, and reach for the other one.

  “You still haven’t answered my question.”

  “Why did I get sent here?”

  “Why?”

  “Because one day…” The whole fucking thing flashes through my head in this one moment. Everything that went down that night. “One day I looked him in the eye and said, ‘Nah. I’m not gonna do it. I’m done.’”

  Issy is quiet now. So I just go on.

  “And he pulled out a gun and put it to my head. And he said, ‘The only way you’re done is if you’re dead, Finnegan.’”

  “Jesus.”

  “And… well—” I consider lying again. But what’s the point? “I shot him first. Because even though I really didn’t want to believe he’d shoot me… I knew he was gonna do it.”

  Issy’s mouth is hanging open. Her eyes wide.

  “Because he had this look of surprise on his face when he realized I had my gun out. And then he laughed, and I could almost feel the muscles in his arm, like he was about to pull that fuckin’ trigger. And I just happened to pull mine first.”

  “You’re here because you killed your FBI dad?”

  I shrug. “Ya know, Issy, I’m not really sure why I’m here.” I continue lacing her boot, and feeling proud of how it all looks. I’m practically an expert. This one goes much quicker. Not that I’m trying to be quick. It actually feels good getting some of this shit I’ve been carrying around for the past few months off my back. “I’m just taking it one day at a time. I’m not doing a very good job at that, but I’m trying.”

  “Do you regret it?”

  “No,” I say. But that’s all I have for that. And I’m tying the bow at the back of her knee anyway, so her time is up. I sit back on my heels, admiring my work. She twists around to try to get a glimpse. “You’re goddamned sexy, you know that?”

  She shrugs when I look up at her. “It’s the boots.”

  But I shake my head as I stand back up. “Nah, It’s not the boots. It’s just… you.” And then I place my hands on her cheeks, lean in, and kiss her. Like really kiss her.

  When I pull back her eyes are open. Watching me. “So,” I say.

  “So,” she says.

  “Am I a good witch or a bad witch?”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN - ISSY

  “I’m not sure yet,” I say, answering his question. “You definitely come off as good witch. On the outside, I mean. I can’t explain it, but bad guys don’t admit shit like that to people they hardly know.”

  “But you’re not sure about what’s on the inside.”

  I stare at him. This man I didn’t know yesterday morning. This man I met under the strangest of circumstances. This man who has proclaimed himself my protector.

  This man killed his own father.

  If my silence makes him nervous, he doesn’t show it. He bends down, picks up the costume, and says, “Take all the time you need to come to a conclusion. But while you’re doing that… may I?”

  He shakes the lingerie in his hand, shoots me a wicked grin that has bad witch written all over it, and then he winks.

  His wink is a thing, I decide. To put people at ease. To make them forget bad witches even exist and there’s nothing to see here but goodness.

  And it works. For me, at least. Because I feel pretty OK about his confession.

  Why is the question. Why do I feel OK about it?

  Is this a game with Jordan? Or is this all real? Would a guy admit to being a dirty FBI agent, and killing his dirty FBI agent father, and being demoted and sent to—

  “Hey,” I say. “So what happened after? I mean, you didn’t really answer my question. How the fuck did you get to Denver?”

  “Well… the FBI is a gang too. We cover for each other. And I’m pretty sure my father wasn’t the only dirty guy in the DC bureau.”

  “So they covered for you?”

  I nod. “Gave me some paid leave, then swept
the whole thing under the rug and sent me out here.”

  “Like a new start?”

  “Brand-new city, brand-new partner, brand-new start.”

  Do I believe him? I guess I don’t have much choice. I either believe him and stay here, or take my chances and leave.

  “So… should I go on?” he asks. And he’s not talking about his story. The story is over. He’s asking about the costume.

  I should get the fuck out of here. I should put my clothes back on, walk out that door, and never look back. Just leave.

  But I nod yes, anyway. I give him permission to dress me up and keep the game going. Because this is a game. None of this can be coincidence. But if I’m gonna buy in, I need to go all in.

  He chuckles under his breath as he hold the negligee up to study how it works, and mumbles, “OK, don’t make a fool of yourself, Murphy.”

  In his defense, it does look a little weird, since, you know, there’s no cups. It’s just round open holes where tits go.

  “Need help?” I say, trying to forget everything he just told me.

  “Nope. Figuring this out is like the highlight of my life so far.”

  “You must have a very boring life.”

  He stops his lingerie analysis to look at me. “Hey, there ain’t nothing wrong with boring, babe. Not a damn thing wrong with boring.”

  “So you don’t miss DC?”

  He places the nightie over my head, pulls it down, totally messing up my hair, and then picks up one arm and fits it into the straps.

  I almost die. This is fuckin’ hilarious.

  “No,” he says, taking his attention to the other arm now. “It doesn’t matter where you are. People are the same.”

  “So they’re corrupt here too? That’s what you’re saying?”

  He pulls the nightie down, but it gets caught on my breasts, so he reaches underneath it, lifts my tits, fits them into the little cut-out holes until they spill out, and then straightens out the front so the lace ruffle on the edge is neat.

  I absolutely die this time and there’s no way in hell I don’t laugh.

  “What?” he says. “Did I do it wrong?”

  I shake my head, still smiling. “No, it’s right.”

  “Then why are you laughing at me?”

  “It’s… it’s pretty adorable, actually.”

  “That I dressed you up as a kinky slut?” He waggles his eyebrows at me, just to make it clear he’s joking.

  “That you took it so seriously. I mean, your boot lacing is top-notch. Not too loose, not too tight—which is pretty hard to accomplish when you’re dealing with forty-seven eyes.”

  He sucks in a huge breath of air, leans back on his heels, and raises his chin, proud as punch. “Thank you. And the answer to your last question—and I do mean that literally, since we’re gonna be too busy to talk in like, oh, ten seconds—is yes. Denver is as corrupt as hell. Everyone knows it, nobody cares to fix it, and I’m no better or worse than the rest of them, I guess. So I choose… indifferent witch. Because after wrestling with this shit for almost a decade, I’ve decided if you choose a side and stand for something, those people will disappoint you eventually and you’ll have to renounce them and choose another. So why bother?”

  “Hmm,” I say.

  “You don’t agree.”

  “No, that’s the funny part. I absolutely agree. I’ve been indifferent witch for a pretty long time now.”

  “But… your job?”

  I shrug. “My job is to give people hope. To help them realize their mistakes, make the right changes, and then move on. So that’s what I do.”

  “It’s all bullshit?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. And just a smidge, just a teeny-tiny dash of disappointment leaks out of him.

  “No, it’s not bullshit. I believe in self-defense, so I show them how to take a man down who’s twice their size. And I believe in self-preservation, so I tell them to think of themselves first because you can’t take care of anyone else unless you’re taking care of you. And I tell them they’re worthy of that, because the world has taught them they’re not. But I don’t teach them anything more than self-reliance and confidence. I don’t sugarcoat anything. I ask them to be true to themselves—whatever that may look like—and that’s it.”

  The eyebrow drops back into place. The dash of disappointment morphs into more than a little bit of respect. And the Q&A time is over, because he reaches into his pocket, where he must’ve stuffed them earlier, and holds the nipple clamps in the palm of his hand. “How sure are you of these?”

  I inhale. Exhale. And say, “I don’t even know how to put them on.”

  We both laugh at that. Like… silly, this-is-great-fun kind of laughing.

  “I’ve never done this before either,” he says. “Let me make that disclaimer before we start.”

  “Should we Google it?” I ask, still giggling.

  “Nah,” he says, pinching one open and bringing it towards my nipple. “How hard could it be. Just—”

  I jump back, grabbing at my nipple. “Holy shit! Ow, ow, ow, ow!”

  He winces. “OK, let’s Google it.”

  Twenty minutes later we’re sitting on his couch, engrossed in a sexpert’s video series on YouTube. In fact, we’re watching Butt Plugs 101 right now because the autoplay is on and this chick has like, every topic imaginable.

  Finn looks over at me, hesitant to take his eyes off the demo on his laptop screen. “Did you—”

  “No,” I say quickly. “I didn’t bring a butt plug.”

  “Just checking,” he says. “Trying to make your fantasy night everything you thought it would be.”

  “Honestly, I’ve never even thought about butt sex.”

  “No?” He laughs. Loud. “Surely you’ve—”

  “Nope.”

  “Never?”

  “Never.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Is that weird?”

  “I dunno.” He shrugs.

  “So you… have? Done that? With other people?” He pretends not to hear my question. “Finn?”

  “Come on,” he says. “Don’t make me answer that.”

  “Why, you’re embarrassed?”

  “No, I’m not embarrassed. I just want to concentrate on you, that’s all.”

  “Awww… you’re trying be a good witch.”

  He laughs, slaps the laptop closed, and says, “I’m ready. You ready?”

  I nod. “Just remember, she said—”

  “I heard her. I was sitting right here.” He reaches for the clamps, stands up, pulls me to my feet, and comes at me again.

  I put my hand up to stop him. “Whoa, there, buddy. Didn’t you pay attention? You gotta get my girls ready for this. She said you gotta talk dirty to them first.”

  “To you, dingbat. Not them.” He laughs.

  “OK, so talk.”

  He shrugs. “What kinda dirty talk do you like?”

  “You know,” I say, unable to look him in the eye. “The usual.”

  “Oh, my God. You’ve never done that either? Jesus Christ, Issy! You’re practically a virgin.”

  “I have,” I say. “Just… it didn’t go very well.”

  His eyebrows slide up his forehead in… what? Surprise? Curiosity? “Explain.”

  Curiosity, I guess.

  “I mean… it was all kinda weird.”

  “Like he wanted you to call him daddy kind of weird?”

  “Daddy? What? No! Is that a thing? Gross!”

  “Nope,” Finn says, shaking his head. “No one does that. What’d he say?”

  “Oh, man. Don’t make me repeat it.”

  “Come on, I gotta know where your boundaries are. You heard the sexpert. Gotta be safe and shit.”

  “OK,” I say, taking a deep breath. “He wanted me to like… tell him what to do.” Finn blinks. “Like, explicitly.” Finn blinks again. “Or he wouldn’t do anything.” Three more blinks. “What?”

  “That’s it?”

  “He wanted
me to say things like, ‘Put it in my pussy.’ But then he’d be like, ‘You didn’t say, ‘Put your cock in my pussy.’’”

  “OK.”

  “What? That’s weird, right?”

  He crosses his arms, places a hand over his mouth like he doesn’t want me to see him smile, and then says, “Totally weird.”

  I slap his arm. “That’s normal?”

  He shakes his head no, but it turns into a nod pretty quick. “Totally vanilla ice cream, babe. Sorry. Pretty much standard dirty talk right there.”

  “OK, so what do guys say?”

  He opens his mouth. Closes it. Tries again. Fails. Says, “Maybe we should skip the dirty talk.”

  “No, I wanna hear it. Tell me.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Mmmhmm. Yup. Hit me with it.”

  He thinks about this for a few seconds, then says, “OK, but I’m only doing this because you’re making me.”

  I laugh. “Got it. Go for it.”

  “You can’t call me a pervert when you do the whole sex fantasy debrief with your friend, Bella.”

  “Chella. And I won’t, I promise.”

  “OK, but just remember—”

  “I won’t tell her anything, promise.”

  He closes his eyes, steps towards me, threads his hand into my hair as he leans into my ear and whispers, “I’m gonna put my fingers inside you now, Issy. Right up in your pussy. And you’re gonna be wet for me, understand?”

  I turn my head to look at him, but he holds me in place by gripping my hair.

  “Just agree,” he coos.

  “Yes,” I say.

  “Yes, you’ll what?”

  “I’ll…” I swallow hard. “I’ll be wet for you.”

  I can feel his smile as he kisses my neck. “Good. Then I’m gonna finger you and play with your clit, just to get you ready for my nipple clamps, got it?”

  I’m too busy picturing that in my head to respond, but he nips the tender skin under my ear and says, “Got it?”

  “Yes,” I say. “Got it.”

  “Shit like that,” he says, pulling back and releasing my hair.

  “That’s it?” I ask.

  “It’s not good enough?”

  “No, it’s pretty good. But… do you have more?”

  He tilts his head like a confused puppy. “Are you fucking with me?”