by K NILSSON
I didn't think I'd enjoy the trip as much as I did. The entire experience was a pageant. I had proper costume pieces stored in a box in the back of my closet which combined to make my outfit: a worn, too-tight leather skirt, camisole, a form-fitting leather jacket, and my favorite thigh-high boots.
Dr. Jane's pale hair was in a French twist. Smoky eyeshadow made her grey eyes even lighter. She stained her lips deep red. Her black dress was sheer enough to show off a red G-string. I fell in love with her shoes. The chain links wrapped around the ankles reflected the lights of the disco ball.
My head swung from left to right, then I turned around and did the same. All of it was decadent, and I couldn’t take my eyes off the goings on. One tableau was no less riveting than the next. The games involved consensual high stakes interactions between a giver and a receiver. A giver was a top, a willing receiver, the bottom. While watching a wax play scene, the bottom squirmed and moaned, enjoying the experience. The top glowed with pleasure at receiving the gift of control from the bottom.
Some women wore painful-looking clamps on their nipples, while the males wore penis bondage—their pompoms, tied up with leather strips, rings, or cages, that strangled the balls.
"Dr. Jane."
She turned, eyes questioning, as I pointed with my chin toward the men with the dangling bits.
"The men are wearing weighted clamps on their balls," she explained with a devilish expression.
My hand floated up to my mouth.
Ouch! I didn't know testicles could stretch like that?
"Enjoying yourself, Devyn? Your eyes are full of mischief and a touch of longing, too."
This woman was too damn perceptive. I ignored her, but, I'm sure she noticed my flushed face. Nothing escaped her eagle eye yet.
"Is there a supervisor in this asylum? It looks like the inmates are running the show," I said with a slight smirk.
Dr. Jane's eyes gazed past me as if she saw a rock star who didn't make public appearances often.
Her bosom heaved a little, and when she spoke, it came out as a little breathy. “Shh…. He heard you.”
"Dr. Jane, what did I say now?"
Turning around, a set of dark brown orbs ringed in black glowered at me. He glanced over my shoulder at Dr. Jane with recognition and relaxed a little. Dr. Jane rescued me from falling into the hole of mortification by greeting him warmly. They bussed in the European fashion.
"Coucou! Maître Alexander."
"Cher Jeanne." He regarded her, expecting more to come out of her mouth.
"Devyn is with me. This environment is new to her," said Jane, putting her arm in a subtle, protective, gesture around my waist.
“Brilliant," he said, a tight smile hiding his teeth.
"Err, Devyn, let me introduce you to one of the... supervisors of Mayhem, Master Xander."
Master Xander was six feet tall. He had a full head of dark blond hair that touched his shoulders, bushy eyebrows, and a ginger-colored designer stubble. He was long, lean, and mean.
I cleared my throat.
"Hello, Master Xander. Nice place,” I murmured.
What else could I say?
Then, he raised my hand to his mouth and placed a light kiss on it.
"Charmé ma chere Devyn."
I was ablaze because French accents were my jam.
"The pleasure is mine," I said, feeling warmth spread through my loins.
“If there is anything you’d like to explore further, you may contact me,” he said with a hint of darkness in his voice.
"Thank you," I said.
"I look forward to meeting you again, Cher Devyn."
I dipped my head as he walked away.
"Dr. Jane, did I say anything that offended Master Xander?"
"Really, Devyn." She stretched the real in, really.
"What?"
"You referred to his club as an asylum and the members as inmates."
“Oh no,” I said wincing.
Open mouth, insert foot.
"You said it a little louder than you should. Dungeon protocol is more formal than simple etiquette allows."
"Point taken," I said, chastised.
Time went by fast. I can wrap my head around this lifestyle, no commitment, just a visit or two. Curiosity coaxed my feet to move toward the back where a crowd gathered.
Tapping on the shoulder to get my attention, Dr. Jane said, "Devyn, it's time to go. I have to get up early tomorrow."
"Go ahead, Dr. Jane. I'll be okay."
She gripped my arm and whispered in my ear.
"You can't stay without me. We’ll come back another time."
My smile turned upside down. I’d been ogling this beautiful person whom I'm not sure was a male or female. It didn’t matter. The person had magnetism, and I wanted to get under their radar.
"Sure, I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking." I was taking it all in for my spank bank.
Chapter Twenty-One
Devyn
Culver City
We had sparring practice today. I focused and made no mistakes, except for one. Ben pretended I hurt him, but when I reached for him, he flipped me over and onto my back. I was spitting mad. Thank God, the owner got extra thick padding for the floor. I won’t be forgetting his trick. You know what they say about paybacks.
I walked toward my car when Ben said, “Wait a sec. I have something for you.”
“Is this another one of your tricks?” I asked.
He grinned, looking a little sheepish. “Sorry about that.”
Ben fished out a woven grocery bag with handles from his trunk and said, “Take this home. Open it there.”
I wanted to stop by Whole Foods, but something told me I better go home and get the groceries later. I had bread and cheese to make a sandwich. The car ride home was quick; there was no traffic. The garage door hiccuped a little, but it opened wide enough for me to slip through and park in my spot. I grabbed my gear and Ben's grocery bag and ran up the stairs to my apartment.
Ben expected I'd get the job at Sigma Stormsoft. The grocery bag had the documents and electronics for my new identity, a driver’s license showing my address was an empty apartment in Marina del Rey, a new passport, and an insurance card for my vehicle. He changed the title to reflect the owner as Devyn Frost, not Foster. Ben also bought the phone and the cell service with a credit card under my new identity. Devyn Frost had money in the bank. Her last job was as a systems analyst for a car manufacturer in Detroit. I need to cram all that information so that if anyone asks the answers roll off the tip of my tongue.
There was a message on the new phone already.
“Hi Miss Frost, this is Joan Nesbitt, I’m from Sigma Stormsoft Human Resources. Please return my call. The number is (424) 939-0004, ext. 25. Have a nice day.”
I returned the call right away. It went to voice mail.
“Mailbox full. Please call again later.”
“Fuuuuu.. dge!” I hung up.
I let Ben know.
Me: I missed a call from Sigma Stormsoft’s HR. When I returned the call, the mailbox was full.
Ben: That happens. Call at 4:30 pm. That’s when staff are ready to leave for the day. If she’s not there, maybe you can leave a message with an explanation.
Me: I called at 4:30 and left a message, but I’ll try again at 5 pm.
The rest of the day would be a waiting game. I made tea to have with my grilled cheese sandwich. I stared off into space, my mind wandering at the thought of starting a new job, even though it was temporary. The sandwich hit the spot. I cleaned my place, wiping up every crumb on the table, so as not to invite insects. I stashed the cup and dish in the sink.
I wanted a bath. My body was sore, and it felt like a car ran it over. Not wanting to miss another call from HR, I brought the phone with me to the tiny bathroom. It was all white including the plumbing fixtures. The only color in the bath were the toiletries and blue towels. There was a real medicine cabinet built into the wall. The tub was a claw foot ca
st iron monstrosity and a bitch to clean, but for taking a long soak, it was nothing short of romantic. I put a few drops of aromatherapy oil into the water. The lemon and cypress scent was exotic. Music piped through the smart speaker, “A Beautiful Mess” by Jason Mraz began my bath playlist. A beam of light filtered in through slits in the drawn shade. As I ditched each piece of clothing, my anxiety reduced little by little. I put my toe in the tub to test the water and slid in it like a nymph, a mythical mermaid, looking for her incubus.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Devyn
Santa Monica
I got out of the tub when the water turned cold. Holding on to the side, I reached for the fluffy towel I laid on the toilet. Blotting the moisture off my skin, I spotted a bottle of body cream and applied it to my water-wrinkled fingers and toes. I picked up the phone and padded to my bedroom, checking the screen for messages. It was 5:00 pm. I called Joan Nesbitt’s number and left a message.
“Hi Ms. Nesbitt, Devyn Frost here. I’m returning your call. I look forward to hearing from you.”
I hoped she called to schedule a job interview. As far as I knew, I had one more hoop to jump.
The bath had mellowed me. My legs were boneless. I was sleepy, so I set my alarm for 6 am and had a restful sleep until the following morning when it blared like a siren. I fumbled to find it, but it slid onto the floor and under the bed.
Soon, I was clean, caffeinated, and ready to tackle my day. The new phone trilled at 8:15 am. It was Joan Nesbitt.
“Hello,” I said.
“Ms. Frost? This is Joan, Joan Nesbitt.”
“Oh hi. I’m glad you called.”
“Sorry, yesterday, my day turned haywire.”
How does a day turn haywire? Roll with it.
“Yes, I know how that goes,” I said.
“I called to tell you that you are one of the two candidates short-listed for the position. Can you come in today for an interview?”
“That’s great news,” I said, a little stunned at the immediacy of the request.
“I know it’s short notice, shall I put you down for 5:00 pm?”
“Yes, of course,” I said.
“Great. Shall I send a car to pick you up?” she asked.
Shit. No.
“There’s no need. I’ll be close by,” I said.
“Very well. Park in the visitors' lot and come inside. When you go through security, tell them you have an interview with me.”
“I’ll see you this afternoon.”
“Bye dear,” she said.
Click.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Devyn
Sigma Stormsoft
Culver City
The campus was intimidating, even though I’d driven by it several times in the past week. I followed the signs to visitors’ parking, picked the closest spot, and walked toward the building, noting the number of cars diminished from the daytime.
After work hours meetings were usual for interviewees. The business that needed attending wouldn't distract the interviewer and the number of people who knew about private meetings was reduced.
The security staff was expecting me. They examined my handbag and directed me to the elevators with instructions to get off on the seventh floor and follow the signs to Human Resources.
A placard with the name ‘Joan Nesbitt’ sat on the unoccupied reception desk.
A hologram appeared out of nowhere. “Welcome Devyn.”
I recognized the voice from the phone calls. Joan's blond hair was styled like a woman in charge, pulled back and fastened at the nape, not a hair out of place. She wore red lipstick and a black silk blouse.
“You are a little early. Please take a seat in the waiting area. Mr. Steve Leslie, the head of the systems department, will be right out. You’ll be speaking with him.”
“Thank you,” I said.
My mouth gaped. Seeing a hologram act like a human and me responding to her as if she was real surprised me. I hoped they didn't record my reaction... I’m sure they did.
I clutched my handbag as I sat in the reception area of his office. The air conditioner was blowing cold air, and I was freezing. Schooled in a myriad of facial expressions, I tried not to appear frozen by rubbing my hands together and pacing the room. I stopped to do a final check of my appearance. Pulling a compact out of my purse, I touched up the lipstick and tried to tame the loose tendrils around my face.
I heard the click of the door, and he stood to watch me, tapping his foot, as if he’d waited for me. I was keeping him from something. He wanted the interview to be over quick, which didn’t bode well for me. Rubbing his balding pate, he scowled.
“Mr. Leslie?” I asked, wondering if I should flash a friendly smile or a cool, tight-lipped one.
“Yes, that’s me. You’re late,” he said with a dismissive air.
I wasn’t late. Leslie’s testing me, but I don’t know why.
“I’m sorry, sir. The traffic...”
He dismissed my excuse with a slash of his hand. “I understand. That’s one reason I dislike after-hour interviews.”
Steve Leslie was a balding, paunchy, middle-aged man with large facial features, droopy lids that made his eyes look like slits, sandbags under his eyes, jowls, and a pouty lower lip.
He ushered me into his office and shut the door. His office was decorated in the Mad Men style of the 1960s reproductions. They included a seven-foot drafting table as a desk positioned in front of a picture window, and a high-back desk chair that swiveled. Alongside one wall, an abstract piece of art hung over a teak credenza, a matching bar cart stood in the corner. It was a sophisticated look, and it impressed me.
He pointed to one of the orange visitor chairs; it was a swivel, shaped like a space-age pod. He sat in his chair, leaned back, and steepled his fingers.
“Ms. Foster,” he began, “I don’t normally judge a book by its cover, but you look a little young for the experience listed on your resume.”
I froze.
“I’m older than I look, sir. I’m blessed with my mother’s genes.”
He nodded.
Employers can't ask your age, only to state whether you are over eighteen. That’s the box I checked on the job application.
“Tell me in your own words what the job’s about,” he asked.
The cold room felt hot. My upper lip was dewy. Good thing Ben made me practice my answer. I’ll be okay.
My response was long, complicated, and it relieved me to see he was nodding off. I dropped my handbag on the floor, hoping he’d wake up so I could go home.
The thud startled him. Running his big paw down his face, he said, “Thank you for your time, Ms. Foster.”
We shook hands, and I left. I had no inkling if Leslie hired me.
When I got to my car, I called Ben.
“Did you get the job?”
“What? I don’t know. He fell asleep during the interview. He asked me one question.”
As I told Ben how the interview unfolded, he snorted and laughed aloud.
“What?” I asked.
“You have a fifty-fifty chance of getting hired. I hope we don’t have to resort to Plan B,” he said.
“What’s Plan B?” I asked.
“Me. I’d apply for the job.”
I hoped that wasn’t the case.
The following morning, the new phone vibrated with a voicemail notification. I didn’t hear the phone ring.
“Miss Frost, this is Joan Nesbitt, I’m from Human Resources. I have good news. You got the job. You impressed Mr. Leslie and he asked me to make you an offer of employment. Please call me back on (424) 939-0004, extension 25. Have a nice day.”
I let Ben know.
Me: I got it. They left a voicemail.
Ben: They left voicemail???
Me: Yes. I didn’t hear the phone ring. Do you think something’s wrong with this burner?
Ben: Relax. Companies can leave a voicemail without the phone ringing. Congratulations, Devyn.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Max
Los Angeles
Last night, right after work, I took James out for drinks. We'd filled the day with fact checking and updates on both our new client, Miller, and the target, Rathmore. I put together a plan to get inside the target’s company and try to find his information system and target an analyst or electronic engineer that works with his computers.
James and I hopped into my treasured Hulk.
“Where do you want to go for drinks, James? They’re on me.” I figured the bar he picked would be his favorite watering hole.
"I know a place near my old stomping grounds; it’s near Cal State."
“Cal State? Did you graduate from there?” I asked.
“I had a 3.9 GPA,” he went on. “I should have gotten a 4.0, but...”
I glanced at him, realizing he’d JUST wound himself up, something he did when his brain farted on an injustice.
“My professor had a substitute teacher who didn’t know...”
He began a recitation of grievances when this happened at the office, usually when he was frustrated about something.
James continued, “I handed in work for extra credit, graded papers, and he didn’t put that toward my cumulative GPA.”
He was a competitive guy and a gamer at that. His grade bothered him.
“James... JAMES...” He looked at me, startled. “Does this place have a name?”
"It’s called the Hollywood Dive. The Dive was our second home, much like the bar in that sitcom. I would love to go there."
James looked at me for a reaction when he mentioned the bar, halfway expecting an eye roll. He squirmed a little when I didn’t respond right away. I was checking my mental Rolodex. There was nothing. I’ve never heard of the place, never having had a reason to go anywhere near Cal State.
