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 say, 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—”
But before I can get the rest of my objection out, she opens the double doors and waves me in.
“Jordan?” I say.
Jordan stands, buttons his suit coat, and then walks towards me with his hands outstretched. He leans in to kiss my cheek and gives me a friendly hug. Says, “Nice to see you again, Issy. How’s business going?”
“You?” I ask, pulling back, dumbfounded. “You’re the… the… sex master?”
“Surprised?” he asks, arms out wide as if to say, This is me.
“But you’re… you’re a lawyer,” I stammer. “Not just any lawyer, my lawyer.”
“Not true,” he says, waving me over to the table. I oblige him and sit. Mostly because he pulls out my chair and nods his head, but also because I’m eyeballing that bottle of wine on the table and sitting means I’m one step closer to drinking. “I was your first contact at the firm, but technically, Stratford was your legal counsel. How’d that all turn out, anyway?”
All that is in reference to the legal battle I had with the city over the word ‘fuck’ in my storefront sign. “I won,” I say, lifting my chin. Because technically, I did.
“I heard you settled.” He’s pouring us both a glass of wine. “And the sign above your store says Go F*ck Yourself. With an asterisk.” He winks.
Fuckin’ winkers. Why is everyone winking at me today?
“I did settle, but I still won. Glenn Stratford gave me some good advice and I took it. It was the best possible outcome. And if you already knew this, why are you asking?”
“Just filling the empty spaces, Miss Grey.”
“They paid me to change the sign. Almost ten thousand dollars. And,” I stress, “they paid my legal fees too. It would’ve been counterproductive to continue the fight. I won.”
Jordan smiles. He’s one of those dashing men. Tall, square jaw, nice suit, expensive watch and shoes. Always put together. Brimming with confidence. Old money. “Indeed you did, Issy.” He lifts his glass in a toast. I clink it, more to get that first swallow of wine down than to celebrate. I don’t know what it is about Jordan Wells, but he’s always made me nervous.
If I were one of my clients I’d say it’s probably because he’s so handsome. So bold. So self-assured. And even though I sell bold self-assurance right along with kickboxing and jujitsu classes, it’s a show. It’s always a show. People are people, and ain’t no one figured out how to be in control all of the time. They just learned how to fake it better than most.
I’m an excellent faker. So no, that’s not it. His looks and arrogance aren’t what make me nervous.
“Anyway,” Jordan says, cracking open a briefcase sitting on the empty chair next to him. “Business, huh?” He takes out a tablet and starts tapping on it.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Your application.”
“I didn’t apply.”
“Chella did that for you.” He looks at me over the top of his tablet. “You know that. That’s why you’re here with me on Valentine’s Day and not out with… who would you be out with if you weren’t here?”
“Fuck you,” I mumble, then take a long gulp of wine.
Jordan just chuckles to himself.
Why am I even bothering?
You’re bothering, Issy Grey, because you really don’t have plans tonight. And at least you’re out somewhere. And there’s wine. And a handsome man to look at across the table, even if you do want to punch him in the face right now. And Chella will bring us dinner.
And all that sounds a whole lot better than going home and binging Netflix while I drink wine in the bathtub tonight.
“OK.” He sighs, like my application might be giving him a headache. “Let’s just go through the questions to see if you’re a good candidate for a game.”
I blink at him. Three times. Slowly. To exaggerate the fact that this whole thing is ridiculous. “I never said I wanted to play a game. Chella did.”
“But you’re here,” he says. “And you sat down. And you’re drinking my wine and, presumably, going to eat dinner with me. So… you’re interested.” He pauses for a beat. “Correct?”
“I’m curious,” I say, feeling defensive. “Possibly intrigued. That’s it.”
“Am I wasting my time?”
“Jesus Christ, Jordan. Just get on with it, OK? I’m not gonna play a game with you at this table. I’m tired. If you’ve got something interesting for me, something that might put a new spark into my life, then let’s fuckin’ hear it.”
He looks back down at his tablet, smiling.
I roll my eyes and sigh. Loudly.
“So you’re interested in our Panic Game Package?” He’s still looking down at his tablet.
“What? What the hell is a panic game?”
“You know,” he says, tapping away on his tablet like this is no big deal. “You need to be pulled out of your comfort zone.” He raises his eyes to meet mine. “Choking. Strangulation. Domination. Stuff like that.”
“What? No!” I actually laugh. “Who the hell—”
“Lots of people, Issy. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
“I’m not ashamed. I’m aghast at how you could’ve gotten me so… wrong!”
“Oh,” Jordan says. “Well, this wasn’t me, remember? This was Chella.”
“Chella actually thought I needed a choking game?” I’m… perplexed. To say the least. Chella knows more about me than anyone these days. Which isn’t saying much, since I’ve kept most of my past hidden. I’m not ashamed of it—I just don’t feel it’s productive to wave my mistakes around like a banner. Plus, my entire career was built on the premise that I fix people like me, not am people like me.
Which I do. I mean, I fixed me, right?
“No. Chella thought you needed a panic game. Perhaps I misinterpreted her request for you. Shall we ask her?”
“No,” I say. “Just… no. I don’t—”
“OK, maybe I got it wrong. Panic can mean a lot of things, but mostly it is about control. And let’s face it, Issy. You’re a superstar control freak. It’s pretty normal to crave a little submission.”
I open my mouth to object again. But he hushes me with a raised finger. “Just let me finish. Panic can just mean you need a little…” He takes a deep breath as he thinks. “A little spontaneity in your life. A little chaos. Or a little bit of danger, maybe? Not everyone wants the danger part, so ignore that if that’s not what you’re after. I’m just explaining all the ways a panic game can go, that’s all.”
I’ve got nothing for that. Before this conversation the words ‘panic’ and ‘game’ never went together.
“So… which one is you?”
“None of them.” I laugh. “I mean, I’m a control freak for a reason. I like a predictable life. I love order, and neatness, and clean lines, if you want my interior design taste. I have two God-given talents. Martial arts and the ability to make people believe the things I tell them. I’m satisfied with those two talents. I’m satisfied with what I have and I’m not looking for a panic game, OK? I’m not looking for any game. I only came because Chella talked me into it.”
“That’s it?” Jordan asks. “You only came over here to discuss a sexual fantasy fulfillment game with me because your friend… what? Offered it up?”
“Yeah,” I say, again feeling defensive.
“So you have no interest in this?” Jordan raises an eyebrow at me. “Be honest, Issy. I mean, I’m just here to make you happy, OK? That’s my only job. So if you’re interested in this at all, just tell me. I can find you something you’d enjoy.”
I start to answer, but he holds up a finger again.
“Think hard,” he says. “You won’t get another chance to play. I’ll have to blacklist you. That’s just the rules.”
I huff out a frustrated breath of air. “OK, then hold on. Let me wrap my head around this.”
“Take your time,” Jordan says, sipping his wine.
“I mean… I guess I could use some kind of game. I’m just not sure what. Do you have like… a menu? Or something?”
Jordan laughs. “A menu?”
“You know what I mean. Like a list of what you offer. What kind of games are there?”
“It’s your fantasy, Issy. Not mine. They’re all custom. You already said you don’t want to submit to anyone. So perhaps you’d like to be the top? Hmm? Is dominating a man your fantasy?”
“God, no.” I laugh.
“OK, how about ménage?”
I make a face and shake my head. “No, I don’t think so. Sounds so… messy.”
He huffs out a laugh at that, then mumbles something that might be, “You’re telling me.” He tabs a few things on his tablet and says, “Why don’t you just tell me what you like, Issy? No need to be embarrassed, OK? I’m a professional. This is my job.”
“You’re a lawyer,” I say, frustrated that I’m being cajoled into having a sex conversation with a man I hardly know.
“Which means you can trust me to keep anything you say confidential. I mean, I’m a man of my word, but if it makes you feel safer, we can sign an NDA.” He shrugs. “That way we can’t talk about it and we can forget about the part where other people find out.”
“Do you have one of those with you?” I laugh.
“Of course,” he says, pulling out a contract from his briefcase. “I sign them all the time. What you’re feeling is pretty typical.” He hands it to me. I take it and the pen he offers. “It’s really basic. We put the date, time, and place on there. Then we both sign. And that means we’re legally obligated to keep this just between us. If I breach, you can sue me. How’s that?”
It is a pretty straightforward contract. And that is all it says.
So I sign. Because I actually do have a fantasy. And fuck it, right? I think Chella did this as a friend. She means well. So why not? I pass it back and he signs his, then folds it up and places it in his briefcase.
“OK,” Jordan says, smiling at me as he leans back in his chair and takes a sip of wine. “Hit me, Issy. What’s your fantasy? And I’ll see if I can help.”
“Well… I have always…” I cringe, not sure if I should actually say it.
“Go on, you’re almost there.”
“Well.” I sigh. “Ever since I moved in across the street I’ve sorta had a secret fantasy about the club.”
“Club?” Jordan asks.
“You know,” I say, nodding my head in the direction of next door. “That place.”
“Turning Point?” he asks. “It’s closed. And I don’t have a sex club on my roster of games, so…”
“I know it’s closed. It’s not really the sex club part, but the… scene part.”
“Scene?” he asks, blinking, as if he’s confused.
Which just makes me heat up with anger. I want to slap him right now. “Are you or are you not a sex game master? Why are you acting like you have no clue what I’m talking about?”
“I just need specifics, Issy. Tell me what you mean by scene.”
“You know. People… watching. Lots of people. Like a whole crowd of people.”
“Public sex?”
“No,” I say quickly. “No, not public. Private, but in a place with lots of people.”
“A bar?”
“No. That’s not private.”
“So a sex club.” He laughs.
“Whatever. I guess so. I dunno. Sex with…” I think about what he was telling me about panic a few minutes ago. “With chaos. Yes. I think you got that part right. I want some safe chaos. That’s the fantasy I think about most. So can you make a game about that?”
He grimaces. Then sighs. Then looks up at the ceiling. Then stands up and buttons his suit coat. “Ya know, Issy, I don’t think you’re really a good candidate for this after all.”
“What?”
“Yeah, let’s forget the whole thing. I’ll let Chella know it didn’t work out, OK? You go ahead and enjoy the dinner. I hear it’s delicious.”
And then he puts on his coat, grabs his briefcase, and walks out.
“What the fuck?” I get up and go after him, but he’s already making his way through the tables of people, and it’s either let him leave or make a scene, so…
So I just watch him go.
“What the hell happened?” Chella says, coming towards me holding a tray of silver-domed dishes. “I was just bringing dinner.”
I take a deep breath. Deep. Count to ten.
“Issy!” Chella whisper-yells so the people all round us don’t hear. “Did he just walk out on you?”
“Yup,” I finally answer. “Said I wasn’t right for this or some bullshit like that.”
“Come in here and sit down,” Chella says, bumping her hip into mine to indicate I should retreat back into the little private tea room.
I do. But only because I left my purse in there and need to go fetch it. But by the time I walk those ten steps to the table two seconds later, I feel exhausted and just plop back into the chair.
Chella sets the food on the table and takes the place of Jordan across from me. “What do you mean? Like he turned you down?”
“Yes,” I say, both annoyed and defensive about the way she stressed the word ‘down.’ “Apparently I’m not a good candidate for his stupid game.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Chella says. “Let me go talk to him—”
But I reach over the table and grab her by the shirt sleeve before she can fully stand up. “No. You will do no such thing. I didn’t want to play, remember? It’s just… he was kind of a dick about it. So just fuck him.”
“Jesus, Issy. I’m so sorry. This is all my fault. I didn’t mean for it to make you feel bad.”
“I know.” I sigh, forcing myself to move on by lifting up the silver dome on the plate. “What’s this? Can we still eat?”
“It’s parmesan risotto with roasted shrimp. And yes, I insist you stay. I’m taking a break right now, so I’ll take that jerk’s place.” She lifts the dome off the other plate and starts spreading her napkin in her lap.
I do the same, but… fuck. This whole feeling of… I dunno… failure washes over me and I can’t shake it. “God, I hate him now. He was so rude, Chella.”
“Forget him, OK? I’m really sorry. And believe me, he won’t be getting any referrals from me again.” She takes a bite of risotto and then feigns orgasmic pleasure.
Which makes me smile, then laugh. And when I take a bite, I try to outdo her. Pretty soon we’re making so much noise, servers are poking their heads into the private tea room to see what’s going on.
“Don’t mind us,” Chella calls to them. “We’re just a couple of girls getting off on food!”
After that, we quiet down and just eat, drinking our wine. Well, I drink wine. Lots of wine, actually. But Chella is eight months pregnant, so she’s got sparkling cider. By the time dessert is served I’m pretty tipsy. It’s a beautiful, decadent strawberry tart with whipped cream on top. And believe me, the risotto was just foreplay compared to this treat.
“So,” Chella says, her lips wrapping around a spoonful of strawberries and whipped cream. “Did you… tell him your fantasy?”
I scowl. “I don’t want to talk about it. I’m feeling better about it now, so let’s just let it go.”
Chella takes another bite of tart and presses her lips into the spoon to get all the cream as she withdraws it. If you were a man watching her do that you’d probably mistake it for something sensual. And it does come off that way a little, if you’re a man and don’t know her. But I do know her. And I know that move. She does that at tea all the time when she’s got an opinion about something that differs from mine.
“What?” I ask. “Just say it.”
“Nope,” she says. “Moving on.”
“Chella,” I growl. “Just tell me what you’re thinking, for fuck’s sake.”
“Well…” She smooths her napkin in her lap. And now I really know she’s got something to say, but doesn’t want to. “Just…” She looks up at me. “Was it a really weird fantasy?”
I think about this for a moment. “No. I mean, I’m pretty sure it’s common.”
“What is it?”
“I’m not telling you.”
“Come on, Issy! I’ve seen and heard it all. I used to go to Turning Point, you know.”
I make a face, unsure.
“Is it a ménage? Because that was mine and it was”—she laughs—“pret-ty fun.”
“No. Nothing so bold. I mean, all I asked for was a… scene. You know?”
Chella cocks her head at me. “A scene? As in drama?”
“No.” I huff. “Like a sex club scene. You know, where tons of people watch and you get off, and it’s safe, and a little bit anonymous.”
“Mmmm,” Chella says, smiling. “I had you pegged for a panic girl, but what do I know about people’s sexual fantasies?”
I’m about to protest her assumption about me, but then decide I can see her point. I can be a control freak. And it’s pretty common to assume a control freak wants control because they lost it once and never want to feel that way again.
Which, in my case, would be accurate. So I shut up.
But then she says, “I did that too.”
“What? A panic game?” Because that’s what’s still on my mind.
“No, the scene thing.”
“Jesus. Really? I thought you said Smith never let you do anything in the club?”
“We didn’t really. Well, one time he took me down there to watch. And we”—she cups her hand around her mouth and whispers—“fucked in front of a whole bunch of people.”
“Yes,” I breathe. “Like that. That’s what I was thinking. It’s not weird, is it?”
She shrugs. “A little.”
I narrow my eyes at her. “You never know when you should lie, do you? You’re supposed to say, No, Issy. It’s not weird at all.”
She laughs. “It’s not weird if you understand why you want it.” She stares at me for a few seconds. “Do you know why?”
It’s my turn to shrug. “It’s just… kinda sexy, that’s all.”
She inhales, exhales, then nods. “So… I’ve heard that when Turning Point was in full swing, Bric—he ran the place, so this was his thing, I guess—used to place his game player naked in the center of the lobby during private parties, blindfolded. Anyone at the party was allowed to touch her. Stimulate her,” Chella says with a knowing nod of her head. “So she had no idea whose touch it was. Was it male? Female? Never found out. Because Bric would take her upstairs and fuck her afterward. He was the only one allowed to fuck her, I guess.”
“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.”