CHAPTER THIRTEEN - ISSY
The problem with this night is… some of it was fun. I mean, I’m pretty disappointed that this isn’t a game. Unless he’s lying, but I really don’t think he’s lying. He can’t be that good an actor. And we really were down at the Federal Building and I really was locked in an interrogation room, and he and his partner really did question me.
So what the fuck is going on?
And, more importantly, why the fuck is this happening to me? I mean, I was just minding my own business, doing my thing, and then wham. Bullshit everywhere I turn. It’s bad enough that Chella talked Jordan into a game for me. I mean, that’s a little bit humiliating all by itself. But then to be turned down?
“I didn’t ask for any of this,” I say, looking out the window as the world whips by. We’re on I-70 now, heading back towards Denver, and I can just see the glow of city lights peeking over the top of the mountains. There’s no traffic, so we should be back in downtown in like twenty minutes.
“OK,” he says. But it’s one of those OK’s that really means, You’re full of shit.
“I didn’t.”
“Fine. I’m agreeing with you.”
“But your agreement is really just placating me.”
“If you say so, Issy.”
I huff out a breath of air and decide to drop it.
“But you don’t make sense. And you know that. Your background is… well, spotty.”
Yup. It is. But there’s no way he could find out about my past. Like, literally, no way. That girl doesn’t exist anymore. So I don’t agree or disagree with his initial assessment.
“Which means it’s either completely made up or you’ve somehow erased parts of it. So which is it?”
I ignore him.
“I’m gonna figure it out.”
“Why?” I say, turning my body to face him. I’m angry now. “Why do you need to figure it out? Why can’t you just drop the whole fucking thing?”
“Because you’re somehow involved in a terror threat.”
“Says you,” I spit. “That’s probably bullshit. You guys probably made that up to make me vulnerable. To make me cooperate. And it’s not gonna work.”
“We didn’t make it up.” He laughs. “This is the fucking FBI, Issy. We’ve got better things to do than play sex games with you.”
“Could you just shut up?”
“Fine,” he says, pressing a button on the navigation panel. Music starts to play, something beat-y, and hypnotic, and dark, which does nothing for my already dark mood. But he stays silent all the way into downtown. All the way to my house.
I open the door as soon as the car stops, just trying to get away from him as quickly as possible, but then he shuts the car off.
“No,” I say, shaking my head, one leg already out the door. “No, you’re not coming in.”
“Fine,” he says, shrugging. “But I’m not leaving either.”
I get out, slam the door, walk up to my house, keys already in hand, open the door, slam it closed behind me, and flick on the light.
And then I do most of that backwards. I open the door back up, slam it behind me, skip down the porch stairs, run down the walkway, and open the car door back up.
“Forget something?” he asks, while texting on his phone.
“Someone was in my house.”
He stops texting. “What?”
“It’s ransacked, Finn!” I grab my hair with frustration. “Someone went through my house!”
His door is open, he’s out of the car, he’s got a gun out as he stalks up my front walk, and then he looks at me, nods his head, and I open the door for him.
He goes in like… well, an FBI guy. Pointing his gun this way and that way as he steps over the mountains of debris, searching for people in the house.
When he goes upstairs, I look around nervously.
Someone was in my house. Strangers did this to me.
I suddenly feel very violated.
“No one,” Finn says, coming down the stairs, holstering his gun. “Whoever it was did this hours ago. Probably right after we left.”
“How do you know that?” I ask, still expecting people to jump out at me.
“It’s my job,” he says simply. Which doesn’t appease me. He’s poking at his phone, puts it to his ear. He says, “Declan, call me back. Something is wrong.”
“What’s that mean? Who’s Declan?”
“Let’s go,” he says, pointing at the door. “I’m taking you to my house until I can figure this shit out.”
“Wait,” I say, putting my hands up.
“Yes, Ms. Grey?” he says, not even looking at me because his eyes are still taking in the scene.
“You want me to go to your house with you?”
“Yeah, to keep you safe.”
“And that’s it?”
He just stares at me. Dumbly.
“Not to fuck me again? Not to play one more round before this night is over?”
Now it’s his turn to laugh. “Issy,” he says, pulling out his professional voice. “This isn’t a game. I’m not your hired help for the night. I fucked you earlier because I think you’re sexy, that’s it. But if pretending to play this stupid game makes you go along with my duty to keep you safe, I’ll keep playing along.”
We stare at each other.
“Yes, Issy. This is all part of my secret plan to spread your legs open and lick your pussy. Better?”
I turn away so he can’t see me smile, then gather up my self-respect, turn back, and say, with a straight face, “Fine. It’s not a game. I’m just a job to you.”
He tips a pretend hat at me, then waves a hand at the door. “After you.”
It only takes a few minutes to get to his place over in Lower Downtown, but the seconds drag on like years in the silence. He says nothing, just compulsively checks his phone, like maybe he thinks his ringer isn’t working and that’s why this Declan guy hasn’t called him back yet. Then he sends another text, trying to get an answer.
“What did you just text?” I ask.
“Business,” he says back.
Whatever.
He lives in a trendy new condo building right next to a bar called Bronco Brews. That’s the place with the fake water tower on the roof, like this is New York or something.
“OK,” he says, flicking the light on after he opens his apartment door. “Come in and let’s just try to grab a couple hours of sleep before dawn.”
It’s already after four AM, and I’m not sure I could sleep, even if I had the time. My seminar is at noon, but I need to get my shit together before I walk in and try to change the mindset of three hundred women. I can’t go up there and talk to them all freaked out about shit like this.
“Hey,” I say, walking into his living room and dropping my bag on the floor.
“What’s up?” he asks, taking his holster off and locking his gun in a safe hidden in the wall.
“Just answer me this, OK?”
“Sure, what is it, Issy?” Now he’s walking into his bedroom, taking off his suit coat as he disappears.
“If that raid last night was real—”
He pops into the doorway again and my eyes immediately track to his fingers, which are unbuttoning his button-down shirt. “If?” he says. “If it was real?”
“Fine,” I huff. “It was real. Wouldn’t they have like… crime scene tape and shit all over my place? Am I even allowed to go back in there?”
“It’s not a murder scene.” He disappears into his bedroom again.
I wonder what he’s taking off next. But then I hear the jingle of his belt and know.
“Right, but don’t they have to send in a forensics team or something?”
He appears in the open doorway again, this time bare-chested and wearing cut-off sweat shorts. I stare a second too long, and when my eyes meet his, he’s smiling. “Someone’s been watching too many police procedurals on TV.” And then he winks. “Just change out of those clothes and try to get some sleep, OK? I’m fuckin’ tired, I gotta be up in like two hours, and I need to just forget about this day.”
I look down at my bag, thinking about what I have inside it.
“Now what?” he asks, leaving the bedroom and walking towards me. He goes into the kitchen, grabs a glass from a cupboard, and fills it with water from the fridge door.
“I’m just gonna sleep in my clothes,” I say, trying to look at anything but his naked torso. He’s very fit. Like very fit. I’m talking six-pack. I’m talking that v-line of muscle that disappears under the waist line of his sweat shorts. I’m talking—
“Why?”
“I didn’t bring… anything appropriate.”
His eyes dart to my pack, then meet mine again.
He smiles.
We both go for the bag at the same time. I’m closer, so I get to it first, but his arms are long and he snatches it away. I jump, trying to get it back, but he holds it over his head.
Have I mentioned he’s a foot taller than me?
“Give it back,” I say.
“What’d you pack?”
“None of your business. Now give it back.”
He turns his back to me and starts unzipping the bag while I desperately try to reach around his broad shoulders to no avail. “What is…”
“Give it back,” I say, pulling on the strap, and this time I succeed. Or he lets it go. Or whatever. It doesn’t matter. Because he’s holding up what I did pack.
“Dayum, woman. You were gonna wear this for me tonight?”
I close my eyes, rub my fingertips into my temples, and say, “This isn’t happening.”
“Are you into…”
“Shut up and give it back.”
“Issy.” He laughs. “You’re a kinky little bitch, you know that?”
I snatch the nightie—it really doesn’t qualify as a nightie. People don’t wear open-tit lingerie to bed. People wear open-tit lingerie to sex clubs. Which is where I thought I was going tonight.
“You gonna put it on?” Finn asks.
I open my eyes, snatch the… costume… out of his hands, throw it over my shoulder, and say, “Not in your dreams, playboy.”
But he’s already reaching into the bag again. “Je-sus,” he says, his voice low, almost a whisper. Like he’s found buried treasure. “Holy shit. You’re really into this, aren’t you?”
He’s looking at my boots now. Black. Thigh-high. Grommets and laces all the way up the back. Made of latex.
He drops them to the floor. “What’s this?”
I take a deep, deep breath.
“OK,” he says, waving the riding crop in the air. “Hold on, sister. We gotta get this out of the way before we go any further.”
My blood pressure is rising so rapidly, my head begins to pound.
“Do you like to dish it out?” He whips the crop back and forth in the air so it makes that whoosh sound. “Or do you like to be the one being dished on?”
I grab the crop, pull it out of his hand, and hide it behind my back. “Are you done?”
“I don’t think so.” He laughs as he reaches back into the bag and removes nipple clamps. “My God,” he says, looking at them in the palm of his hand, then at my tits, then at them again.
“OK, all very funny,” I say, trying to be nonchalant. “We’re done here. I’m gonna sleep on the couch in my clothes, you’re going to your room. Good night.”
“Oh.” He grins. “Oh, no, no, no. I mean… come on, Issy.”
“Come on what?”
He walks towards me.
I back away.
But his long arms—damn his long arms—reach around behind my back and take the crop.
I give up and don’t fight him. Fuck it, right? Just let him have his fun. He’ll tire himself out like a child and then he’ll let it go.
But he whacks me on the ass so hard with the crop, I jump. “What the fuck?”
“Did it make you wet?”
“You’re insane.”
“I’m insane? Woman, you’re the one who went out on a date with me tonight and packed kink!”
“It wasn’t a date. It was a game.”
“Oh, excuse me,” he says, closing his eyes and placing a mea culpa hand over his heart. “You’re the one who let me take you out with the intention of putting all this on.”
He opens his eyes.
We stare at each other.
“So,” he says, reaching for my wrists and pulling me towards him. His chest is hot. And bare. And muscular. He smells faintly of aftershave. And sweat. And the city. He smells like sex, I realize. Because I already let him fuck me. We’ve already done this. “This is your fantasy, huh?”
I look up at him. I have to crane my neck back to see his face because he’s so tall. “So what?”
“Then let’s do it.”
“You mean, let’s play the game you were sent to play?”
He shrugs. “Yeah, if that’s what you need to go forward. Let’s play the game, Issy.”
Is it a game? Or isn’t it?
I can’t tell anymore.
He takes off my coat, just like he did earlier. Takes off my jacket, just like he did earlier. Then unbuttons my blouse, opens it up, except he doesn’t pull off all the buttons this time. His hand grabs my breasts through my bra, squeezing.
And it’s all very familiar. Should be, because we’ve already been here and back.
The crop smacks my ass again, only this time I don’t jump.
I moan.
“I’m winning at the moment,” he whispers into my neck, biting my ear. “But if you put all this on, you’ll steal the game right out from under me. Because I’ll forfeit and you’ll win the prize.”