Chapter 9
Ford
I snort as I read Drake’s text.
Drake: I’m coming over. Need to use your gym. This one sucks.
“You do realize that I own the gym that you claim sucks,” I tell my best friend not ten minutes later as he strides into my home gym. He chuckles behind me as I shut off the treadmill after my three-mile warmup.
With a smirk, he shrugs. “This one’s better.”
“So, why are you really here at five in the morning?” I ask, calling him out on his shit.
He laughs, the sound too bright at this ridiculous hour. “I wanted to come see my broody asshole of a friend.”
My eyebrows arch as I wait for him to give me the real answer, dragging a towel down my face before picking up a set of dumbbells for some lateral raises.
Drake chuckles as he settles onto the stationary bike. He’s the only other person with a key to my place, but I know it’s safe with him. He’s the only family I have left and he’s not technically family at all.
“Fine, fine. I wanted to check out the Choi crime scene again before going into the office. This was just convenient.”
I snort, meeting his eyes in the mirror. “So, you’re just using me.”
“Your sparkling personality is hard to resist.”
I shake my head, though a smile threatens to consume my mouth. Moving to the stereo system, I press a few buttons and Nickelback’s “Something in Your Mouth” filters through the gym.
“You know music has progressed past 2008, right?”
“Fuck off, these are American classics, like horror movies, hot dogs at baseball games, and apple fucking pie.” Music peaked with these divorced dad bangers, and I’ll be listening to this shit until I die, despite not being a dad nor divorced even once in my life.
“I’m not sure I’d pair Nickelback with an apple pie, but I suppose I’m game to give it a try,” he remarks, his voice growing slightly strained as he pedals.
As we both settle into our routines of reps and sets, we fall silent. It’s not until we’re both cooling down that Drake asks, “How’s your assignment going? Have you met the madam yet?”
“Next week. In the meantime, she sent me a stack of forms thicker than the Constitution to fill out.”
I haven’t had time to investigate the forms thoroughly yet, but the parts of the encrypted email that her assistant shared this morning told me that this isn’t a low-level operation.
“How much does she cost?” Drake asks, guzzling water.
“There’s a fifty-thousand-dollar retainer on top of her rate of ten thousand per hour.”
“Holy fuck. I hope you run up the FBI’s bill out of spite.”
Fully intending to do just that, I laugh. “That’s not all, though,” I explain, getting to the best part. “In addition, there’s a fee of one secret you’re required to submit to even be considered as a client.”
Drake’s having the same reaction I had last night when Henry informed me of the price. If I had to guess, his blood is running as cold as mine was. “Shit, you’re telling me she holds the secrets of practically everyone in D.C.?”
I nod slowly. “Yeah, and if I had to guess, her web stretches far beyond this city and probably the country.”
He tosses his towel over his shoulder. “She has to know that makes her enemy number one.”
“Henry told me last night that she was shrewd and cunning, but that she was the most charming woman he’s ever met.”
“Henry Fisher? The senator from South Carolina? Of course, he’s a client. That man could be charmed by a goddamn cobra.” He moves to shut off the stereo before inquiring, “So, what are you going to tell her? What’s your secret?” He waggles his eyebrows, and I chuckle.
“Fuck, I don’t know.” I rub the back of my neck. This shit has given me a headache since I read the email, but I’m considering giving her something honest.
He follows me to the kitchen, where I start making breakfast—for two, apparently. “Are you going to fuck her?”
My eyes slide to where he leans against the counter, his arms crossed over his chest. “No.”
His head rears back. “How the hell do you plan to manage that?”
Eyes narrowed, I sigh. “It’s not required for me to get what I need. I don’t want to fuck her.”
That hangs between us until a grin spreads across his face. “Because you want to fuck someone else.”
I don’t comment. Instead, I crack some eggs into the skillet.
“Who is she? Why didn’t you say something? You haven’t been interested in anyone since—”
I cut him off before he can irritate me by bringing her up. “There’s nothing to tell. I’ve only met her twice.”
“But you like her?”
How do I explain that I’ve thought of almost nothing but Genevieve since the moment I met her? How do I explain that there’s something carnal and primal about the way I want to get my hands on her? How do I explain that I want to hear her call me Sir a thousand times over?
I can’t explain something I don’t understand myself. “Yeah, I like her.”
“So, ask her out?”
No shit. Rolling my eyes, I plate the eggs.
“This is how it’s going to go: you’ll ask her out, she’ll fall for your…personality, you’ll date, but not long enough to find out that she’s half-crazy, and you’ll get married. Then, divorced.”
I laugh loudly, Drake joining me as amusement fills the kitchen. “Sounds great,” I remark wryly.
“Hey, it worked for me.”
I stare at the blue-lit screen of my computer, bright in the dim light of my office. Lifting the whiskey to my lips, I take a gulp of the alcohol, praying it possesses magical powers. Powers that might give me the ability to decipher the meaning of these fucking questions.
Stupidly, I reach for my phone, typing out a text to Drake.
Ford: What the fuck is a switch?
My phone rings immediately, and I groan, answering it.
“I’m coming over,” Drake informs me through stifled laughter.
“Please, don’t. You’ve already shown up uninvited once today.”
“You invited me,” he counters.
“No,” I correct him, leaning back in my leather desk chair. “I asked you what a switch was; that’s not inviting you.”
“You gave me a key. That’s an open invitation.”
With a scoff, I shake my head. “Just answer my goddamn question.”
I swear I can hear him smirk, clearly loving this. “In a Dom/sub relationship, a switch is someone who can switch between the roles.”
“In a Dom/sub relationship,” I repeat, the phrase both a statement and a question.
What the fuck am I getting into?
“Just how kinky are you?” he asks genuinely.
I don’t answer, but I don’t need to. I’m not exactly in tune with what I may or may not be into.
Until now, I’d watch porn, get off, and move on with my day.
But lately, I hardly have time to get off, let alone scroll through shady internet videos until I find something that might pique my interest, not that I’ve ever really found anything that got me overly excited to wrap my hand around my cock.
My sexual interests are boring, vanilla, plain. A tight, hot cunt is all I’d really need. No spanking, anal, or nipple clamps required.
“Look, I know you didn’t want this assignment, but have you considered that this might be good for you? This chick might teach you something,” he muses.
“Maybe if I tell Jackson that I’m not kinky, the FBI will choose someone else.”
He scoffs. “Not fucking likely. I think you should lean into this. At the very least, you could learn some shit about yourself.”
“I’ll just search the rest of my questions online,” I reply instead.
He laughs. “You know I’m going to get Nick in the cyber department to hack your search history, right?”
I hang up on him, scanning the rest of the page. There are questions about limits—both hard and soft—and safe word information. The next page lists the rules, of which there are only three:
Clients and workers are to be respected.
Safe words are absolute and will be obeyed.
Sharing the identities, locations, and/or activities that take place within or outside of this establishment is strictly prohibited.
Large, bolded letters at the bottom of the page read: A VIOLATION OF ANY OF THESE RULES WILL RESULT IN THE LOSS OF LIFE.
She’s killing people that violate these rules? Damn. Is she doing it herself, or is that something she outsources? And how is she getting away with that? That’s fucking insane. Who would agree to that?
Me, apparently.
Scrolling, I find that the next four pages are filled with specific questions designed to determine my interest level regarding each activity, on a scale of one to five.
Rolling my neck from side to side, I open a new search browser, typing in caning.
I may as well be honest on this questionnaire. After all, the best ops are threaded with truth.
“Don’t wait for me,” I tell James as I climb out of my SUV outside of the sleek, chrome office building not far from Crawford Enterprises.
The late afternoon, early evening sunlight sparkles against the shiny facade as I reach for the front door. Stepping into the foyer, I notice six security guards stationed around the marble space, and I make a note of their positions, as well as their visible weapons.
“You must be Clark,” the petite brunette behind the reception desk chimes, a bright, inviting smile on her face. At my nod, she reaches for a folder and gets to her feet.
“Follow me, please.”
When we step into the elevator together, a security guard joins us.
He’s about my size, maybe an inch shorter than my six-foot-four frame, his SIG Sauer P226 exposed at his hip.
I want to snort. I’d be willing to bet that I’d have his own weapon pressed to his temple before he got that thing unholstered.
Since I wasn’t sure what the protocol would be today, I chose to arrive unarmed.
Although, that doesn’t leave me defenseless, by any means.
“If Allison accepts you as a client,” the woman begins next to me, her dark ringlet curls bouncing against her shoulders as she speaks.
“You’ll be instructed to use this elevator and to take it to the twelfth floor.
She’ll give you a temporary access code before each of your appointments that will expire five minutes after your scheduled meeting time. ”
I nod, absorbing the information as the lift climbs.
Finally, a chime indicates that we’ve reached our destination, and nerves bubble to life within my stomach.
The sensation is foreign to me. I didn’t feel anxious, just angry, while I was deployed in an active combat zone, so why the fuck am I nervous now?
Swallowing hard, I follow the woman, stepping into the room.
The first thing I notice about my surroundings is that it’s almost like a bedroom, except not at all.
There’s a massive four-poster bed against the wall to my right, covered with black sheets and pillows.
Opposite the bed, in front of me, there’s an ornate black armoire with silver trim, the doors concealing whatever methods of torture reside inside.
There’s a large X against the far corner that I remember from my research being called a St. Andrew’s cross.
To my left, there’s an innocent-looking sitting area complete with a fully stocked wet bar, a couch and several chairs, but no coffee table.
“You indicated on your forms that you’ll be assuming a submissive role. Is that correct?”
I stuff my hands into my pockets and nod. Henry mentioned that Madam Allison almost exclusively takes submissives as clients, so I chose to list that as my preference. It’s the only question I lied about on the forms.
She smiles then, showing off her bright white teeth. “Perfect. She’ll be with you in a moment.” She calls for the elevator, but before she steps inside, she glances back at me and suggests, “I’d recommend assuming a submissive position before she joins you.”
I arch an eyebrow in question as I frantically scan my memory, trying to recall reading anything about a submissive position, and come up short.
She must see the mild panic on my face because she inclines her head.
“Allison prefers her submissives on their knees in the middle of the room, hands on their thighs, palms up and head bowed.” Just as the doors close on the woman, she adds, “And for the love of all things depraved, do not look at her without permission.”
The silver doors shut, and I blink, only to realize with abject horror that the security guard remained in this torture chamber with me.
Great.
I take a solidifying breath and attempt to ignore the man stationed by the elevator.
Telling myself that the faster I get through this, the faster I can quit the FBI and move the fuck on with my life, I unbutton my suit jacket, draping it over the back of a chair in the sitting area and rolling my sleeves up to my elbows.
I’m glad I chose to forgo the tie this evening.
It’d be too tempting to strangle myself with it right now.
Running a hand over my face and the trimmed three-day scruff lining my jaw, I move to the center of the room and sink to my knees, my ass resting against the back of my dress shoes. Turning my hands palms up, I rest them on my thighs as the pretty brunette instructed.
Fuck, this is all kinds of uncomfortable.
My molars grind as I dip my chin and close my eyes against the discomfort running through my veins. This feels wrong, flawed on a base level.
I’ve done a lot of things I’m not proud of on various assignments, but this might take the cake. I don’t like being on my knees, submitting my body, my control, my mind. It’s not that I’m on my knees for a woman; it’s that I’m on my knees at all that feels so fucking awry.
Maybe Drake was right; perhaps this can teach me about what I like and what I don’t. So far, I’ve learned that I’m not a submissive.
But I can pretend. I can pretend to be whatever the fuck will get me through this assignment faster.
Just then, I hear the door to my right open and the sharp intake of breath, but I don’t look up, heeding the brunette’s warning. A soft snick indicates that the door has shut, and I open my eyes, my gaze fixed on my upturned hands.
I hold my breath as black, wide-legged trousers come into view, accompanied by black stilettos. I recognize them immediately as expensive designer shoes, the kind that cost more than some of the rent in this city.
The owner of the shoes circles me twice, her fingernails gliding over my back, just below where my shirt collar folds over. When she comes to stand before me again, I fight the urge to look up.
Then she speaks. “Leave us, please, Marcus.”
That voice.
It can’t be. I must’ve imagined that.
“We’ll be just fine, won’t we, Clark?”
No.