Chapter Four
Sutton
In the nearly two weeks since my confusing meeting with Emerson Bratt, his entourage, and Maxwell fucking Cruz, I’ve worked tirelessly to set-up meetings with Emerson’s NFL prospects.
Of the ten teams contacted, only three have agreed to meet with me.
These coaches were either friends with—or fans of—my father, which made it fairly easy to secure meetings with them, but the remaining seven?
Well, they’re proving a bit more difficult.
And I haven’t even dented the list of prospective teams currently pursuing Emerson.
It’s been made quite clear, in no uncertain terms, that until I’m officially representing Emerson Bratt, none of the coaches—save for the three who are doing this in honor of my deceased father—will meet with me.
A problem I imagine my competition hasn’t faced at all.
In fact, looking at his smug face on the home page of the Deadspin website right now proves Max has had better luck with at least one of the coaches who’s refused to meet with me.
“Ugh,” I groan, clicking on the article because I’m a glutton for punishment. “Look at his stupid face.”
Paparazzi caught him lunching with the Rams’ assistant coach just yesterday, looking like he doesn’t have a care in the world. I’m sure that gaggle of Rams cheerleaders at their table on that rooftop terrace downtown doesn’t hurt much either.
“I hate him.”
“Lies,” Anderson teases as he strides into my office.
“What?” I quickly click out of the article, but Max’s face is still on the screen because the home page remains open and my assistant is too fast for his own good.
Looking at my competition’s infuriating face on the screen, Anderson sighs, then looks at me and cocks one eyebrow. “You’re terrible at lying, cousin. Always have been. Remember that time we were out at Great Auntie Cheryl’s place, and you—”
“Zip it,” I say with a huff, then I press the button on the side of my monitor to darken the screen. “Don’t you have work to do?”
“It’s lunchtime.”
“Oh.” I sigh and plop back into my chair.
“And it’s Friday, so… I believe you have a lunch date…?” He leans forward, raising his brows as if to jog my memory of something—
“Oh! Shoot!” I push my chair back and grab my purse. “I can’t believe I forgot about Mo!”
“I mean, I guess ogling Maxwell Cruz would do that to anybody.”
“I was not ogling.”
“Okay, boss.” Anderson smirks and I growl, hurrying to the door.
I reach the small lobby and realize I can’t even recall the details of today’s standing lunch date with my best friend. “Remind me…” I turn back toward Anderson. “Where am I going again?”
“What you would ever do without me, I have no idea.”
“Exactly, so you can never leave me.”
“We’re family; I think that means I’m, like, bound to this job for life…” He waves his hand in the air. “Or something.”
“You heard it here first, folks. Life.”
Anderson chuckles as he points to the door and says, “Joyce. Noon.”
I snap my fingers in the air as I remember the plans now. Imogen is my most impulsive friend and picks a new place every week, so at times, it’s difficult to keep up. “You’re a lifesaver.”
“I’m aware. Your Lyft is at the curb.”
“Thank you,” I shout as I hurry outside. As promised, an understated sedan awaits me at the curb. I open the door and lean in.
“Sutton?” the driver asks, pronouncing my name like there are two d’s in it, rather than two t’s.
“Sutton, yes. Hi!” I hop in and get settled, tugging my seatbelt on as he pulls away from the curb.
While we make our way across town, I scan the latest headlines for any insight on up and coming athletes I may have missed.
Browsing sites like ESPN, Bleacher, and Deadspin, and pointedly ignoring the main page story on Deadspin about Max, I search for key terms like underdog and bright future, or dark horse—which is always a good one.
Before I know it, we’re pulling up in front of Joyce.
Once inside, I search the busy restaurant for my friend, spotting her at the bar. She spins in her seat like she feels my eyes on her, then her face lights up and she waves frantically as if it’s been six weeks since we last saw one another—not a handful of days.
“Slutty!” she exclaims when I settle into my seat beside her.
I groan as my gaze flicks around us quickly, and pray no one has overheard the horrible nickname she gave me back in high school. A nickname that has, regardless of my annoyance, stayed with us all these wonderful years.
Thankfully, it seems no one has heard her over the din of the lunch crowd.
“I hate you,” I say as I lean in for a hug, her thick strawberry-blonde curls tickling my nose.
“I missed you.” She squeezes me firmly, then pulls back and taps the base of a highball. “I ordered for you.”
I grin. “I’m glad you did.” Swiping the drink off the counter, I bring the straw to my lips and take a long pull. There’s just something about Joyce’s milk punch bourbon cocktail that has me dreaming about it on a pretty ridiculous basis. “Mm.”
“Guess what we’re doing tomorrow night.”
Setting the drink down, I turn to Mo. “Well, luckily I don’t have any plans, but thanks for checking with me first.”
She laughs, nudging me with her knee. “I checked with Andy; your schedule is clear.”
“My work schedule. But what about my personal life?”
She presses her lips together as her eyes go wide, then we both start laughing at my expense, and I roll my eyes, motioning for her to proceed.
I know, I know. I haven’t had much time for a personal life since I started my own agency, and people who can’t meet potential partners outside of work usually wind-up dating someone they work with.
(Which leaves my cousin, ew, or any number of guys in the industry whom I wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole.)
“We’re going to a sex club.”
I snort, thankfully without a mouthful of bourbon. “I’m sorry?”
“You heard me.” She slides a sleek black envelope in front of me, then taps it twice with long, pink fingernails.
Mo’s full name is written in looping, gold calligraphy on the front, Imogen Jayne Kelly, and on the back, the envelope flap is embossed with a logo I don’t recognize. I run my fingers over the intricate design and realize that within the swirls and filigree is the outline of a rabbit.
Frowning, I look up at my bestie. “What is this? Something from PETA?”
Mo snorts. “Open it.” She widens her eyes, then bites down on her bottom lip to fight a wide smile.
The bartender places a platter of oysters in front of us as I open the black envelope—
Mo tsks and shoves my hands into my lap.
“Discretion,” she chides, rolling her hazel eyes dramatically.
Discreetly this time, I pull the cardstock from the envelope. It’s thick, black like the envelope, with that same insignia embossed at the top, and in the center of the page is that same filigree logo with its delicate design and small gold rabbit. Below, printed in gold, is the wording:
By Invitation Only
Masks Requested
Discretion Required
Frowning, I flip it over. The backside only has the date, time, and a neighborhood in the Hollywood Hills. I look at my friend, lifting one eyebrow. “Sounds… cryptic.”
She tuts as she pulls the invitation from my hands, then slips it back into the matching envelope and tucks it into her purse. “I think the word you’re looking for is exclusive.”
“Okay…” I help myself to an oyster with a spoonful of mignonette sauce, then face Mo as she does the same, knowing she’ll explain whatever this is when she’s ready.
She swallows her oyster, then leans forward. “So, you know how I’ve been kind of toying with the idea that I want to, like, I don’t know, expand my experiences.” She says experiences pointedly, then looks around, leans in, and whispers, “My sexual experiences?”
I snort, then nod. “Yeah, you’ve mentioned that a time or two.”
I’m starting to understand where this is going and why those words were printed across the center of the invitation. Discretion, masks…
Secrecy, yes, but more important, privacy.
“It’s a bondage thing? Like… a club? Or… or swingers?”
Mo’s eyes flick around us at our neighbors, then she leans in and lowers her voice. “It’s an exclusive underground club, Sutton. BDSM and…” She shrugs. “Well, I’m not really sure what else.”
“You’re really selling it.” I huff out a laugh and slip the invitation back into the envelope. As much as I love reading about the things she’s mentioned, I have my doubts that they’d live up to the fantasy in real life. “Sounds like a good way to be trafficked.”
Mo huffs. “We listen and we don’t judge.”
“I’m not judging, I just…” Shaking my head, I take another pull from my cocktail. “We’re nearly forty years old. Don’t you think we’re a little old to try new things like this?”
“Okay, ew.” Mo scoffs. “We’re not old, and even if we were, I don’t think you’re ever too old to try new things. When you stop living—”
“You stop living,” I finish for her, well-versed in my best friend’s life motto. “I know, I know.”
“Besides, you probably are too old to be trafficked. No offense.”
“Nice.” I snort, then help myself to another oyster.
The bartender returns and takes our lunch orders, then I turn toward my friend. “I just don’t think this kind of thing is my scene.”
Pursing her lips thoughtfully, Mo searches my gaze. “But what if it’s mine?”
The sudden shift in tone makes me swivel my chair to fully face my friend.
“Don’t make me go alone.”
With a deep sigh, I cross my arms and lean back in my seat. “Tell me more about it.”
Mo beams at me because we both know I’m not going to say no to her. When we were kids, this girl talked me into more questionable situations than I care to count.
Apparently not much has changed between us.
At least this excursion won’t include an open field and illegal substances purchased from some dude named Clutch. With a medical-grade nitrous tank sticking out of the trunk of his Honda Civic.
Hopefully.