She thinks about it and shakes her head slowly.
“No, I guess not.”
“Then what makes you think that there’d be anything about his lifestyle that I’d want? I’ve seen a lot of shit in my life, Rachel. Things I wish I could un-see, but I can’t. I don’t want the glitter, I want it real. With one person.” And I’d like it to be you and pisses me off that you’re married.
She gives me a tentative smile, but when I pick up the car keys to the boss’s Rover, her eyes grow sad again.
“Be careful, Justin.”
“Always.”
THE DRIVE TO the boss’s farm proves interesting in a number of ways. I’m enjoying being out of the city and looking forward to seeing the ocean without a bunch of skyscrapers in the way. I’m also digesting the intel that Mason sent me this morning.
I’m heading for Sagaponack, a village in the Hamptons, or as Mason put it, 11962 is the most expensive zip code in the US. Not only does Anderson own a second home there, where the average house price is a cool five million, but he owns 120 acres of the most expensive real estate in America, nearly a square mile.
It takes some time to get my head around that. And I have more questions.
I don’t usually interrupt him when he’s working on his laptop, but I’ll make an exception today.
“Sir?”
“What is it, Trainer?”
“This weekend’s private function—what should I expect?”
I glance at him in the rear view mirror and see him frown.
“Pull over.”
Surprised, I ease the Rover to the side of the road and leave the engine idling, but when Anderson gets out, I turn off the engine, follow him, locking the car behind me.
I have no idea what the fuck’s going on. I unbutton my jacket and loosen my Smith & Wesson in the holster.
He turns to face me suddenly.
“What do you think happens at the Farm?” he asks abruptly.
I don’t miss a beat as I answer.
“Sex parties, sir.”
He frowns again then gives a resigned sigh.
“It’s a place where invited guests, consenting adults, come to enjoy a weekend of freedom: no restrictions, just mutual pleasure—mostly along the lines of my special interests. We don’t define what we do.”
I stay silent. Always best when you don’t know what the fuck to say. I’m also wondering why we can’t have this bizarro conversation in the car and not with the dust from the road kicking up around us.
“Many of my guests have a certain level of prominence,” and when he looks at me his gaze is fierce. “They require discretion and I have considered increasing security. The Farm’s manager, Aston Van Sant, assures me I have nothing to worry about. But my instincts tell me otherwise. My instincts are rarely wrong.”
“What does Mason say?”
His mouth twists.
“I haven’t involved Mr. Mason or his team.”
Yeah, well, it’s a good thing I’m shit at taking orders because I’ve already made my own investigation and I’d say the boss has good reason to be concerned. But that still doesn’t answer why he hasn’t involved Mason.
I wait a beat but he doesn’t explain further.
“May I ask why?”
Mason is the best at intel, and he still has a lot of contacts from his time in Military Intelligence, and yes, I know that’s an oxymoron.
“I have no reason not to trust Mr. Mason or his employees,” he says carefully.
I want to laugh in the dude’s face. Is he for real? Mason knew about the take-down of Bin Laden before the President. You don’t get higher security clearance than that, and Anderson is worried about his goddamn orgies? Since I’m a professional, I keep a straight face. Just.
“Mason hired me,” I point out, my tone flat.
He doesn’t answer directly.
“I’m aware,” he says slowly, “that NDAs afford only a small amount of protection to ensure my continuing privacy. Suing someone after the fact doesn’t stop the information about my … predilections … becoming public knowledge. A scenario I am anxious to avoid.” He meets my unimpressed gaze. “I have had the opportunity to observe your work, Trainer. It’s convinced me that you’re the right man for the job.”
I’m growing impatient at the way he’s beating around the BDSM bush.
“What is the job, sir?”
He nods briefly as if he realizes that he’s been rambling.
“I’m concerned about security at the Farm. There have been two occasions when I’ve suspected a leak, but I need any investigation done discreetly.”
“What made you suspect that you have a leak?”
“One of my regular guests suddenly stopped coming. I reached out to him … but he’s blocked my calls.” His jaw tightens. “I don’t know for sure that he’s being blackmailed, but his behavior is out of character.”
“Anything else?”
“I don’t want to believe it, but it’s the only scenario that fits.” He shakes his head.
The guy just told me his instincts are never wrong, and bearing in mind he became a multi-billionaire before he was thirty, I’m thinking he’s right about not being wrong.
Huh, I’m sure there’s a sentence in there somewhere.
Whatever.
“I’ll keep my eyes open, sir.”
Holy shit—I’ve just promised to keep my eyes open at an orgy. Definitely not something I thought I’d be saying when I woke up this morning.
I think I see a flash of relief on his face, but then he turns and walks back to the car. I start to follow and then have another thought.
“Sir?” I call after him.
“Yes?”
“Are you concerned that the car is bugged?”
His lips flatten again.
“It’s possible.”
I add sweep the car for bugs to my to-do list, irritated that I had to pump his stony heart to get this information. We’ve been working together for weeks—at least I thought we’d been working together—turns out I’m still in the dark about a lot of shit—and I’m supposed to be his fucking head of security. Jeez, and I thought I had trust issues.
As we continue to drive, the number of properties grows fewer and driveways become longer until I’m only catching a glimpse of houses from a distance.
When my GPS tells me to turn, it’s at an entrance that’s so discreet, I almost miss the tiny signpost that says ‘The Farm’. There’s no mailbox.
We drive a hundred yards inside around a curving, paved road, and have to slow down in front of ornate gates made of marine steel—either that or some poor bastard has to clean off rust every few months seeing as we’re by the ocean.
I’m assuming the gate is programmed to recognize the Rover’s license plate, because they swing open soundlessly. But I also notice a camera cleverly hidden in the ironwork, so maybe we’re being watched already.
From a distance, the house looks like a simple two-story building in the traditional Hamptons’ style with pale blue weatherboarding and white trim. It’s only as we get closer that I realize how huge the place is.
I pull up to the double front doors and a short, stocky man with a soul patch—seriously annoying facial hair—appears. He’s wearing Chinos and boat shoes with no socks. Dickhead.
“I didn’t know that you were coming this weekend, Devon.” His eyes flick to me. “And with a friend.”
The boss gives him a chilly stare. The boat-shoe-wearing dickhead is behaving like this is his house. That’s not gonna fly with Anderson.
“Debrief in my office, ten minutes.”
“Okay,” says the asshole, shrugging his shoulders. “And should I show your friend to the master bedroom or a guestroom?”
Now I’m pissed, as well.
“Be careful, Aston,” the boss says in a voice so cold it could freeze oxygen. “Being Frederick’s godson isn’t the guarantee you think it is.”
Landon’s godson? That explains a fe
w things.
Van Sant’s cheeks are quickly stained with red and I can see the humiliation and fury that he’s trying so hard to hide.
“I only meant…”
“I know what you meant. Show Trainer to a suite in the staff quarters.”
Then he stalks away through the house, leaving the sound of icicles dripping. Oh wait, no, that’s just Van Sant’s blood thawing.
“So, you’re the bodyguard,” he sneers.
I somehow don’t think we’re going to be buddies.
“Yep, and you’re the asshole. I think we’ve gotten acquainted now.”
Swearing under his breath, he turns on his heel and storms through the building.
Gee, bad manners and cussing? Fucktard.
As I follow, I take a note of the general layout of the place, intending to do a full recon at the first opportunity.
My bunk is pretty nice. It’s a room at the back of the house on the second floor, but the wide balcony gives tantalizing glimpses of the ocean. I know from looking at a map of the Farm’s location (and I guess I have to give it a capital F now), Gibson beach is to the southeast, and Sagaponack pond to the west. With water on two sides, the property is as private as you can get.
I toss my bag on the bed—yep, all settled in.
I haven’t been formally invited to the debrief the boss has set up with Van Sant, but I decide to show up anyway, just to piss him off. I’m professional like that.
Van Sant frowns when I finally find my way to the boss’s office—hell, I just follow the sound of laptop keys clicking. He badly wants the boss to throw me out of the meeting, but Anderson barely acknowledges my existence.
“How many guests this weekend?”
“About twenty.”
“About twenty? How many exactly?”
Van Sant shifts in his chair.
“Twenty-one, but Judge and Mrs. Dwyer are expected but haven’t confirmed yet.”
Shit! Judge Dwyer?! Associate Justice of the Supreme Court Judge Dwyer?
I can see why Anderson has his panties in a bunch about security.
“Why hasn’t the guest list been messaged to me?”
“Freddie said that you wouldn’t be attending this weekend and…”
Anderson leans forward, his elbows planted on the desk.
“I pay you to manage things here, Aston, not Frederick.”
There’s a long silence as Van Sant squirms under the boss’s hard gaze.
“Have you hired security for the weekend?”
“Of course. I always do.”
“Cancel them. Trainer will be in charge of security from now on.”
“What the fuck, Devon? I always hire the security! This guy shows up and suddenly you’re kissing his ass? I mean, what the actual fuck?!”
The boss’s nostrils flare and his body stiffens, but he speaks quietly, dropping each word like a bullet from a silencer.
“I’ll make things very clear to you, Aston. You work for me. You’re paid by me. You live here rent-free because I allow it. Frederick asked me to provide you with a job. That doesn’t give you carte blanche. So don’t fuck me around.”
“Dev, come on! I’m not just some paid lackey! You and me—we go back!” His eyes flick to me again. “We have history!”
“Yes, Aston, history. In the past.”
Let’s just say that after that the meeting goes to hell in a handbasket. Van Sant gets his ass handed to him and slinks out of there with balls the size of lentils and his tail between his legs.
Then after that fun start to the weekend, I check out the rest of the place. The house has 12 guest bedrooms upstairs, a separate wing for the employees, and Van Sant has his own cottage on the estate.
There’s a large, well-equipped kitchen at the back of the house and another in the staff wing.
Downstairs, there’s also a TV room, a movie theater, and a large indoor/outdoor pool with a retracting roof.
So far so normal—for a rich dude.
There are also several meditation rooms on the ground floor. I’m guessing this is where the orgies take place. The four, large rooms have wooden shutters covering the windows, and each one has a different theme. One looks like a Vegas whorehouse that I may or may not have visited once, tricked out in red velvet, gold brocade, and the soft end of BDSM: fluffy handcuffs, feathers, cute little whips, that sort of thing. Another room looks like my idea of a medieval dungeon or a gimp’s paradise, depending on your point of view, with torture contraptions: cock rings, anal plugs, clamps, ball gags, strap-ons, bondage gear, restraints, dildos, vibrators, weird fleshy-looking anatomical body parts made out of silicon.
I wonder who has the stella job of sanitizing them after usage, then wish I hadn’t had that thought.
Room three has a cage and a swing. I crane my neck trying to work out how they’re used together, but I guess necessity is the mother of invention.
The fourth room has a bed big enough for six or seven people—no guesses needed for what goes on there, and a quick look in the closet shows a load of clothes, wigs and masks to play dress up.
The rooms don’t appear to be soundproofed and there are even little minstrel galleries where you can go and watch the action, if you’re more of a voyeur than a do-er. Every vice is catered to, as far as I can see.
I want to do a complete sweep of the whole building before the first guests start to arrive, but it’s not possible.
I hear tires crunching on the gravel and know that the party is about to get started. What the hell is the boss thinking? There’s no way one man can provide adequate security with this many rooms and twenty-plus guests. Why the hell hasn’t he briefed Mason? Why haven’t I been given time to do my job? What the fuck is going on?
The boss has a long game, but he’s not sharing the rules or naming the key players. It doesn’t make sense. Nothing about the Farm makes sense.
We’re all fucked—and not in a good way.
Chapter 7
Friends in Low Places
I DIDN’T GO to college, but I have a PhD from the University of Life. You think frat boys can party? Try hanging with a gnarly group of grunts after nine months in the sandbox without a beer in sight. Now that’s what I call a party.
Before I got hitched, I was known to party some, and I’ve enjoyed a threesome now and again. But I have to admit that Anderson’s orgy has me whipped, I mean stumped, um, beat. Oh hell.
At first, it’s like one of those upscale cocktail parties Anderson goes to, but then the gloves come off, along with the dresses, pants and shirts. Leather seems to be the go-to fabric of choice. Although Anderson has stripped down to black silk briefs. Even with the lights dimmed, I can see the scars on his back. But nobody else blinks an eyelash—they’ve seen it all before and it doesn’t bother them. This is sick shit.
I’m surprised to see that he’s sexing it up with a couple about his age—a male/female couple. A married couple. When he kisses the woman hard and starts working her clit through her panties, I’m more shocked by this than by anything else I’ve seen in this house of horrors. He’s into women? Or is he just getting her prepped for her husband to bang her? I have no idea. Do gay men get off watching hetero sex? Jeez, not a question I thought I’d ever need to ask.
I’m also reassessing Mason’s assertion that Anderson is gay. I’m beginning to think the dude might swing both ways. And if he does, he’d sure as hell better not try anything with Rachel.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up and I turn my head a fraction to see Van Sant watching. Only he’s not watching me, just the scene going on next to the fireplace. He also has his junk in his hand. He’s getting off on watching the boss getting off. It’s creepy as hell.
Van Sant stands to one side, his gaze flicking between me and the boss when he becomes aware of me. But I don’t miss the longing in his expression. And it’s definitely not for me.
The ‘history’ that he spoke about makes me think he still has the hots for the man who sig
ns his pay check. Never a good position to be in.
After Anderson leaves the room with the couple, presumably to find a bedroom, hands all over each other, the remaining guests get down to the nitty gritty, which means they start fucking, but Van Sant has disappeared. I bet I can guess where’s gone. He’s definitely got some twisted obsession with the boss.
Security is pretty much non-existent. Anderson dismissed Van Sant’s hired help and left everything to me, but one person can’t see everything in a house this size, never mind the grounds.
The only thing I could do was insist that cell phones were left at the door, but without searching anyone, I can’t be sure. Although naked people don’t have many places to hide a cell phone.
I walk the rooms, a silent presence in the shadows.
I’m somewhat in awe of a woman who has the skills of a contortionist as she manages a triple-penetration. Although if I was the guy with my dick in her mouth, I’d be nervous about her gag reflex.
Yep, I’ve seen enough. Enough to know that anyone filming here could make the dough to be set up for life. And Anderson hasn’t had the place swept for bugs. I didn’t figure him for a fool. Live and learn.
I step outside to walk the perimeter and for such much needed fresh air, but the sounds of flesh slapping against flesh comes from the bushes, and the splashing in the pool puts me off the idea of taking a swim later. I don’t care how great the purification system is.
I patrol the boundary, catching glimpses of heaving bodies. It’s strange how tedious it all becomes. The exhibitionism does nothing for me. I guess I should be relieved. At least no one’s asked me to join in.
“Hello, Mr. Tall-dark-and-disapproving. I’m Ellie.”
I spoke too soon.
The woman is a beautiful redhead and completely naked. Although the curtains don’t match the rug. She’s the woman who left with the boss a couple of hours ago. I force myself to keep my eyes on her face.
“Good evening, ma’am.”
She gives a quiet, silvery laugh.
“Very formal. Very fit.” She runs her hand down my chest until I take half a pace back. “Are you Devon’s new … friend? Why don’t you join us?”
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