The Pleasure of Panic

by JA Huss

  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 lo
oks 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.”