Disciplined

by Lenore Ashwood

  “You’re the kind of consultant two of our clients would like to meet, so if things go well, I’ll be around with the rest of the team for a fast-track onboarding.”

  “What exactly...? Is it okay if I take notes? I also have a few questions I wrote down.”

  “By all means,” Lorna said, smiling. “I like prepared people.”

  Anya pulled her small notebook and pen out of her bag. She had her spreadsheets folded up into a tiny square, but she didn’t think they’d look very professional once she flattened them out.

  She flipped the notebook open to see her notes and questions, not knowing where to start.

  “How about I start,” Lorna suggested, looking at her several pages of notes with interest, “and whatever I don’t answer, you can ask about. Hm?” She quirked an eyebrow at her.

  “Okay,” Anya said.

  Lorna took another sip of coffee and then pulled some sheets out of a folder. She noticed the folder was labeled Anastasia Wilcott.

  “First, I’ll need you to sign this,” she said, placing the sheets in front of Anya.

  Skimming it, she realized it was the non-disclosure she was expecting to sign yesterday.

  “No problem,” she replied, as Lorna handed her the pen.

  “Make sure you read paragraph 18i. This agreement is globally binding and in perpetuity. I’ll need an extra initial from you on… this line,” she told her, flipping to the last page and pointing to the spot with a short underline.

  Anya took her time reading it over then signed and dated the last page.

  Lorna took it from her and pulled out her phone. She tapped the screen and then took a photo of the last page. In two seconds, Anya’s phone buzzed with the email.

  “Now that that’s out of the way, let’s get to it.”

  Lorna pressed a button on the recorder and crossed her arms on the table, resting her hands on her upper arms. She wore no jewelry, but Anya noticed a lighter color on the finger where a wedding ring might have been.

  “Lorna Jayanthi and Anya Wilcott interview, May 13. Anya, do I have your permission to record this interview?”

  “Yes,” she said without hesitation.

  “Some background for your benefit. I am the lead psychiatrist at Cavendish Entertainment, and COO for Cavendish International. Today, I’m on assignment for Cavendish Club Seattle. Cavendish Club is an international service for the ultra-affluent. We serve both female and male clients. Most of our clients are looking for specific, unusual sexual encounters, although a small percentage of them come to us for sexual therapy. Several of our clients are recognizable as politicians, celebrities, or global businesspeople. Consultants that make it past the first three stages will have to sign a second, more detailed NDA. Any questions so far?”

  “What are the three stages?”

  “The first is this, the interview. Second is a questionnaire I’ll leave with you to complete. Lastly, there will be a full-body bio-haptic feedback test. It’s cutting edge technology developed by one of our partners.” She sipped her coffee, and Anya sat forward in her seat.

  “Bio-haptic feedback? So, the system has two-way data collection?” she asked, somewhat incredulously. She’d read an article on something like that being in the development stage, but it was for gaming.

  “Exactly,” Lorna said, her eyes sparkling. “Not just from your brain but all over your body. Electrical, chemical, motion, pulse, gas interchange of your skin… all of it. Anya,” Lorna said, leaning forward just like she was, “you will become more knowledgeable about your emotions, reactions, and sexual desires than you ever thought possible. Some consultants go through the testing and then back out, unable to come to terms with what they learn about themselves. Whether you continue or not as a consultant, I think you will be one of the few who embrace the knowledge they leave with.”

  Anya leaned back, her mind ticking over all the possibilities.

  “Do you use the findings to match consultants with clients?” she asked.

  “Smart and quick,” Lorna singsonged with a nod. “That’s exactly what we do. We are the only organization that can guarantee satisfaction of both the consultant and the client. They are matched as close to the molecular level as possible. At least, sexually speaking.”

  “You should start a matchmaking service,” Anya said with a laugh.

  Lorna maintained her smile but looked down at her hands, sliding one over the other and covering the ring tan line. “Don’t confuse sexual understanding and compatibility with a personality alignment,” she said. “Not when it comes to the wealthy.” She opened the folder and removed a paper, picking up the pen.

  “I have some questions about your family. I know the facts, that your grandmother immigrated from Russia to Canada and then brought you to the U.S. I know about your education. What I want to know is your relationship with your grandmother. What did she tell you about your parents?”

  Anya tensed, thinking back to the first time she’d asked about her parents.

  “She said they couldn’t leave the farm in Ziborovka, but she and I could.”

  “Did you ever want to go back, even for a visit?”

  “I don’t remember much about them. I was four or five at the time. And before that, all I remember is Babushka. And photos.”

  “Did you ever feel out of place at school when other friends had parents come to parent-teacher meetings? Or at birthday parties?”

  “I didn’t have a lot of friends at school. The few who came over loved all the food Babushka made, so in a way I was popular. And she taught some of them Russian.”

  “What do you feel is your most valuable trait?”

  She thought about that for a moment. She wanted to say her ability to learn, but there was something else that bubbled up.

  “My self-reliance. I wouldn’t be here today without that.”

  “Do you not believe in the power of community?”

  “Maybe for some people. That doesn’t apply to me.”

  “Why not?”

  “The only community I had or needed was my babushka. Your file should tell you all the schools I attended. More than fifteen, if I remember. I grew up learning to depend on myself.”

  Lorna made a brief note and shifted in her seat.

  “What makes you sad?” Lorna asked.

  “Very little,” she replied.

  “When was the last time you cried?”

  Again, she had to think. “Last month.”

  “Why did you cry?”

  “My babushka wasn’t there to see me graduate.”

  “Have you ever been in love?”

  “No,” she answered quickly.

  “Do you want to be?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Respect, loyalty, companionship, intelligence… those are the things I value more than being in love.”

  “Do you think romantic love is real?”

  “For some people.”

  “But not for you?” Lorna pressed.

  “Are you checking to see if I’ll fall in love with a client?”

  “Yes. It’s probably not likely for you, but I need to record your answer.”

  “Romantic love doesn’t factor into my life goals. Not anymore. Therefore, it doesn’t matter to me,” Anya finished.

  “Why do you say ‘not anymore’?”

  “I had a plan once, a vision of the perfect life. It’s something my babushka said was waiting for me, a family of my own. When I realized there was no person that would meet my standards, I let go of the idea. It was my babushka’s fairytale anyway.”

  Lorna made another note.

  “Thank you, that’s all I need to ask you.” Lorna put the NDA back into the folder and everything but the recorder into her briefcase. Then she pulled out a thick covered document.

  “Here’s your questionnaire. There are instructions inside. Please follow them. At the back is a number to call. Someone will come pick it up.”

  Anya took th
e document, putting it on her lap as if she should keep it out of sight. She was eager to get started on it right away.

  “You can ask me your questions now, if you like,” Lorna invited.

  “You’ve answered most of them already,” Anya said, sipping her tea, which had gone cold. “And I think the bio-haptics test will answer them too.”

  “Are you wondering about fetishes?” Lorna asked with a smile.

  “How did you know?”

  “Everybody asks about fetishes they might have to adopt. And you’re right, the bio-haptics tells us all of that. But most people want to know how much they’ll make. Aren’t you curious?”

  “I already have an idea,” she replied, a tingle running through her. This seemed almost too good to be true.

  Lorna folded her arms, looking at her with a smug look.

  “What do you think you’ll earn?” she asked her.

  “Somewhere around two grand an encounter?” Some uncertainty crept into her voice. Maybe there was a scale and new people made less. Shit, of course there’d be a probation period.

  “That’s correct for a new consultant,” Lorna said, and she breathed easier. “But the two clients you might be a match for will pay ten grand. Each. For each engagement.”

  Anya choked on her tea.

  * * *

  Anya closed the last page of the bound questionnaire and sat back with a long sigh.

  “Holy shit,” she said to her empty basement suite. She got up and stretched, feeling two places in her back crack.

  According to her phone and the deep orange patch of light coming through her only window, she’d taken almost three hours to complete the survey.

  The questions probed all areas of her life and emotions, her sexual history, her turn-ons and turn-offs, her thoughts on various sexual taboos, and had a section asking her to describe her ideal sexual encounter. St-Pierre had immediately popped up in her mind, and she’d pushed it away. But then she changed her mind. The point of this was honesty, so she wrote down her fantasy in detail.

  Pulling open the door of her small fridge, she grabbed her one extravagance, a Yerba Matte iced tea. She slapped the bottom and twisted off the lid as she walked to her door. She unhooked the padlock, which a security guy named Hughes had installed before she left that morning, and walked up the stairs.

  In all her time in Seattle, spring was the weirdest season. It seemed to stay cool until July, then got hot for a few weeks, and tapered into a nice fall. It was almost as if the seasons were delayed and then rushed to get to winter.

  She liked the winters in Buffalo. Snowy and cold. She wondered if it was some Russian gene that made hot weather never feel right.

  “Ms. Wilcott?” said a voice from the side of the house. She turned to see a man in overalls holding a heavy toolbox.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m here to install a lock and deadbolt.”

  “Oh right. It’s this door here,” she said, heading back to her door. She pulled it open, showing him the hasp. “This is the temporary fix a man put on this morning.”

  “No problem, I’ll look after everything,” said the man, and she backed out of his way so he could get to work.

  She pulled up a rusted lawn chair and watched him in the late afternoon light. It reminded her of St-Pierre showing up and breaking the lock. He’d had to turn sideways to fit his big body through the doorway.

  She’d had one professor who came close to him in size. He was better-looking than St-Pierre, and yet she never had that nervous excitement shoot through her when she looked at him the way it had yesterday when she’d looked at the security man. She’d never thought big, muscled guys were her thing, but maybe they were. It made her even more curious about what would show up on the bio-haptic testing.

  “Shoot,” she said out loud, jumping up and excusing herself to go back into her suite. She flipped to the back of the book and called the number.

  “Yes,” answered a man’s voice.

  “I’ve completed a questionnaire and was told to call this number,” she replied.

  “Someone will be by to pick it up shortly.”

  “Do you need to know—” she started, but the line was already dead.

  She should probably be more freaked out about all the information they had on her, but Cavendish was the only answer to her money problems. She’d worry about privacy when she was all paid up and starting med school.

  True to his word, the locksmith was all done just a few minutes later, even cleaning up the wood shavings from drilling the hole for the deadbolt.

  “That was fast,” she said, turning the key to test both locks as he’d requested.

  “I do it all day, every day,” he replied, giving her a flick of a wave. “Enjoy the rest of your Saturday.”

  “Thanks. You too.”

  He disappeared around the corner and seconds later St-Pierre appeared, taking her breath away.

  Instead of his suit, today he wore a dove-gray shirt under a lightweight charcoal sweater with a zipper neck. His black jeans fit him like a glove, and she had to force her eyes to stay on his face.

  “St-Pierre,” she said and took a drink of her iced tea.

  “Anya,” he greeted back, his mouth lifting on one side. The closest thing he had to a smile.

  “The locksmith was just here.”

  “Yeah, I walked past him,” he said. He slid his hands in his pants pockets and stared at her. She stared back. “You have something for me?” he asked.

  “Oh shit, right.” She spun and jogged down the stairs, feeling her cheeks get red. He won’t read this… will he? “Here you go,” she said, handing him the thick questionnaire. He tucked it under his arm.

  “You know, you should get your landlord to put in a better door. Even these new locks won’t keep someone out who wants to get in.”

  “Oh… well, I can’t imagine anybody wanting to get in that bad,” she said, glancing around at her meager belongings.

  When she glanced back, he was staring at her, unblinking and his jaw clenching. The hair on her arms stood up, and every pore on her body tightened. She stared back, and she could actually feel her pupils dilating.

  He spun and headed back out the door.

  “I’ll take this to Lorna. Enjoy your Saturday,” he said over his shoulder and vanished.

  Anya stumbled to her futon and dropped on it, staring at the open doorway St-Pierre’s body had completely blocked.

  “It’s all the thinking about sex with strangers,” she murmured to herself. That had to be what was making her fantasize about sex with a particular stranger.

  8

  Instead of heading back to his car, which he’d swapped that morning, Dimi walked around the block. He had energy he needed to expend before he could sit in the car for several hours.

  Hughes had taken over for the morning on surveillance while he’d showered and gotten a few hours’ sleep at his condo in town. Hughes had trailed her to her meeting with Lorna, and he’d intercepted her bus and resumed his post, this time on the other side of the street.

  He didn’t want to think about why he’d put more than a few thoughts into what to wear that morning. Or how his gut had tightened when he’d seen her in her white T-shirt and cutoffs, her breasts free of a bra. Her hair was piled on her head, a few strands curling around her cheeks.

  “Goddammit,” he muttered. Thinking about it wasn’t helping anything.

  He finished his walk around the block and got into the car, dropping the questionnaire onto the seat.

  “Johnson, Johnson, this is St-Pierre, over,” he said into the walkie.

  “Johnson here, over.”

  “Can you swing by my position and pick something up to take to headquarters? And bring a secure envelope. Over.”

  “Sure thing. Be there in thirty. Over and out.”

  He dropped his walkie onto the blue cover of the thick document, itching to open it but knowing he wouldn’t.

  The best thing he could’ve
done was put all thoughts of her out of his mind. There weren’t a lot of rules for the executives of the club, but confidentiality was one. Unless a consultant revealed personal information to them, all data was off limits to everyone except Lorna and Merrill.

  Thirty minutes on the dot, Johnson pulled up.

  “Here you go, boss,” he said, handing him a manila envelope.

  Dimi took it, sliding the questionnaire inside and peeling the sealing strip off the flap. He pressed it down and then peeled up the circular seal from the front. He fixed it over the flap and grabbed his pen to initial and date it.

  “Take this to Ms. Jayanthi, please. Thanks, Johnson.”

  “No problem,” the man said, taking the envelope and leaving.

  Dimi folded his arms over his chest and looked straight ahead. They’d evaluate her questionnaire and then she’d be up at the estates for onboarding. There was no way they’d reject her.

  Not just because of Yuki’s father and the plan, but because she was a perfect candidate. Clinical, practical, smart, and educated—all the things their clientele wanted. All the things that made for no drama and high profitability.

  He shifted in his seat, lifting his knee to rest it on the seat. She’d move to the compound for onboarding. And after, they’d probably help her find a new place, since her basement suite was a piece of shit when it came to security. She was too valuable to stay in it.

  Yuki had wanted to move her already, but he’d talked her out of it.

  “She’s fine for now. I’m round the clock, and if you get ahead of yourself, it might spook her.”

  Everyone had agreed, but the speed that Anya had completed the questionnaire told him she probably wouldn’t mind accelerating the whole process. He sighed and leaned an arm on the door, wondering who would be her evaluator. He thought of the way she’d looked at him before he walked away, as if she wanted in his pants as much as he wanted in hers. I should have looked at her answers.

  No, that was the wrong direction to be thinking.

  Tomorrow, she’d be accepted to the next level of testing and he’d be back to monitoring the operation from the sky, able to focus on his own plans. Unless something serious happened, he probably wouldn’t have anything to do with Anya again. He could assign someone else to ferry her back and forth to complete the onboarding.