Disciplined

by Lenore Ashwood

  “Indeed!” the man cried out and then flushed and covered a giggle with the back of his hand. “That’s been my experience so far, I mean.”

  He walked back to the security panel, Grisham following closely.

  “Is this a serious problem?” he asked as Dimi stared at the panel.

  “Not serious. I’m going to have to disable the panel, though, until I can get a new one installed. Otherwise, you’ll have this beeping going on twenty-four seven.”

  “I would hate to have that beeping for my whole time here.”

  “The door locks run on a different system, so they won’t be affected. But with the panel out, I’ll ask you not to open the balcony doors off the kitchen or in your bedroom. Will you be comfortable not having the camera security operating? I can have you moved to another residence if you like,” he suggested, pulling out his phone in case he needed to make the arrangements.

  “As nice as the camera security is, I’d rather not have to move everything to a new place. Especially if the weekend is fun. I might stay longer.” Grisham leaned over to awkwardly elbow him and then cleared his throat. “When will you have the new panel installed?”

  “Tomorrow. I’ll have my second in command come in the afternoon, if that’s all right.”

  Dimi pulled a screwdriver from his toolbox and unscrewed the cover, pulling it away and searching for the camera battery module. He pulled it from its mooring and disconnected the wires. Then he took out a connector and fastened the wires to the lock module.

  “What does that do?” Grisham asked, leaning close to him. Very close. He might have thought he was gay or bi, except he’d learned a person’s mannerisms weren’t always a tell of their sexuality.

  “It bypasses the cameras to link directly to the locks and swipe terminals.”

  “Fascinating,” he said, stepping away with an almost-giggle. “Thank you for coming so quickly.”

  “You’re welcome. We’ll get everything straightened out tomorrow, Mr. Grisham.” He packed up his toolbox and let the man walk him to the door of the apartment.

  “Thank you, St-Pierre. Have a good night.”

  Dimi drove back to the estates, stowing his toolbox in the equipment room. He went into the main office of the command center and dropped the malfunctioning module on Johnson’s desk.

  “This is the second one that’s fucked up this week,” the man said, picking up the unit and frowning at it.

  “Let’s replace them all then. Call the company and let them know. With the mixer coming up and Jones off sick, we’ll be fucked if more security panels start beeping. Let them know we’ll have to look into switching suppliers if they can’t fix this.”

  “You got it, boss.”

  Dimi dropped into his chair and sat down at his desk. He logged on and filled out an incident report for the circuit board replacement at Anya’s condo and the camera module failure at Grisham’s apartment.

  His hands hovered over the keyboard and then, unable to stop himself, he opened up the personnel assignments for the mixer. He searched for Grisham’s name and found Saigo had been assigned to him.

  He clicked through to Grisham’s profile, skimming it over. Pretty tame, in his opinion, although he was only seven percent bisexual, which just proved you couldn’t tell anything from how somebody acted or looked.

  Grisham liked masked or blindfolded sexual touching, mutual masturbation, and light bondage voyeurism. He closed the file, satisfied.

  It made sense that they’d start a new recruit with a mild first engagement. But from the sound of his profile, they’d be testing her acting skills. He preferred petite women who were on the submissive side, so they’d want to see if she could act shy or demure. He could absolutely see that appealing to Grisham. No wonder he seemed giddy.

  He wondered if Anya could pull it off. She hadn’t seemed shy or demure with him today. He shook his head, clearing his thoughts. He didn’t need to walk around with a hard-on all day.

  Dimi pulled up his schedule, opening Jones’s as well. He had some security checks on new client applications and security updates for the Medieval Castle. A full day.

  Jones was also scheduled to be at the mixer. And if Jones was sick, he’d have to step in.

  “Shit,” he said, rubbing his jaw.

  He knew what was involved with being a consultant and wanted to think he was openminded about sex. This would be a good test to see how detached he could be when it came to Anya, seeing her run around in a sexy outfit and be with another guy.

  He felt a kinship with her, and a definite sexual attraction, but that’s all he wanted to feel. Friendship, desire… those were one thing. Emotions or anything on a deeper level? Well, those were another thing. A thing he didn’t want.

  She’d wanted a job here, and she seemed to understand what that meant. And other than being attracted to him, it seemed like she had specific goals for being there. He respected that.

  He logged off the computer and stood up, stretching. His mind flashed back to her on the bed, lying naked with her legs apart and body ready for him.

  “Nope,” he said, rubbing a hand over his face. He had a full day tomorrow, and she’d be going through prep for the mixer. Sunday. Sunday would be soon enough.

  15

  Anya sat motionless in Georges’s chair, his makeup lights making her look better than she ever had. And he wasn’t even done.

  “Okay, look up,” he said, his lanky frame towering over her. Even though he’d pumped the foot pedal to raise the chair as high as it would go, he still had to hunch to watch what he was doing.

  A brush rubbed very close to the edge of her bottom lid, on the verge of poking her eye. She tried not to blink… but failed. Again.

  “What did I tell you?” Georges exclaimed, stepping back with a hurt look on his face. “I will not poke out your eye. Not on your first mixer. Maybe on your third,” he said with an evil smile.

  “Nobody means to poke out anybody’s eye. Or give them conjunctivitis.”

  “Now you insult me on top of hurting my feelings,” he said, nodding sharply for her to look up again. “I sterilize all my wands and sharpeners after every client, Ms. Pre-Med-Help-I-Have-Large-Pores.” Then he dragged the brush close to her eye again. “Hygiene is my middle name. Georges Hygiene Delacroix. Except I’m lying about my last name. I’ve always wanted to be French.”

  “Why are you doing my eyes, anyway?” she complained. “I’m wearing a mask.”

  “My dear, the mask is designed to draw attention to your eyes. It’s a faux disguise, making you anonymous in every way except for your soul.” He whispered the last words dramatically, leaning back to look at her with a serious expression.

  “You’re the expert,” she said with a shrug.

  “I’d be flattered if I thought that meant anything to you,” he muttered.

  She was already in her dress but wore a white silk robe to protect it against any over-sparkling as Georges worked off his glittery palette.

  Yesterday had been busy, with a trip to get a manicure and pedicure, a spray tan, and highlights in her hair. Or were they lowlights? Or… something else? She wasn’t familiar with beauty things beyond showers and shampoos.

  “Are you done yet?” yelled Lorelei from the other room. “We have to do the get-in-the-car and get-out-of-the car dress rehearsal.”

  “Ugh.” Anya sighed, looking down at her clasped hands and fidgeting her feet against each other.

  “I see you, and you better not be messing with my foot taping,” Lorelei called again.

  Anya looked through the doorway, seeing her coach lying on her back on her bed, pointing an accusing finger and glaring at her.

  “Your feet are a masterpiece,” she said, “and you will be worshipping me when you’re still able to walk tomorrow.”

  Lorelei had arrived that morning, the security beep of the front door waking Anya up earlier than she wanted. Her groggy brain hoped it was Dimi paying her his promised visit early, and she’d r
ushed to the bathroom to brush her teeth.

  Instead, a petite woman with rimless round glasses and a sleek dark bob walked into the bathroom.

  “So you’re my protégé,” she’d said, crossing her arms and looking her up and down. She wore a paisley button-down shirt, navy cardigan, and navy slacks. Her face showed Anya exactly what she thought of her UW T-shirt and ancient shorts—her favorite sleeping attire. “Sad. The youth of today are just… sad.”

  She’d stared at the woman, realizing she was sent by Cavendish to help her through the mixer. She started to greet her, but the woman held up her palm, looking away. And then shook her finger at her.

  “Spit, please. And then rinse. My name is Lorelei. I’m going to help you not embarrass yourself tonight.”

  Anya did as she asked and then rinsed her hands, drying them before holding one out.

  “It’s nice to meet you. Should I tell you my real name or my codename?”

  “Whichever you prefer. Technically, we’re not on the estate, so the rules are more lax.”

  “I’m Anya,” she said, and Lorelei took her hand for a brief squeeze of fingers.

  And thus had started the whirlwind of a day. They read the engagement document over word by word, Lorelei helping her read between the lines of what elegant and shy and patient and relentless meant.

  “It’s a pursuit, and you’re the prey. Helpless, feminine… it’s a fantasy for the client. I’d bet any money he’s of small stature and likely doesn’t feel himself attractive. So even though you act shy, you must pretend that deep down you’re attracted to him. And this confuses you. ‘Should I give in to this incredible, stealthy man? Should I give him my heart?’ you wonder. If you can nail that concept, you’ll snare the client for repeat engagements.”

  Her mind immediately started calculating the money until Lorelei snapped her fingers in front of her face.

  “Stop thinking of your bank account and put on your shoes,” she said and then walked behind her for the next hour, encouraging and scolding as needed.

  Georges had arrived around one and spent the next three hours on her hair. Now, as she looked in the mirror, she had no idea what she would look like when the time came to leave.

  He’d applied some kind of white tape across her upper forehead, and the rest of her head was in a net. Her eyes looked amazing though.

  “Wow, is that really me?”

  Her eyes seemed three times their normal size, the color over and under her eye going from bronze to blue, shining like metal.

  “She’s done except for a setting powder before she goes,” Georges said, packing some things in his case before swinging around to look at Lorelei where she now sat on the edge of the bed.

  “Don’t!” he exclaimed, shooting a menacing look at Lorelei. “Make. Her. Sweat.”

  Lorelei jumped off the bed and marched into the bathroom, giving the tall man a glare of her own.

  “I have no control over her sweat glands,” she muttered.

  And then they both laughed and looked at her.

  “I swear this is the weirdest world I’ve stumbled into,” she moaned.

  “Don’t say stumble!” Lorelei admonished. “It’s bad luck. Now let’s put your shoes back on and get you out of that robe.”

  Lorelei helped her ease the shoes over the tape, clasping the ankle chain. Incredibly, none of the tape showed at all.

  “Holy shit, Lorelei, they feel like a dream!”

  “I told you,” she singsonged. “Now give me your robe. I’ll unclasp your train….” Lorelei flicked the hook and eye where the length of feathered fabric was attached at her tailbone. “Let’s go into the living room.”

  Anya walked down the hall with ease, her heart skipping as she stepped confidently. This had been the scariest part, that she’d slip and fall. Lorelei had scared her shitless about that.

  “Very good,” the small woman said as she followed her. She pulled the ottoman in the living room away from the chair. “Remember the imaginary string pulling up from the top of your head. Elegance. Grace. Slow steps. Now, hold the train just here… very good.”

  They ran through the getting-in move and the getting-out move endlessly.

  “Will the car really be as low as this?” Anya asked, feeling her thighs burn as the stilettos forced her to lower and stand from a declined angle.

  “No, but it means when you do it for real it will be much easier. All right. I think you’re ready.”

  Georges rushed in with several brushes tucked under a wrist elastic and two kinds of shimmery powder in his hand.

  “Finally!” he exclaimed and swooped in to powder her. When he was done, he slipped the mask out of his back pocket and handed it to Lorelei. Then he fussed with her hair and pulled a canister of hair spray out of his apron. She was coughing at the end of it. “Mask,” he prompted, putting out his hand. Lorelei placed the mask in it, and he held it to her face.

  The porcelain was cool and fit her face like a glove, feeling lighter than she thought it would. She turned on demand, and he laced the ribbons behind her and then fastened them with whatever he pulled out of his apron.

  “This baby is not going anywhere. Don’t worry; I’ll be here to disassemble everything.”

  Her beauty team stood side by side, looking her up and down.

  “Gloves,” Lorelei said, pulling short lace gloves from her cardigan pocket and helping her button them at the wrists once Anya pulled them on.

  “A masterpiece,” Georges said, and for the first time, Lorelei smiled. “Just… you know, don’t fall on your face,” he added, laughing.

  * * *

  Anya sat in the back of the white Mercedes, her team back at the condo having given her a big thumbs-up at her get-in-the-car move.

  The ride to Cavendish Estates went way too fast. When they pulled up to the gate, she froze, realizing she’d forgotten to wear her bracelet. Luckily, the driver gave his credentials and they drove in.

  The mixer was at the manor, and as the car approached, the gates opened and then closed behind them.

  Fiery torches lined both sides of the gravel driveway. In the distance, the bottom windows to the left and right of the grand front doors, which were thrown open, glowed with warm light. She could see people milling about inside, but also several stood on the balconies.

  She hoped the red fox was obviously a fox and not a borderline animal, but she didn’t have to worry. She spotted his elaborate, red mask as her car turned right and then curved to pull alongside the front walk.

  “Wait,” the driver said when she started to open the latch of the door.

  “Oh sorry,” she said, already everything Lorelei had told her flying out of her head. Get with it, Anya. It’s ten grand!

  She closed her eyes and played one of her favorite Tchaikovsky pieces in her mind, the “Waltz of the Flowers.” She breathed slowly and deeply, straightening her posture by pulling that imaginary string above her.

  “Miss,” said the driver, holding the door open and extending his free hand.

  Light as a feather, she told herself, lifting and draping her hand in his. She gathered her train and stepped out, stretching her leg out to the gravel, pausing, shifting, and letting the driver assist her.

  Oh my God, I did it! she thought when she stood by the car. The driver gave her a small smile and walked her to the flagstone walk, where he released her.

  She fluttered her train behind her, gave what she hoped was a coy glance up toward the red-masked person, and climbed the broad steps to the warmth of the manor.

  She stepped through the doors to see people milling around, champagne flutes in hand, laughter in the air.

  She caught a flashing glimpse beside her and looked, seeing a long-legged ballerina, essentially wearing a corset of silk and feathers, small round breasts swelling over the top, and startled eyes gleaming. That’s me!

  Her hair had a depth of texture and body, curled and cascading down her back. The eyeholes of her mask revealed a lot of
her eyes, Georges work making them look bigger than they actually were. She moved her shoulder slightly and dipped her chin, as Lorelei had taught her, and she almost laughed. I totally nailed shy and demure.

  She looked away, feeling more confident than she had during her whole experience with Cavendish. Lorelei had made her memorize everything she was supposed to do, along with a few extras she felt would add to her client’s enjoyment, and she relished the upcoming evening.

  “Champagne, miss?” asked a masked waiter.

  She touched her hand to her throat and shook her head.

  “Ginger ale?” he asked, rotating his tray to a separate grouping of four champagne flutes of a deeper gold color.

  She gave him a grateful smile and a nod and took a glass with a gloved hand. She strolled toward the room on the right. Since, she’d seen the red fox on the balcony to the left, she thought putting some extra distance between them was a good idea.

  She approached the entrance and stopped in her tracks. The sight was dazzling.

  Three massive chandeliers hung down the center of the room, the ceiling covered in gold moulding and scroll work that hurt her eyes. Candelabras added a glow, centered between the numerous alcoves down either wall.

  The room was a mass of people, all in elaborate costumes of deep green, crimson red, and rich sapphire, laughing or glaring, snarling and singing. It was like making your way through a circus; although, as she stepped through, people made room for her. They’d stop conversation and shuffle away a few inches, looking her up and down.

  If she hadn’t been in costume, it would have made her uncomfortable, but somehow it strengthened her confidence and she floated across the copper-floored room as if she’d worn heels her whole life.

  Animal costumes dominated, but there were also queens and kings, jesters and knights.

  Somewhere amongst the crowd, string music floated, and some people danced the way she’d seen in movies, touching hands, turning, and parting.