Shameless

by Lisa Renee Jones

  “Jess Wild,” I say. “That flag wearing ex-CIA agent. It has to be him.”

  “Except that he let you know he was there. That’s a stupid move with someone like you. Then again, he could be such an arrogant prick that he wants to challenge you.”

  “I need to buy us some time,” I say. “Play the game. Give them what they want.”

  “If you mean put the winery on the market, you risk someone like Bill fearing the bids will get too high. Once a killer—”

  “Always a killer,” I supply, as he repeats my thoughts from the other night. “We need to reel in the uncle. Make him think he can get in with Faith and that’s a big order.”

  “You can be her voice of reason,” he says. “Of course, you’ll have to convince Faith that this makes sense without sharing your suspicions.” He laughs. “Good luck with that one.”

  My phone beeps and I glance at the caller ID to find Kurt’s number. “I’ll be in touch,” I say to Beck, and disconnect, answering the line. “Kurt,” I greet, eyeing my watch. “I’m expecting you in the next hour, correct?”

  “My attorney can’t look at this until this afternoon.”

  “Then get another attorney,” I say. “You’ve had time and this is a gift. I can insert another name in this paperwork in sixty seconds. Have the signed documents here by three or I will.” I hang up and start counting. One. Two. My phone rings again.

  I answer the line. “I’ll just sign the damn thing. I’ll be there at two.” He hangs up.

  And I have the outcome I’m after. That club is not mine. Faith is.

  ***

  I spend the fifteen minutes that I manage to spare for lunch on the phone with Faith, sharing her excitement that her paintings have officially been received. By two, I have my document from Kurt. By four I have about ten crisis situations that ensure I’m going to have to work late. I text Faith: I’m going to have a late night. I’ll text you on the way home about dinner.

  Faith replies with: Why don’t I bring you dinner?

  I reach for the sandwich I’ve had sitting on my desk since noon and toss it in the trash and type: Chinese? Because she was craving it before bed last night.

  Perfect, she replies. I’ll text you when I’m on my way.

  I think of her spending her money to pick up that meal and I dial Charlie, arranging to add Faith to my fast cash account, and ordering her a credit card. Once I’m done, I buzz Rita. “Come.”

  She appears in my doorway almost instantly. “Come? That doesn’t work when my husband says it and it won’t work when you say it.”

  “I said come and you’re here,” I say. “It worked.”

  “Only because I have work for you.” She marches to my desk and again sets a stack of documents in front of me. “Sign. Read. Sign. Call about this and be the bastard that you are. Sign.”

  “I need the top three realtors you suggest and the top three remodeling services.”

  She gives me a keen look. “Are you buying a new house?”

  “Faith and I are going to buy a new house.”

  “And she hasn’t agreed, thus you want to make her feel in control by her choosing the contacts you work with.”

  “You know me a little too well sometimes.”

  “I’ll get you the names.” She starts to turn and seems to change her mind. “A jeweler takes quite some time to customize a ring, perhaps six to eight weeks. Shall I line up a few for you to interview?”

  A ring. A wedding. I wait for the hesitation, the wall, the push back, but there is none. “Yes. Line them up.”

  “Price range?”

  “Whatever it takes to get perfection.”

  Her lips curve. “I’ll let them know.”

  A ring, I think. A wife. Holy fuck. This is happening. I’m going to make it happen.

  ***

  I send Rita home at six. Faith sends me a text at six-thirty on her way to pick up the food. At seven, I toss down my pen, pressing fingers to my eyes, finally done with a brief I need by morning. The elevator dings and Faith appears in the doorway, giving me a shy smile, her pink lipstick the same pale shade as her Allure Gallery t-shirt, which she’s paired with faded torn jeans.

  “Hungry?” she asks.

  “Starving,” I say, standing up and closing the space between us to take the bags. “For you, but I’ll settle for what’s in the bags until we get home.”

  “Home,” she says, biting her lip. “I can’t get used to that.”

  “You will,” I promise, motioning with my head and leading her to the small round conference table to the left of my desk. Once we’ve settled into our seats, takeout containers in front of us, I reach into my jacket and set a small sheet of paper on the table. “That’s the names and numbers of the top realtors and remodelers in town. I want you to pick the ones you want to work with.”

  “You really want to do this, don’t you?”

  “I do. Don’t you?”

  She hesitates, but a smile hints at her lips. “I guess it couldn’t hurt to look.”

  Baby steps, I think, but I don’t heed that warning. I reach into my pocket again and set a bank card on the table. She stiffens instantly. “What is that?”

  “You’re with me now, sweetheart. All the way. No half way. I had your social from the legal filings I did. I had you added to my account and ordered you your own card. I keep two hundred in that account so you can get pretty much whatever you want when you want it.”

  I blanch. “Two hundred thousand dollars?”

  “Yes.”

  “Nick—”

  “I know you’re going to fight me on this.”

  “I still owe you money.”

  “You don’t owe me money, but we won’t beat that up. Humor me. Put it in your purse. Have it with you in case you need it.” I pause. “Please.”

  “Please? Nick fucking Rogers just said please?”

  “I have very good manners, remember?”

  She scowls. “No. You have horrible manners.” Her voice and expression soften. “I’ll keep it, but I’m—”

  I lean in and kiss her. “Going to fight me on this. I know. Put it in your purse.” She nods and unzips her purse where it rests at her hip, and sticks it inside a zipper pocket.

  “Now,” I say. “Tell me about the L.A. show. Did you hear anything more about your work?”

  “What the fuck, Nick?”

  At the sound of Abel’s voice, alarm bells go off in my head, I’m on my feet in an instant. “Abel—”

  He appears in the center of the office. “You sold the fucking club and didn’t give me a chance to buy it? Nick? Where the hell—”

  “Abel,” I bite out, and holy fuck I’m going to murder him.

  Faith stands up at the same moment that Abel rotates to look at us, his eyes going wide. “Oh shit. Nick, man—”

  “Get out,” I all but growl at him, stalking toward him as he turns to leave, shutting the door behind him.

  I face forward and Faith is in front of me, hugging herself. “What club, Nick? What was that and why do you, who is always cool and calm, look like you want to throw up right now? Is it the club you used to—”

  “Yes.”

  “You own it?”

  “Owned. I sold it. And I only owned it for a year. I bought it from a client to save him—”

  “You didn’t tell me. You know what that world did to me and you didn’t tell me you owned a club.”

  “I planned to tell you tonight.”

  “Of course you did. Tonight. The night Abel spills the secret.”

  “Abel burst in here because he heard I sold it today. Today, Faith. Actually, I gave it away. I took a three hundred and fifty thousand dollar hit because I just wanted it gone.”

  “You didn’t tell me,” she repeats, rotating to face the opposite direction and starting to walk toward the window.

  I move toward her, intending to pull her in my arms and she seems to know. She stops dead in her tracks. “Do not even think about touching m
e right now.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Nick

  I ignore Faith’s order not to touch her, snagging her wrist. When she tries to pull away from me, I step into her, catching her hips and guiding her to me. “You are what matters to me. You, Faith. Not some damn sex club.”

  Her chin lifts in challenge, her eyes meeting mine. “Take me there.”

  My rejection is instant. “Not a chance in hell.”

  “Take me there or I will go there on my own.”

  “You’re not a member. You won’t even find it.”

  “I’ve been in that world, Nick. Your world. Because I’m not naturally a bull like you does not mean I can’t be one if I need to be. And if you think I can’t make a few phone calls and find out where that club is, you underestimate me.”

  “I have never underestimated you a day that I’ve known you, but you won’t get in the door.”

  “Then I’ll stand there until they call you and you can let me in.”

  She will. I see it in her eyes. “Why do you need to do this?”

  “I need to know who you really are.”

  “You know me, Faith.”

  “I don’t want any more surprises.”

  Those words grind through me and make my decision. Because there are more surprises to come. I have to let her resolve this one from start to finish before we get there. I take her hand and lace our fingers together. “Come with me,” I say, and I start walking, opening the office door and leading her into the lobby. I don’t stop until we’re at the elevator, and I don’t give her a chance to withdraw any more than she has already.

  I punch the call button and pull her in front of me, and when the doors open, I say, “There are cameras inside.”

  “Which won’t matter if I’m alone. I need space.”

  “Too bad,” I say as I walk us inside, holding onto her every step of the way. In a matter of seconds, I’m holding her in front of me again, nice and close, my hand on her belly, and we’re riding toward the garage. “You don’t have to do this,” I say near her ear, as if me saying this will miraculously make her believe it.

  “I do,” she says, her hand coming down on mine, fingers closing tightly around it, barely contained anger in the death grip. “And on some level, I know you know I do.”

  I didn’t know this would be her reaction, but in hindsight, I should have. I know Faith. When she spins out of control, she rebels against the free-spirited artist that she is at her core, and tries to force control. The car halts and the doors open and I take her hand again, leading her into the garage. She digs in her heels. “I’ll follow you. I’m parked—”

  “Negative,” I say. “You ride with me. You stay with me. Or you don’t go. And before you even think about arguing, this is non-negotiable, Faith.”

  Her expression tightens but she clearly reads just how insistent I am on this. “Fine,” she says. “I’ll ride with you.”

  I’m already walking, leading her to the Audi and clicking the locks. I open the passenger door and hold it open for her, reluctantly letting go of her hand. She inhales, as if steeling herself to be trapped in a cage with me, before ducking into the vehicle and settling into her seat. I stand there for several beats, fighting the urge to pull her out of the car again, kiss her, and force her to listen to reason. But I can’t force Faith to do anything, and if I could, I doubt I’d want her so fucking much. She’s made up her mind and I have to ride the ride with her.

  Still, as I shut her inside the Audi and round the rear of the vehicle, I mentally argue a case to go home instead of the club, knowing she’ll rebel, but wanting to do it anyway. I’ll take her there. I’ll tie her to the bed and I’ll make her come so many times she forgets the club ever existed.

  But she won’t forget.

  Fuck.

  I open the driver’s side door and join Faith inside, that sweet amber and vanilla scent of hers colliding with the punch of anger filling the car, and proving to be a brutal cocktail. Wanting this over with, I crank the car in reverse, and pull us out of the space. I don’t turn on the radio. I want Faith to talk to me, to ask questions, but she doesn’t. Once we’re on the road, silence consumes us. Thick, heavy, a weight that promises to bury me, and us, alive. I want to say something to fix this, but I go back to knowing Faith. If I push her right now, she will thicken the wall she’s now thrown between us.

  So, for fifteen minutes, we endure a wordless ride, until finally we pull up to the private gates of the club, a mansion that sits on the edge of an elite neighborhood. I roll down my window and key in the entrance code, making it painfully clear that I still have access to the facility. The gates open and I pull us through them and we travel the long path hugged by trees and manicured foliage. Once I turn us onto the horseshoe drive, I stop in front of the mansion, holding up my hands to both windows and valets.

  I turn to her and before she knows my intent, I have cupped her neck and pulled her to me. “While we are here, I am your fucking king. You do what I say. You stay by my side. You hold my arm or hand. This, too, is non-negotiable, and I swear to fucking God, Faith, if you disobey me on this, I will throw you over my shoulder and carry you out of here. Do you understand?”

  She breathes out. “Yes.”

  I want to kiss her, but I don’t. I hate her being here too damn much and I will not risk her reading me in any other direction. “Stay,” I order instead. “I’ll come around and get you.”

  I don’t wait for her agreement. She doesn’t get a fucking opinion while we’re in this place. I exit the car and speak to the valet, a thirty-something guy named Rick, who’s been with the club for a decade. “Hold the car up front,” I tell him. “We won’t be long. Is Kurt here?”

  “He is.”

  “Have him meet me in the foyer if he’s not indisposed at the moment.” I palm him a large bill, and round the car, where Faith thankfully has listened and stayed inside. I grind my teeth and force myself to open her door. She slides her legs to the ground and I offer her my hand. She hesitates, damn it, she hesitates, and it kills me. It also pisses me off. I squat down, lowering my voice for her ears only. “You aren’t getting out or going anywhere without touching me,” I assure her, “so slide back in and we’ll leave or,” I offer her my hand again, “take my fucking hand.”

  She presses her palm to mine and I stand, taking her with me and moving her to the curb. The car door shuts behind us and I lace my fingers with Faith’s, bending our arms at the elbows, and fitting her snug to my hip. We start the walk up the stairs leading to the entrance, each of the dozen steps a walk of doom I reject. If this goes badly, I will lose her.

  I’m not losing her.

  We reach the top and a doorman in a suit—everyone in the place wears suits—well trained at the kind of discretion the club requires, does not make eye contact. He simply opens the door for us. Stepping inside the foyer, the mansion instantly drips of money, from the expensive paintings on the walls, the tiles and thick, oriental rugs on every floor, to the enormous, glass chandelier above our heads. “Where do they lead?” Faith asks of the set of wooden winding stairs directly in front of us, a red and multi-colored oriental carpet up their center, while a second stairwell leads downward.

  “No place you want to go,” I assure her, redirecting her attention. “To the left is a cigar and whiskey room that is just that. Nothing more. No sex. No play allowed.”

  “The stairs, Nick,” she says tightly, still keenly focused on them.

  “Upstairs is group play. Downstairs a dungeon and bondage area, among other things. I didn’t go to those places without you, and we won’t be going to them now.”

  She faces me. “I want to go to both areas. All areas.”

  “I told you, Faith. I didn’t go to those places without you. I won’t take you to them now or ever.” I glance to the left to find Kurt, looking stoic in a black suit and gray tie.

  Faith follows my gaze and Kurt closes the distance between us, standing in front of
us in a few moments. “Faith is my guest,” I announce. “She is not, nor will she ever be, applying for membership.” He doesn’t react, but he’s smart enough to know that she’s why he now owns the club. “Faith,” I add, moving on. “This is Kurt. The new owner of the club. Kurt. How long did I own this place?”

  “Roughly a year,” he says.

  “Who owned it before me?”

  “I’m not at liberty to name names, but one of your clients.”

  It’s a good answer, the right answer, which sets up the story I’m trying to tell right now. “And this person owned it how long?”

  “He created it,” Kurt explains. “It was his from day one ten years ago.”

  “And did I ever claim the ownership duties?”

  “You did not.”

  “Did I ever spend time in any of the places those stairs lead?”

  “No, you did not,” he says.

  “And why should Faith trust that you aren’t simply protecting me?”

  He looks Faith in the eyes for the first time since joining us. “I protect my members, but I don’t lie. I’d decline to answer rather than lie as I did when asked about the prior ownership. This was never Nick’s place. It was mine. It’s simply official now.” He looks at me. “Room eleven is yours.”

  I nod and he gives Faith another look, but says nothing more. He simply turns and walks away. I don’t speak to Faith. I lead her down the hallway and I don’t stop until we’re at room eleven. I open the door, and allow Faith to enter what amounts to a giant bedroom with a wall of sex toys on the left. A massive canopy bed is on the right. A bondage stand is in a half-moon space at the back wall that is covered by a curtain. Beyond that curtain are seats, should you decide to invite viewers, which I never did.

  I’ve barely shut and locked the door before Faith is already moving deeper into the room, walking up to the wall of toys. She pauses and grabs a black silk face mask, and then walks toward the bondage stand. She steps inside it, her back to me, as she starts undressing. I move to a spot a foot back, watching her, waiting, telling myself I’m about to show her that we are still us here, and anywhere. That I am still me. Once she’s naked, standing there, her perfect, heart-shaped ass on display, she puts on the mask and then turns to face me. Her arms are at her sides, hands gripping the bars on either side of her. Her breasts are high, full, nipples tight pink nubs. And yeah. My cock is hard. Hard as sin city is to beat on a good day for a casino, which is every fucking day. This is Faith. She can smile and my cock sees it as an invitation.