A Cordial Agreement Read online

  He should cash the check now. Right? Before Jessup changed his mind and told his secretary to put a stop on it. She was a number. Lesbian, at first glance. He’d been surprised as fuck to see her in the private room. When Alan told him someone had bought a dance, he’d expected the bachelor party that had been whooping it up most of that evening. But instead of finding a sloshed groom-to-be gripping his trouser snake in anticipation, he’d opened the door on this prim little tomboy in blue jeans, a button-up shirt, and a belt that looked twice as expensive as the rest of her outfit.

  “Don’t dance.” First words out of her mouth. “Don’t dance.”

  “What do you think you’re paying me for?”

  “Sit over there.” The room had a couch going all the way around.

  He scooted to where she indicated—customer’s always right. “I’ve never had a solo dance request from a lesbian.”

  She beamed. “I’m a lesbian with exceptions. My heart will not be tethered by gender. For example, that cute trans DJ? What’s his deal? Is he into girls? And available?”

  “That’s my roommate Shannon.” Jim sized up the little tomboy again. Actually, Rory was exactly Shannon’s type. “You’d have to ask him.”

  “I respect that,” Rory said. “You gonna sit?”

  Jim kept to his feet. “I’ll stand if you don’t mind.” No way his bare ass touched that seat. Clients were supposed to keep their clothes on during the entertainment, but he’d seen the security feed that showed what they did after the dancer left. “So you don’t want me to dance. What do you want? I don’t take any more clothes off.” He motioned at his G-string. He didn’t feel like an asswipe on stage anymore, but this, standing here with this girl, and she wasn’t even staring at him, had made him feel like one.

  “I work for an important man who is looking for someone with certain qualifications for a confidential job.”

  “I don’t fuck.”

  “He knows that. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

  “However you want to spend the fifteen minutes you’ve got is fine by me.” His posturing didn’t quite work—hard to figure out how to stand when he didn’t have any choreography to move him. She pulled out an iBook and looked at something.

  “What else do you do?”

  He told her about the odd jobs and, as the questions continued, a few other things, maybe some things he shouldn’t have gone into, like how he didn’t feel demeaned when he stripped—it was his choice—but she didn’t react to that, unlike his mother when she’d found out and called up his brother in tears.

  “I think he’ll like you.” She stuffed the iBook into her cargo bag and handed him a card. It didn’t seem right to stick it in his waistband, so he held it. “Come on Monday, 3:00 p.m. Don’t be late.”

  “You haven’t told me what this is for.”

  “He’ll tell you. My role is to scope you.”

  He didn’t intend to go. Then he looked at the card. Who would pass up a chance to meet Grant Jessup? A fool, and Jim wasn’t that.

  For three days he tried to figure out what she meant. Scope him? Him specifically? Now he knew. Miss Wyatt had been working behind the scenes to find him a match. Jim flushed with embarrassment. He’d tried with the Doms she’d matched him with, but unfortunately they’d tried with him too. He hadn’t known Miss Wyatt had extended the search outside the club. He supposed he was grateful. His need for penance hadn’t cooled. If anything, after so many unsuccessful encounters, it flared brighter.

  Jim liked how Jessup had described what he wanted to do as discipline. Jessup didn’t need to know that in Jim’s head, he’d be absorbing every blow representing only himself. He’d taken Jessup’s—and all the others’—licks with a flaccid dick. Back when he’d bothered dating, most sexual situations ended with an attempt to explain himself (“It’s not you; it’s me.”) on his end and a scurried exit (“You don’t like fucking? You’re a stripper!”) from his partner.

  He never told them that when he got home, he’d think about the interaction and get hard from it. He beat off then, alone without anyone’s hands on him, without anyone’s body doing nothing for him.

  The check. There was a bank on the way to the subway station. He walked to it and made it inside to join a line of other people. He grabbed a deposit slip and filled it out as he waited. It wasn’t too bad on a Monday, but he rocked from foot to foot, testing the way his ass felt as his underwear shifted with the movement. The residual pain had dissipated. Jessup hadn’t hit him full force. He’d been cautious. That probably wouldn’t last once he gained confidence. Jim glanced at his feet, black against the bank’s shining white floor, and smiled to himself. Grant Jessup was a focused man; if he decided to learn how to whip a person the proper way, then that person would be whipped properly. Jim had to respect someone like that. He hadn’t been what Jim expected.

  Instead of sharing his son’s arrogance, Grant Jessup had been down to earth, almost funny when he wasn’t tripping over himself with nerves. He had a strong resemblance to Bennett: tall, broad shoulders, but while Bennett had a slender build, Jessup’s had filled out with thirty years more living, and his dark brown hair grayed at the temples. Jim had noticed wire-rim glasses on his desk, looking right at home on that great carved oak block. He was a handsome man, no denying it. Jim hoped Jessup would never expect anything more of him than what he’d asked. Otherwise they’d both see disappointment.

  The bank teller gestured to him. Jim handed the check and deposit slip to her.

  “ID?”

  He gave it to her.

  “Welcome back,” she said, after checking his account. “Do you want to deposit all of it?”

  “Yes. Oh! Wait. I need to write down the address on the check.” She waited while he did so, using the bank’s pen and the back of Jessup’s business card. “Thanks.” He returned the check to her.

  After a minute, she handed him a receipt and his driver’s license. “Have a nice day.”

  “You too.”

  Now all he had to do was get home, hang his suit up (Christmas two years ago, his mom had taken him to the tailor. “Every man needs a good suit.” She still hoped he’d find something else to do with his life.) and put ice on his balls. Never mind all that. He was twenty-five hundred dollars richer with more to come and the promise of long-sought punishment in his future. Good day.

  THE WEEK flew by without Grant giving a thought to how he’d better get some strapping practice in. Four late nights at the office and a museum opening on the fifth hosted by his ex-wife’s lifestyle magazine—put on a smile, ignore the questions from the press about the status of his and Melanie’s relationship ten years after signing papers—ate up his time. After he’d told Tanya about his first meeting with Mr. Sieber, she’d insisted they both come in.

  Tanya had replaced the kneeling pillow with a second chair so they could both be seated. It was like being called into the dean’s office. Tanya had let Grant have it over his error with the strap—not only for his bad aim but also that he’d strapped him in the first place without a contract.

  Grant was certain she’d call an end to it until Mr. Sieber quietly said, “He’s going to work on it. It won’t happen again.”

  “He’d better,” Tanya said, in a tone that told Grant his ass would be seeing the wrong side of another forty hours if he didn’t.

  “I will,” Grant agreed quickly.

  Next, she’d pulled out a contract, gone over it line by line, and they’d shaken hands over it because Grant sure as hell wasn’t going to put his signature on something that laid out how he intended to work his frustrations out on someone else’s ass. The contract didn’t mention money. Grant preferred that stay between him and Mr. Sieber.

  “Now, have you talked about why you’re each doing this?” Tanya asked.

  “I have,” Grant said.

  Tanya looked at Mr. Sieber.

  “I told him I want to be hurt.”

  “You told me a bit more than that
when we first spoke,” she said gently.

  “Yes but you’re… you’re… more intimidating.”

  Grant smiled slightly. “You don’t have to tell me your reasons, but if I do something that’s going to be bad for you, I need to know.”

  Mr. Sieber squared his shoulders. “I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

  Grant followed him out into the parking lot behind the building. “Mr. Sieber, is there anything you need me to know about your reasons?” He kept his voice gentle, in case the formality of Tanya’s office had sealed up his desire to share. “I’m only asking because it’s important that you get whatever you need out of this too.”

  “You just remember that this is not sexual, and everything will be fine.”

  Grant suppressed an indignant remark as he recalled that Mr. Sieber had already experienced a number of partners who couldn’t control themselves.

  He examined the fragile, unyielding expression waiting for his response. “It’s not sexual for me, either. Never has been, for you or anyone. Stress relief, and nothing more.” He and Melanie had engaged in light spanking from time to time, both giving and receiving, and enjoyed it as foreplay, but that had nothing to do with this.

  “Good.”

  “If you need me to do anything for you at all, in relation to our agreement, you’ll tell me?”

  Mr. Sieber hesitated. Whatever his reasons, a crowbar wouldn’t pry them loose. “Sure.”

  Grant chose to ignore the obvious lie. “Good. We need to trust each other for this to work.” They’d left it at that. Now Grant found himself with one night left before Mr. Sieber’s first visit. He adjusted the halved pumpkin that served as a spot-on representation of Mr. Sieber’s ass on the kitchen table. The other half had shot off the table on his first blow and split in two pieces. This one he’d buttressed in place with a fruit bowl that had a weighted base. After whipping it a few times, he stopped.

  I’m practicing on a pumpkin.

  One advantage to being filthy rich was that no one blinked at certain eccentricities, things that would ostracize a regular person. Focusing again, he returned to his practice. On Monday he intended to have Mr. Sieber in this same spot. He had a rhythm going, with the belt curving nicely around the pumpkin rump and almost landing exactly where he wanted it 90 percent of the time, when he heard someone behind him.

  “Daddy?”

  The belt skipped over the pumpkin and knocked an orange off the fruit bowl. It rolled to the center of the table and stopped.

  He bunched the belt in his hand, as if that would do anything to hide it, and turned around. “Bea! What are you doing here?”

  She glanced at the belt and back up to his face. Her pumps clicked on the floor as she came forward with a warm smile; she kissed his cheek. “I didn’t feel like driving back to Riverdale tonight. I guess I should have called first.”

  “No. Don’t be silly. You never have to call.” He tossed the belt aside, still hoping she would ignore it.

  “So, what’s all this?” Bea gestured at the pumpkin and its other half on the floor. Grant stepped away to pick up the cracked pieces.

  “I’m keeping myself entertained. You want a drink?”

  “Dad.”

  “I have some wine left….”

  “Dad.”

  He started opening cabinets. The kitchen staff had a habit of putting things where he couldn’t find them. Last week he’d hosted a dinner, and they’d had one bottle of 1994 Pinot left unopened….

  “Dad.” Bea became more insistent. “It’s okay.” She touched his arm and turned him around. He stood cornered between her and the kitchen counter; no escape. Due to her heels giving her an extra few inches, his already tall daughter stood eye-to-eye with him. She had her mother’s blue-gray eyes. They pierced him as effectively.

  “What’s okay?” He gave his best “prove yourself” look, the one that made potential employees quiver. Bea looked amused. In other circumstances, Grant would have been proud of her ability to stand up to power. Now he wondered how he’d raised such know-it-all children.

  “I know it’s difficult for you when you have to go to one of Mom’s events.” She rubbed his shoulder. “You know, when people say spanking the pumpkin—”

  “I don’t think anyone says that,” Grant interrupted, but Bea spoke over him.

  “I think they mean it as a euphemism.” She paused. “And I’m delighted I didn’t walk in on you doing that.”

  “Oh God.” Grant hid his head in one hand. “Please tell me you want that drink now.”

  She stepped away. “I’m going to bed. Night, Daddy.”

  “Good night, hon.” After Bea climbed the stairs to the penthouse’s second floor, where her bedroom had remained unchanged since she’d moved out at age thirteen to live with her mother, Grant wetted a rag and wiped down the table. He set the kitchen back to rights. Picking up the belt, he headed for his bedroom. He passed Bea’s on the way and paused outside. He waited, as he had when she was small, to hear her breathing before he continued to his room.

  At breakfast, Bea said, “Dad, if you’re into kinky stuff, it’s cool with me, and you shouldn’t be embarrassed about trying it out with a partner.” She knew he was bisexual; that had been one of the reasons listed on the court papers when Melanie asked for full custody of the children, although he’d been open with Melanie about it before they married. Grant never cheated on her, but apparently having his sexuality mentioned was crucial to the arguments Melanie and her lawyer had planned—a ploy that backfired on them, although it did out Grant after the papers went public. Today that outing wouldn’t have made a noticeable difference in his profits; back then, it made a dent that he still felt emotionally, even though the company had more than recovered.

  “Beatrice, you shouldn’t assume I’m into kink because I’m bisexual.”

  “I assume it because last night you were whipping a pumpkin.”

  “Oh.” He couldn’t dispute that. He settled for a lame “It wasn’t what it looked like. I was working out some aggression.”

  “Bennett?” As Bennett’s fraternal twin, Bea maintained a mixture of bemusement (in public) and betrayal (in private) over her brother’s behavior.

  “Eat your cereal.”

  After humoring him with her obedience for a few bites, she glanced at her watch and frowned.

  “You need to run?” Grant asked.

  “No, this stupid thing keeps getting the second hand stuck.” She slapped it with her other hand. “I just had the battery replaced and it’s still doing it.”

  “Do you want to leave it with me?”

  “Are you sure?”

  He held his hand out.

  “Thanks. I know you’ll get it working.” Bea handed the watch over with a relieved smile.

  Grant accepted it and gave it careful perusal, already cataloging the tools he’d need from his study. He noted the small scratches on the back. “Thrift store buy?”

  “For a quarter normal price,” Bea said.

  He nodded. “Good girl.”

  Bea grinned and stood up. “I have to get to work. Thanks for letting me stay. I’ll call ahead next time.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  She bent to kiss him. “Trust me, after last night, I want to.”

  Grant’s cheeks heated as he watched her walk away. Maybe Bennett wasn’t his only kid he could blame for his heartburn.

  Chapter Three

  JIM STUFFED a clean pair of underwear into his brown leather satchel. He didn’t know if he’d need it, but better safe than commando. Other than that, he had a notepad and pen, his phone, and a book to read on the subway. He’d taken his suit to the cleaners. It lay draped over his desk chair, still in the plastic bag, and his white shirt hung crisp on its hanger.

  “You coming home tonight?” Shannon sat on the bed, watching him pack.

  “Don’t know. Depends on what he wants. His money.”

  “What if he wants to fuck you?”

  “H
e’s straight.” Jim snapped the gold latch on his satchel closed. “He’s only interested in whipping my ass, not fucking it.”

  “Yeah but, you know, come on.” Shannon gestured at Jim’s butt, as if it should be obvious to anyone that his ass was a dick-magnet. “What if he changes his mind?”

  Jim tried to keep his tone unconcerned. “I’ll deal with it.”

  “I think I should meet this guy.”

  “Yeah, because he’s rich and famous, two things you can’t resist.” Jim had told Shannon everything about his new situation except Jessup’s name.

  Shannon fell backward on the bed. Raising his arms over his head, he pouted. “You say that like there’s something wrong with it, but I don’t see you turning down his money.”

  Jim pulled off his shirt and threw it at Shannon. “There’s not a person on this planet who would.” He reached for his button-up. Once he had it on, he stripped off his sweats and broke his suit out of the cleaner’s bag. Shannon watched him finish dressing. Shannon had an unwavering focus that Jim used to find disconcerting, but which he now absorbed as well as he did the catcalls he received six nights a week. Shannon’s focus was different from that leering ownership; he was simply a details person.

  Jim checked his reflection in the mirror over his dresser. He pushed a strand of hair back into place. “How do I look?”

  “Like a guy about to get his ass tanned.”

  “Good. That’s what I’m going for.” Jim slung the satchel strap over his shoulder. “Are you going to your trans group tonight?”

  “Yeah. We’re making signs for next week’s rally.”

  “Do you want me to walk you, or is someone coming to get you?”

  “Imani’s coming.”

  “Okay.” Imani Reed was their upstairs neighbor. She was a seventy-year-old widowed black woman, a robust book-lover, and Shannon’s best friend—apart from Jim—due to their mutual love of Mrs. Reed’s two Pomeranian mutts, Patience and Fortitude, named after New York Public Library’s lions, and cooking shows. “She’ll stay and walk you home?”