Chapter Nine

Frankie

My lips are still tingling the next morning as I sit in the conference room at work. Monday morning is our strategizing session. The editor-in-chief and all the junior editors sit around the conference table, drinking coffee and eating glazed doughnuts as they try to decide how to make the next issue of Lovely even more spectacular than the last.

“All right, people,” Lisa Kingsley, our fearless leader, says, as she does every Monday morning at nine a.m. sharp, after she gobbles her first Krispy Kreme. “Let’s hear those ideas.”

Trixie Lamarr, a staffer who gets on my last nerve, always pipes up first with something inane.

“Flowers,” she says. “The different types of roses. What they all signify, so a woman knows what her man is thinking when he sends a certain color of roses.”

I resist an eye roll.

No man I know ever thought about the color of roses he was getting for a woman. They almost always get red because red are the most abundant. Probably also the cheapest.

“All right.” Lisa writes rose exposé on the whiteboard.

Someone else at the table snickers.

Good. I’m not the only one.

Usually I’m good for at least one decent idea, but today, my mind is mush because of that kiss.

How can it be mush? He didn’t even use tongue. It couldn’t have been more innocent and chaste.

I value creativity. Coming up with new and innovative ideas for a women’s magazine isn’t easy. There are only about a zillion of those publications.

Cosmopolitan is one of the biggest, and that’s kind of where we fit in. Lovely talks a lot about sex, about relationships, but we also publish news stories about women who make a difference in the world. I’ve written many of those.

But my favorite is the investigative pieces we do. We’ve done some good journalism on rape survivors, teen pregnancy, and internet predators.

Our investigative journalism is what sets us apart from other women’s magazines. Sure, we do the confessions columns and the advice columns, but each of our issues has a hard-hitting piece of news as well.

I’m proud to say I’ve spearheaded a lot of those. I enjoy the fluffier pieces too, and I’ve contributed to those, but what I really enjoy is getting down and dirty with interviews, news, exploration.

Investigation.

“Frankie?”

My eyes pop open at Lisa’s voice. “Yes?”

“You’re usually a little more vocal in these meetings.”

“I’m sorry. I just haven’t had enough coffee yet.” I smile, sort of, and take a drink from my Styrofoam cup.

“All right.” Lisa nods. “But don’t be shy.”

I force another smile. “I won’t. You know me better than that, Lisa.”

“Is your broken engagement still bothering you?” Trixie asks.

I rise then, move toward Trixie’s seat, pull her up by her shoulders, and punch the smug look off her face.

Just kidding.

But I sure do it in my head. I clock her good.

Another forced smile. “I’m fine.”

“Trixie,” Lisa admonishes, “please keep personal matters out of our meetings.”

“Of course. I’m sorry, Lisa.”

“You’re fired,” Lisa says.

Okay, that was in my head, too. Felt pretty good, though.

Jackie Swenson, another junior editor sitting next to me, leans in and whispers, “She’s such a witch.”

I simply nod.

Penn and I ended things months ago.

I’ve always felt it best to meet things head-on, so I told everybody at the office within a few days after it happened. After all, I was no longer wearing the gigantic rock—courtesy of Penn’s trust fund—on my left hand.

Trixie, of course, was overwhelmingly sympathetic. Trixie-ese for, “Ha, you’re not getting your rich guy.”

Not that she has a rich guy. I mean, who would have her?

“I have an idea,” Jackie says.

“All right,” Lisa says. “Shoot, Jackie.”

“How about what’s going on with the singles scene in New York these days? In fact, we could include other big cities like L.A., New Orleans, Chicago.”

“Singles scene?” Trixie laughs. “Everyone meets online now.”

“That’s my point,” Jackie says. “What about people who don’t like to meet online? I know I don’t.”

I back Jackie up. “I don’t, either.”

“Do you think there’s really a story there?” Lisa asks.

“I think we have to go out and find the story,” Jackie says. “I could go. Fred could go.” She glances toward one of our two male editors. “I think it’s important.”

“All right.” Lisa adds big city singles scene, not online dating to the whiteboard.

Singles scene.

Funny. I was at a bar when I met Phantom.

I wasn’t looking to meet anyone. Certainly not a masked man who fascinates me.

And his words…

I’d like you on your knees, in front of me, my cock between those beautiful lips of yours. Your wrists are bound behind your back, and your mouth is held open with a spider gag.

Already I’m throbbing with the memory. Is it the words? His breathy whisper against my ear? The rasp in his deep voice?

Damn. I don’t know. But I do know what I want to write about. What I want to investigate.

“I have an idea,” I say.

“Yes, Frankie. Go ahead.”

“What about”—I clear my throat—“the bondage scene? Women who are into that lifestyle?”

Lisa reddens a bit. “And you’d be willing to investigate this?”

“Well, sure. I’m not saying I want to do it.”

I’m not not saying that, either.

More snickers bounce around the room.

“All right.” Lisa writes BDSM on the board. “Any other ideas?”

Lisa writes down a few more mundane ideas from the peanut gallery.

“All right,” she says. “Jackie, you start investigating your singles thing. Don’t spend more than about ten hours on initial investigation, and if you don’t find enough to merit the story, move on to something else.”

“Sure. I understand, Lisa.”

“And Frankie, take a look into the BDSM thing. Start here in Manhattan, and if you find anything worth writing about, we’ll consider taking it into other cities as well.”

I nod, my cheeks burning.

What the hell have I gotten myself into?

…

“You’re seriously going to go to a sex club?” Isabella asks me at drinks Monday evening. Her cheeks are flushed pink—unusual for her.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You just said it was going to be an investigative piece. How do you investigate without actually going?”

“Oh my God,” Gigi says. “You could go in undercover. That would be amazing.”

“Maybe I should take you with me,” I say.

“Would you?” Gigi’s eyes go wide.

“No, because I’m not going.”

Although the idea doesn’t disgust me. In fact, it—

“These are from the gentleman at the bar.” Our server sets down another drink for each of us.

Gigi’s eyes widen. “Oh, I know him. That guy Dylan—he knows Jackson.”

“Who is he?” I ask.

“Oh we met…” She blushes. “We kind of had a one-nighter. Dylan Anderson? Andrews?” She waves.

“Gigi…” I begin.

“What?”

“This is girls’ night.”

“Since when does girls’ night mean we can’t meet guys?”

“Actually…” I pull out my phone. “Do you mind if I give your number to a friend of mine from the magazine?”

“What for?” Gigi asks.

“She’s doing an article about singles in big cities. You know, the people who like to meet without using apps, like most people do these days?”

“I don’t do that,” Gigi says.

I chuckle. “What do you think you’re doing right now? You met this guy, what…two or three months ago when we were”—I sigh—“having a drink after that first fitting for those stupid bridesmaids’ dresses for my stupid wedding.”

“Sorry, Frank,” she says.

“Don’t be. It’s over, and I’m better off for it. But my point is that you meet guys at bars all the time.”

“So?”

“So you’re doing what Jackie’s reporting on. Meeting guys the old-fashioned way, without the help of dating apps.”

“Do you think she’d interview me for the magazine?”

“I can’t say for sure, but you’re as good a place to start as any.”

Gigi opens her mouth to reply, but before she can, Dylan whatever-his-last-name-is invites himself to our table.

“Hello, ladies.” He gives us all the once-over, his gaze finally landing on Gigi. “Gigi. How are you?”

“I’m just fine, Dylan. How have you been?”

“I left Black Inc.,” he says. “I didn’t get the transfer that I was looking for, so I began looking for another job.”

“What are you doing?” Gigi asks.

“Consulting,” he says.

Unemployed is what that means.

But I’m not going to tell Gigi that. She can find out on her own.

Isabella yawns.

“Are you tired?” I ask.

“No, not really.”

No, she’s just bored.

“Izzy,” I say under my breath as I regard her still-pink cheeks. “Do you know anything about…?”

She drops her gaze to her napkin. “About that thing you’re going to be investigating?”

“Yeah.”

“I might.”

“Oh my God.”

“Here’s the thing, Frank.” She looks over at Gigi and Dylan, who are deep in conversation about who knows what, and then she lowers her voice. “Most clubs like that don’t just let anyone in. Once you’re there, you sign a nondisclosure agreement, so you can’t tell anyone what goes on there. So it’s going to be difficult for you to report on it.”

“Oh. I didn’t think of that.”

“But I suppose it would be okay if you didn’t name anyone or the club.”

“What kind of investigative report is that? If I can’t at least name the club?”

“Reporters don’t have to divulge their sources. Happens all the time.”

“True… It could still be a good story.”

“Here’s your story,” Isabella says. “Find out how many of these clubs exist in each big city. That’s a start, right? Then put some feelers out online, asking people who frequent these clubs if they would be willing to speak to you—with their identities concealed, of course. You don’t have to name the club, and you certainly don’t have to name the people who talk to you.”

“You think they’ll actually talk to me?”

“If you offer them some kind of incentive.”

“I don’t have the authority to do that.”

“Don’t offer an incentive, then. Some may bite anyway. But if you don’t get any bites, talk to your boss about an incentive.”

“Maybe.” I nibble on my lower lip. “But what about you?”

Izzy reddens again.

“Look, you brought this up to me. Will you be my first source?”

“I don’t know…”

“Izzy, come on. You’re the one who mentioned it, so you must’ve known I’d ask.”

“I’ll talk to you if you can’t get anyone else”—she clears her throat daintily—“but I’m not really the best person. I’m new at it. I’ve only gone to a club a few times.”

“Then you’re the perfect person. We can talk about why you went. How you liked it.”

“Oh, all right,” she says. “But not here.”

“Absolutely. I understand. How about tomorrow night? Just the two of us. Come over to my place.”

“All right. It’s a date.”