Sugar & Salt (2 page)

“I have time.”

“But do you have the stamina?”

He widens his eyes and licks his lips.

She takes a sip of her wine.

“And that’s the end of tonight’s speed-dating event!” The organizer calls out with false enthusiasm, selling hope and optimism in vastly greater amounts than actual love. “Now, if everyone could fill out the surveys you received when you arrived, I’ll check to see if we have any matches.”

Simon leans across the table, his dark eyes glazing over with the intoxicating potential Janice represents. “I’m happy to skip the show and tell—I already found what I want.”

She laughs. “You should take the time to find out what other options present themselves. A wise man never walks away from an opportunity.” She stands, winks, and turns her back on poor Simon—left with a hard-on for a woman he never had any chance of winning. Not after....

Janice kicks herself for not getting Greenpeace Enemy Number One’s name.

Usually, an offer like Simon’s would be just what she wanted—an excuse to leave before the meet and greet, the ‘yeah I’ll call you,’ and the olive branch of false hope. She never calls, or gives out her number. She never wants more than one night. The choices are always clear: she either grabs what she wants and takes it now, stays and studies her prey, or leaves and never considers those left in her wake.

Tonight, other things occupy her mind—saving the Earth, for one. Looking around, she catches a glimpse of a tall, lean figure weaving through the crowd, making a break for the front door.

Greenpeace has left the building.

Business as Usual

Rain pings down around her, dropping on her umbrella in a syncopated rhythm she recognizes but can’t place. A song from the recesses of her mind demands to be remembered.

She runs inside the front door and relaxes. She may not sleep here, but no other place claims the place in her heart reserved for home.

“Evening, Portia!” She slips her umbrella into the elegant holder just inside the door, and pulls her jacket off in a swift movement to keep from getting any rain on her clothes

The double doors separating the entryway from the elegant foyer hang wide open, giving anyone who walks into the building for the first time the sense of arriving in another time. A grand staircase leading up to the private rooms reserved by clients gleams with freshly polished mahogany railings and perfectly maintained antique carpeting. The hall behind the stairs is closed off with a 12th century Chinese screen depicting images of women, mistresses, and supplicants in all manner of positions.

One of the many junior employees whose job it is to assist with clients kneels in front of the screen, completely naked and blindfolded.

Portia appears at her side with a cup of tea and the night’s schedule. “Miss Necia, tonight we have seven reservations in the house, three engagements, and one new client.”

Janice sips her tea and nods. She crosses the plush Kashmiri rug, past Portia’s intricately-carved desk positioned in front of the door to her office, and settles into a black, wing-backed chair next to the fire.

Portia had already stoked it to a blaze, probably in anticipation of Janice’s arrival.

“Have you scheduled them all?”

Portia sits on the ottoman at her boss’s feet. “I scheduled all three engagements, six of the reservations, and left the new client for you.”

“Thank you. Is there a problem with the seventh reservation?”

“I just need to check our stock before confirming. This one disclosed a latex allergy, but isn’t interested in leather.”

“So needy.” Janice rolls her eyes and smiles.

“That’s why they come to us.” Portia’s laugh sparkles in the air around her, highlighting her impossibly white-blonde hair. “The new client submitted all necessary information and completed the mandatory security screening, so all that’s left is the personal interview.”

“Which you thought I’d like to do.”

“You usually do.”

“Indeed I do. How else can I make sure they receive exactly what they need?”

“And how better can you make sure to protect your brood?”

“My brood?” Janice drains her tea and sets the cup on the antique coffee table. Portia will whisk it away before it can leave a ring.

“That’s how I think of us sometimes: not quite your children, but more than your charges. Quite like the young honeybees looking to their queen for protection, guidance, and love.”

“So I’m the queen.”

“In all ways.” Portia’s smile is teasing, but full of respect.

“Perhaps I should call you my wards.”

“A bit negative, don’t you think, Miss Necia?”

“Appropriate, depending on the day.”

“I prefer brood, myself.”

“Then that’s what you will be. Forever my brood.”

“And you, forever my queen.” Portia winks before standing, retrieves the teacup and disappears into the kitchen.

By the time she returns, Janice has shifted gears from her outside life—her days of leisure and indulgence—to the persona of Miss Necia. She learned long ago that using her real name for this work could only lead to disaster.

She stands and strides across the room to Portia’s desk, waiting for the young woman to bring the computer back to life. The night’s appointments light up the screen. In one night of work, Janice makes more money than many New Yorkers earn in a month, and more than some make in a year. She may have turned her back on her father’s expectations, but it hadn’t stopped her from becoming the successful woman he’d expected, industry choice aside.

She loves having the means to do whatever she pleases, but more importantly, she loves being able to pay her staff well, care for her building, and turn away any clients that don’t meet with her standards. This business is all about respecting boundaries.

“Logan, Shelly, Pierce, Antonia, Pearl and Caitrin are on the schedule tonight. Logan has a reservation here at ten, and then an engagement at one. Antonia and Pearl are already out on assignment. Shelly and Caitrin will take the other reservations here—only one requested Shelly by name. The others are all general requests. Two will meet with Caitrin’s restrictions. Dahlia is also here to help if anyone needs a second set of hands, or things get busy later.”

“Perfect Portia.” Janice rests a hand on her assistant’s shoulder.

“I aim to please.”

“What time will our new guest be arriving?”

“Mr. Teal will be here in about an hour. His portfolio is on your desk, along with a few recommendations of who might be a good match for him, depending on what services he decides to engage with us. Caitrin is all set to meet him as arranged.”

“Thank you. And is tomorrow night’s backstage show ready? You know how Rafe can be.”

“Caitrin is handling the club. I haven’t followed up yet, but I’m sure everything is up to your standards. She’ll be there anyway for the official performance with Donovan, so she can oversee the dungeon.”

“Right, I forgot the
theme
this month. Also, we need to get someone in here to work on the soundproofing downstairs. I can hear everything that goes on down there in my office.”

“Kinky.”

“Not so much. Take care of that tomorrow. The contractor we used last time didn’t do a very good job and wasn’t nearly discreet enough.” Janice shrugs. “Did Gott’s assistant call? He’s due to come again sometime.”

“Yes, I already have him scheduled for a night when Pierce is available.”

“Fabulous. The rest of New York gets hustled for money, and we get the rundown for an annual blowjob. Thank god for repressed homosexuality or we’d lose half our business. Oh, and is Logan back out with Mr. Indigo?”

“Yes, this will be the second time this week.”

“Excellent. Find out where they’re meeting. If they make dinner reservations, put the full bill on our account and send a bottle of champagne. Another bottle to wherever they spend the night.”

Portia raises her chin, appraising her employer. “Feeling romantic, Miss Necia?”

“Just encouraging return engagements.” Green eyes reflect back at her from the computer screen—a vision or memory.

“Of course.” Portia’s eyes sparkle as she drops them back to the screen.

Janice chuckles before heading back to her office, leaving Portia to manage the day-to-day management of The Sugar House. She sits behind her oversized desk and flips through the folder waiting for her perusal. Mr. Teal offers nothing of particular interest: a fifty-five-year-old man who was recently promoted to CFO of his company. His real name, and the name of his employer, will remain in this envelope, to which only she and Portia have access. Those details aren’t of much importance, much like the fact Mr. Teal is married and has a thirteen-year-old daughter.

The reality of his life bears little to no relevance on what Janice does. She needs to know, so she retains the upper hand and has a bit of leverage if things should ever threaten to get out of control, but that rarely happens. Janice—Miss Necia—has a reputation for her lack of tolerance. She’ll as soon put a client out of her house as she will step on a spider. Nothing threatens her brood.

She smiles.
Brood
, she thinks.
Yes, it is a bit like that.

She notices a note from Portia suggesting their newest recruit, a girl now going by the name Juliette, for Mr. Teal. Juliette is taller, almost 5’4”—almost too tall for the kind of power play Mr. Teal is requesting, but she’s young, athletic, and her face retains a blush of baby fat, making her an ideal option.

Janice tucks the note into the folder and slips the file into the locked cabinet in her desk.

She loves this time of night, before the house is full of the thrumming energy of passions being explored, but after the business of housecleaning and food preparation. This is her personal witching hour, the time between business and pleasure, when she watches evening weave into night.

She retrieves the elegant candle lighter from her top drawer and begins her nightly ritual of lighting the many candles scattered around her room, checking to make sure the heavy red curtains are drawn tight. The process is soothing. Her skin flushes and she stands taller, taking on the mantle of Miss Necia. As she moves effortlessly through the room, a warm voice reaches out—
I don’t recycle.

She smiles.
Such a strange thing to say
. He caught her off guard, and standing in the middle of her room with a wistful quirk of the lips, she still has no idea why. The question dangles in front of her, teasing her, tempting her, inspiring her curiosity in a way no request from a client ever has. She’s seen it all—every fetish, every deviancy—and she’s found a way to fulfill their fantasies, but the simple act of recycling grabs her thoughts and clings to them in an unfamiliar but delicious way. The oddity of the statement, the nonchalant way in which he spoke, and the nagging fact that there was something he didn’t tell her create a loop in her mind, with the man she only knows as Greenpeace at the center.

“What are you thinking about?” Caitrin stands in the doorway.

“Get out of my office. Don’t you have someone to pee on?”

“Not tonight! I’ve washed and powdered and the golden showers are set to off.”

“Such a delicate way with words.” She greets her friend with a laugh and hug before returning the candle lighter to its place.

“You were pretty lost there for a minute. Where was your mind?”

“Just replaying tonight’s dating adventure.”

“Are you still going to those speed-dating things?”

“Of course.” Janice perches on the edge of one of the overstuffed chairs in her office.

“And people call
me
the freak.”

“My love, you attach clothes pins to testicles for money.”

“Everyone is happy, no harm. What you do though, it’s unhealthy.”

“Caitrin....”

“No, don’t you dare. I’m not your employee right now.” She sits down, eyes piercing with intelligence. “I’ve been your friend since you were a second shift barista,
Janice
.”

“Fine, you made your point. Now leave.”

“Nope, tell me about your night.” Caitrin leans back and crosses her long legs. The leather skirt she wears hitches up high enough to show the tops of her thigh-highs. Standard issue.

“I’d rather not.”

“You will, ‘cause you always do.”

Caitrin’s overconfidence usually grates on Janice’s nerves, but tonight her heart buoys above day-to-day concerns, her tolerance high. “Do I really?”

“Yes. Besides, you’re here early, which means no one caught your eye. You can almost justify it as market research.”

“It is market research.”

“How’s that again?” Caitrin mocks.

“I study the mating patterns of the average heterosexual male. It helps keep me tuned in with the needs of our clients.” The explanation rings hollow even to Janice’s ears. She’s so practiced at weaving truth into lies and offering every excuse to allow her clients to admit what they really want, she can’t remember the last time reality trumped fantasy.

“Not many of our clients can be described as average.”

“True.”

“And more than a few defy the heterosexual part of that statement as well.”

“Fine, I go because I’m a glutton for punishment.”

“You go because you’re a bleeding romantic and you can’t stand to sit by while everyone around you falls in love.”

Janice snorts and waves a hand in front of her face, dismissing her friend’s statement as easily as the idea of ordering a deli sandwich for dinner. What they do can hardly be considered love.

“Always such a dreamer, a damsel in distress waiting for a knight in shining armor.”

“All right, that’s it, get out.” Janice stands and approaches her friend.

Caitrin feigns fainting across the side of the chair. “If only there was a
man
out there who could
love
me the way I’m
meant
to be
loved!”

“Portia, Caitrin is having a seizure! I need your help getting her out of my office!” She grabs Caitrin’s arms and hoists her to standing while her friend hangs limply—dead weight.

A platinum blond head peeks inside the office door. “What’s that, Miss Necia?”