Page 17 of The Pleasure of Panic

I’m not quite sure about what, but I know men, it’s my job to know men, and I know when a man is lying.

First he and his partner came in here blustering about terror cells, threatening me with a cavity search if I didn’t waive my rights. Then some file got delivered, they disappear, and only Finn Murphy returns, this time trying to sweet-talk me into believing I’m one sleepy judge away from having the entire contents of my juvenile record unsealed and my house seized in a search warrant.

And then he said I was in danger. Someone was looking for me, someone whose identity he wasn’t at liberty to divulge, someone who would hurt me badly if I was found.

And that’s the only part of those threats that hit home.

“So which is it, Issy? Easy way? Or hard way?”

“How about my way?” I say.

“Sorry, darlin’. Not an option. ’Fraid it’s this way or the highway.”

I consider everything he’s told me so far. It’s a scary scenario. I mean, you tell anyone that a dangerous person is looking for them, especially after they were just set up and hauled down to the local FBI satellite office for questioning, they tend to believe you.

I just don’t believe him. I’ve been too careful. I’ve been free for a long time. And the only asshole I need to fear is already in prison.

“I’ll take the highway,” I say, smiling up at him as the words come out. “I’m grateful for your offer of protection”—I have to control myself when I say that word to avoid rolling my eyes—“but I can take care of myself, thank you. So I’ll just be going.” I jingle the cuffs, which are still attached to the table.

He pauses, thinking, then offers me a very fake smile and says, “OK,” as he reaches into his pocket to reveal a key.

Too easy. So I’m still on high alert. But it’s all fake, so I play along.

This is about Jordan’s Game, and as soon as the thought manifests in my head, I have to stifle a laugh. What a dick. He turned me down and then the game started.

But I have to hand it to him, that dick is good at this. Because this shit is seriously real.

“Something funny?” Finn asks.

“Nothing you need to worry about,” I say, rubbing my wrists once he removes my cuffs. “Don’t forget the feet,” I say, nodding my head at the shackles around my ankles.

Finn releases those and backs off, like he wants to keep his distance from me.

I find that interesting. Because it means he has some idea of what I’m capable of.

Would he know that if this was just Jordan’s way of starting the game he insisted I would never be playing?

I shrug it off as diligence. Stand and stretch languidly. Like I have no cares whatsoever.

Which is a lie. I’m a champion liar.

I’m thoroughly intrigued by Special Agent Finn Murphy for two reasons. He’s either the man Jordan has assigned to me and is playing along like this performance will win him an Oscar, or—and honestly, I find this far more interesting—he’s got no idea he’s playing the game.

I decide to find out.

“Can I have my personal belongings back now? I need my phone so I can call an Uber.”

He laughs, a loud, incredulous burst of joy that echoes off the ceiling. “I can take you home, Issy.”

“Fine,” I say, feigning surrender. Take me home means sexual fulfillment fantasy, right? Why else would he make that offer? “Let’s go then. It’s late and I have to be up early to prepare for my next Go Fuck Yourself seminar at noon tomorrow.”

He studies me a little longer, his hazel eyes searching mine, darting up and down my body with what might be a look of fascination.

Men react to me in one of three ways. One—they find me annoyingly aggressive. Two—they find me inexplicably mysterious. And three—they ignore me completely.

If I didn’t start this evening out with that meeting with Jordan Wells, I’d have chosen number three for good old Finn here. But we are in that game, he is the man I’m playing with, and as far as game pieces go—well, let’s just say… having Special Agent Finn Murphy fuck me in a sex club is probably gonna be the highlight of my life.

He’s tall, a foot taller than me at least. His sandy brown hair is cropped short on the sides, but has some length on the top. Enough length to give him a bed-head look. You know the one, the just-woke-up-after-fucking-all-night kinda style. And his eyes are hazel. Not brown, not green, but both.