Page 4 of The Pleasure of Panic

I hesitate, my resolve faltering. Because I am insanely curious about who this stupid game master is. Especially if I know him. I look around, thinking about who it could be.

“Come on. You’ve got nothing to lose. You can say no and that’s that. Game over. But at least you get to know something practically no one else knows.”

I think about this for a second. “Why would he out himself to me?”

“Because, like I said, you already know him. And he trusts you.”

God, I’m dying now. He trusts me? Who the hell? And Chella knows I’m dying because she says, “Get your coat and walk over with me. Have a cup of tea, enjoy the festive atmosphere, and have a nice conversation with a handsome man about sex. It’s Valentine’s Day.” She winks. “And your plans involve a date with your bathtub.”

“How do you know?” I ask, defensive.

“Because you’ve been my best friend for almost a year now, Issy. Ever since you moved into this office last spring. It’s my job as Denver’s premier busybody to know what you’re up to.”

I can’t stop the smile. Or the laugh. “Fine,” I say, giving in. “But just one cup of tea. And I’m not playing this game. I’m only going to see who this mastermind is.”

“Perfect,” Chella sings. “Get your coat.

The Tea Shop is right next door to the old Turning Point Club, which went out of business a little over a year ago and no one ever reopened it. Which is surprising, since it’s prime real estate. But I’m not looking to have the business I run associated with a sex club, so the building next door to Chella’s shop being empty was actually one of the reasons I decided to rent space here. I mean, yeah, the name of my business is Go Fuck Yourself, but that’s badass. And the women who come in afraid, desperate, and sad leave feeling empowered.

I do good here. The name has nothing to do with it. I’m not gonna apologize to anyone for the name, even though the city tried to make me change the sign and served me with an injunction three days after we opened. But that’s another story. And I won that case anyway. In many different ways.

“Pfffft,” I say to myself as we cross the snowy street.

“What are you huffing about?” Chella asks.

“Nothing,” I say. “So what kind of game does this master mastermind?”

She looks over her shoulder as she reaches for the handle of her shop door and smiles. “Just wait. You’ll see.”

We go inside and there’s like a bazillion couples having romantic… dinner? Afternoon tea? Wine? It’s some combination of the three, I think. But the whole place smells wonderful. Like your grandma’s kitchen at Christmas and a French bread shop all mixed together. “Mmm,” I say, taking in the scents. “What’s on the menu? That’s not just cookies and cakes.”

“I’ve got one set up for you and your date. So you’ll see soon enough.” She winks at me.

“My date? This is a meeting, Chella. Not a freaking date.” And why is she winking at me? It’s like she’s got some secret plan going on here. And not just this sex game she’s trying to rope me into, either. Something else. Is she trying to set me up with this guy?

“Where are we going?” But she doesn’t respond, just leads me through a maze of tables to the private room in the back. “OK. Look, I’m gonna need some more—”

But before I can get the rest of my objection out, she opens the double doors and waves me in.

“Jordan?” I say.

Jordan stands, buttons his suit coat, and then walks towards me with his hands outstretched. He leans in to kiss my cheek and gives me a friendly hug. Says, “Nice to see you again, Issy. How’s business going?”

“You?” I ask, pulling back, dumbfounded. “You’re the… the… sex master?”

“Surprised?” he asks, arms out wide as if to say, This is me.

“But you’re… you’re a lawyer,” I stammer. “Not just any lawyer, my lawyer.”

“Not true,” he says, waving me over to the table. I oblige him and sit. Mostly because he pulls out my chair and nods his head, but also because I’m eyeballing that bottle of wine on the table and sitting means I’m one step closer to drinking. “I was your first contact at the firm, but technically, Stratford was your legal counsel. How’d that all turn out, anyway?”

All that is in reference to the legal battle I had with the city over the word ‘fuck’ in my storefront sign. “I won,” I say, lifting my chin. Because technically, I did.

“I heard you settled.” He’s pouring us both a glass of wine. “And the sign above your store says Go F*ck Yourself. With an asterisk.” He winks.

Fuckin’ winkers. Why is everyone winking at me today?

“I did settle, but I still won. Glenn Stratford gave me some good advice and I took it. It was the best possible outcome. And if you already knew this, why are you asking?”