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“But the Milton acquisition—" someone starts.
“Will be in excellent hands with Sarah.” I nod to my second on the project, who sits up straighter in her chair. “She’s been ready to take point on this for months. I’ve just been too controlling to let go.”
“This is very sudden, Anthony,” Gerald says, a frown knitting his brow.
“For me, too.” I slip my laptop into my briefcase, my movements calm, deliberate, even as a soft voice in my head wonders if I might be having a stroke. “But it’s right. I can feel it. It’s time I moved on. Past time.” I offer the board what I hope is a reassuring smile. “I’ll have my official resignation submitted by tomorrow. For now… Merry Christmas, everyone.”
And then, I walked out and kept walking.
The memory fades as I glance up, a little stunned to find myself standing in front of an unmarked door in the East Village. The entryway is massive, engraved with scenes of men and women in carnal embrace, and painted a deep ebony that gleams in the lights from the bars farther down the street. Beside it, a simple brass plate like the kind used to mark historic buildings reads: “The Garden of Earthly Delights – Members Only.”
It’s Twyla's place.
My best friend from Columbia Business School shocked everyone by turning down Wall Street to open what she called a “private social club for discriminating adults” AKA a sex club. A very private, very discreet, wildly successful sex club she’s turned into the hottest membership in the city. The rumors of the things that go on inside are shocking, even to a relatively jaded man like me.
I grew up in a bad part of Brooklyn, playing in the yard behind my uncle’s bar until way too late most nights. I can’t remember a time when I didn’t know what a prostitute was or feel sorry for the women who roamed the streets in our neighborhood. Once, I accidentally interrupted a coupling in a back alley on my way to pick up a keg with my oldest cousin, Nick.
I was thirteen and will never forget the way the woman tried to pull away and cover herself when she saw two teenagers trundling down the alley with a keg in a little red wagon or the way the man slammed her against the side of the brick building and brutally finished his business.
The interaction cemented my hunch that I never wanted to pay for sex. Intimate access to someone else’s body isn’tsomething that should be up for sale. Sex should be consensual, pleasurable, and most of all,private.
That’s why, though Twyla’s invited me to come check out the club dozens of times over the years, I’ve always found an excuse to stay away.
Sure, The Garden is a place where sex is safe and consensual—no one’s inside who doesn’t desperately want to be there, who didn’t undergo extensive vetting and spend years on a waitlist for the privilege—but the lack of privacy was a dealbreaker for me.
I’m not that kind of man. I’m too controlled to take a walk on the wild side, especially in public.
Or so I’ve always told myself.
But tonight…
Maybe tonight is for new beginnings, for exploring the world beyond boardrooms and balance sheets.
What’s the worst that can happen? I take a look around, don’t like what I see, and leave. It’s not like I care if anyone I know sees me at the club. My family still lives in the same neighborhood where I grew up, albeit in much better accommodations, and couldn’t care less what’s happening on the posh side of Manhattan. I have a few business associates who might be shocked, but they aren’t my associates any longer, and my friends aren’t the kind to judge.
Hell, Weaver used to be a member of The Garden back before he fell madly, wildly in love with Sully his girlfriend. He doesn’t realize I knew about his membership, but Twyla likes to talk, and I make it my business to know everything about my senior staff.
Weaver is incredible at his job, and already on my shortlist as a candidate to replace me in the new year.
Making a mental note to shoot him an email, giving him a heads-up that he’s in line for a promotion if he decides to goafter it, I mount the steps leading to the imposing entrance to the otherwise unassuming brownstone.
I’ve just blown up my entire life. The smart thing would be to go home, pour a scotch, and start compiling my list of replacement candidates for the board.
Or at least make an appointment with a therapist.
But I’m tired of being smart.
It’s time to find out what happens when a logical man steps outside his comfort zone, when he stops trying to stay five steps ahead of the game and welcomes a little chaos into his life.
Lifting a surprisingly steady hand, I press the buzzer.
two
Maya Swallows
A good girl about to do
something very bad.