Page 17 of A Secret and a Lie

My phone rings immediately, and I groan, answering it.

“I’m coming over,” Drake informs me through stifled laughter.

“Please, don’t. You’ve already shown up uninvited once today.”

“You invited me,” he counters.

“No,” I correct him, leaning back in my leather desk chair. “I asked you what a switch was; that’s not inviting you.”

“You gave me a key. That’s an open invitation.”

With a scoff, I shake my head. “Just answer my goddamn question.”

I swear I canhearhim smirk, clearly loving this. “In a Dom/sub relationship, a switch is someone who can switch between the roles.”

“In a Dom/sub relationship,” I repeat, the phrase both a statement and a question.

What the fuck am I getting into?

“Just how kinky are you?” he asks genuinely.

I don’t answer, but I don’t need to. I’m not exactly in tune with what I may or may not be into. Until now, I’d watch porn, get off, and move on with my day. But lately, I hardly have time to get off, let alone scroll through shady internet videos until I find somethingthat might pique my interest, not that I’ve ever really found anything that got me overly excited to wrap my hand around my cock.

My sexual interests are boring, vanilla, plain. A tight, hot cunt is all I’d really need. No spanking, anal, or nipple clamps required.

“Look, I know you didn’t want this assignment, but have you considered that this might be good for you? This chick might teach you something,” he muses.

“Maybe if I tell Jackson that I’m not kinky, the FBI will choose someone else.”

He scoffs. “Not fucking likely. I think you should lean into this. At the very least, you could learn some shit about yourself.”

“I’ll just search the rest of my questions online,” I reply instead.

He laughs. “You know I’m going to get Nick in the cyber department to hack your search history, right?”

I hang up on him, scanning the rest of the page. There are questions about limits—both hard and soft—and safe word information. The next page lists the rules, of which there are only three:

Clients and workers are to be respected.

Safe words are absolute and will be obeyed.

Sharing the identities, locations, and/or activities that take place within or outside of this establishment is strictly prohibited.

Large, bolded letters at the bottom of the page read: A VIOLATION OF ANY OF THESE RULES WILL RESULT IN THE LOSS OF LIFE.

She’s killing people that violate these rules?Damn. Is she doing it herself, or is that something she outsources? And how is she getting away with that? That’s fucking insane. Who would agree to that?

Me, apparently.

Scrolling, I find that the next four pages are filled with specific questions designed to determine my interest level regarding each activity, on a scale of one to five.

Rolling my neck from side to side, I open a new search browser, typing incaning.

I may as well be honest on this questionnaire. After all, the best ops are threaded with truth.

“Don’t wait for me,” I tell James as I climb out of my SUV outside of the sleek, chrome office building not far from Crawford Enterprises.

The late afternoon, early evening sunlight sparkles against the shiny façade as I reach for the front door. Stepping into the foyer, I notice six security guards stationed around the marble space, and I make a note of their positions, as well as their visible weapons.