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THE GAME
BY JAY LEIGH BROWN
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CHAPTER ONE
WHITNEY
Article 1, Section 1
The contestant hereby swears that she is of sound mind and body, that all statements and affidavits pertaining to her physical and mental health are true to the best of her knowledge. The contestant swears that all information she has provided to the hosts of the game is true to her knowledge. The contestant relinquishes all rights to future litigation regarding any events that may occur during the game if the information provided by the contestant proves to be false.
The pen glided across the contract as smoothly as my ex-husband slid out of my life. I’d rather it scratch and slash, leaving deep gouges, permanently damaging the expensive paper like his exit scarred my heart. Fifty-one weeks ago today, we sat in a conference room in the McKay Tower, surrounded by lawyers. With my gaze trained out of the window on the sliver of the Grand River, I could see just past the Comerica building. Any view was preferable to his sanctimonious, sad face.
My one hundred and thirty pounds dripping wet, maybe, lawyer with her sweet smile and innocent eyes eviscerated my husband’s team of three squash playing, Jag driving, secretary fucking bozo friends. I got the cabin on Big Star Lake, with all kinds of language written in about not being able to sell it because the kids like it. I got alimony for ten years, fifty percent of the investments, and a lump sum payout of one hundred thousand dollars. He has to maintain my health insurance and pay for a life insurance policy until I reach retirement age or remarry.
I had to sign an NDA. I’m not allowed to tell the world he could teach a master class in leading a double life. I can’t breathe a word about his trail of mistresses or his sordid affairs. I not allowed go to lunch and moan about how the weekend I took our daughter on a trip with my mother and sisters, he fucked two of her eighteen-year-old friends on the couch in our game room…at the same time. I signed document after document, numbly agreeing to appearances and behaviors, all in the name of financial stability.
That day I sat listless and passive, my plainly manicured fingertips still against the glossy oak table as I mourned the death of the life I thought we had built.
When it was all over my lawyer shook my hand, her nude lips firm as her eyes gleamed victoriously.
“Ahem.”
“I’m sorry. What?” Impassive gray eyes bore into my dark brown. The corner of the lawyer’s mouth twitches. He contains his impatience about as well as my lawyer hides her glee. “Ms. Pierson? Initial here, here, and here.”
“Oh. Yes. My apologies.” I scrawl my initials on the tiny line after each segment. I know what they say. I’ve studied this contract meticulously. I drum my longer, ruby red nails against the table and realize, with a start, that this table is a twin of the one I signed my divorce papers on. Thick, solid, glossy hardwood. Weird that one detail would take me back. Nothing else is the same. Page after page, I initial each clause while my lawyer chews her lip, her brows drawn tight with worry.
Before I scrawl my signature on the bottom of the last page, her hand darts out and covers mine. “Whitney, you don’t have to do this. You don’t have anything to prove to anyone.”
I glance at her hand, then meet her eyes. The last year of my life flies by in random images. I’ve spent more time with my kids now than I ever did when they were teenagers. I’ve reconnected with old friends and, most importantly, I’ve put the time into myself. My ass is tighter than it was when I was twenty and I’m teaching at the gym between counting my macros. I feel fucking fantastic. “Yes, I do. I have something to prove to myself.” I raise my voice a little, just enough to get my point across. “I am not under duress. This is something I want to do, an opportunity I sought out. I’ll be fine, Miranda.” She removes her hand. I scrawl my signature boldly across the bottom of the last page. Her breath sucks sharply in.
The thick stack of paper is snatched up by the other lawyer. In one fluid motion, he stands and pops open an antiquated, brown leather briefcase that is totally at odds with his suit. He drops the contract in and pulls out a manilla envelope. “Round trip airfare. A list of essentials you’ll need to procure. As you know, the location will not be revealed to you. You are not to bring any electronic devices unless they are necessary for your health and approved by my client. However, you have indicated that you do not use any such devices. All pertinent information, including contact numbers and the address, will be in your lawyer’s possession. You will check in with her once every twenty-four hours and upon your return flight. Your counsel may arrange additional check-ins through me. Any questions?”
“Whitney, please.” Miranda stands, lacing her fingers together as she pleads. “Don’t do this.”
“Too late now.” I shrug, unable to stop my lips from spreading into a huge grin.
CHAPTER TWO
WHITNEY
Article 1, Section 2
Contestant will complete three rounds of play per day. The role of the contestant will be specified before each session. The contestant’s wardrobe will be chosen before each round. Before each round, safe words will be reviewed. After the first round, if the contestant chooses to continue, each round will contain a bargaining period before the game begins. The contestant will receive a minimum of one hour, up to a maximum of eight hours, of rest between rounds.
Silk bedding glides under my fingertips, as slick and smooth as the skin on the inside of my thighs. My feet sink into plush carpet, as soft as cashmere. This room feels incredible. So was the first-class flight. That was until I boarded the second plane and was blindfolded.
The flight attendant and the pilots were all female, which I must admit was a nice touch. Having a hot as hell woman slip a hood over my head and buckle a collar around my neck did things to me. My nose and mouth were free, but I couldn’t see a damn thing. There was a knit band that fit snuggly over my eyes and ears, muffling most of the sound as well.
I should have been afraid, but I wasn’t. I was practically vibrating with anticipation.
The door clicks open. “Good evening, Ms. Pierson. My name is Nema. I’ll be your attendant. It’s time to get ready for dinner.”
My stomach growls. “Hi, Nema. Is there any chance I could shower? Travelling always leaves me feeling grubby.”
“Of course.” Slim fingers brush my neck, and my pulse jumps as she undoes the collar. I blink, my eyes adjusting rapidly to the low light. The room is as gorgeous as it felt. Ornate ebony furniture gleams in the light of a dancing fire. Black marble and red velvet damask walls scream of wealth beyond my wildest imagination.
