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“It’s her. Solange.” I pointed over my shoulder. “She shouldn’t see you.”
He lowered his chin, shrinking lower. My back to her, I lifted Jesse to his feet and we sidestepped from St. Ann to Chartres, where we opened our gait and walked briskly to where the truck was parked on Royal.
“That was close,” he said, leaning against his door to catch his breath.
“Far too close.”
“So that’s her? That’s Solange? Well, well …” he said.
“You’ve never seen her on the news?”
He gave me a look that reminded me he wasn’t much for current events.
I had to admit my heart hurt at his enthusiasm. Even in just a coat and boots, she looked spectacular. Women like her were always more beautiful because of their lack of awareness of their looks. Add to that the knowledge that the man sitting next to me would have mind-blowing sex with her, if not tonight, then soon, and I felt woozy. What had I gotten myself into? If it was just sex with Jesse, why was I feeling so unsettled? And if that’s all that Jesse and I had, what was the big deal?
“Okay, baby. I gotta go. It’s showtime.”
“What’s the scenario?” I asked.
“You know the rules, Cass. There’s no fuck-and-tell in S.E.C.R.E.T. If it’s not your fantasy, it’s none of your business. At least the guys honor that. You could probably wait, if you want. I could meet you at Coop’s. This won’t take long.”
“Oh really? Poor Solange,” I said, with no small amount of snark. “I’ll just walk home. I’m not in the mood for waiting.”
“Hey,” he said, pressing me back against his truck. “You know what S.E.C.R.E.T. is, right?” He bracketed me with his arms. “You might have stuff coming up, too, that I don’t get to know about or have a say in.”
This was true—if I were actually training recruits. Right now I was just helping facilitate fantasies, but Jesse didn’t need to know that. Part of me wanted him to think my involvement was more sexual than it actually was.
I smiled, pulling myself together. “I can’t stay. I’ll call you later,” I said, handing him his keys.
He gave me one last probing look and walked away in an exaggerated Charlie Chan wobble because he knew I’d have my eyes on him until he rounded the corner and was out of sight.
If sharing him with S.E.C.R.E.T. was the price of dating him, I had to seriously consider whether I could afford to pay it.
SOLANGE
I followed the instructions on my Step Three card exactly: Only wear what’s in this box and nothing else. Head to Jackson Square just before 9 p.m. Walk in a clockwise direction around the perimeter of the fence. Then, at 9, enter the museum by the south door. It will be open.
In the box was a beautiful trench coat, a gray tweed hat with a shallow brim, black stiletto boots … and garters and stockings. Nothing else.
This is what I’m supposed to wear? In the middle of winter?
I was not really the obedient type. But this Step was all about trust, so I followed instructions. I wore the clothing as I was told, showed up at the square when I was supposed to, a little early even, walking the perimeter, fists shoved deep in the pockets. Calm down. No one can tell you’re naked underneath this coat.
Between my nerves, the drone of the idling food trucks and the smells emanating from them, my stomach began to rebel. I pulled the belt of the trench coat tighter, my senses on high alert. The French Quarter was packed, the night balmy for Boxing Day. I suspected the fantasy in store for me was going to be a real challenge. I knew when I wrote to transgress in my fantasy folder, the Committee would understand I meant doing something naughty in public—but not getting caught, I wrote, an important clarification. This Step was about going to that edge, about trusting I’d be taken care of, that I’d get away with it without any repercussions on the rest of my life.
I checked my watch. It was time. I slid through the gap in the steel gate surrounding the museum grounds. No lights were on in the old Spanish fortress, which had once been a courthouse, then a prison, and was now a military museum. I had yet to bring Gus here, despite his obsession with soldiers and history, mostly because I generally avoided the French Quarter. Too many tourists, and frankly, parking was a bitch.
I tested the first door but it was locked. So was the next one. The last one finally yielded. I stepped into the dark, expansive marble lobby. The only things I could see through the windows were shadows of the pedestrians still moving around the square outside.
“Solange.”
I leapt out of my skin.
“Jesus!”
I turned towards a very tall man standing in a dark corner, his shoulders wide, his eyes and nose shadowed by the brim of his fedora. I could see the firm line of his full mouth offering a cocked smile.
“My apologies,” he said, a little too loudly for my liking. “But before you come any closer, tell me, do you accept the Step?”
