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“I have an idea,” I say.
“Yes, Frankie. Go ahead.”
“What about”—I clear my throat—“the bondage scene? Women who are into that lifestyle?”
Lisa reddens a bit. “And you’d be willing to investigate this?”
“Well, sure. I’m not saying I want to do it.”
I’m not not saying that, either.
More snickers bounce around the room.
“All right.” Lisa writes BDSM on the board. “Any other ideas?”
Lisa writes down a few more mundane ideas from the peanut gallery.
“All right,” she says. “Jackie, you start investigating your singles thing. Don’t spend more than about ten hours on initial investigation, and if you don’t find enough to merit the story, move on to something else.”
“Sure. I understand, Lisa.”
“And Frankie, take a look into the BDSM thing. Start here in Manhattan, and if you find anything worth writing about, we’ll consider taking it into other cities as well.”
I nod, my cheeks burning.
What the hell have I gotten myself into?
…
“You’re seriously going to go to a sex club?” Isabella asks me at drinks Monday evening. Her cheeks are flushed pink—unusual for her.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You just said it was going to be an investigative piece. How do you investigate without actually going?”
“Oh my God,” Gigi says. “You could go in undercover. That would be amazing.”
“Maybe I should take you with me,” I say.
“Would you?” Gigi’s eyes go wide.
“No, because I’m not going.”
Although the idea doesn’t disgust me. In fact, it—
“These are from the gentleman at the bar.” Our server sets down another drink for each of us.
Gigi’s eyes widen. “Oh, I know him. That guy Dylan—he knows Jackson.”
“Who is he?” I ask.
“Oh we met…” She blushes. “We kind of had a one-nighter. Dylan Anderson? Andrews?” She waves.
“Gigi…” I begin.
“What?”
“This is girls’ night.”
“Since when does girls’ night mean we can’t meet guys?”
“Actually…” I pull out my phone. “Do you mind if I give your number to a friend of mine from the magazine?”
“What for?” Gigi asks.
“She’s doing an article about singles in big cities. You know, the people who like to meet without using apps, like most people do these days?”
“I don’t do that,” Gigi says.
I chuckle. “What do you think you’re doing right now? You met this guy, what…two or three months ago when we were”—I sigh—“having a drink after that first fitting for those stupid bridesmaids’ dresses for my stupid wedding.”
“Sorry, Frank,” she says.
“Don’t be. It’s over, and I’m better off for it. But my point is that you meet guys at bars all the time.”
“So?”
“So you’re doing what Jackie’s reporting on. Meeting guys the old-fashioned way, without the help of dating apps.”
“Do you think she’d interview me for the magazine?”
“I can’t say for sure, but you’re as good a place to start as any.”
Gigi opens her mouth to reply, but before she can, Dylan whatever-his-last-name-is invites himself to our table.
“Hello, ladies.” He gives us all the once-over, his gaze finally landing on Gigi. “Gigi. How are you?”
“I’m just fine, Dylan. How have you been?”
“I left Black Inc.,” he says. “I didn’t get the transfer that I was looking for, so I began looking for another job.”
“What are you doing?” Gigi asks.
“Consulting,” he says.
Unemployed is what that means.
But I’m not going to tell Gigi that. She can find out on her own.
Isabella yawns.
“Are you tired?” I ask.
“No, not really.”
No, she’s just bored.
“Izzy,” I say under my breath as I regard her still-pink cheeks. “Do you know anything about…?”
She drops her gaze to her napkin. “About that thing you’re going to be investigating?”
“Yeah.”
“I might.”
“Oh my God.”
“Here’s the thing, Frank.” She looks over at Gigi and Dylan, who are deep in conversation about who knows what, and then she lowers her voice. “Most clubs like that don’t just let anyone in. Once you’re there, you sign a nondisclosure agreement, so you can’t tell anyone what goes on there. So it’s going to be difficult for you to report on it.”
“Oh. I didn’t think of that.”
“But I suppose it would be okay if you didn’t name anyone or the club.”
“What kind of investigative report is that? If I can’t at least name the club?”
“Reporters don’t have to divulge their sources. Happens all the time.”
“True… It could still be a good story.”
“Here’s your story,” Isabella says. “Find out how many of these clubs exist in each big city. That’s a start, right? Then put some feelers out online, asking people who frequent these clubs if they would be willing to speak to you—with their identities concealed, of course. You don’t have to name the club, and you certainly don’t have to name the people who talk to you.”
“You think they’ll actually talk to me?”
“If you offer them some kind of incentive.”
“I don’t have the authority to do that.”
“Don’t offer an incentive, then. Some may bite anyway. But if you don’t get any bites, talk to your boss about an incentive.”
“Maybe.” I nibble on my lower lip. “But what about you?”
