I am a good mother.
I am single.
I work hard.
I can do what I want.
“Sure. I’d love a drink. Scotch, please. Neat,” I said, turning to face Denise, to whom I mouthed, Oh my god!
And just like that, he and I were alone.
“Now it’s my turn to ask you a question,” the MMS purred.
I turned to face him. “Sure.”
I suddenly regretted putting on my flats and my nerd outfit.
“My question to you, Ms. Faraday, is: Will you accept the Step?”
For reasons I’ll never be able to fully explain, I thought he was teasing me, having secured some insider knowledge of S.E.C.R.E.T. by virtue of his supreme powers as an MMS. Which is why instead of saying Hell, yes! I blurted out, “How the fuck do you know about that?”
He looked taken aback as he placed the crystal cap back on the decanter he was holding.
“Is that a yes or a no?”
Is this actually happening?
“Are you saying you … that you’re a recruit? For S.E.C.R.E.T.?”
There was that sly smile again. “I am.”
“But how? Why? Why would you be a recruit?”
He came out from behind the bar and placed our drinks on the glass coffee table.
“Well, I can ask the same of you. Why would you be a participant? A beautiful, accomplished woman like yourself. What do you need S.E.C.R.E.T. for?”
I stalled, a storm gathering in my stomach. Part nerves, part joy, part shock. Before I could answer, he continued.
“Because it makes total sense for me to do something like this. No-strings-attached sex with beautiful women any way I want, any way they want. And I get to leave without a trace. No obligation to follow through, guaranteed discretion, no money exchanging hands to cheapen the experience. Kind of perfect for a guy like me. Because I don’t do … intimacy. The emotional part. I don’t do that. On the screen, yes. In life, no. But I don’t expect that’s going to be a detriment tonight because I just want to have sex with you. In fact, I’d very much like to fuck you. What do you say to that, Ms. Faraday?”
My mind raced to Step Six. Confidence. I had it in spades when I was “on,” while I was interviewing a subject, playing my role as a journalist. And certainly this man exuded confidence. Enough for the both of us. But now, as a woman who’d thrown on some comfortable shoes and was wearing thick glasses and, Christ, coral lipstick, I suddenly felt inferior, old and dowdy, unworthy of this kind of star attention from this man—famous, handsome, smart, powerful—this man relaxing in an armchair looking exactly like a king overseeing his domain.
“Don’t be shocked, Solange. I’m just a guy in a pair of jeans, having a Scotch after work, who’d like to get a beautiful woman naked and in my bed. If she’ll have me.”
I approached the coffee table, picked up my drink, took a long haul and choked on the vapors. I wiped my mouth and placed the drink back down on the table.
“I accept.”
He smiled, seemingly relieved. As though there’d been any doubt ab
out my answer.
“Good,” he said, placing his empty glass on the table. “Now come here.”
Jesus. It was on.
I stepped closer to his chair, coming to a stop in front of his knees. This is happening, this is actually happening. “Please take your clothes off.”