CHAPTER ONE
Jessa
Jessa Andrews stared dubiously at the gift bag her best friend had just given her. It wasn’t her birthday—not even close.
Her college roommate, Kristin, took a long sip of the dirty martini she ordered and followed Jessa’s gaze toward the unopened bag. They’d once shared a dorm at Wayne State University in midtown Detroit and were inseparable ever since. A few moments passed, and Kristin couldn’t take it anymore. “For the love of God and all that’s unholy, would you just look inside?”
Jessa took a fortifying sip of her screwdriver and reached in, pulling out the gift. It was a DNA test.
“Find your roots, hon. I’m doing it, too.”
Jessa’s heart raced as her breath quickened with possibilities. “Wow. How simple and straight-forward. I can’t believe I never thought of this.”
Jessa had been having some health episodes. Nothing too serious yet, but it was time to find out her genetic history. Maybe there was something in her blood that could help her figure out what was causing all the trouble. Plus, she never knew her father, so the test might give her the means to help her locate him, too.
Kristin’s smile was smug. “You’ve got that look.”
Jessa glanced around the bar, puzzled. It was a hangout for the people who worked her newspaper, Dateline Detroit, and although she was pretty sure no one could hear what they were talking about, she wanted to be cautious. A couple Dateline reporters tossed darts along the back wall, oblivious to her presence. Nobody stared at her oddly, which was always a plus. Sometimes Jessa felt like she just didn’t fit in anywhere. “What look? What look are you talking about?”
Kristin tossed her long, black hair. “Your ‘breaking news’ look—the way you look when you’re onto something big, something you really care about. It’s nice to see.” She leaned forward, tapping her manicured nails on the table. “Honestly, hon, I haven’t seen your look since your mother died. I’m worried about you. We’re 26 years old, and you live like you’re 90.”
Guilt crashed the party like a cold shower. Jessa had put Kristin off for weeks—months, really—pleading a deadline or headache, or some other lame-ass excuse for not getting together. She couldn’t face people after her mother’s passing; she just wanted to be alone, or sleep, but Kristin wasn’t people. She was her best friend. “God, I’m a shit friend!” Her voice rose, drawing a few glances their way.
Kristin waved her off. “You were dealing. It was just you and your mom. You were tight. I was jealous. My mother drives me bat-shit crazy.”
Jessa had to laugh at her friend’s rambling. Jessa’s mom always commented about how Kristin spoke her mind.
“Doris—I mean, your mom—isn’t so bad,” Jessa offered.
Kristin fixed her with a glare that could peel paint, a look Jessa was well used to. Kristin and her mom haven’t gotten along in a long time.
“I like you, best,” Jessa said as a peace offering.
“Damn straight,” Kristin muttered, then regaled her friend with Doris’ latest transgression, which involved a minister, religious lecture and a plea that Kristin repent for her sins so she and her mom could be together in heaven for eternity.
By the time she was done expounding, Jessa dissolved in gales of laughter. Tears rolled down her cheeks. When she could finally form words, she asked Kristin what prompted her mother’s ambush.
Kristin bit her lip—her nervous tell. Jessa leaned in close, knowing whatever Kristin was going to say would be good.
“She saw me on my phone,” she deadpanned.
“Doing what?” Jessa asked, taking a long sip of her watery screwdriver.
“I was on kinklink.com.”
Jessa sprayed her drink across the table, drawing looks from her colleagues sitting across the bar. “What the hell, K?”
“I thought I mentioned it.”
Mopping up her sprayed drink the best she could with the tiny cocktail napkin the waitress gave her, she trained her best reporter game face on her flustered friend. “You. Did. Not. So spill. What were you doing on that site?”
Kristin examined her manicure and signaled for another round. Jessa shook her head at the waitress explaining, “I can’t. I’m driving.”
Kristin nodded and held up two fingers, defiantly. “Trust me. You need another one if you want me to tell you.”
Jessa met Kristin’s gaze, noting the determination in her friend’s chocolate brown eyes. “Geez, K. What’s going on?”
Their drinks arrived, and Kristin took a healthy sip, motioning for Jessa to do the same. “These past few months, I’ve been going to clubs.”
Clubs? Was that all, Jessa thought. She rotated her shoulders to release the tension out of her neck. This was old news. They frequented nightclubs together since they were undergrad students in college. They’d crossed the border to Windsor, Ontario, since they were 19, where the drinking age was lower.
Kristin bit her lip again. That nervous tell always triggered apprehension, now dancing up Jessa’s spine. Why did she get the feeling that what Kristin was about to tell her would affect her in some way, too?
She covered Kristin’s tan arm with her pale hand. “On the count of three, just say it. One, two…”
Kristin cut her off. Her words came out in a rush. “It’s not a nightclub. We meet at a member’s mansion in Bloomfield Hills or in a converted barn near Ann Arbor.” She lowered her voice. “Do you know about domination and submission?”
Jessa snorted for effect, then ruined it by gasping when the acid from the orange juice stung her throat. “I covered that case when Grosse Pointe was my beat,” Jessa said. “Remember, Master D or whatever they called him? He’s in prison for murdering his wife. It made national headlines.”
Kristin winced. “That asshole was a poser. He was never part of a respected club.”
“Whoa. Back up the truck. Respected club? What does that even mean?”
Kristin’s eyes lit up with purpose. “Come with me—I mean as a guest, just to look around, see what it’s all about. The next event for visitors is in August. That will give us time to get you an outfit, get a medical test and pass the background check. The crowd that guy you mentioned, Master Asshole, hung out with did none of that.”
Jessa’s head swam, and not from the watery screwdriver or her dreaded headaches. She just didn’t expect this from Kristin. This was a side to her friend she didn’t even know.
“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, hon. It’s all sane, safe, and consensual.”
“Outfit?” Jessa had heard all of what her friend said, but for some reason, she got hung up on that one word. What did it imply?
Kristin’s gaze flickered over Jessa’s white blouse and khakis, admittedly worn for comfort, and sighed. “We’ll get you out of those shapeless wonders. You have curves to die for. Why hide? If it’s because of those asshole guys from when you were in high school…”
Was it? She hadn’t thought about that in years.
Jessa was a late bloomer. Her curves didn’t come until she was a junior and, then, come they did. And come to think of it, back then, yeah—the taunts were cruel.
Kristin narrowed her eyes, noting the expression over her friend’s face. “Thought so.”
Jessa sucked on the ice cubes in her drink while they waited for the juicy bar burgers and crisp-tender French fries the bar was known for.
They enjoyed their meal but time was slipping by and both needed to be their way. Jessa made sure Kristin was OK to drive, then got into her own car and hopped north on Interstate 75 to the arts and crafts-style house on the shady suburban street that she grew up in. The location was perfect—close to the hospital where her mother had worked.
By force of habit, she called out, “I’m home, Mom”—something she always did before pancreatic cancer claimed her mother’s life. Then she grimaced.
Sunlight gleamed bright through the kitchen’s white, lace curtains. It stayed light until half past nine in late spring, one of the things she liked most about the season. Jessa savored these days, knowing that it, like everything wonderful, was fleeting and faded fast.
When the sunlight waned, she grabbed her phone and computer and headed to the living room to relax. About to power up her work computer to search the site Kristin was so excited about, kinklink.com, she thought better of it. No need for the company to trace any of that, she smiled as she thought. Jessa grabbed her mother’s old Mac off the coffee table and booted that up, instead. It worked on a different network than her work computer did, so no one would be the wiser, but she quickly realized she needed a password to get into the site.
Reaching for her phone, she texted Kristin—maybe she was still up. Password for kl? Asking for a friend…
Kristin answered quickly. Use mine kristinrocks#1 ur welcome.
Jessa fought the urge to mock the password. She hadn’t expected Kristin to reply so quickly. Now there was nothing between her and whatever was on that website. But was she ready?
Feeling parched from the greasy burgers she had for dinner, Jessa went to the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of water out of her mostly empty fridge. On her way back to the living room she picked up the gift Kristin had given her, reading the instructions on the back of the DNA test. She wasn’t sure she was ready for this, either. It looked too complicated for what she wanted to deal with tonight—she would tackle that this weekend.
Once in the living room, Jessa picked up her mom’s Mac and her phone, wedged her water bottle between her arm and hip, and headed into her bedroom. Flicking on the light, she sat her things down on the nightstand so she could fluff up the pillows and get good and comfy while she checked out this website. Now all situated, Jessa reached for the laptop, typed in Kristin’s password and waited. A screen directing her to a different site popped up. Interesting, she thought.
But she hesitated, wondering if this was some sort of scam thing, when her phone pinged. Kristin texted. Popup is ok.
She must have been trying to login, as well—either way, she appreciated her friend’s confirmation. Taking a deep yoga breath and trying to ignore her jitters, Jessa clicked into the site. But these jitters were hard to ignore.
Seriously? Her anxiety flared. She was just trolling a website—she needed to calm the hell down.
The site was impressive. No boob or penis pics, thank god. It was actually kind of classy. The logo was a diamond choker with a whip. She clicked on the links for membership requirements. Just like Kristin said, you had to test negative for diseases and pass a background check. You also had to sign a non-disclosure agreement. Cell phones had to be left with an attendant. All in all, it seemed pretty efficient and legit.
The contact link sent you to an email address. Odd that there were no event links—none that she could find, anyway. Maybe all of their communication was managed newsletter-style once you became a member? Eh, something to figure out another time.
She shut off the computer and got up to open a couple windows—just enough, but not too much—so she could still turn on the alarm and it be effective. The neighborhood was safe, but she saw the police reports. Break-ins happened everywhere.
Restless and edgy, she flipped on her ceiling fan and peeled off her clothes, then dug out her favorite vibrator. Reaching for her e-reader, she searched her erotic romances, looking to find the most enticing story. Desperate for a release, she scanned through all the covers, searching for the right one, but nothing caught her attention. She’d have to buy some new books.
Oh well, she would have to do without the book tonight and set her vibe on her favorite setting. Soon, Jessa felt the pressure build in her spine as her release took over. The cloudburst came. But just as quickly, sadness settled, like a cloak, as she set her vibrator aside.
Six weeks later
Jessa’s eyes burned and her back ached. She pulled her gaze from the computer screen at work, where she’d been slaving for hours. It was late in the day, and the words didn’t make sense anymore. The newsroom had emptied out—there were only a few workers left there with her.
She looked around the almost-empty newsroom. The décor could best be described as dingy. The faded, striped wallpaper was peeling, and the gray carpeting was stained, despite cleanings every few months. Issues of Dateline Detroit were stacked to the ceiling on an empty desk off to her side. Dateline Detroit published 10 separate newspapers for the cities that made up metro Detroit. The printers dropped off the physical copies every day so the staff could review the final publication.
She needed to get up and move before she called it a day. Vince, the middle-aged guy who worked the city desk, frowned over his reading glasses, looking between his notebook and computer screen. “Can’t read my own damn writing,” he muttered.
Jessa laughed. She knew how that was. Sometimes when vetting a case, you’re writing so quickly that the words look distorted.
He scowled, then looked up at her. “Go, girl, save yourself from this place.”
“You need anything? Coffee or a sandwich? I wouldn’t mind grabbing something,” Jessa asked.
“Naw, get out while you can and get a decent meal,” he replied before asking, “How’s that story going?” He glanced toward Ella, Jessa’s editor, who stared intently at her computer screen. Headphones covered her ears. “Disability scams, right? She ever give you any help with it?”
“No,” Jessa said, knowing he was referring to Ella. “It’s done, finally. The hardest part was getting the private investigators to talk on the record. I had to use people who’d just retired, although a couple guys told me, off the record, what questions I needed to ask. They really helped out a lot.”
Sexiest voices ever. In fact, the two Boynton brothers were complete hotties starring in her latest fantasies. R&R Security and Investigations—Reece and Ryan Boynton. Brothers, she guessed. Hot and handsome—at least, that’s how she pictured them. Not that she’d ever meet them face to face.
Her cheeks flamed, drawing a concerned look from Vince. “You okay? It’s hot as hell in here.”
She waved him off, embarrassed. “I have to read this over one more time.”
He winked. “Leave a typo or two in.” He darted a glance at Ella. “It makes her so happy.”
Jessa’s laugh drew a stare from Ella, not that she could hear a thing they were saying. Jessa busied herself with her notes, then scanned her story, triple-checking names, and emailed it to Ella.
Unless Jessa had an assignment or somewhere else to be, she waited around for her stories to go through edits, just in case there were questions. While she waited, she checked her personal email. And froze.
The results of her DNA test were back. It had been a few weeks, but still that was fast, she thought. All she had to do was click, but nerves got the best of her and she hesitated. Her head buzzed and her heart hammered. Why did this feel like such a big deal? It wasn’t like the name of her long-lost father would be at the top of the list.
No, but it could be the information she’d need that would help her find clues to her health concerns.
And if she did find her father in the process, that was just an added bonus—though it was just another expense she wasn’t sure she could take on just now.
She clicked, bracing herself for the results. And there they were.
Her ethnicity estimate was 60% from England and Wales. It made sense, she supposed, with her light coloring and tendency to freckle. Plus, it was consistent with what her mom told her. The other parts of her pie chart were composed of Ireland and Scotland. Her grandparents’ grandparents were from each of those countries. All made sense so far.
She scrolled through the list of names in the database who were likely relatives. She was an only child and so was her mother. Her grandparents had siblings she’d only met a few times; they lived in other states, and her mom just never kept in touch. She recognized a couple names identified as her second or third cousins, but not the woman listed as a first cousin.
Checking her email, she noticed her story was still in cue. Ella hadn’t started editing it yet, and she wasn’t at her desk. It was only 3 o’clock, and quitting time wasn’t until 5. Jessa figured Ella probably wasn’t going to get to it today.
Since Jessa had time, and the names and phone numbers of the best private investigators in metro Detroit, she decided to call R&R Investigations to get some prices.
She wanted to find her father, get his medical history, nothing more. She scanned the rest of the report, although she knew it wouldn’t contain any medical information. If he was deceased, a death certificate had to list cause of death. She hoped he was alive, so she could talk to him, at least. He’d not been interested in her life up until this point, so she had no interest in bonding with him, either. But she did need his medical background.
She called R&R first, hoping to hear those sexy voices that made her toes curl, as she scanned more of her DNA results.
“Um, is Ryan or Reece Boynton available?” Jessa asked, keeping her eyes on her computer.
“Nooo,” the woman sounded either bitchy or bored. “May I help you?”
Probably not, she thought, but said “I want to locate my birth father,” instead. “What’s the charge for that?”
“Seventy dollars an hour plus mileage.”
She gasped. That was a lot of money. “Crap.” She didn’t mean to say that out loud.
“Was there anything else? Did you want to set up an appointment? I have something this afternoon in a half hour and then nothing else again until July.”
It was expensive, but this was important. Maybe she could pay on installments?
She hung up and went through the rest of her list of private investigators—she excited that R&R had an appointment available, though. After more calls, she realized she needed to make an appointment with their agency and promptly called R&R back to visit later this afternoon. She could hardly wait, anxious to finally see what the hotties looked like. And to find out if this would be a project they’d be willing to take on…for a price and way to pay she could manage.
Just then, Gina, the paper’s education reporter, walked up to her desk and smirked. She was Vince’s age and reminded her of her mother. “Whatever you’re working on, do you need any help? I’ll take some of whatever put that look on your face.” She winked.
Jessa rolled her eyes—she must have been in that that dreamy-eye state thinking about the R&R investigators. How embarrassing. She stood and smoothed non-existent wrinkles from her khakis, not willing to share that information with Gina.
“Deets, little girl. I need deets, as one reporter to another.” Gina must have been bored to have come over to visit in the first place. But Jessa had an appointment now—somewhere she needed to be.
“I’m late, G. Talk later.” She grabbed her purse and slipped her cell phone inside, before stashing her laptop in its case. Nervous sweat trickled down her back. It was a mix of anxiety about meeting the PIs and finally being able to do something she’d wanted to do for a while.
She texted Ella that she had to leave. No response. Yeah, she won’t finish that article today. And for once, Jessa wasn’t going to wait.
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