Page 16 of Beneath the Surface

Brad's grip tightened on the steering wheel as he began to drive the one hour back to Pierre, the road ahead doing little to quiet his mind. The meeting with Mark Dillon stirred something inside him, feelings of frustration and confusion he couldn’t shake. Larson, the case, Isobel... it was all too much.

Instead of heading back to his office, Brad made a sharp left off the highway into the small town of Elk Horn Hills, steering his car down a side street before pulling into a discreet parking lot. The Loft. He needed a break from everything else. Today, though, he wasn’t here to play. He just needed a damn drink. Before getting out of his car, he called his office, taking a half day of personal time.

Walking through the lobby, Brad noticed the gleaming floors, the art pieces on the walls that hinted at something more provocative than they seemed. The usual warmth of the place didn’t touch him today. His thoughts were elsewhere, still tangled in the memory of Isobel’s wide eyes.

The bar was quiet when he entered, the soft hum of conversation in the background like white noise. The dim lighting cast shadows over the polished wood and leather seating, a sharp contrast to the intensity of what often happened just beyond these walls.

Cheyenne, a petite submissive dressed in The Loft’s signature attire, if you could even call it that, approached him with a smile. She wore a barely-there white bra, delicate lace that covered little, and red satin tap pants that left nothing to the imagination.

“Master Brad,” she greeted, her voice soft but eager. “What can I get for you?”

Brad caught the flicker of disappointment in her eyes when he asked for a beer. He wasn’t in the mood for play, at least not yet.

Cheyenne handed him the cold bottle, her fingers brushing lightly against his as she gave him a searching look, like she hoped he’d change his mind and ask for more. But he didn’t. He nodded his thanks and turned to the bar, taking a long, slow drink as the cool liquid slid down his throat.

Before he could even gather his thoughts, he heard the creak of a chair behind him and felt a familiar presence take the seat at his back. Jesse Gentry.

"Hmm, you’re here before the sunset. Second time in a week. Haven’t seen you tied up in knots like this before,” Jesse drawled, his voice rough but laced with humor. “You talked to sweet Belle, and she said no?”

Brad exhaled, the tension in his shoulders loosening just slightly. Jesse was good at this, picking at people until they unraveled. But today, the words hit harder than usual. The truth was, she said maybe. His thoughts flashed to Isobel, the idea of holding her close, of protecting her, and his body tightened in response.

He shook his head, trying to laugh it off, but Jesse wasn’t fooled. “You always know how to read me,” Brad muttered, taking another sip of his beer.

Jesse’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “So?”

Brad huffed out a breath, but his feelings for Isobel slipped through. “Not exactly.”

Jesse leaned back, chuckling.

Brad placed his beer on the bar, hands clasped loosely between his knees, his expression a mix of frustration and introspection. Across from him, Jesse sat poised in his usual chair, the very image of calm authority. His brow furrowed slightly, signaling his concern.

“So,” Jesse began again, his voice measured, a psychologist’s tool to disarm, “did you get anywhere with Isobel?”

Brad let out a huff, more weary than annoyed. “Depends on what you mean by ‘anywhere.’ I took her to Hot Shots.”

Jesse tilted his head, his neutral expression inviting elaboration.

“She’s working on some divorce case involving a family member who goes there. But that’s not all.” Brad leaned back, rubbing the back of his neck. “She’s connected to the two recent deaths at Old Mill Lake.”

Jesse’s eyebrows rose. “Connected how?”

Brad hesitated, a flicker of guilt crossing his face. “The potential murderer left her a note. He told her she had it wrong in the original case four years ago.”

“That’s troubling.” Jesse leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees matching Brad’s position. “And dangerous. People who find themselves tied to murder scenes often don’t realize how quickly it can spiral. Naming her there could put her at risk.”

Brad nodded slowly but didn’t respond immediately. His gaze drifted, like he was recalling something far removed from Jesse’s office. “But that’s not what stayed with me the most,” he said finally, his voice quieter now. “It was the moment we were sitting in her living room. The night between us. She was anxious at Hot Shots—scared, even—but she was curious too.”

Jesse waited, his silence encouraging Brad to continue.

“And when I offered to show her what the lifestyle really means, I saw something in her eyes.” Brad’s lips curled into a faint, self-deprecating smile. “Anticipation.”

Jesse’s thoughtful expression didn’t waver. “Hot Shots attracts a certain crowd,” he said. “Let’s not sugarcoat it—people who go there often aren’t the best-behaved adults. It’s a space where boundaries blur and inhibitions... well, vanish.”

Brad frowned, bristling slightly. “You think I shouldn’t have taken her there?”

“I think,” Jesse replied carefully, “you need to ask yourself what you were trying to accomplish. Was it to help her with her case? To satisfy your own curiosity? Or was it something else entirely?”

Brad’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t deny it. “I wanted to show her I could handle it. That she didn’t need to be scared.”

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