by Davis, Kyra
I squeeze into the dress. It’s skintight and oddly flattering but it’s also a little slutty. Much more so than the Herve Leger dress I wore in Vegas the night I met Robert Dade. One glance in the mirror tells me that I’m going to need to change out of the bikini panties I’m wearing and into a thong.
I fish through the few items of clothing I have stored here to see if I can find one.
“You won’t be able to wear underwear with that,” Dave says.
I whirl around to see him standing in the doorway.
I smile slightly. “Are you trying to humiliate me?” I ask.
He shrugs, giving away the answer in his silence.
I won’t give him the satisfaction. Not over a dress worn within a private residence. “Why would I be embarrassed? Only yesterday you saw me in less.”
I let my hand slide over my exposed stomach and then up my skirt. It takes effort to wriggle out of my panties without flashing him, but I manage it and then throw them at Dave, who catches them in one hand. He looks mildly embarrassed and slightly aroused.
I walk up to him, lean in, and say with a singsong whisper, “If you touch me, I’ll kill you.”
And then I walk past him to make dinner, leaving him with an erection he’s going to have to take care of all by himself.
It’s a struggle to prepare the lamb with my movements restricted by the unforgiving fabric. My guilt over what I’ve done is slowly dissipating with each one of Dave’s pathetic attempts to debase me. While Asha’s attacks are polished and executed with a vicious grace, Dave’s moves are clumsy, only hitting his mark by the occasional stroke of luck. The single advantage he has is that, unlike with Asha, I’m still not clear I fully understand what motivates him.
And what does he have to lose by calling my parents or his godfather right now? Is he stringing me along until he does? Am I playing for salvation or time?
The oil in the frying pan pops and sizzles as I sprinkle in bits of bloody red meat. I turn the knife on the vegetables, slicing through them with precise and violent movements.
I’ve been fighting like a civilian, wildly swinging at anything that resembles an enemy. I need to be the soldier. I need a battle plan.
As I wield the blade across the cutting board, I wonder if the violence will remain in the form of metaphor. How far can I be pushed before I snap?
Twenty-five minutes later dinner is nearly ready but before I can reach for a single plate, the doorbell rings.
I hesitate. This doesn’t feel like coincidence. I look down at my dress. It was one thing to wear this in front of Dave but someone else?
And then an odd thought crawls into my brain. What if it’s Robert Dade?
I imagine Robert bursting though the door. He doesn’t see Dave, only me. “You don’t need to do this for me,” he says. And just like that I realize that it’s always been about us. Dave isn’t important. I turn my eyes to Dave and watch as he fades away, like an apparition or a shadow destroyed by the light.
It’s an indulgent fantasy, one I don’t allow myself to entertain for more that a minute but it’s long enough to excite me. My heart beats a little faster; I feel a small ache of yearning. . . .
It’s pathetic, really. The chances of it being him at the door are slim to none. He doesn’t even know where Dave lives. He’s not here, so why am I feeling these things?
I know you, Kasie. I know that even when I’m nowhere near you I’m inside of you. I can touch you with a thought.
The doorbell rings again, pulling me out of my fantasies and reminiscences. But by now I already feel a slight moisture between my legs.
I shouldn’t have removed my underwear. Self-consciously I walk to the entryway of the kitchen as Dave approaches the door.
“Who is it, Dave?” I ask.
He looks over his shoulder with a smirk. There’s malice in his eyes as he flings the door open.
Tom Love stands there, a bottle of wine in his hand and a puzzled look on his face. “I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to bring something,” he says to Dave, speaking hesitantly as if he’s unsure of what he’s walking into. “I didn’t expect the invitation.”
And then Tom’s eyes dart to me. He takes in the dress and his mouth goes slack, his eyes wide . . . and then a devious smile.
“What exactly am I being invited to?”
I feel the embarrassment start at my toes and then crawl up my legs through my very core until it wraps around my lungs and squeezes with the crushing power of a snake.
“Remember I said your boss would be joining us?” Dave asks. He approaches me; each footstep has the hallow echo of spite. “When I put together our engagement party, the only people from your firm who you even knew well enough to invite were my godfather and Asha. Afterwards, I realized that most of your superiors don’t know anything about what you’re like outside of the office. I thought we should give Mr. Love a glimpse.” With this his eyes fall to my hem. I’m tempted to pull on it, try somehow to make the dress longer but it would be useless. If anything, pulling it would bring the top a little too low, exposing the pink areoles that surround my nipples. I’m hyperconscious of the wetness between my legs, I can feel it trickling down and I squirm slightly wondering how to best make my retreat.
“I won’t be joining you,” I say quietly. The declaration is met by a sharp look from Dave and a surprised one from Tom.
“You’re not?” Tom asks, stepping in and closing the door behind him. His eyes move from me to Dave, then back to me. He takes in the dress appreciatively, but the leer is gone now that he’s beginning to understand what this is and what this isn’t. “You didn’t know Dave invited me.”
I shake my head, but Dave drapes a heavy arm over my bare shoulders. “No matter; she made enough for three. Kasie’s not a big eater.”
I imagine scratching his face with the ring he forces me to wear. Red blood on a red stone.
“I won’t be joining you,” I say again, but suddenly Dave’s arm gets tight as he pulls me to him.
“But you must join us, Kasie,” he says. Again the image of a snake leaps to mind. Dave speaks with the serpent’s voice. “What will Tom and I talk about without you? It will all just be business, like that account you’ve been working on or something. Maned Wolf, right—Mr. Robert Dade?”
“Ah,” this from Tom as he gently places the burgundy wine on the table. I sense the dawning of understanding, but not surprise. He keeps his eyes on the table, perhaps studying the metaphorical puzzle pieces that have just been exposed to him.
“We’ll need three plates,” Dave says definitively. The role of master was not tailored for him. It’s a size too big and he seems more vulnerable within the fabric of the character. Like a boy wearing his father’s clothes.
And yet this bullet has hit its mark. I report to Tom, and although I respect his professional abilities, I don’t like him. I don’t like the way he molds ethics and morality to support his ambitions. I don’t want him to see me dressed like this, the skirt barely covering my hips, the neckline exposing the curve of my breast . . . this was never meant for Tom’s eyes.
And Dave’s threats were not subtle. Tom understood the nuance as well as I did. He had figured out that my relationship with Robert was more than platonic long before he arrived for dinner. But that doesn’t mean I want to discuss it with him. It doesn’t mean that I want to be faced with the shame of his knowing . . . and judging me. Was he like Dave? Did he, too, think I was a whore?
“The plates,” Dave says.
I turn and walk into the kitchen. The reverberations of my pounding heart are so powerful it makes my whole body shake. How could I have done this to my life? And for what? Sex with a stranger? An illicit affair? Had I actually thought it was worth the risk?
Had it been? The memories flicker in front of my eyes in rapid succession: flirting over scotch, energetically talk
ing business at a restaurant, playfully hitting him with a pillow while he laughs, being in his bed, his weight on top of me, his hands on my hips, gently lifting them so he can plunge deeper into me, his hand slipping to my clit; he toys with me as he continues to move inside me. I can’t catch my breath . . . I don’t want to. . . .
What am I doing?
I have a crisis on my hands. My fiancé is treating me like a tramp in front of my boss and I’m fantasizing about my lover?
No, my devil answers, you’re just remembering why it was worth it.
I try to shake the thoughts out of my head and split the stir-fry into three portions.
Robert’s hands are on my breasts, gently pinching my nipples
I pull out three wineglasses.
I feel Robert’s kisses forging a path across my shoulders.
I hear the low murmur of male voices coming from the dining room as I carefully select the utensils. My nipples are hard and pressing against the fabric of this hateful dress.
I take a deep breath and center myself. I’ll take my time in here. Let the fantasy run its course, let it fortify me. When I make love to Robert I always begin by feeling vulnerable and end by feeling strong. I need to reach that point of strength tonight.
“Kasie.”
I turn swiftly, surprised by the sound of Tom’s voice so close. His eyes immediately go to my chest and I cross my arms over my breasts in hopes of hiding the evidence of my train of thought. But the action only pulls the dress higher, and I quickly lower them, hoping he didn’t notice that I exposed everything in a moment.
He turns his head away, his eyes on the floor.
“Where’s Dave?” I ask.
“I just got a new Porsche, told him he should go and take a look at it.”
“You didn’t go out with him?
“No. I locked him out.”
The admission shakes me out of my embarrassment and into something that resembles shock and awe . . . and admiration. “You locked him out of his own house?”
“I did.” He’s still looking at the floor but I can see the smile.
Maybe I like Tom after all.
Unless . . . I look down at my silhouette, feeling self-conscious once again.
“Why did you lock him out?” I ask. “If you think something’s going to happen between you and me—”
“What, are you telling me that I can’t have sex with you in your fiancé’s house while he’s locked out on the front porch banging on the door?”
I don’t want to show my amusement, but it’s hard to hide it.
“Look, sex with you under those circumstances, under any circumstances, would be awesome, but it’s not going to happen. I know you don’t want me here,” he says.
I swallow but don’t answer.
He shifts, suddenly gangly and awkward. “I also can’t sleep with you because you’re engaged to my boss’s godson. I don’t think he’s going to squeal on me for locking him out; he’s gotta have some level of pride, but sleeping with his fiancé while she’s cooking him dinner? Yeah, that might get him to make a phone call.”
“You’re smarter than me,” I say quietly. “I’ve done some things that I . . . I didn’t think through. Things that could get me fired.”
Tom lifts his eyes to mine. “I know what you’ve done . . . not the details, but I know . . . and I don’t care.” He lets that sink in, then breaks into a silky smooth laugh. “Actually I do care. I’m glad you fucked Robert Dade. If I had thought fucking him would get us the Maned Wolf account, I’d have fucked him, too. I’d have to have a lot to drink first but . . .”
A giggle bubbles up in my throat. Everything about this moment is preposterous.
Yet Tom’s smile fades as he presses forward. “Thing is, Kasie, if I had known that your fucking him was going to get us the account, I would have encouraged you to do it, and if you had let me in on what was going on, I would have helped you hide it from Dave.”
The giggle dies, the bubbles popping under the pressure of my disapproval even as my own hypocrisy drums against my temples. He’s only saying he’d do the things that I’ve already done.
“I didn’t have sex with Robert to get ahead,” I say quietly.
Tom shrugs, indifferent to my motivations. It’s the result that pleases him. “I’m just saying that if Dave’s godfather wasn’t Dylan Freeland, it would be a win-win for everyone.”
I watch Tom with new eyes, seeing for the first time how his indifference to morality can serve me. There is no judgment here, just hard practicality that rules his actions and a little lust that he restrains with admirable skill.
“Mr. Freeland is a great businessman,” Tom continues thoughtfully. “But unfortunately for us he’s an even better family man. If he finds out you cheated on his godson, you’re out. He’ll find an appropriate excuse. We have clauses in all of our contracts about behavior with clients, the importance of protecting the firm’s reputation, etcetera, etcetera. He’ll say you traded sexual favors for an account and that’ll be it. It’ll become a matter of public record; Freeland will make sure of that. Your life will get harder.”
As the word leaves his mouth, he winces and shifts his weight uncomfortably. The movement draws my attention downward, making me aware of his physical state and his unintentional pun. With effort I manage not to roll my eyes. It’s silly really, getting so excited over a dress. He could go to any beach to see women wearing less. And if I was any other girl, he would leer or dismiss me as a common slut or perhaps not notice me at all, write me off as another LA, club-going exhibitionist.
It’s the rarity of seeing me vulnerable, of seeing me revealing what I have consistently concealed, that disarms him. He knows I’m not wearing this dress by choice, and, because of that, I sense that he wants to be repelled rather than aroused by the sight of me . . . a sight he has no right to see. It’s a flash of decency in a cold storm of cynicism.
But his body is not cooperating with his whims of conscience and I can’t blame him for that. I can blame Dave, but not him.
Carefully, I clasp my hands in front of me. It feels like every movement moves the dress a little higher. “What can I do?” I ask.
Tom’s eyes flicker to my hemline before going back to the floor. “A counterattack.”
“Against Dave? How? He hasn’t done anything that will turn Freeland away from him. I have nothing on him that will compel him to keep quiet.”
“You’re not being imaginative enough,” Tom says. “Facts can be bought just like any other commodity. Sometimes by barter, sometimes with currency, but they can always be bought.”
It’s then that we hear the pounding on the front door. Tom sighs and shakes his head. “He’ll wake the neighbors with that racket.”
It’s only eight thirty, but the point’s a good one. Tom walks to the foyer, I follow a few feet behind and hang back as Tom opens the door, revealing Dave on his own doorstep, his face an intriguing shade of crimson. “You locked me out on purpose!”
“I did no such thing,” Tom says, the lie light on his tongue. “I have no idea how this happened.”
Dave’s eyes shift to me. “What exactly did you two get up to?”
I almost laugh. He calls Tom here to see me in a state of undress and now he’s worried that Tom might have touched me with more than his eyes? Again, I’m reminded that, like me, Dave is an amateur when it comes to ruthlessness.
Tom sees the humor in this, too, and a small smile plays on his lips. “Are you worried that I’ve already sampled what you’ve brought me here to taste?”
Dave looks stricken. Control is a slippery thing and his grip is weak. I see the way he’s looking at me. The hostility he shoots from his eyes almost hurts.
Almost. That’s the thing about cruelty: as with most venoms, when they are taken in continuous but small doses, one can build up an immun
ity to it.
“I don’t think I’ll be staying for dinner after all,” Tom says. He turns to me, conspicuously dismissive of the man in front of him. “The wine on the table is all yours . . . although I’m sure you need something stronger.”
“I’ll walk you to your Porsche,” I say.
Tom nods. “Take your key first. That door lock is temperamental.”
Yes, in many ways Tom is smarter than me. His vision isn’t clouded with emotion or pain. I grab my keys from my purse on the console and follow him to the car.
“He’s angry. He doesn’t want to let you go,” Tom says while we walk down the pathway, Dave’s glare pressing against our backs. “No man in his right mind would.”
His car is painted a uniquely dark, metallic silver that reminds me of the tinted mirrored windows that make up the high rise that holds Maned Wolf’s offices. He pauses at the driver’s-side door, his keys pressed into his palm. “Will you be safe?”
I look up sharply, consider his features. Concern is not an emotion I’ve seen him wear before. “Dave won’t hurt me,” I say.
“He’s hurting you now, Kasie. This is abuse.”
“I know . . . but what I meant . . . he won’t lay a hand on me, Tom.”
“I can take you home,” he says carefully. “Or if you like, I can take you to him.” I flush and Tom smiles wryly. “Would feigning ignorance be better?”
I nod. The reflection of my figure in the car’s metallic paint is distorted and fragmented.
“Very well; as far as I’m concerned Dave is the only man you’ve been with in years. Your relationship with Mr. Dade is purely professional. See,” he says as he unlocks his door, “facts can be bought, sometimes for as little as a smile.”
But I’m not smiling. I keep the thought to myself as he gets in and I watch my reflection in the shiny silver exterior shift, change, and disappear as he drives off.