by Davis, Kyra
“For a second?”
“You know, when you asked me to acknowledge him as my superior. That was quite a move on your part, way up there on the evil scale. Except as soon as you got me to say what you wanted me to say, as soon as I had humiliated myself in front of my coworkers, you got this look on your face—”
“What look?”
“The look of guilt of course,” she laughs. “You really want to be bad, you just can’t quite carry it off.” She stands up, walks around her desk, and props herself on top of it. “I think that’s why you’re with Mr. Dade. I used to think you were using him to get ahead. But now? Now I think you like him because he gives you permission to be bad, and when you don’t take him up on it, he’s bad for you. He does all your dirty work, pulls you into doing what you want to do but don’t dare to initiate. That way you can avoid the guilt . . . or least that’s the theory.”
“Your theory?”
“No, no, it’s yours. My theory is that your theory isn’t working out for you. You let him take control, do the things he tells you to do, let him touch you in ways and places you think you should be ashamed of all in the hope that you’ll be able to enjoy it without the guilt. But your guilt is a little more tenacious than that. It enslaves you, like it always does.”
“I’m a slave to my guilt?” I snap. Somehow this accusation more than all the others pisses me off. “Tom is gone. I haven’t campaigned for him to get his job back. I haven’t let Mr. Costin shame me. I haven’t apologized to anyone—”
“You just apologized to me.”
I stand there with my mouth slightly open. She’s got me there.
And she knows it. She stands up, crosses to me, takes her hands and pulls my hair back off my shoulders. “Why the fascination with me? Is it because you want to be me?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Because I live without guilt. I know what I want, and I don’t agonize over it. Sometimes I don’t get it right away, sometimes it takes a while, but I can be patient and when I need to be, I can be ruthless while smiling.” She drops my hair, steps back, and lets her eyes move up and down my body until I cross my arms over my chest protectively. “If I had been in your position during our last meeting, I would have made you call Daemon your superior, too. But I wouldn’t have felt bad about it. Then I would have found a way to arrange yet another meeting, just the three of us.”
“Why would you want to do that?”
“Because I’d want Daemon to see what I could do to you.” She reaches out again, lets her fingers rest against my throat, slide down to the curve of my breast. I step back.
I step back . . . but not away. I’m not shouting at her or threatening her. I simply step back. If fear is my lover, then here in Asha’s office it masters me, makes my heart race, keeps me there with its dark allure.
“Can you imagine it?” Asha asks. “If Daemon was sitting right there”—she looks back at her desk and seems to make eye contact with eyes that aren’t there—“imagine how he’d react if he saw you jump when I do this.” Her hand moves forward again, between my legs; again I jump and step back.
“Imagine if he saw that,” she says again. “He’d never leave you alone, not your superior, Daemon. He’d be calling you into his own office every day, just to test you, touching you in a different place each time. Sometimes he’d brush his hand against your breast, seemingly by accident. That’s probably where he’d start. Then he’d give you a pat on the butt on the way out, maybe even give it a little squeeze. The next meeting would be worse. He’d see your nipples get hard under your blouse as you anticipate his next move, just as they’re growing hard now as you imagine it.”
“They’re not—”
“And he’d ask you to take off your blazer, you know, just to make yourself comfortable. He’d insist . . . as your superior. He’d walk around the chair, massage your shoulders until his hands slipped a little lower, still massaging but now the top of your breasts, then his hands would slip inside your blouse, play with those hard nipples while his other hand slipped between your legs. You’d start to protest and he’d stop you, tell you to call him sir. And you would because this is what you want, isn’t it, Kasie? To be led to debauchery? To be fondled in public places without the guilt? And really, what could you do? He’s your superior. You would have already fessed up to that much, in front of me, in front of everyone you work with. I bet just thinking about it is making you wet. I bet he’d slide his hand into your panties, feel the wetness before slipping a finger or two into your pussy while his thumb played with your clit. I bet he’d make you come right in that chair as you squirmed and called him sir.”
“Why are you saying these things? I could—”
“Fire me. Yeah, yeah, I know. But you’re not.” This last part she sings. “You’re not going to fire me because you need to study me. I’m the woman you want to be. Or perhaps more importantly, I’m the woman Mr. Dade wants you to be, the woman he’s training you to be. If he only knew there was a premade version right here in this office . . . well what would he do, Kasie? Would he toss you aside? The missionary’s path is hard and riddled with rejection and setbacks. Why not take the easy route and preach to believers?” She leans in, whispers in my ear. “Like me. I’m a believer. I walk the walk, I’ve embraced this gospel. I’m the real thing, and you?” She laughs lightly, shakes her head before walking to her desk.
“You never will be.”
There’s some truth to what she’s saying, but what bothers me is not that I’ll never be like Asha; it’s that I ever wanted to be. What bothers me is that if I stay at this firm, my future will be riddled with these kinds of conversations. I do have options, just not here.
Later that day I go into Mr. Costin’s office and hand in my notice.
CHAPTER 13
THE REST OF the day has a surreal quality. Mr. Costin had been flustered as he wavered between glee and terror. Was Mr. Dade upset about something? Was I?
No, I had answered. Everything was fine. But the office didn’t suit me; no, not the room, but the position, the firm, the life. . . . I had reassured him again after that, stumbling over my words as he fumbled his platitudes. There are logistics to think of, too. In a very short period of time I have taken to my job. Things are getting done; new approaches are being explored. It would be such a shame to throw all that away, and Mr. Costin knows it.
But he also knows that my leaving is a gift. It’s a gift to him and to many others who work here, people who don’t want to structure their lives and careers around the ocean’s tide. Understandably they’d rather live where they’re safe from the impending tsunami.
So we arranged for me to stay the next three weeks, to help with the transition. Having so much turnover in such a short period of time never looks good but we’ll make things as smooth as possible.
My only requirement is that Mr. Costin not give my job to Asha. I forced him to agree to that stipulation. It’s the last time I’ll flex my muscles here, in this office in this building. Surely this last abuse of power will add another chink in the delicate remains of my cracked morality.
It’s worth it.
I don’t go home when the day is done, and I certainly don’t go to him. Instead I drive around the city, let the lights of the night lead me in random directions, toward this shopping mall, this restaurant, this event that shines its spotlights into the air as if calling for Batman.
I don’t park, never stop for anything other than a traffic signal. I just keep driving until I get to a vaguely familiar alley, away from the lights and glaring marketing campaigns. I stop for a speakeasy called Wishes.
I’m hesitant when I get to the door. It’s just as white as I remembered it; the letters of the name are still just as red. As if wishes were made of blood.
I open the door. A man stands behind the bar, cleaning a glass with a cloth. Men and women talk among them
selves; the music in the background comes from speakers, not live musicians. As I approach the bar the bartender makes eye contact with me, offers me an appraising smile. “What can I do you for?”
“What do you have in the means of scotch?” I ask as I prop myself up on a bar stool; my eyes only briefly flicker to the small plastic cube behind the bar, the one that overflows with precut slices of lime.
“I got a few,” he says, naming off a few brands, nothing as grand as what Robert and I indulged in while we were in Vegas. I shake my head and opt for a vodka tonic instead.
He places the drink in front of me in short order, a wedge of lemon in my glass, not lime. I pick it up, look at the little ring of wetness it leaves on the bar. I lay on that bar not long ago; salt had tickled my skin.
“Is Genevieve working tonight?” I’m not sure why I’m asking, not even sure why I’m here. Perhaps it’s because I want to understand. What happened to me? Was my night here really the turning point or a manifestation of a bigger decision that I had made even before Robert had led me through that door? A decision to embrace excess and abandon the conventions of society that I was taught to cherish?
Or maybe I was here for a more basic reason. Maybe I wanted to know what Robert and Genevieve had going on. Maybe I wanted to know how many women had been laid down on this bar, how many lovers they had shared. Had there ever been a time when it was just the two of them? Was it just the two of them now that I had walked away?
I smile up at the bartender, who is too busy counting out change to hear my question. I ask again and he looks up in confusion.
“Genevieve? No one by that name works here.”
“No?” I put my glass down, suddenly feeling a bit off balance. “The woman with the red hair—what’s her name?”
“We don’t have anyone here with red hair. We got a Janey; she’s Asian. Oh and there’s Andrew . . . guess you could call him a strawberry blond although most just describe him as balding. And there’s Henry and me, oh and Elsie . . . she’s Haitian. She’s something to look at. Black as the night with cheekbones so sharp you could cut yourself on them. When she starts speaking French, the tips start rolling in.
“But no Genevieve?” I ask meekly.
“Only Genevieve I know of lives in Camelot,” he says with a smile before stepping away to address the woman waving her credit card in the air.
He doesn’t hear me when I reply quietly, “You’re thinking of Guinevere and Camelot . . . it doesn’t exist.”
I glance around the room, study the patrons more carefully. They look normal enough. There are a few hipsters, a few women and men who have worked a little too hard to emulate the visual perfection of Hollywood’s stars. But mostly they’re everyday folks, people who probably live around here and just wanted to go to their neighborhood spot, a place with little pretense, a place that seems more dedicated to comfort than image. Last time I was here Robert and I were the center of attention. Everyone seemed to be somehow tuned in to us, hyperaware of our presence even before . . . things happened.
Tonight I get a few looks but only the kind you would expect. Glances of hopeful men and competitive women. The energy’s different.
And the music comes from a stereo.
When the bartender looks my way again, I crook my finger, beckoning.
“Need another?” He asks, eyeing my drink that I’ve barely touched.
“No, I was just wondering if you’ll be having live music tonight . . . you know, later.”
Again he gives me a funny look. “We don’t have live music here. We did a karaoke night once, for a holiday weekend . . . think it was Memorial Day . . . maybe Columbus. Anyway, that was a few years ago. It didn’t really catch on.”
I shake my head, now impatient and a little frightened. “I was here. I heard the music. A woman and a bass player. He played, she sang. I heard it!”
Another quizzical look, and then finally the dawning of comprehension. “You must have been at that private party the owner had a little while back. Yeah, I heard a little somethin’ about that. Mr. Dade hired talent, used his own people to tend bar. I was kinda pissed because, you know, I can’t afford to just lose a whole night worth of tips but Mr. Dade, he made it like a paid vacation for all of us so you know, no complaints.”
I suck in a sharp breath, feeling once again unsteady on my stool. The bartender is watching me more closely, a new twinkle of interest in his eyes. “Did he pay you?” he asks.
“Excuse me?” The response is too quick, too visceral. I can’t keep the note of offense from my voice.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay. One of my friends told me all about it. He got paid, too.”
“Your friend . . .” my voice trails off as a new, horrible thought occurs to me. “Your friend the bass player?”
“Nah, I don’t know anything about the musicians. My friend was one of the patrons. Mr. Dade doesn’t have a clue that I know him and he was sworn to secrecy and everything . . . even had to sign some confidentiality agreement but like I said, we’re friends. You break those kinds of rules for friends.”
“We have rules for a reason,” I whisper. “There’s something to be said for following the rules.”
“Yeah, whatever.” The bartender laughs, mistaking my statement for lighthearted teasing. “He says he got paid three hundred bucks just to show up. He just had to sit here and look like a regular ol’ barfly and then, when the bartender rang the bell for last call, well he had a choice, he could spend some of that money on getting one last drink here or he could head out. But if he got the drink, he couldn’t dawdle. And if he didn’t, he couldn’t just run out the door, he had to get up all leisurely like. Like a real barfly.”
“Why?” I ask. There’s still emotion in my voice, not offense this time, something weaker that speaks to a deeper pain. But once again the music and the hum of the bar drowns out the nuance and the bartender continues.
“Beats the hell outta me,” he says. “But my friend? He says that when Mr. Dade arrived, he came with this really hot chick . . . not like a hooker or anything. He said she was dressed in expensive brands and holding a designer purse. Sounds like one of those uptight Rodeo Drive types looking for a little downtown adventure, you ask me. You know what I think . . .” He falters and then looks away, suddenly awkward.
“What?” I ask.
“Nah, what I think probably shouldn’t be said in mixed company.” He laughs.
I hesitate before goading him on, trying for my best lecherous leer. “Come on, I’m dying here! Tell me the dirty details. What do you think happened?”
“You really wanna know?”
“Fuck yeah!”
This is not a part that I know how to play well but the bartender isn’t very smart so he continues without picking up on that.
“I bet you anything Mr. Dade and this lady were acting out one of those kinky rich-man’s fantasies,” he says, leaning forward. “I bet once all those fake guests got outta here he fucked her, I bet he fucked her right here on this bar. I bet that bartender . . . whatcha call her, Genevieve? I bet she got in on it, too. And those musicians . . . my friend said they got to stay. Maybe they were part of the little orgy or maybe they got to watch.” He shakes his head, no longer here. Instead he’s lost in his own little fantasy, a fantasy that is so much more than a fantasy for me. I feel my cheeks heat up; anxiety accelerates my heart.
“Can you imagine it?” he asks dreamily. “Two hot girls going down on each other in front of an audience right here on my bar. Man, what I would have given to have seen that. Man, he wouldn’t have even had to pay me. I would have bartended for free and I would have recorded the whole damn thing for him, too! You must have seen the girl though, right? You really were there? Was she hot?”
My cheeks are flaming now; I’m clutching my drink like it’s life support. The bartender gives me a strange look and then a slow g
rin spreads over his face. “You were here. It was you, wasn’t it?” he asked. “You had sex here, on my bar, by a chick while he watched! Oh man, my friend said the girl was hot but I never dreamed she was as hot as you.”
“It wasn’t like that,” I spat.
“No, tell me, what was it like? Did that bartender, that Camelot girl, did you two strip each other down in front of everyone? And the musicians, did they get a turn with you, too? Or was it just you and Mr. Dade? You know, I’ve always wanted to have sex in front of other people . . . but hey, you know, I like to watch, too. If you ever—”
I get up abruptly, almost tripping as my feet hit the floor, and then I bolt for the door. My movements are so tactless, it attracts the attention of the patrons who had been ignoring me. I feel their eyes on me as I leave, but mostly I feel the eyes of that bartender.
People in that bar, they’ll ask him what that was about. And that bartender? He’ll tell them. He’ll tell them in demeaning detail, making up the parts that he doesn’t know . . . which is all of it. But his imaginings are so close to the truth, I can’t say that my reputation is being unfairly sullied.
My hands are shaking so much, I can’t get my keys out of my purse. I lean against my car, try to steady myself, try to catch my breath and get rid of this feeling of humiliation.
You could get him fired.
It’s the voice of my devil. I’m so very familiar with it now.
One call to your Mr. Dade and that bartender won’t ever work here again. He won’t work anywhere! Mr. Dade will discredit him to the point that no one will believe anything he says! You have that power, Kasie! Just dial the numbers and ask for the moon.