Burning Rivalry (Trevor's Harem #2)

by Aubrey Parker

  Kylie sits next to Trevor.

  She puts her hand on his leg while Tony speaks to the group. She moves her hand to his bulge, but Trevor doesn’t react. Except down below as Kylie subtly brushes her hand back and forth. Light and casual, like she doesn’t know what she’s touching.

  But Trevor still doesn’t acknowledge her.

  What kind of competition is this? Is it really to find the biggest whore? Or is there something else happening?

  Everyone is looking at everyone else. Daniel was right. The men are engaged in a farce, but we all know where this is headed. They won’t act first, because it will spoil the experiment if they do.

  Eyes are on Trevor; Kylie’s hand now inside his pants.

  Eyes are on Kylie, wondering how far this will go.

  No one knows what to do.

  I see someone sit next to me, in my peripheral vision. Logan. He’s between me and Malory, raven-haired and petite, her look decidedly hungry. She’s breathing in full, heavy sips of air, her chest rising and falling practically in rhythm will all the others. Her hand goes to Logan’s leg, just like Kylie’s went to Trevor’s. Then it’s higher. And higher. Logan looks at me as if inviting me to do the same.

  Jesus. I’m still aroused. Even after the control room, the energy in here is making my heart beat, pushing blood to all the wrong places. Apparently, public sex turns me on. Apparently, I’m a voyeur and exhibitionist. And Logan’s piercing blue eyes are OMG fucking hot.

  When I don’t touch him, he touches me.

  One hand, lightly, on the shoulder.

  Brushing my hair away from my neck.

  I shake my head, and the hand retreats. Doing so doesn’t cool me down. Under ordinary circumstances, I wouldn’t even be here. But under circumstances that are more bizarre than normal and less bizarre than these, I think I’d let him keep going. When in Rome, and all. When hot strangers fondle you, it’s rude to not fondle them back.

  But after turning Logan away with that small shake, my pussy feels more sensitive, not less. My tits want hands on them more, not less.

  Don’t touch anyone. You’re mine.

  Holy shit. It’s all I can do, thinking of those words, to not scramble for something, anything, to put inside me.

  Whatever strange detente holds the room, it refuses to break. Kylie has Trevor’s cock out now, her hand slowly working its length. She’s looking right at me, the tip of her tongue running along the inside edge of her front teeth. While Tony keeps on explaining and everyone keeps shifting in their seats, dress hems rising, hands exploring, neighbor touching neighbor everywhere but the bubble in which I find myself, Kylie leans down. Still casual. And licks Trevor’s throbbing head. His dick twitches in response.

  Don’t touch anyone, Bridget. You’re mine.

  I sit. I wait.

  Frustrated.

  While everyone else crosses line after line, having fun all around me.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Bridget

  My shower is watched. My bed is watched. I’ve already done stuff to myself on the bed, knowing there was a chance I was under surveillance, but I won’t do it now. I can’t be sure who’s watching the mansion’s control room or who will watch a future recording, and I’m not eager to give them a show.

  But there’s nowhere to go.

  And that makes me wonder if this is also part of the test.

  I won’t stand in the blind spot like I did with Erin, just to play my fiddle. I’m not that far gone. The other people here might have serious impulse control issues, but I’m still an entrepreneur with two distinct little businesses out in the real world, where people don’t suck dicks in a group and where, if you get a bit worked up, you have a choice other than succumbing.

  I don’t want to take a shower, though I know that bit of rebellion is short-lived if I expect to stay here two weeks and still be tolerable in public. So I splash cold water on my face, then wet a washcloth with the same cold water and run it over my neck and the exposed part of my chest. I’m getting the dress all wet, so I change, quickly and with my back to the room. I’m still fucking turned on, but I think it’s probably from all the sneaking around. Which makes sense. If I enjoyed watching Erin getting railed by Tony and if the display downstairs cranked my motor, I guess I’m into freakier shit than I realized, like orgies and fucking in public. So if I’m paranoid of being naked here for the cameras and am doing my best to keep my parts covered, maybe the thrill of hiding is a flipped sort of hot in itself. Maybe I like feeling ashamed. Maybe I like the sense of humiliation. I don’t like the implications, but it almost makes sense. It’s not like I had a normal childhood, or any healthy relationships.

  That’s when I decide this is ridiculous.

  If I’m this bothered — and that’s bothered in the usual sense, though I’m apparently hot and bothered as well — by the ever-present eye in the sky, I should leave. I’ve never done anything for money. I make commercial decisions in my work, but they’re still projects I know I’ll enjoy. I did what I’ve done so far to help Linda, but I’d have stopped the instant I encountered something I didn’t actually want to do.

  Which raises its own set of internal conflicts. It means that I’ve enjoyed all I’ve done so far.

  But if getting naked for the cameras bothers me enough to start taking sponge baths, and change in the corner, maybe I’ve reached my limit. I should go. Find Tony or Logan or Richard or even Trevor and thank them for their time and help and money, but explain that this isn’t for me, which it very much isn’t. I can do it cordially. So long as I don’t have to say it to Daniel, the course of action here is clear.

  I take a few slow, deep breaths. I inventory my room’s closet and drawers. There’s more fancy stuff in here than in even Inferno’s very best places, and nearly as much inventory. If the other girls’ closets are all stocked as well, we could put on a fashion show.

  I count shoes. I line them up like soldiers.

  I feel mostly normal by the time I’m done. I could be in a well-appointed hotel, not in this palace of freaks. I find some good old-fashioned paper books in one of the drawers and start reading something with a unicorn on the cover to kill the time.

  I brace myself for dinner, but dinner turns out to be entirely normal — dishes with French names like moules marinières, blanquette de veau, and gigot d’agneau pleureur that I’m entirely too low-brow to appreciate. The meal’s normality is, in itself, odd. Everyone lines up at the tables and eats food. There’s no salacious behavior, no dicks or boobs out, no vibrators or dildos dangling from the ceiling, no parading of our hosts’ and servants’ bodies in front of the room. I don’t talk to Daniel. Trevor makes the rounds, circulating like the groom at a wedding reception.

  I realize, as Kylie said, that I’ve never spoken to him at all. He must realize it too, because he sits across from me as dinner breaks up in an entirely mundane way, as we’re having rather ordinary coffee with ordinary half-and-half and ordinary sweetener, stirred with ordinary silver spoons. We weren’t assigned seats, so I’d been sitting with Erin and Jessica. Kat was two people down, looking at me funny. Blair was across from her and they kept chatting in Russian, and when Blair left, she said in a very businesslike manner, “Kat says she has boyfriend at home. Is acrobat and wears makeup like woman.” I wasn’t sure what to do with this information, so I just said thanks. Friendships here are weird. I guess I’m forming some, but I don’t have a friend here who I haven’t seen with a dick inside her.

  Trevor, across from me, asks me if I’m enjoying my stay.

  Yes, yes. Thank you.

  And then he asks me what I do for a living.

  I’m a voice actor.

  He nods politely then asks a few follow-up questions. No mention is made of my phone sex sideline. Or that, by all rights, he shouldn’t need to ask a single one of these questions. They got the vibrator in my drawer and the Zone bars in my fridge right, so I figure they must know I record audiobooks and do general voice-over wo
rk for a living.

  Or maybe not.

  Because now that I think about it, Daniel seems to run the research part of this operation. He pre-guessed me at every stage. Daniel acts like he knows which color underwear I’ve worn every day for the past ten years and what I’m thinking before I think it. Makes sense that Daniel, not Trevor, would be the one to write my survey and interview questions, the one to stock my room.

  Maybe Trevor is here to get to know us. And sure, he’s fucking us at the same time, but that makes sense for the Eros heir, doesn’t it? Trevor probably grew up in an open sexual environment. I almost laugh thinking about that, because it makes me picture him as a young man, having sex with his parents watching so they can give him tips on doing it better.

  He certainly seems gracious. Nice, even. Definitely, unquestionably hot. Our conversation only lasts a few minutes, but I understand why people keep wanting to do business with this man. In those few minutes, I’m immediately at ease. I formed a few opinions about him those first days, but maybe I’ve been unfair. After all, what might he think of me, if he’s seen all that the cameras have?

  If he’s seen that footage at all, I remind myself, because Daniel implied that he’d erased our encounters. Or kept copies for himself, so he could beat off later.

  It gets me thinking.

  Does Trevor ever watch the tapes? If Daniel is the scientist in all of this — researcher, psychologist, and judge — does Trevor know half of what happens, other than what Daniel passes along?

  Is it all even authorized?

  I think back to my interview. To Daniel’s freaky knowledge. He acts like he’s known me forever, like how stalkers feel they know their oblivious victims. Maybe I am getting special treatment, like Kylie thinks. But it’s not special treatment to envy. It’s obsessive special treatment. And maybe what the rest of these girls went through to get here and are going through while they’re here? Maybe it’s not the same as my experience.

  Trevor smiles. His eyes sparkle. He excuses himself then takes my hand and kisses its back, like something out of a movie.

  I watch him go. I stay in the main area rather than hiding in my room, but there’s only uneventful chatter about anything but the competition, as if the day’s events are taboo or forgotten. I don’t last long, and neither does anyone else. We got a note to visit one of the video confessional booths off the north hallway, so I dutifully put in my time like I’ve seen on countless reality shows. I don’t want to incriminate myself, so I tell the camera about what’s already public record, even though what’s eating me most is what Brandon must be thinking after today’s call, what Jenny might be doing to cross more streams and uncover more secrets. Whether or not I believe and trust Mr. Daniel Rice.

  The not-quite-a-confession confessional session leaves me tired. So I go to sleep. And sleep, like dinner and all that followed, is uneventful too.

  Being here is easier with every passing hour. It’s like being in college, except for the occasional group sex. You can ignore it, like any college party, and go on with your day.

  Breakfast seems uneventful, but then Jessica sits across from me and says, “So what are you going to do?”

  “What do you mean, what am I going to do? Right now, I’m going to eat this danish.” I hold up the danish. At first glance, it’s like any other danish, but the longer you look at it, the longer you realize it’s not. It’s like what happens if you put a normal danish on steroids, give it a pedigree, and charge fifty dollars for it. And when you bite into it, you have many small orgasms at once.

  “Are you really so calm that you can just sit there eating a danish?”

  “What, you think I’ll get too fat for Trevor’s liking?” I take another bite. A big one. “It’s not like I’m planning to … ”

  Everyone’s looking at me.

  And now that I think about it, my entire table has been empty for as long as I’ve been here. There aren’t many spots; it’s one of the mansion’s small rooms. You’d expect a few people to sit just because, but that’s not how it’s happened. I’ve been sitting alone, staring out the window and counting the days until our first big $25K bonus, which this time I’ll actually receive. I’ve been told I put out a vibe, so it’s not strange that nobody came up and said hi, especially here. But the conspicuous lack of company, at my table at all, in this otherwise limited-capacity room, seems strange in retrospect. As did the scurrying way people have grabbed their coffee and left. And how, when I dropped my napkin, Abbie walked right by as if I’d offended her, even though it was right at her feet.

  “What’s going on, Jess?”

  “You have a date,” she says.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Bridget

  From the start, I sort of figured this was a reality TV show. Even after it became apparent that it’s not, I’ve been mentally comparing our situation to a dirty version of The Bachelor. Or rather, The Bachelor with less-inhibited people. Because you know on that show, the girls were constantly hanging on the bachelor’s dong. They just didn’t do it in groups, and the crews were discreet enough not to show it.

  I guess the comparison wasn’t inapt.

  Seeing as the whole point of this thing is supposed to be choosing a bride for the billionaire, it makes sense that he’d slowly get to know us. So far, we’ve been distant but sexual, like a harem. But if a man like Trevor wanted a harem, he could have one. It’s not the sort of thing you interview for. They’d simply pick pretty girls who like to party and don’t mind sharing. If they didn’t come up as having any big venereal diseases, they’d probably pass.

  But a wife? In the traditional arrangement, a man likes to know his wife eventually. Meet her, talk to her, shit like that.

  I have zero interest in marrying Trevor, so I haven’t given that detail attention, but it’s clearly been on the other girls’ minds. I’ve seen it in their indecision. Since nobody is really telling us what to do and what’s good or bad by their definition — what earns us points versus losing them — the ad-hoc harem has been playing it by ear. Trevor runs a sex empire and likes having girls on his dick, so it makes sense to have a lot of sex and climb onto his cock. But it’s all been done halfway — Jess and I have discussed it. The saying goes that a man wants a woman who’s a lady in the parlor and a whore in the bedroom. Since this mansion is like half parlors, pretty much everyone is defaulting to whore in most places, but there’s always the danger of going too far. Of being too loose, too willing. Somewhere deep down, if he’s looking for a wife instead of a mistress, Trevor must want that lady half as well.

  When Jess gave me that explanation yesterday, I laughed at her. Who gives a shit what Trevor wants? Why would she change who she was? Because he’s hot and loaded, duh.

  I know she’s joking. Mostly. But some of these girls are kidding less than others, and I think they’d strangle their own mothers to get their conniving hooks in Trevor’s back.

  So when Jessica pulls me aside and tells me that I really need to start paying attention because everyone else seems to know I’ve been selected for a date with Trevor, I’m not all that surprised. The time was going to come when we’d need to play at affection, and that’s fine so long as he doesn’t expect me to do shit I don’t want to do.

  I am surprised, however, when Jessica tells me that there’s only one date today. Not everyone will have this chance to ooh and aah over our host and generally grovel for his attention. It’s a group date, just like TV taught me to expect.

  One billionaire.

  Three girls.

  And somehow, despite doing my best to be invisible, I’m one of them.

  Kylie walks by me and accidentally spills hot coffee all over me.

  I realize she is, too.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Bridget

  I return to my room to find that someone — probably someone who’s three years old and hasn’t had her nap yet — has put gum in my hairbrush.

  Fucking gum.

  I can tell my
bag has been rifled through. After a day of leaving it out beside the bed, I decided to make a farce of settling it in and shoved it underneath. It’s peeking out just a bit now, flap open, my toothpaste and ChapStick bag open at one end. The toothpaste is still in there. It was absurd, telling us to pack an overnight bag, seeing as how well everything has been stocked. I haven’t touched my toothpaste because there’s a dispenser built into the bathroom backsplash. I tried to open it once to see what kind of toothpaste they’re giving me. I couldn’t, but I’m sure it probably costs ten bucks a brushing and is pooped out by angels.

  But my purse is in the bag, so surely the brush-gummer has pawed through that as well.

  Three guesses who it was.

  I don’t bother trying to pick the gum out of my brush. It is, in fact, my brush — one of the few personal items I brought and decided to use over what Trevor’s establishment has provided — but there’s an even better brush in the vanity. I resent throwing mine away because it feels like the last piece of me in this weird place. But I won’t let Kylie get to me, either.

  The guest room doors all lock automatically. In a sci-fi twist, there’s a biometric sensor in the handle that recognizes the room’s proper occupant and unlocks the door when we grasp the handles. You don’t even need to lay your palm flat on a scanner or give a thumbprint or anything. The goddamned handle does it all, and there’s no pause while a computer pattern-matches you. Basically, if you’re the proper occupant, you’d never know the door is locked. I can’t imagine how much a system like that must cost, and the fact that Trevor’s blown that much instead of using a twenty-dollar key lock is kind of humbling.

  Assuming Kylie did this, someone must have let her in. That makes me more suspicious than I already was, and I find myself mentally running through the possibilities. Maybe Richard, Logan, and Tony have access, but I doubt it. Trevor and Daniel do, but there are all sorts of help and techs we sometimes see scurrying about, trying to stay semi-invisible, including a house manager who’s only discussed in ominous initial caps: The Manager. And really, the cleaning staff would require access as well. Any of them could have let Kylie in — she has pussy enough to fuck her way into just about anyone’s good graces.