Burning Rivalry (Trevor's Harem #2)

by Aubrey Parker

  I watch her confessionals, simultaneously dreading some horrid admission as much as I’m eagerly anticipating the exact same thing. I’m my own test subject, torturing myself by waiting for Bridget to tell the camera she fucked this person, wants this other person. But she never does. Instead, I hear the most mundane things — all she’ll admit to the camera. Nothing about me; nothing about what she suspects. So mostly I hear about her friends and enemies.

  She’s convinced Kylie is angry at her anew, and of course she is.

  From Kylie’s confessions, I know that Kylie thinks the rock climbing date was deliberately chosen to favor Bridget and punish her. Which, again, is totally true.

  Like how Bridget thinks someone broke into her room.

  In front of me, in the control room, three of the screens — the feeds from Bridget’s bedroom — flick off. It’s two minutes before 2 p.m.

  Two minutes later, at exactly 2 p.m., I know something breathtaking is happening in that room, but I can’t see or hear it.

  My cock is so hard, I can barely take it.

  So I sit there, anxious, knowing I must be patient and that good things come to those who wait.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Bridget

  I look up. At the room’s corners. At the furniture. At the floor.

  I’ve never been good at trusting people. I trust Brandon, whom I’ve sort of betrayed by default after killing our Skype call and being unable to see my email. But Brandon is about it.

  I remove the small package from behind the bed. Inside is an iPod Touch and a small tripod. It takes a moment before I figure out how to make one hold the other and adjust the legs, but then I’ve got the camera up on the dresser near the bed, pointing at me.

  I can almost hear Daniel’s voice in my ear. Just thinking about it makes me wet. He handed me the package, then brushed my hair aside to whisper before darting away, presumably to take a back route and return to the mansion before I did with the others.

  At 2 p.m. every day. Five minutes only. Leave me your confession.

  Looking down. Seeing the camera and tripod he’d given me in that little bag, knowing what he meant. Knowing he’d intended it from the start, because he had it with him. Knowing this was all planned, and recalling something else he’d said, about how our brains make free will an illusion.

  I look at the iPod now, in camera mode, sitting on its tripod before me.

  I start recording. There’s a tiny display in the corner showing the time. I watch it click from 2:00 to 2:01. He said, “Five minutes only,” so I assume that means that at 2:05, whatever camera and microphone blackout he’s given me will end. I have four minutes left. I look around before starting, forced to trust that for the moment I’m not being watched or heard.

  This is an absurdity to take on faith. What if he was lying? He’s done it before; he’s admitted he didn’t used to like me in some unknown past that may only exist in a psychotic mind. Or what if he wasn’t lying, but something went wrong? Trevor doesn’t strike me as stupid. What if he knows something is going down, and has set up a backup?

  I look at the camera.

  “It’s Tuesday, 2 p.m. And this is my first video confession.”

  In the big room, my voice sounds strangely naked. I feel weird talking out loud when no one is here, and weirder jeopardizing all I’ve come here for in such an obvious, documentable way. I know better than this. I should stop.

  Instead, I take off my shirt. I unhook my bra and slide it down my arms, dropping it onto the floor. I lie sideways on the bed and say, “Yesterday, Daniel fucked me. He’s been treating me like a son of a bitch, but he made me come twice.”

  The words give me an unexpected stir of excitement. Being topless, even in my own room, gives me a thrill. My nipples are hard. My hand idly brushes them, kneading my breast. Pretending it’s Daniel’s hand.

  Tell the camera all the filthy fucking things we do together. Tell me all the filthy fucking things you want to do to me, or that you want me to do to you.

  We’ve had phone sex, but this is different. Phone sex is funny to me. I say the most absurd things I can think of, and guys get off. They pay me. It’s harmless. Shit, it’s practically a good deed. The only time it wasn’t funny was with Daniel, when he called me as a made-up man named Alexander. That time, if felt fantastic instead of hilarious, and I found my genuine self melding with Elle, my sexy alter-ego. But I had a partner then, and the camera isn’t talking back, helping me along.

  So I think of Daniel saying I’m his. That it’s his job to fuck me and make me come. That if Trevor touched me again, he’d break his arm. I’ve heard that sort of thing said before, but Trevor, unlike the other threatened parties, was touching me gently. Daniel’s intense jealousy makes the difference.

  “I keep thinking about it. I keep thinking of Daniel’s hard cock in my pussy.”

  I lie back. The rest of my clothing comes off, and I’m nude on the bedspread. One hand goes to where I’m wanting Daniel’s. The other goes to my mouth, licking a finger, pretending it’s his. Daniel’s throbbing cock.

  Make me come. Make me come with your confession.

  I spread myself open. Show the camera my wetness. I’ve never done anything like this, but holy fuck is it turning me on. Thinking of him watching this. Being so exposed, so bare. Thinking he’ll see all I’m doing later, gripping his shaft and wanting nothing more than to shove it inside me.

  “He touches me here.” I roll my finger across my clit and shiver. “And he fucks me like this.” I slide two fingers inside. Rubbing my breasts with my other hand. I’m playacting, but not really. Saying the words is impossibly hot. Imagining him hearing them is so much hotter.

  “He makes me come. Like this.”

  I don’t even do anything. I barely move. But my fingers are still in my pussy and my thumb is resting on my clit, and I’ve closed my eyes and I can picture it, him above me, holding his thickness by the root, tip glistening. I imagine the way his legs part my thighs. How he aims his cock at my opening, guiding it in. And I come just like that, all at once, shouting his name.

  I give myself fifteen or so seconds to ride the wave, then sit up. Because fuck, I just shouted, “Daniel,” and by the rules of this thing for both of us, Daniel is the one thing I can’t have.

  I snatch the Touch from the dresser and turn it off. But before I do, I can’t resist training its eye between my legs, showing Daniel how wet he’s made me. The display ticks to 2:05 p.m.

  I shove it out of sight. Then, knowing I’m breaking my own modesty rules if the cameras have come back on, I lie on the bedspread naked with my legs open and do it again.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Bridget

  At the end of the first week, Trevor gathers us in the front hall to congratulate us on reaching our second milestone. The first was the one I forfeited after slapping Kylie, but this one I intend to keep.

  That’s twenty-five grand, held for us, available when we leave, are eliminated, or have reason to request it. Added to the ten-grand per day, minus my penalty, my total is now $45,000. Not bad for seven days’ work.

  I haven’t heard from Jenny, but that isn’t surprising considering that this place has an email embargo. I haven’t heard from Brandon either, but with him especially, no news is good news. It’s possible Jenny has continued to scream in his ear and said too much, and it’s similarly possible that Brandon has rushed into hero mode, flying across the digital country with his cape, bearing wire transfers and vengeance. I really hope not. Because unless someone comes up with a hell of a lot more money than even Brandon can afford right now, an influx of cash on Linda’s behalf will only arouse suspicion and make everything worse. And if Brandon goes to Miami, he might end up dead.

  Whether it’s wise or not, I’m coming to believe and trust Daniel. It’s been another few days, and things have been on an even, if guarded, keel. Each day, I record him a dirty little missive and leave the iPod behind the bed, and every day he retrieves i
t when I’m done and gone. We don’t get much time to talk without eyes on us, but when we do, I get an earful — enough to fire me up for my next five-minute show. But it’s not all sexy talk. He also tells me that he’s been watching my email, keeping the fires from burning. Answering as me, as best he can. I originally resented Daniel’s intrusion into my business, but I appreciate it now. Officially, we’re allowed no contact with the outside world. Daniel, so long as I trust that he’s telling the truth, is my secret lifeline.

  And I do. For whatever reason, I trust him.

  Kylie has been too quiet. After our return from the rock-climbing trip, I got daggers for a full day. She cornered me once — literally with me in a corner and her with an arm on either side. I know you set that up to make me look stupid. You can climb. Kat can climb. And now I’m a joke. I thought I’d get some angry retribution. Especially since I was a good girl, denying her accusation but refraining from pushing her the fuck out of my way. But things died down after that. She powwows with Ivy and Roxy, and the shifting matrix of this place means that any of a half-dozen others might be on Team Kylie in league against me. I get a lot of angry looks and snide little comments, but she’s a weak queen. She can only snipe from her high tower, pretending she still has status and power that she never truly possessed.

  There was a new date the next day, this one with six girls.

  And the day after that, there was a six-girl date again, encompassing the three who hadn’t yet been taken and three more: Blair and Ruby from the second group date, plus me. We learned to dance. It was something I’d never done, but like the rock climbing, I suspect the goal wasn’t to teach us, but to observe how we worked together to learn.

  Trevor danced with me most of the time. It’s not that I was the best, suitable for demonstration, or the worst, in need of the most help. Blair was best; Malory was worst. I was somewhere in the middle, and Trevor chose me for every instructional. He sat beside when we broke, telling me about his aunt, who enjoys fishing, and his nephew, who’s a wizard at video games.

  I don’t know what to make of Trevor. I know he’s having sex with the girls, just as Tony and Logan and Richard continue satisfying everyone’s needs (mostly Roxy’s). But when we talk, that’s hard to believe. So one day when we’re all lounging at the mansion, I ask him. I figure that if I’m still here, I must not be that reprehensible as a contestant. I can take this risk.

  “Why is there such a heavy focus on sex here, Trevor?” I ask.

  “Because sex is our most base need, our oldest drive that isn’t strictly based on immediate survival. It’s how our species thrives.”

  “This isn’t about propagating the species, I don’t think,” I say, looking at Roxy. She’s fully committed to the slut angle. She can’t keep her fingers out of herself or her hands off anyone else. She’s even tried grabbing my boobs, then licked her lips when I shook my head and asked her what the hell was wrong with her.

  “Of course not. Here, it’s about fun.”

  “But if you’re looking for a wife … ”

  “Traditional definitions are shackles, Bridget. I’m looking for someone to be with.”

  The answer strikes me as unduly earnest. Vulnerable, even. And yet Trevor Stone doesn’t strike me as someone who needs this. He’s young, hot, rich, and charming as fuck. Every girl here fell in love with him the minute he opened his mouth.

  “But the sex … ” I still can’t square it. For one, it’s so very Caligula. Unnecessarily hedonistic, a step too far. But beyond that, in my world, sex with everyone at all times doesn’t mesh with life companion.

  “It’s not the sex,” he says. “It’s the fact that sex tells us who we are.”

  There’s a sound from above — a refined throat clearing. I look up and see Kylie chewing her lip, staring down at me like I’m covered in trash. Which, come to think of it, is probably how the rest of the world seems to Queen Bitch.

  “Trevor,” she says, her voice saccharine, eyes still hard and on me, “come talk to us.”

  Trevor smiles graciously at Kylie and half rises. But before going, he says quietly to me, “I’ll stop, if the sex bothers you.”

  I’m sure I’ve heard him wrong. “For me?”

  “Not for you. But because out of everyone here, I’d trust your judgment most. And I’m not arrogant enough to never question the way I think things should be.”

  He seems to be waiting for an answer, but Kylie gives him a playful tug, and he leaves without another word. She looks back at me, a victorious smirk on her lips. But it’s a thin expression. We both know whom Trevor sat with on his own, and who had to drag him away.

  After Trevor is gone, I sit for a while, staring out at the mountains and wondering what I’m doing. I’m happy over what just happened, because I may have just received my first straight answer. I’m not sure why Trevor, who was raised surrounded by sex like most people are surrounded by bike rides and swim parties, would suggest that he’d stop simply because I wondered. Or why he sits with me at all. Why, despite the fact that I’m merely trying to get thorough the first two weeks, I’m doing better than I have any right to do.

  And that makes me wonder what I really am doing.

  What’s the future here? I’ve always lived by my wits, but I’ve also always seen the big picture. I’m wired to consider the long term. Logan and even Trevor have both hinted that the intensity ramps up big-time after the first elimination, and I get the impression that what I’ve thus far dodged won’t be avoidable later. I’ve always known that’s as far as I’d go.

  But is it right? I could make so much more money. I could keep being with Daniel, recording my filthy little videos, waiting for another opportunity to be with him. I’d swear there’s something between us, beyond the physical. He thinks we have history, though we’ve barely met. Maybe, in a twisted way, that’s worth sticking around.

  I look at Daniel, across the room, talking to Ivy. She touches his arm, and I feel a flare of … jealousy? But who the hell is Daniel, really, to me? Other than a temporary good time, what does it matter?

  Daniel’s warnings come rushing back.

  I’m in over my head.

  I wasn’t meant for this. It’s a mistake to be here.

  His words on the cliff are the worst of all: ominous like rolling fog. I don’t know what any of it means, but it didn’t leave me warm and fuzzy. Hot and bothered, sure. But I’m smarter than that.

  I can make it another week. Things back home, with Jenny, Linda, and even Brandon, seem to be handled for at least that long. My other attachments are casual, and if they’re emailing me, I’m sure Daniel is answering them as well. Maybe he’s slipping out of my character and into his. Telling my friends that he’ll return me when he’s good and ready, because he owns me.

  But I can’t postpone my life forever. I can’t keep lying to everyone, simply to hold onto something hot and torrid, but something that will, no matter the outcome, end badly.

  Kylie is all over Trevor. Leaning into him. Putting her hand on his chest. Smiling. And he’s smiling back. For some reason, I want to save him from her, as nice as he seems beneath it all. I just hope that’s what it is, and that I’m not somehow falling for Trevor Stone, too.

  A hand touches my shoulder. I look up. It’s Logan, with his sexy blue eyes and sinister smile.

  “Come with me.”

  I give him a pressed-lip smile. “No thanks, Logan.”

  He shakes his head. “It’s not like that. This is about you and Daniel.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Bridget

  “I know,” Logan says.

  He’s dragged me all the way through the house. Into the kitchen. To the southwest corner of the otherwise empty kitchen, which I remember is one of the surveillance blind spots. I’ve been stumbling behind him, his last words dancing through my head.

  This is about you and Daniel.

  Who else knows? My heart is thudding in my ears and making me dizzy. My circumstances aren
’t as dire as they were when I learned about Linda’s latest accident, but I’ve grown used to the idea that I’ve earned enough for a down payment for my new studio. I have enough industry connections to make a serious go of a producing company, and once I make that work, money becomes easier to make across the board. A year or two from now, it’s possible I’d be able to entertain the Linda solution Jenny once offered, as ridiculous and beyond possibility as it seemed at the time.

  But if Logan knows? Then it’s only a matter of time before it’s all over.

  “What do you know?” I say, trying to appear oblivious.

  “I know that you’re hooking up with Daniel.”

  “That’s ridiculous!”

  “On that first group date, you had sex with him, and we all know that’s forbidden. Up on the cliff.”

  “Did Kylie tell you that? She’s such a fucking bi — ”

  “You told me. In a video.”

  I freeze in place. I can’t feel my lips.

  “I’m not a bad guy, Bridget. I promise I’m not, even though everyone knows I’m the one you go to when you want your hair pulled, your throat choked. You’ve kept to yourself, and I can’t help but respect you for it. Some of the people here, they act like this is a place of freedom from inhibition, where you can do whatever you want. But you’re doing the one thing that’s hardest to do. To stay out of it all. So I don’t mean to disrespect you. You want your privacy. You’ve never, so far as I’ve seen, taken off a stitch of clothing in public. But I need you to believe that I know, so yes, I saw the video. I can recite a few of your lines to the camera. To Daniel.” He sighs. “I’m sorry.”

  I’ve forgotten how to speak. I’m beyond mortified. Beyond humiliated. Not only has Logan and God knows who else seen the private confessionals I’ve recorded for Daniel, but I’m also about to be busted. If it’s not bad enough to know there’s unauthorized sex videos of me out there, I’m also about to lose my dream studio. My dream life, given time.