Burning Rivalry (Trevor's Harem #2)

by Aubrey Parker

  I want to tell Abbie that I don’t want to win. If anything, I want Jessica to grab the gold. There were times when she and I entertained the idea of me going as far as possible, past that first elimination, back when I might be able to do that without compromised morals and/or severe psychological damage. I’d stick around, so would Jessica and Erin. The three amigas, trying to go as far as we could. If it came down to me versus Jessica, I’d throw the contest and let her win, still walking away with enough money to solve any problem.

  But I can’t do that.

  In the past week or so, my social standing has taken a nosedive. I usually don’t care if people like me, but in this mansion and this close-knit group, disapproval is toxic. I can’t avoid Kylie, or confront her. I can’t stay away from Ivy’s judgment or that odd look Kat has given me since the day I called her Boris. I’m forced to interact with all of them again and again. They’ve settled into a rhythm, making the rounds and riding the guys. I’ve done none of it. And yet Trevor keeps coming to me, wanting to talk. I find him cute, despite what I know. Maybe he just wants to fuck me — the one girl he hasn’t had.

  Without Daniel as a counterbalance, mansion life has been hard.

  I miss him, but won’t let myself talk to him. We’ll go further if we do. And then what Logan warned me against will happen. I’m not sure what “losing everything” means, but I get a seriously creepy vibe from the ultra-wealthy. People talk like corporations control the world, and they do. Daniel is a glorified assistant. Maybe, at best, a high-ranking executive, second only to Trevor and the Eros board. But it doesn’t matter. They’ll smash him if they have to, if Logan is to be believed.

  There are times when I doubt Logan’s word. I justify rash action, rationalize it away. He’s being melodramatic. It can’t be that bad. And if Daniel loses his livelihood, is that so terrible if love is the reward?

  But then I realize that what we have meets none of my usual definitions of love. He’s unlike anyone I’ve ever met. He’s hot and cold. He claims then ignores me, desires then avoids me. He protects me, says I’m his, meant for no other.

  I don’t know that it’s fair, asking him to jeopardize everything for me.

  So I keep my distance.

  In gatherings and on dates, he keeps trying to get close. He’s cornered me a few times, asking what’s wrong. I tell him it’s nothing. I’m following the rules, trying to keep both of us from getting in trouble, to earn what I have coming so I can get out of this funhouse and go home.

  Stay, he says. I want you to stay.

  But I can’t. Even if I wanted to. Brandon must be losing his mind. Everyone I know must be on the border between curious and worried, constantly slanting more toward the latter. Brandon probably told those who cared about our Skype call.

  Bridget said she was on vacation. But she seemed so strange.

  I could call him again. I could answer my email, if someone would let me. But I can’t delay the inevitable. This place is like a bad dream. The longer I stay, the more I’m postponing my life. The longer I stay, the more danger I’m in. My mind. My self-esteem. Even my body, because Daniel was right: I’m being conditioned. It’s no longer strange, the way people dogpile around here, all flesh and fluid and moans. Maybe the day will come when I say what the hell. Might as well join in.

  The way Kylie’s been treating me, it’s like water torture. I wish she’d take whatever shot she’s clearly contemplating and get it over with. The anticipation is so much worse than whatever she could have planned. She keeps watching me, day after date after conversation. Trevor favors me now in a way Daniel seems to have given up on, and that makes Kylie circle like a vulture, never striking, always smiling, waiting like a trap.

  I start to wonder if I should out her.

  Because, I mean, she’s a fucking spy.

  Not in the James Bond sense, I’m sure. More like she’d be great at industrial espionage. She’s great at figuring things out, and seems to have facility with computers. She can trick people into doing things she wants them to do, while her victims think they’re choosing for themselves. Like when I slapped her and nearly got myself kicked out, because she wanted me to hit her. Or like how, apparently, she got Daniel to choose her for this competition of his own free will, after she’d arranged it all. At least according to Logan.

  He said that Daniel needed someone like her. Someone with her profile. Which tells me that for whatever reason, this competition required a spy, or a girl who’d make a good one. Kind of hanged themselves by their own rope.

  I watch her as she prowls the room, so sure she’ll win it all. If she can trick people, she can trick her way to the finish line. Walk away with millions, then turn around and do whatever it is she’s been sent here to do by GameStorming.

  Maybe I could say something. Maybe I should.

  But I can’t shake the feeling that I’d better let Kylie strike first. She’s brewing something, and if I’m going to blow her cover as a spy for Caspian White, I’d better save it for when I really need it.

  Ivy doesn’t like me, and never has.

  Kat either. She doesn’t say anything, but she has that look. And it was Kat, on that first date, who pulled the rope and dragged me to the cliff’s top. Surely, she saw Daniel. Maybe she has a superpower, too. Maybe she knew what was happening and threw me into a very pleasurable trap.

  Thinking this makes me miss Daniel, yearn for the feel of him inside me. But more and more, it makes me long for his protection. I never noticed, until it was gone. I felt safe when this started. Now I feel a vague sense of danger that never, ever leaves.

  Jessica says I’m being ridiculous. So does Erin.

  But I don’t want to be at dinner. It’s like everyone knows about me and Daniel, and they eye me like a pariah: the girl who tried to seduce the decision maker to gain an advantage; the girl who got caught, on video, with her legs open. Maybe that video has made the rounds. Maybe, given what I’ve seen of Kylie so far, she not only kept copies Logan was certain didn’t exist, but sent them first class to my family and friends.

  I don’t want to do the challenges, the tests, or the incessant group dates. We do a few one-on-ones, about half of the girls so far spending two or three hours alone with Trevor. I’ve had mine already. We just walked. It was the worst date ever — though Trevor, to his credit, didn’t push me.

  I want these last days to be over so I can finally go home. I’m not sad or fearful. I’m just sort of numb.

  Then on the day before my last, Trevor (and Daniel, avoiding my gaze) enter the dining room as breakfast is finishing up. They announce that since the first elimination is coming tomorrow, we’ll be doing a final, fun challenge today.

  Daniel explains that Trevor’s wife, in addition to being beautiful and sexy and clever and funny and interesting, must also have some business savvy.

  So for this challenge, eleven of us will watch a presentation by the twelfth, wherein the potential bride will browse the Eros catalog, choose a product line, ideally one of the toys, and give us a sexy presentation focusing on one solid idea for increasing exposure and revenue.

  In order to do the challenge, of course, the selected girl will need access to the computers, and Eros’s intranet.

  The name is chosen, literally, from a hat. It’s drawn by a cute twenty-something Single-Serving Helper we’ve never seen, but who keeps glancing at my enemies and smiling nervously as if sharing a secret.

  The name is drawn, and I’m not surprised by who will be digging into the computers, and the Eros intranet — which surely has all sorts of security, that a good spy might pop wide open.

  Kylie.

  So I finally say it. In front of the dining room, I stand up and blurt it as Kylie is rising, walking to receive her connected laptop. Because fuck it. Maybe she’s given up on getting me back and maybe she hasn’t, but even if it means blowing my ace, I can’t let her win this way.

  “She’s only here because of Caspian White!”

 
In front of the room, Trevor looks at Daniel. Daniel looks at Trevor. Then Daniel looks at me, and it’s like I’ve reached into his chest and squeezed his heart in my fist.

  He looks beaten. Maybe betrayed.

  Carefully, Trevor says, “How did you know about that, Bridget?”

  Instead of seeming guilty, Kylie looks right at me.

  Trevor and Daniel erupt into an argument.

  Everyone turns and stares right at me.

  Then Kylie smiles and blows me a sarcastic kiss.

  Gotcha, Bridget.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Bridget

  The way Trevor’s and Daniel’s voices both raise, with words like “blab” and “confidential,” I’m immediately sure that it’s me, not Kylie, who’s found herself in trouble. Nobody — not Daniel, who was supposedly duped into letting the wolf into the hen house; not Trevor, whose company and fortune are at risk for as long as the spy has access; not the aides and God knows who else streaming out from everywhere once the commotion starts — is looking at Kylie. I don’t think I seriously expected this to turn into an FBI bust with troops rappelling through the broken windows aiming red laser sights and throwing tear gas, but it’s clearly the opposite. It’s arguments and finger pointing, raised voices and shaken fistfuls of paperwork. Everyone seems angry at everyone else. The newcomers are mad at both host and right-hand man; Trevor is angry at Daniel; Daniel is seething at Trevor; by the looks of things, every girl in this room has a big fucking problem with me. But Kylie is an eye in the storm, zero ire pointed toward her, watching me with a satisfied smirk.

  “Bridget!” Daniel shouts, turning, pushing away those who have run in and are suddenly so furious. He turns to me, and I see him through waving arms and loud voices. Trevor grabs his lapels and shouts something at him. And Daniel, unheeding, wrenches away.

  I run. Daniel repeats my name, twice, but I ignore him. I slam into Kat, who glares at me. I collide with Roxy, who gives me a look of insane approval that I frankly don’t want from her. I won’t look at Kylie. I’m running exactly opposite her, and the little raised platform where the boys sit like kings. I’m stopped by a chest in a suit, but it’s more slight than the suit-clad chest I know so well.

  It’s Logan, and he isn’t stopping me, just standing between me and the door.

  “Bridget?” It’s like he doesn’t know what’s happened.

  “Who told you?” I demand, turning on him, seeing my vision blur with a storm of emotion. “Who told you Kylie was a spy for GameStorming?”

  “I … ”

  “Who was it?” I scream in his face.

  But he’s blubbering. Baffled. Not by my question, but by everything. I shove him. He’s not the biggest of the guys, but he’s bigger than me. My anger gives me leverage, though, and Logan stumbles back, crashing into a table full of buffet plates and silverware, his lapels rumpled.

  “Bridget, what are you … ”

  I don’t hear the rest. I don’t want to hear the rest. Because he’s a fucking idiot. As much as I’ve been played, he was played first. I can imagine him flat on his back with Kylie naked atop him, confessing secrets that aren’t confessions at all.

  I feel so bad about Daniel. I didn’t mean to get him in trouble, by coming here.

  What?

  Oh, I shouldn’t say. But by the way, I fucked Caspian White.

  Maybe in different words. Surely more subtle. But men are stupid, stupid, motherfucking stupid when seconds from popping, with a talented pussy slobbering them up. Almost as stupid as certain girls are, to do things they know better than to do and get involved with the wrong men, in fact.

  Of course she’s not some sort of a spy for GameStorming. She used Logan to get me saying exactly the wrong thing in front of everyone.

  I know the name Caspian White, of course. Everyone does. But for some unknown reason — unknown to me, but apparently not to Kylie — that man’s name is a powder keg here. It’s like I’ve walked into a room full of Jews and innocently shouted something about Hitler.

  Well, fuck this.

  Fuck it all. Fuck waiting for elimination; fuck spending another goddamned second in this vile henhouse.

  We’ve already been told that our bonuses from the end of last week were held in some sort of escrow, and ours to keep no matter what. Last time, Kylie tricked me into breaking the rules before our dispersions were made, but this time she’s tricked me into blabbing sensitive information after all but the last day’s payments hit our private accounts. By my count, I’ve got over a hundred grand waiting for me already. I was going to be eliminated tomorrow and would have liked to receive that one last $10K, plus the weekend bonus before it happened, but I can live without it.

  I’m outta here. Fuck everyone. Fuck this place, these people, everything that’s happened. Fuck Trevor for his obnoxious, presumptuous, sexist gall in arranging something like this freak show. Fuck Daniel for the games he’s been playing all along, for making me believe that he cared. And fuck me most of all. Fuck me for buying into it, for being coddled and manipulated, for being weak, for exposing myself just to try and save Daniel’s stupid fucking neck. We were through. By the rules, we had to be through. I didn’t need to stand up and shout about Kylie’s supposed illicit connection — a connection that it’s now obvious she doesn’t actually have. I’m sure, as conniving as she is, that her way is clear. I doubt GameStorming is even the rival Logan thinks it is; that’s probably more bullshit Kylie tricked him into thinking he figured out for himself. And I’m sure that Kylie’s never met him. The man is a recluse. How could she have?

  I put my hand on my door handle, with a feeling of premonition.

  Kylie’s covered her tracks, and part of my mind is already putting together the corresponding fact that, for full effect, she’d obviously also want to …

  I open the door.

  There are papers all over my room. Stuff I’ve never seen. Open manila folders, their eight-by-eleven guts spewed all over the bedspread, the counter, the floor.

  Ivy arrives first, shoving her tiny little body with her jet-black hair and big brown eyes into the doorway beside me. I’ve gained an entourage, probably because Daniel and Trevor took off after me, and the rest followed, eager to see the show.

  Ivy laughs.

  Ruby, the willowy redhead, steps into the entrance beside me. She doesn’t shove through like Ivy did. She just takes everything in. It looks like an office exploded in here. Then, when I sort of stumble two steps forward, Ruby comes the rest of the way, looking around, milling like a bystander at the scene of an accident.

  She picks up one of the papers as Daniel arrives. He doesn’t pass me, though. He stops at my side, and I feel him take my hand and squeeze it.

  Ruby looks up from the paper and says, “He’s coming here? Caspian White is coming here?”

  I can feel Trevor Stone somewhere behind us.

  I can feel the cameras, and the eyes of whoever’s behind them.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Bridget

  Daniel sets down the paper, taken from the pile on my floor, and turns to me. “She must really hate you.”

  We’re alone. The door is closed, and Daniel keeps telling me he has authority to kill the cameras. I’m standing with my arms crossed, staring out the window. There’s nothing out there I want to see, but I don’t know what else to do. I can’t face Daniel; I’m too conflicted between what I meant to do, what I did, what I’ve been framed to seem like I’ve done, and what I might actually have done wrong, beyond the rules I’ve already broken.

  But his words make me turn.

  “Who?”

  I know just fine who hates me. But I want to see if I’m the only one here who knows the truth — if, that is, there’s an objective truth still out there. Because I’ve been in this mansion, around these people, for two weeks now, and I’m less objective than I once was. My sense of reality is so skewed, someone could probably convince me right now that I’m a spy, that I snooped
to figure out what was apparently a different secret than Logan had led me to believe. You could tell me up was down, that black was white. You could tell me that I wanted to be here, and that being with Daniel wasn’t a horrible mistake. Those are the kinds of lies I might honestly believe.

  “Kylie.”

  Maybe I’m not crazy after all.

  “I’m sorry, Bridget.”

  “For what?”

  Daniel holds up one of the papers. “I can see right through all of this, but only because I know you.”

  I know this is a tangent and that he’s about to explain his odd apology, but I can’t stop myself from jumping in.

  “What does that mean, you know me? You keep acting like you’ve known me forever, but you never tell me what the hell you mean by any of it.” My words come out sounding angry. I suppose I still am.

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Because you studied me? Because you stalked me, dug through my email, maybe broke into my apartment?” I keep thinking of the way they matched the contents of my end table and fridge. It’s three items, really: some bars, the book I’d been reading, and, embarrassingly, a rather effective vibrator. But they’re both highly personal — the sort of things it should offend me for another to have found, and does.

  “Not this time.”

  I shake my head, closing the distance between us. I don’t uncross my arms. “What the fuck is with you, Daniel? Why don’t you just say what you mean?”

  I think he’ll evade me again, and in the end, he does. But he meets my eyes for a pregnant moment first, and I see something almost crumble, letting me in. Almost.

  “Ironically, it’s the lack of a formal profile, on you as a contestant, that makes it clear just what’s happened here. To me, anyway.”

  “Why?”

  He shakes the paper again. “It’s too on the nose. Looking through all of this, you look like a pro. Someone who really planned this out. A devious bitch who, by her own thoroughness, couldn’t help but put her own head into the noose before — ”