Gagged (20 page)

I don’t need his armchair analysis. He might feel he knows me, but I’ve known me all my life. It’s obvious that by breaking every privacy promise made by both GameStorming and LiveLyfe, he feels like he has my number. But just because I’m human — I have moments of weakness like anyone — doesn’t mean I
am
this person he thinks I am. I’ve spent twenty-three years being me. Maybe I’m still a virgin and maybe I have issues around sex thanks to my parents, but that doesn’t mean I’m some sort of a fiend. It’s not about polarity. I don’t have to be on one end of the spectrum — total prude or absolute slut. I can live in the middle. I can be a good daughter and a good friend and someday, maybe someone’s long-term girlfriend, if I can get past the worst of my issues. I can admit a few of my proclivities while not acting out on every one. I can be a reputable student with a respectable future without being a hedonist. I can break through some of my old shit without turning into Caspian’s whore.
 

I’m thinking this when I get home, open the door, and almost crash into Jasmine. She’s fiddling with her digital recorder, looking down, and doesn’t see me until we practically collide. Then she looks up and meets my eyes for a fractional second. Then she looks down again and half turns, still fiddling.

“Oh. Hey.”
 

“Jasmine, we should — ”

“I could still write an article about what he said, couldn’t I? About LiveLyfe and the whole privacy thing?”
 

I guess we’re talking about this now. At least it beats the silence.
 

“I don’t know. Maybe?”
 

She’s pressing buttons. Frenetic. Then she throws the thing across the room.
 

“Of course I can’t. Goddammit. There should be a trash. Why isn’t there a trash on that thing?” She looks to where the recorder landed, safe on the couch. “I’ve been screwing with it for a half hour. Looked up the manual online. But no. There’s no trash. Delete a file once, and it’s gone, no second chances.”
 

I’m about to reply, but she slumps down into a chair, her posture defeated.
 

“Why did you let me delete it, Aurora? I can’t print those things without proof. He’ll sue the hell out of me for libel.” She swipes at her eyes, frustrated.
 

“Me?”
 

“Yes, you!”
 

“You
deleted it, Jasmine! Not me!”
 

“Well, you’re supposed to be the sensible one!”
 

I look down at her. She’s still looking away. Anything I say now will make things worse.
 

“Jas, we should talk.”
 

“No. No, fuck that. I don’t want to talk.”
 

“You’re my best friend.”

“Well, that’s great. And I don’t want to talk to you.”

That hurts. I watch her, willing her to look back up at me. If she does, I’m pretty sure I’ll see wounded eyes rather than angry ones. I’m sure there’s a tempest inside, her odds and ends as tumbled as mine. She’s choosing to be mad about the deleted recording — her journalistic integrity bought for fifty grand — rather than face what’s really bothering her. Our reality has been turned end for end. We’ve finally found something able to unsettle even the unflappable Jasmine.

“I love you, Jas.”
 

“Hmm. Apparently I
‘love’
you, too.” She says it like an acid burn.

“I’m sorry I didn’t stop you from deleting it. I tried.”
 

Now I see her eyes. I get the full blast of green irises, her anger in full bloom.
 

“Oh. You
tried
. Well, that makes it okay, then.”

I consider telling her that she was there, too. That I shouldn’t be held responsible for stopping her. She leaped on Caspian’s offer. On
both
of his offers, with their mixed consequences. Instead I say nothing, feeling more sad than angry, not wanting to make things worse.
 

Finally, when she looks away, I say, “Let’s go out tonight. Just you and me.”
 

I almost think she’s agreeing, as she nods. But then she says, “Sure. I’ll pay. After all, I’m sitting on fifty thousand dollars.”
 

We lock eyes for a long moment.
 

Then she stands, storms into her room, and slams the door.

I sit on the couch in our quiet living room. I pick up the digital audio recorder, poke around its menus, and find that Jasmine was right: There’s no trash folder holding the audio of Caspian indicting himself — the file was deleted forever the minute she erased it. Then I set the thing on the coffee table, hearing Jasmine stir in her room, my chest tight.
 

Even Jasmine’s small noises strike me as angry. She hates me right now, and it isn’t fair. She deleted the file; she sold her integrity; she allowed herself to be purchased as
Caspian’s turn
in whatever wager this is. Maybe she wanted James’s dick up her butt, but the way it happened changed everything. She was bought and sold like I was, and even though I’m not the bad girl here, the only way Jasmine seems able to deal with her guilt and regret is to lay the blame on me. The best thing I can do for her is to let her hate me so she can protect her tender core, knowing she’ll eventually realize I’m not the enemy. But I don’t want to, and I don’t want this schism between us, and I don’t want her to hate me. I hate myself enough right now.
 

I wonder if Caspian is right.
 

Maybe we are all animals. Maybe our sensible, evolved society can be cracked like a walnut when the right buttons are pushed or the right body parts are stimulated. Maybe it really is all a collective farce. I like to think I have integrity, but my actions over the past two days say otherwise, and so do Jasmine’s.
 

Maybe we’re only civilized as long as we choose to be.
 

Maybe I’m not a good person. Maybe none of us are.
 

My phone buzzes. A text from another San Francisco extension that says,
Knock knock.
 

I grip the phone. I want to crush it with my delicate little hands. With my thin, weak hands. With my impotent, powerless hands. With the hands of someone who’s only a pawn, able to be bought and sold.

No.
Caspian is not right.
 

I’m a good person. I have integrity, even if it turns out I’m more suggestible and corruptible than I previously thought. And Jasmine is a good person. And those kids, who Caspian agreed in his jaded way to serve as long as I continue to debase myself, are good people with bright futures. They don’t need merely to be schooled in the broken nature of humanity. That money can be turned to good, and show them the light.

I’m suddenly sure Caspian’s wager was meant in earnest. He’ll humiliate me at every opportunity — but he keeps saying it’s my move, and that means it’s my chance to turn the tables.

The phone buzzes again, a reminder of the last message:
Knock knock
.
 

And then there’s a knock at the door, for real.
 

I get up. I open it. And there on my stoop is the media’s golden boy in his dark suit, his hair perfectly in place. Holding another of those big white bouquets.

“I figured your turn would require chivalry, of me” he says, handing me the flowers, “but I’m not helping you anymore, and the rest of this date is up to you.”
 

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

A
URORA

I
CAN
TELL
C
ASPIAN
IS
uncomfortable. That’s why I’m here. He started this whole “wager” thing, and he even started this, right now, for my turn. But despite some perverse desire to see this through, he’s clearly uneasy with me at the helm, clearly not liking how I’ve decided to make my half of the argument.
 

Yesterday, he was in charge. We were on his home turf, and he got to steer. He thinks he has me pegged. He thinks I’m this cute little goody two-shoes, and if I had to sum up his intentions, I’d say they’re to corrupt me. Nobody expects the good girl to spread her legs in front of strangers and let her best friend lick her pussy. So, okay, that’s advantage Caspian.
 

But now it’s my turn.
 

And because I’m apparently a goody two-shoes, he figures I’ll want flowers. So I take them and arrange the stems in a vase, aware of how it’ll look when Jasmine comes out and sees all-white flowers on our dining room table but well beyond caring. I tell him I’m driving the Bentley, then take us back to his building and order him upstairs while I wait in the car.
 

“Run upstairs for what?”
 

“To change,” I say.
 

When he comes back downstairs, he’s even more uncomfortable. He hasn’t mussed his hair and his face is still its usual perfection, but in every other way he’s dressed down as instructed. I can tell by the way he wears jeans and a fitted tee that he’s not remotely used to them and that they’re probably not his. Maybe James has an apartment upstairs, too. Either way, Caspian’s bearing has changed when he steps out of the garage elevator and walks back to the Bentley. I even get an annoyed little glance. Caspian doesn’t look remotely amused. He doesn’t seem to think any of this is cute or funny, and seeing it does my heart good. GameStorming’s titan can’t be dinged by gossip, criticism, or even lawsuits, but I’ve managed to get the exact reaction I wanted just by dressing him in casual clothes.

He stands outside the driver’s side window and taps on the tinted glass. I lower the window and give him my most innocent, blinking expression.
 

“Yes?”

“I’m driving.”
 

“No, you’re not. Get in on the passenger side, cowboy.”
 

He grumbles and stalks around to open the opposite door. For a guy who was so persistent in forcing me to
take my turn
, he’s satisfyingly annoyed. I guess this is a case of being careful what he wishes for: sunshine, lollipops, and all.

“Any problems?”
 

“Nothing fits right. I haven’t worn these since high school.” He runs his hands down over his powerful legs. “These are Levis. Plain old Levis.”
 

“Nothing wrong with Levis. They’re very Americana.”
 

“You were supposed to pick something for us to do that would help you make your point. I never agreed to this.”
 

“You look cute,” I say.
 

“Nowhere public,” he grumbles.
 

But of course we’re going somewhere public. And of course, when we get to the park, he sticks out like a sore thumb. Caspian doesn’t truly look like himself in jeans, brown boots, and a T-shirt, but he definitely looks like
something
. I don’t think the paparazzi will recognize him, at least not right away, but when we get out of the car and cross the green lawn, many heads turn. He’s almost a foot taller than me even though I’m not short. His broad chest, wide back, and thick arms fill out the shirt like a model. Big and blond and strong as he is, the man looks like a Viking.

He’s so bothered by it all that I decide to make it worse. I hook my arm through his and drag him to the playground, where children cavort and stare at us, asking him if he knows Thor because he looks just like him.

We sit on a bench. I watch the merry-go-round spin, the children climb hand over hand on the monkey bars.
 

“I thought you were going to try and prove that your way of seeing things was right,” Caspian says. “But now I see you just want to fuck with me.”
 

“You’re so growly. Just relax and sit back. You look like a statue.”
 

“You’ll pay for this tomorrow.”
 

I’d never admit it, but that turns me on.
 

“You were the one who wanted to make a bet.”
 

“You’re not playing fair. You’re using your turn to make me look like an asshole.”
 

It’s hard to explain, but simply seeing him so uneasy makes me comfortable. The air smells fresh and clean. The day is warm, and the sun is shining. We’re mostly in the shade of an elm, leaves rustling overhead, surrounded by the sounds of children playing. If I have a true home, a place like this is it. And in my home, feeling okay for a change, I find my thoughts softening around Caspian White. I turn sideways to him. I cock one leg up on the bench and prop one elbow on the bench’s back, watching him squirm.
 

“I’m not making you do anything. This was your choice.”
 

Throwing his words back at him. The fucker; he probably thought I’d spend my turns showing him how a nice girl makes sweet love.
 

“Why are we here?”
 

I nod at the children.
 

“Kids,” he says. “So?”
 

“Have you ever really spent time with them? With children?”
 

“Not really. Why does it matter?”
 

“Because I don’t think you’ve ever looked the people whose futures you could improve in the eye.”
 

“It’s not that,” he says. “It’s just not a line of business that makes sense to us right now.”
 

I watch him. He’s watching the kids, but he’s doing so the way he might watch an infestation of rodents. Then I squint, trying to read him, and bite my lip. He doesn’t seem so scary anymore. I’m not remotely intimidated. Take the great Caspian White out of his power suit, and he’s just a big man with a surprising amount of muscle. Everything about him smacks of discipline and control.
 

“Why are you like this?” I ask.
 

“Like what?”
 

“I’ve brought you to a park. It’s the easiest thing in the world. You seem intent on testing my every limit, but on my day all I’ve done is bring you here. All you have to do is sit. You don’t have to play with the children, or let them sit on your lap. I’m not going to quiz you or challenge you to some sort of match, and neither are these kids. I figured I was taking it easy on you because I’m only trying to make you leave me alone. But I didn’t even have to try and force your limits. Just being normal, around everyday people, is hard for you. This — this
nothing
—
is
the hardest thing I could have asked you to do. Why is that?”