Gagged (6 page)

“You have no right to treat her like this.”
 

“Who?”
 

I won’t answer. I won’t keep playing this game.
 

“Who do you think you are? What’s wrong with you that everyone is beneath you? What the hell is wrong with you?”

He dips the stir stick into his coffee. Stirs slowly. I have plenty of time, while he purposely dawdles, to peek at my phone. It’s 1:50. Fifty minutes my friend has been sitting up in this asshole’s office, her best clothes probably sticking to her sweating skin, trying to be the woman I know she truly is even though she always,
always
sells herself short as just a girl who’s down for a fun time. She’s debasing herself by staying this long, and what’s worse is that I know she’d wait another three hours if she thought it meant her finally getting her precious time with Caspian.

He hasn’t answered my question. But after he takes his time to stir nothing into his coffee (or perhaps the shot into his brew), he drops the stir stick into the trash and leans with his hip against the bar. A companionable stance, and his stupid sideways smile.
 

“I’ve seen you before,” he says.
 

“I don’t think so.”
 

“I have.” He snaps his fingers. “Right. My executive assistant was showing me footage of you from the traffic camera just down the street.”
 

“How do you have footage from the traffic cam?”
 

“She thought you might be a troublemaker. Always taking pictures of my building. But I told her you weren’t.”
 

“How do you know I’m not?”
 

He almost snorts. “Well, look at you.” He gestures. I thought I looked pretty good, but all of a sudden I feel two inches tall and dressed like a hobo. “You’ve obviously never been in any trouble in your life.”

“This isn’t about me. This is about my friend.”
 

Caspian runs a hand through his hair.

“All right. What’s your name?”
 

“None of your business.”

“You like to take pictures.”
 

“I’m an amateur photographer.”
 

He gives me a look like he’s about to pat me on the top of the head and tell me I’m adorable for all my ambition and big words.
 

“You seem to know who I am.”
 

“Oh yes,” I say. “I get the feeling I know
exactly
who you are, Mr. White.”

“I’m flattered. Maybe you also know that I don’t grant interviews, except for the one I now remember I set with your friend Jessie.”
 

“Jasmine.”
 

“GQ
has been bugging the
shit
out of me to do a photo shoot. They say I’m ‘fashionable.’ I don’t know what they mean; I just dress well. Maybe that’s fashionable to people who dress in crap.” Another up-and-down glance with those brilliant blue eyes. “I’ve been turning them all down. But I’d already set aside some time for your friend, so maybe you’d like to come up, too. Once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”
 

I feel myself scowling, but it’s hard because I’m certain he finds my anger adorable, like someone with my face and personality can’t possibly radiate menace. So with as much venom as I can manage, I say, “No thanks.”
 

“Please. In fact, I won’t take no for an answer. I owe you one for all of — ” He gestures around the coffee shop, at the patrons pretending I shouldn’t be embarrassed for the scene I caused in the face of this pleasant and accommodating man. “This.”

The people are glancing at me, trying to pretend they’re not. I know I’m right by a large margin, but still I feel wrong. He’s not apologizing any more than he
accidentally
left Jasmine in the breeze for nearly an hour now. I want to justify myself — to explain the whole
Jasmine-is-waiting-and-he’s-blowing-her-off-on-purpose
thing behind my anger — but I can’t; it’ll come off horribly if I try.
 

I firm my jaw. I shake my head. “You’re an ass.”
 

I leave, and Caspian follows. After a few seconds he calls out, “Miss Henley!”
 

I turn back and look at him. He’s standing beside his fancy car, which it seems the pretty boy with the silver spoons actually drove here himself.
 

“I hear you’re interested in education. If you’ll let me make this up to you, maybe that’s something we can discuss.”
 

I take a step forward, curious despite my anger.

But then I stop.
 

Because I didn’t tell him my name, back in the shop, when he asked.

CHAPTER SEVEN

A
URORA

C
ASPIAN
IS
OBVIOUSLY
TRYING
TO
pull something, but I’d be a fool not to pursue this — to at least discover whatever I can without doing something stupid. But I’m a cautious girl, and not the kind of person you dupe. I don’t go to many bars, but you bet I watch my drinks when I do, then keep them in my hand so nobody can slip something into them. I don’t walk through questionable parts of town alone at the wrong times of day; I don’t jog alone on secluded paths. My parents had plenty of faults, but a healthy dose of skepticism was one thing they gave me — unlike Jasmine, who does all the things I’m thinking of and more. She’s never been robbed or raped or beaten or killed, but that doesn’t mean her frivolity is right and my caution is wrong. And I’m not going to wait until something happens to prove I’m right.
 

This is Caspian White, and he works there in that big building, and right now we have all sorts of witnesses. But I’m not stupid enough to climb into his fancy car. Not in a million years.
 

I sort of laugh a superior little chuckle — the one weapon I might have in my arsenal against someone like him, and only because I’m a woman who can reject a man if I choose.
 

“You’re full of it,” I say.
 

“I need to make it up to you somehow. Your friend gets her interview, and you can take pictures.”

I know it’s bullshit. But I still haven’t walked away.
 

“Come up to my office. Jasmine will need a ride home anyway.”

That’s true. Her friend Greg drove her. He has an enormous crush on Jasmine, but she thinks he’s just a friend. Today’s ride was a drop-off because he had class and Jasmine said she’d take the bus back. It breaks my heart to imagine her in one of those dirty seats with her nice clothes, feeling as beaten and alone as I know she will.
 

How Caspian could know she’d need a ride — that’s another question.

He opens the door to his shiny black car.
 

“Please. Get in. I assume you’re already parked?”
 

I am, two blocks up. But that’s not the point. “I’m not getting in a car with you.”
 

I think he’ll try to explain why that’s dumb of me, but instead he closes the door and walks my way. And holy shit, is he tall. In his black suit, starched white shirt, and powder-blue silk tie to match his eyes, the man is larger than life. His hair has a shine in the sun because it’s got something in it, mousse or gel or something that keeps it looking slightly wet. I’m trying to hold my ground, but I find myself rooted, watching his approach.
 

“Then we’ll walk,” he says. “It’s only two blocks.”
 

I look back at his car. There’s no way that’s a parking spot. He just took what he wanted from the San Francisco streets like he takes what he wants everywhere else.
 

“I’ll have someone pick it up.”
 

“You’re going to get a ticket, or towed.”

“I’ve plenty more.” At first, his words don’t make sense — plenty more
what?
Tickets? — but as he walks by, clearly expecting me to blindly follow, I get the feeling I know the answer:
Cars. If the city tows that one, I’ve plenty more cars to replace it.
But it’s all moot, isn’t it? Caspian White is a favored son. The cops won’t give him a ticket or tow him the way they would anyone else — not the man who can afford it, wouldn’t be affected, and doesn’t even care.
 

He looks back at me. “Are you coming?”
 

I know how Jasmine would answer.

He’s watching me with those blue eyes — hard eyes, yes, but different than I’ve seen online and in magazines. I don’t like the way he’s staring. Despite all that’s happened in the last few minutes, I get the feeling that
I’ll
be the rude one if I refuse. I said I wouldn’t ride in a car, so he offered to walk. Ignoring that I never agreed to go via any mode of transportation, it seems perfectly sensible.

Caspian doesn’t talk during the stroll to his building. Fine with me; I’d rather not talk, either. He’s two steps ahead, never looking back, leaving me a view of fine cloth on a broad back. I feel like a toady as I clack along the sidewalk in my heeled boots — like someone trailing the man to do his bidding or maybe take notes, or like a fan he can’t quite shake.
 

We round the first block and approach Caspian’s building to find construction fencing on our right. We circle around it — farther into the construction area — rather than over to the front entrance. I want to ask him why but already feel so pathetic. Asking questions will only make me feel stupider. I could bail at any time — seeing as he’s gone from talking me into this to clearly not wanting me here — but I don’t. The opportunity is too great. I’m sure he’ll mock me like he mocked the last interviewer to ask him about GameStorming’s open-source educational opportunities, but I’ll regret it every day if I don’t at least try.
 

Because
you’re
going to change his mind, Aurora
.
All sorts of people have pitched this to him, he has business partners counting on him to make billions, and he’s already publicly said that he’ll do what he wants and those who disagree can eat it. He’s got the world on a plate and answers to no one … but yes. YOU will effortlessly convince him.
 

My feet keep moving, knowing they’re only making this worse.
 

We reach a small, inconspicuous door around the corner from the loading dock — the kind you’d find a blue-collar breakroom behind, if not an outdoor gas station bathroom.
 

“There’s a news crew camped in my front lobby,” he explains. “This way, we won’t be bothered.”
 

The ugly door has a fancy electronic lock, and something on Caspian’s wrist must be keyed to it because he waves his watch hand over the lock and the door clicks. He pulls it open and waves gallantly, inviting me to go inside first. And I think,
Ladies first into the meat locker.
 

No way.
This isn’t right. If I wouldn’t get into his car, I’m sure as hell not going into his backroom rape chamber. I’m about to say so when a gruff voice says, “Hey, who the hell are you?”
 

A large man has filled the doorway. He’s wearing a black suit, black shirt, black tie, black socks, and mirror-shined black shoes, with one of those little black communication things in his ear as if he’s in the Secret Service. Despite his fancy outfit, he has a thug’s ugly mug.
 

“Miss? How did you open this door?”
 

“I — ” My heart hammers. I’ve never felt so young, so small, or so unprepared for whatever’s about to happen.
 

But then the man stops glaring at me, and his face breaks into something that is at once pleasant and conciliatory.
 

“Mr. White!”
 

“She’s with me, Frankie.”
 

“I’m so sorry. I just assumed … ” He tries again. “I thought maybe one of the reporters … ” And then I get this apologetic look, odd on the well-dressed thug’s leathery face. “My apologies, Miss.” I’m suddenly sure the man’s about to bow, but then he extends a hand as if I’m supposed to take it. I do. “Watch your step, Miss. There’s a jamb there. This was a dock door on the first set of plans and … ” He trails off a third time, glancing uncomfortably between me and Caspian, somehow making me want to apologize.
 

“It’s fine, Frankie. Please call James, and let him know I’m coming, with a guest. Have him open a bottle of — ” He stops, raising his eyebrows at me.
 

“Coke?”
 

He laughs, and I realize he meant something more along the lines of wine. But what the hell; it’s two in the afternoon on a weekday, and we don’t even know this guy. I don’t like the way this thought disarms me — how, in fact, the entirety of the walk and this entry through the back door have disarmed me. Wasn’t I shouting at this man ten minutes ago? Didn’t he purposely slight my friend by making her wait while he took his sweet time getting coffee?
 

“Coke, then,” Caspian says. “I assume Jasmine drinks the same?”

“Diet.”
 

Another amused, semi-condescending titter. “Scotch rocks for me. Tell him to open the Glenfiddich 37. This is a special occasion.”
 

I want to ask what that means — any of it, really, from “special occasion” to the fact that the wealthy apparently order their drinks waiting from two minutes away — but Caspian’s already moved on.

Despite the outer door’s decrepit appearance, the space behind it is immaculate. Almost surely after the fact, someone built a pristine, poshly decorated hallway down in the dock area. Walls are pure white, like the building’s finish. The space is wide and flowing, not at all cramped as it should be. I see a white table that looks like art against one wall — fantastically expensive, I’m sure. There are bone-colored sculptures farther in as the wide hallway bells into a bona-fide room with a large, curving ivory desk at one end. A male receptionist sits behind it, dressed in white. If the angel Gabriel has a reception desk at Heaven’s gates, surely it would look like this. Somewhere behind us, our black-dressed attendant has vanished. He’s probably not allowed to soil this pristine place, meant only to protect it from the dark outside world.