Gagged (7 page)

And there are flowers. More than I can count. Pure white orchids cascade on the table. Hundreds of roses in white, ivory, and cream are crammed in tall floor vases and sconces on the walls. I wouldn’t have thought the look could be masculine, but somehow it is. Stark and stunning. As a backdrop to Caspian, it’s cold but beautiful.

Two attendants (they strike me as toadies more than assistants; they practically back away bowing) emerge from the nonexistent shadows to take Caspian’s small satchel. Because it only takes one person to accept a bag and I choose to keep mine with my camera inside, the other is useless. A display of excess, perhaps.
 

“You wouldn’t believe what we spend on things that die,” Caspian says as the attendants retreat. “I buy these flowers in obscene quantities from a place in Cielo del Mar. We have them all throughout the building and replace them twice each week. Do you like flowers, Aurora?”
 

I feel another flinch, knowing I haven’t told him my name. But I’m sure it’s nothing; someone in Caspian’s office probably checked Jasmine out before she arrived and found our first-degree connection on LiveLyfe. Why they’d have told the boss about the inconsequential redhead’s roommate, though, I can’t imagine.

“Yes.”

“I do too.” He runs a hand through a bouquet of what I think is lily of the valley. “Why do we like them, do you think?”
 

“They’re pretty, and they smell nice.”
 

I get a frown, and he says, “Oh come on. You can do better than that.”
 

Silly me; I thought I was being asked about my opinion, not being quizzed for a correct answer.

“I guess they make me think of life.”
 

“Interesting. It’s the exact opposite for me.”

He crosses to an ornate set of double doors. The doors are metal, but predictably someone has painted them white. A woman is standing beside them, dressed in a gauzy, milky gown. She pushes a button on the wall so Caspian won’t have to tax himself. I wonder if this is the extent of her job: pushing the elevator button in this converted secondary entrance. But as we get closer, I realize that no, she does more. She also says,
Good afternoon, Mr. White; welcome back
and offers him a hot towel, though why anyone would need a hot towel before an elevator ride is beyond me. She offers me one too, smiling, but I shake it away.
 

The elevator is fast, which is good because I find myself even more uncomfortable once the doors are closed and I’m stuck in this box with Caspian. He seems to never stop judging me as unworthy, and I keep reminding myself that I loathe him. But trapped between the judgment and hatred, there’s something else. It makes my skin flush, and my knees want to buckle.
 

I assume the elevator will open into his office, but then I remember that we’ve taken the back entrance. We traverse a long hallway from one small lobby to another, and from every passed door I hear the words, “Hello, Mr. White,” as if he’s trained everyone to say it. Twice, office workers carrying stacks of papers press back against the wall to get out of his way despite the hallway being wide enough for three or four to walk abreast. I also see plenty of young, attractive women follow Caspian’s passage with their eyes, gazes mostly averted until he’s past, batting eyelashes as they greet him.

I try to keep up, but Caspian is taller than me and walks quickly. I feel like I might totter and fall at any moment. I’m incredibly self-conscious, like someone who’s arrived at a fancy ball in a stained T-shirt. I’m chasing him like I belong by his side — and for the purposes of this dash from one side of his building to the other, I suppose I do. But the men seem to have questions in their eyes, and the women challenges, as if they see me as a trifling threat.
 

We arrive in a spacious lobby that, finally, properly befits the private sanctum of the company’s owner and CEO. There’s another large white reception desk, more bunches of white flowers, and an arrangement of white leather couches. For the first time, it dawns on me how hard this place must be to keep clean. Don’t people ever bump into the walls? Does no one ever spill? I lived in a place with tan walls once, and they looked filthy two months after we moved in. Is this special paint? Special fabric? Or do they keep cleaners and touch-up painters on round-the-clock retainer?
 

The man behind the desk — a bit older than me, or maybe Caspian’s age, with a short dark haircut — nods at Caspian. He seems unsurprised by my presence, presumably because the doorman called. The brass nameplate on his desk says,
Julian
.
 

“Good afternoon, Mr. White,” Julian says. “It’s good to see you again.”
 

“This is Aurora Henley. She’s a friend of Jasmine Lewis, the college reporter.”

“Miss Henley,” he says, nodding.
 

Jesus. Jasmine.
I’m such a shitty friend; he’s spellbound all thoughts of her right out of my head on this whirlwind dash over.
 

“Where is Jasmine?” I’m suddenly sure she’s left (and why wouldn’t she? Her appointment was an hour ago), and that means I’ve come all the way up here and will now have to be alone with this deplorable man. The thought makes me tremble. My skin feels warmer in spite of the shiver, and my limbs keep wanting to betray me by shaking.
 

“She’s inside. Can I get you anything, Miss?”
 

Relief washes over me. “No thanks,” I say.
 

Caspian hasn’t paused for chitchat, heading straight toward the large doors with their long, overly tall, brushed aluminum pull handles. They open on their own before he can reach them. But instead of entering Caspian’s office, we’re in some sort of a secondary waiting room.
 

I see Jasmine, sitting primly with her bag. I’ve never seen my friend look so out of sorts. She’s trying to keep her smile, but she’s clearly uneasy. She jumps up when we enter and comes right at me, shameless.
 

“Aurora! Why are you here?”
 

“It’s a long story.”
 

As angry as I feel at Caspian’s keeping her waiting, I feel uncomfortable saying so out loud. He hasn’t so much as looked over, but there’s a young guy behind yet another desk who will hear me if I badmouth the boss, and suddenly I’m far less able to do so.
 

“Have … have you been …
bored?”
I say, awkward.
 

Her eyes flick to the man behind the desk, who smiles in our direction. He has light brown hair, a strong jaw, mysterious eyes, and lean, tan forearms from what I can see across the room. On one of the sofas across from Jasmine’s chair, I see a slight indent to the cushions, as if he was recently there instead of behind the desk. I get a mental picture, relieved to see it hasn’t been as unfriendly here as I’d imagined.
 

“James has been keeping me occupied.” Then, proving she’s still Jasmine, she whispers,
“Yummy.”
 

But Caspian hasn’t slowed, pushing the final set of doors open himself. I assume we’re supposed to follow, so we do. The office is fine and white like the rest of the building, but far grander. This suite must span two floors because there’s a sunken pit in the center and a vaulted ceiling above. The floor is a dark hardwood, but there are heavy white rugs across it. The far wall is all windows without visible separation or seams. I don’t mind heights while inside, but they terrify me if I feel open and exposed, like walking beside the railing of a rooftop observation deck. These windows are like that.
 

“Well, Miss Lewis,” Caspian says as he moves to a table in the room’s center, picking up what I assume is a tumbler of scotch on the rocks from beside two glasses of dark cola. “I apologize for being late for our interview. I was— ” He looks right at me.
Through
me. “Unavoidably detained.”
 

“It’s … it’s fine,” Jasmine says. “I appreciate your — ”

Caspian sits with his scotch, lazily looking at his expensive watch.
 

“It’s already 1:55,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m sorry we’ll have to start so late, but at least Aurora is now here to take pictures.”

Jasmine looks at me and smiles. She got what she wanted after all.
 

Jasmine sits as Caspian indicates a sofa, then opens her bag. She comes out with a digital recorder, a notepad, and a pen.
 

“Should we begin?” she asks.
 

“I guess you’d better,” he says, brushing at his pants leg, “seeing as we only have five minutes left before the hour is up.”
 

CHAPTER EIGHT

C
ASPIAN

J
ASMINE
’
S
JAW
DROPS
OPEN
. S
HE
looks like an advertisement for blowjobs.

“That’s not fair!” Aurora shouts.
 

She’s so cute. So innocent. So sweet. I remind myself that this is why I waited for her. Bridget, during my recent little trip, fascinated me — but nothing compares to freshly fallen snow. I want to walk right over and pick Aurora up. She’d try to scratch my eyes out if I did, but the pain would be worth it. The pain might be reason to do it, coming from her.
 

“It’s not
fair?”
I say.
 

“You made her wait!”
 

“I did,” I say. “How interesting.”
 

“It’s not Jasmine’s fault that you … you … ” She can’t get the words out. I want to take a picture of her right now and frame it. She’s realizing life isn’t as she thought it was and that there’s nothing she can do. Some people grow up feeling they can change the world. But though the world can be a beautiful place, it’s all veneer. Deep down, it’s always been rotten.

I want a photo of Aurora as this truth is dawning. This is where it all begins. This is only the tip of the long, slippery scope that is coming. My own cameras are capturing all of this, but they don’t have Aurora’s eye for truth. I’ve seen her photos. I’ve
studied
her photos. I want her to turn her camera’s X-ray on herself.
 

“It’s not fair for you to run out for no reason, just to be a jerk, and make Jasmine sit in here waiting on your highness … then come back ready to talk and say, ‘Oh, but I can’t extend my time slot even though it’s my fault we’re starting late.’”
 

“I didn’t say I can’t extend my time slot.” Jasmine looks hopeful, but then I add, “It’s truer to say I
won’t.”
 

“How is she supposed to get anything worth publishing in five minutes?”

“I guess that depends on her talent as a reporter.”
 

Aurora turns from me to Jasmine. She seems to be saying,
Stand up for yourself!
But I’ve done my homework and know that she won’t. Jasmine comes off tough but needs my approval, whereas Aurora doesn’t — she doesn’t need or want or like me at all.
 

“Jasmine, tell him it’s bullshit,” she says.
 

I watch them, sipping my scotch.
 

“Jasmine!”
 

“I … I … ”
 

“Why did you say she could interview you if you clearly didn’t want her here?”
 

“Oh, you’re wrong about that,” I say, meaning it. “I
very much
wanted her here.”
 

“So you could insult her?”
 

Enough is enough. I sit forward and grab Aurora by her pale white wrist. She jerks away once, but I hold tight, meeting her eye to eye.
 

“See, that’s exactly what I’m talking about,” I snap. “Jasmine is
allowing
herself to be insulted. Just like she’s allowing you to speak on her behalf. Just like she’s not objecting as we sit here in front of her, talking about her in the third person. She’s got an opportunity, and still she’s sitting there with her mouth open like a fish.”
 

“What’s she supposed to do?”
 

“She’s supposed to ask her questions.”
 

“In five minutes?”
 

I look at my watch.
“Three
minutes.”
 

“What’s she supposed to do with three minutes?”

“Do you know how much the reporters in my lobby right now would pay for three minutes of my time? Do you have any idea what an enormous opportunity this is? Or are you so stuck on how I’ve wronged you that you’re going to let the already short time tick away and then leave with nothing? How much could you ask in three minutes if you’d get over what’s already past and embrace the present? How many pictures could you take in three minutes?” I turn to Jasmine. She’s stunning but right now looks like a tiny frightened bird. “I’ll answer anything you ask. Nothing is off limits. So go on. Ask me.”
 

“You’re such an asshole.”

“You’ve got a mouth on you. I’d never have suspected. Not from a sweet little girl like you.”
 

“Fuck you!”
 

“Say it again. Say it louder.”
 

Aurora shakes free of my grip. She takes Jasmine by the arm and starts pulling her upright. Jasmine still looks like she wants to talk, but she can’t.
 

“I’m serious, Aurora. You strike me as pent up.” I cock my head. “Do you own a vibrator? For therapeutic reasons, I mean.”

“You fucking pig!” she shouts.

I love hearing her swear. It reminds me that there’s something beneath her sweet exterior, if I can only crack it loose. I love the way her lips form such hard words. I want her to say more, to tell me to fuck off, to call me a piece of shit, to say I’m a motherfucker. The way her lips wrap around those words, I can picture them wrapping around a cock, milking it until it explodes on her tongue. Not so sweet in the end.
 

“I apologize if that was over the line,” I say. “But seriously. Go ahead. Ask your questions.”