Just One Night, Part 2: Exposed (7 page)

“You’re smarter than me,” I say quietly. “I’ve done some things that I . . . I didn’t think through. Things that could get me fired.”

Tom lifts his eyes to mine. “I know what you’ve done . . . not the details, but I know . . . and I don’t care.” He lets that sink in, then breaks into a silky smooth laugh. “Actually I do care. I’m glad you fucked Robert Dade. If I had thought fucking him would get us the Maned Wolf account, I’d have fucked him, too. I’d have to have a lot to drink first but . . .”

A giggle bubbles up in my throat. Everything about this moment is preposterous.

Yet Tom’s smile fades as he presses forward. “Thing is, Kasie, if I had known that
your
fucking him was going to get us the account, I would have encouraged you to do it, and if you had let me in on what was going on, I would have helped you hide it from Dave.”

The giggle dies, the bubbles popping under the pressure of my disapproval even as my own hypocrisy drums against my temples. He’s only saying he’d do the things that I’ve already done.

“I didn’t have sex with Robert to get ahead,” I say quietly.

Tom shrugs, indifferent to my motivations. It’s the result that pleases him. “I’m just saying that if Dave’s godfather wasn’t Dylan Freeland, it would be a win-win for everyone.”

I watch Tom with new eyes, seeing for the first time how his indifference to morality can serve me. There is no judgment here, just hard practicality that rules his actions and a little lust that he restrains with admirable skill.

“Mr. Freeland is a great businessman,” Tom continues thoughtfully. “But unfortunately for us he’s an even better family man. If he finds out you cheated on his godson, you’re out. He’ll find an appropriate excuse. We have clauses in all of our contracts about behavior with clients, the importance of protecting the firm’s reputation, etcetera, etcetera. He’ll say you traded sexual favors for an account and that’ll be it. It’ll become a matter of public record; Freeland will make sure of that. Your life will get harder.”

As the word leaves his mouth, he winces and shifts his weight uncomfortably. The movement draws my attention downward, making me aware of his physical state and his unintentional pun. With effort I manage not to roll my eyes. It’s silly really, getting so excited over a dress. He could go to any beach to see women wearing less. And if I was any other girl, he would leer or dismiss me as a common slut or perhaps not notice me at all, write me off as another LA, club-going exhibitionist.

It’s the rarity of seeing me vulnerable, of seeing me revealing what I have consistently concealed, that disarms him. He knows I’m not wearing this dress by choice, and, because of that, I sense that he wants to be repelled rather than aroused by the sight of me . . . a sight he has no right to see. It’s a flash of decency in a cold storm of cynicism.

But his body is not cooperating with his whims of conscience and I can’t blame him for that. I can blame Dave, but not him.

Carefully, I clasp my hands in front of me. It feels like every movement moves the dress a little higher. “What can I do?” I ask.

Tom’s eyes flicker to my hemline before going back to the floor. “A counterattack.”

“Against Dave? How? He hasn’t done anything that will turn Freeland away from him. I have nothing on him that will compel him to keep quiet.”

“You’re not being imaginative enough,” Tom says. “Facts can be bought just like any other commodity. Sometimes by barter, sometimes with currency, but they can always be bought.”

It’s then that we hear the pounding on the front door. Tom sighs and shakes his head. “He’ll wake the neighbors with that racket.”

It’s only eight thirty, but the point’s a good one. Tom walks to the foyer, I follow a few feet behind and hang back as Tom opens the door, revealing Dave on his own doorstep, his face an intriguing shade of crimson. “You locked me out on purpose!”

“I did no such thing,” Tom says, the lie light on his tongue. “I have no idea how this happened.”

Dave’s eyes shift to me. “What exactly did you two get up to?”

I almost laugh. He calls Tom here to see me in a state of undress and now he’s worried that Tom might have touched me with more than his eyes? Again, I’m reminded that, like me, Dave is an amateur when it comes to ruthlessness.

Tom sees the humor in this, too, and a small smile plays on his lips. “Are you worried that I’ve already sampled what you’ve brought me here to taste?”

Dave looks stricken. Control is a slippery thing and his grip is weak. I see the way he’s looking at me. The hostility he shoots from his eyes almost hurts.

Almost. That’s the thing about cruelty: as with most venoms, when they are taken in continuous but small doses, one can build up an immunity to it.

“I don’t think I’ll be staying for dinner after all,” Tom says. He turns to me, conspicuously dismissive of the man in front of him. “The wine on the table is all yours . . . although I’m sure you need something stronger.”

“I’ll walk you to your Porsche,” I say.

Tom nods. “Take your key first. That door lock is temperamental.”

Yes, in many ways Tom is smarter than me. His vision isn’t clouded with emotion or pain. I grab my keys from my purse on the console and follow him to the car.

“He’s angry. He doesn’t want to let you go,” Tom says while we walk down the pathway, Dave’s glare pressing against our backs. “No man in his right mind would.”

His car is painted a uniquely dark, metallic silver that reminds me of the tinted mirrored windows that make up the high rise that holds Maned Wolf’s offices. He pauses at the driver’s-side door, his keys pressed into his palm. “Will you be safe?”

I look up sharply, consider his features. Concern is not an emotion I’ve seen him wear before. “Dave won’t hurt me,” I say.

“He’s hurting you
now,
Kasie. This is abuse.”

“I know . . . but what I meant . . . he won’t lay a hand on me, Tom.”

“I can take you home,” he says carefully. “Or if you like, I can take you to
him
.” I flush and Tom smiles wryly. “Would feigning ignorance be better?”

I nod. The reflection of my figure in the car’s metallic paint is distorted and fragmented.

“Very well; as far as I’m concerned Dave is the only man you’ve been with in years. Your relationship with Mr. Dade is purely professional. See,” he says as he unlocks his door, “facts can be bought, sometimes for as little as a smile.”

But I’m not smiling.
I keep the thought to myself as he gets in and I watch my reflection in the shiny silver exterior shift, change, and disappear as he drives off.

When I get back to the house Dave is still in the doorway, his fury weakened with uncertainty. I move past him, wait for him to close the door before I turn to face him.

“I am stronger than a dress. I’m stronger than all of this.” The words are flat, without inflection. These are simple truths that don’t need enhancement. “Did you think Tom Love would forget who I am? Did you think he would see me in this dress and treat me differently than the woman he knows me to be? I’ve been working with him for five and a half years.”

“Yes,” he acknowledges. “And I’ve been your boyfriend for six. But as I said earlier, I don’t know who you are. What I do know is that the clothes you used to wear don’t seem to suit you anymore. This does.”

I feel the cheap fabric clinging to me, feel the air between my legs, reminding me of my exposure. I should feel vulnerable right now, but at this moment I simply don’t. He’s weak, desperate. I feel no more vulnerable before him than I would feel in front of a bird with broken wings.

“Is this how you wish to define us now?” I ask him brazenly. “With you constantly trying to bring me down and with me rising above it?”

“Seriously, Kasie?” he hisses. “Look at you! You’re dressed like a tramp!”

“And yet Tom didn’t see a tramp.” I take a step closer. Some foolish impulse takes over and I add, “Robert didn’t see me that way, either.”

“You’re bringing him up to me? In my home?”

I smile. In a Victorian novel he would have added the words “You dare?” and with a raise of an eyebrow I answer the unspoken question: Yes, I dare.

But I need to be careful here. The moment Dave gives up, the moment he thinks all his attempts at torture will be fruitless, he’ll end this thing with a phone call. And Tom was right in his predictions. If he exposes me to those who care about such things, to people
I
care about, he will pull away my newfound courage like the peel off an orange. I’ll lose everything.

So I soften my tone, offer him a treaty rather than a punch: “I don’t think you see me that way, either. I think you’re angry. But I think that maybe you meant it when you said—”

“When I said what?” The words come out like venom from a spitting cobra.

“When you said you wanted me to make you feel love. I think you want to love me again.”

He takes a step closer, hesitant at first, then another and another, each move becoming a little more confident and a little more aggressive. “He was different from me, yes? Edgier? Rougher? More dominant?”

“Is that what this is about,” I ask, almost weary, “dominance?”

“Give me a chance.” His right hand slips to the back of my neck and holds me in place. “I can give you what you want.” His left hand reaches for my breast.

I slap him in the face.

Slowly, his eyes never leaving mine, he lowers his hands and moves to the side, picking up his keys from a low table in the foyer.

“Where are you going?” I ask as he opens the coat closet.

“I’m going out.” He smiles sardonically before adding, “I need space to consider whether or not I’m going to destroy you. Don’t wait up. It’ll take some thinking.”

The air’s prickly. I may have pushed him too far. But he’s taking away my options and the violence he keeps pumping into my heart is hard to discipline. “My car’s still at work,” I say quietly.

“You won’t need it,” Dave says decisively. “I want you to stay here tonight. Your obedience may be the only thing that saves you.”

I don’t argue this time. There’s no point. I simply stand there as he exits.

And in my mind my new fantasy is that he never comes back.

CHAPTER
8

I
sTAND ALONE IN
the foyer for seconds, minutes, a brief eternity of time as I try to decide on a mental journey that will take me away from this place. What shall I fantasize about now? Swimming through the mellow waves of the Mediterranean? Dancing in New York? But my mind stays stubbornly in the here and now. A few days . . . how many lifetimes have I packed into that small space of time?

I lean against the wall, suddenly dizzy. It seems impossible that I’m at risk of losing to such an unskilled adversary. I’m just not used to this kind of struggle. My opponents have always been my own desires and memories, the war an internal one. And even in that war, my opponents were the conquistadors. They overcame my defenses and occupied my mind with colonial ambitions, bringing me to this hellish reservation where subjugation and servitude are the most obvious means of survival.

I hear footsteps approaching outside of the door. What could Dave have forgotten? Perhaps an insult or threat that he had neglected to throw my way.

I back away and watch as the doorknob moves, just a fraction of an inch this way and then the other. Why doesn’t he just turn the key?

But as I watch the doorknob continue to jiggle, I realize I have another problem.

The person at the door doesn’t have a key.

The person on the other side of the door is breaking in.

I move quickly, not caring how high my skirt hikes up, not caring what’s exposed. As long as I’m able to keep this new nightmare at bay, the dress is inconsequential.

I reach for the deadlock, but it’s too late. The door swings open and I find myself backing up as quickly as I moved forward, wanting to run but knowing there’s no use.

But then the intruder isn’t a stranger at all. It’s Robert Dade.

He takes me in with only the quickest movement of his eyes and then he moves past me, into the living room, standing in the center, his fists clenched at his sides, his ferocious energy flooding the room.

“Where is he?” he asks.

His back is to me, which is fine. My anger, shame, and humiliation have me burning tonight and he looks a lot like kerosene.

“He’s out. How did you know I was here? How did you even know where Dave lives?”

“Your boss called me.”

Well, there’s an unlikely hero. I almost say it out loud but sense Robert isn’t in the mood for small talk. His posture reminds me of a stalking tiger ready to pounce.

“When will he be back?”

It’s not so much a question as a demand for information.

I’ve had enough of demands.

“I can take care of this, Robert. I don’t need you.”

He pivots, his fury slamming into my frustration.

“Go upstairs and get out of that dress. You’re better than this. You should know better than to accept the role of Dave’s slave.”

“I’m not a slave.”

“Take off the dress!”

I stand my ground. I feel a little like a student in Tiananmen Square standing defiantly before an oncoming tank.

He breathes out aggravation through clenched teeth but then, as his eyes shift, so does his focus. There, on the side table, he sees the framed photo. It’s of Dave and me in kinder days. He’s wearing a navy wool crepe suit with a quiet silver tie while my hair is slicked back into an intricate chignon bun. There’s an almost elderly sophistication to the jewel-necked suit I’m wearing, the light sheen of the fabric and the ruffled peplum being the only hint toward a softer form of femininity. Dave has his hand on my back and I’m smiling serenely at the camera. It’s an image that could have been ripped from the pages of
Town & Country
. We’re perfect.

Roman statues, that’s what Simone had compared us to, perfect and cold.

Robert picks up the picture, examines it more closely. “I’m not sure I know this woman.”

“I know her.” I move behind him, peeking over his shoulder to see the photo. “I just don’t know where she went.”

Robert puts down the picture frame. “Let her stay lost.” He then turns to me, the edges of his anger mildly blunted by concern. “I won’t let him do this to you.”

“I don’t think you can save me and . . . I’m . . . I’m not sure I want you to.”

A flash of pain flickers across his features. He reaches out, cups my cheek in his hand. “You can’t ask me to just let this happen. I won’t do that.”

I feel a sudden rush of confusion. If he can help me, why shouldn’t I let him? Is it because I don’t want to admit to being a damsel in distress? Do I really value my bruised and battered pride over my freedom? What convict ever insisted on making an unassisted prison break?

But as much as I want Robert, I can’t help thinking that his affection might be infinitely more dangerous than Dave’s hostility.

“Take the dress off,” he says again. “I hate that it’s touching you. It’s like he’s holding you tightly from a distance.”

Yes, I want to say, holding me in an embrace of humiliation. I take a step back, moving away from Robert’s touch. I continue my backward stride, Robert following me, letting me set the pace. It’s a strange tango in which the woman leads . . . if only for the length of a few bars of music.

I lead us to the dining room. The table had never been set and it now stands bare, except for one unopened bottle of wine, a reminder of Dave’s failed plans and my minor victory. I move the bottle to a chair.

“He’s not here,” I say and I reach down to the hem, pull it up over my hips, my stomach, my breasts until, with a little effort, it’s gone and I’m standing there, completely naked, before my lover. “He’s not touching me,” I say. “No one will touch me without my invitation. If anyone tries, they’ll pay for that mistake. But you’re going to have to let me exact the price. Me. Not you.”

Robert stares at me. His eyes are hungry, but I still feel his vexation. Yet it’s not aimed at me. He’s pointing it toward the night, toward the unknown part of town where Dave sits, making decisions about my life. “I won’t just turn a blind eye, Kasie. That’s not who I am.”

I hear him but I’m not fully listening. I’m looking at the table. In its polished surface I see the night Dave had planned for me. How far would the game have gone if Tom had cooperated? And Asha, how far did she plan to push me? Did they all see me as weak? Did they think I would surrender all my power so easily?

“Kasie, did you hear me?”

I ignore the question, redirect his energy to my liking. “Would you like to touch me, Mr. Dade?”

His breath catches in his throat. I can still feel the anger but it feels even more distant now, allowing him more room to explore more pressing passions.

“I asked you a question.” I let my fingers run over the table. I’m playing a very dangerous game. I don’t know when Dave will come home. I don’t know what Robert will do to him if he does reappear. I don’t know if this will be the act that breaks my world to pieces. I’m risking everything for a moment of pleasure, to celebrate a fleeting victory. But I’m beginning to think that life is about passing moments and small celebrations. Without them there’s only pain, fear, ambition, and, for some of us, foolish hope.

“He wanted me to serve him and Tom Love at this table,” I say. “He wanted me to play the part of the submissive. He wanted to control me. He didn’t get what he wanted. I won. Will you help me celebrate, Mr. Dade? You’re invited.”

Robert doesn’t move right away. But when he does, it’s swift, closing the distance between us in seconds and pulling off his shirt so that our bare skin presses together in a raw embrace.

“I want you to take me here,” I whisper as his teeth graze my shoulder. I pull off his belt. “I want you to take me on the table where I refused to serve him.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” I say as his belt falls to the floor. “You’re invited.”

And then I’m being lifted into the air, laid back on the table, like a delicacy meant to be savored.

He strips off the rest of his clothes and I take him in. His muscles create little hills and valleys across his chest and stomach. His arms and thighs are equally strong and enticing. This is a different kind of perfection. He’s sculpted but not like Michelangelo’s
David
. He’s made of something much more vibrant than marble. He’s a song with a pounding beat and a roughly melodic tune. His erection reaches for me, another blatant reminder of his vitality.

He leans forward, runs his fingers across my stomach; it seems he’s tracing the letters of a word there—“lust,” “love,” it’s hard to tell the difference, his touch shoots over me so fast. I breathe in the sent of him as his fingers continue their dance up to my throat, resting there, right under my chin. He studies me the way one would study an eclipse, expectant but awed. And his fingers keep moving, this time down to my breast; he caresses the area around one nipple and then the next, so different from Dave’s intrusive touch.

Besides, I stopped Dave. And if he tries to touch me again, he’ll again feel the sting of my refusal. He will never get anywhere with me. Not by design or force. He is not invited.

But Robert is, and as his fingers travel down to the curve of my waist, my hips, his hands gently pull apart my legs, opening me up; I feel my body silently restating that invitation, reinforcing it with the dampness between my legs, with the erratic pace of my breathing. He lifts my leg, kisses my ankle, then slowly moves higher. Each kiss is a little different. Here, where the muscle of my inner thigh begins, he sucks, just slightly, and here, as he travels upward, his tongue flicks out to taste the salt on my skin. Here, as he comes closer to my core, the kiss becomes gentle, almost innocent, a direct contradiction to his clear intent.

I reach my hands into his hair, try to draw him higher, but he will not be rushed. He lets the anticipation warm me before his mouth reaches its destination.

But when it does, when I feel his lips wrap around my clit in an open-mouthed kiss, that’s when the kerosene truly meets the flames. I grasp the edges of the table, anchoring myself to its solidity. Again images of what was supposed to happen here flash through my head. Me, exposed, serving men against my will.

But the image comes crashing down as I feel his tongue press inside of me, penetrating me, then pulling out, then tasting again. His hand slips beneath my hips, lifting me for his benefit and mine.

There are no images anymore. I’m blind to all of it and like any blind woman my other senses are heightened. The feeling of his hands pressing into my flesh is a unique ecstasy. The flicks of his tongue are like jolts of electric delight; the sound of my heart beating is thunderous and beautiful.

My orgasm is almost luxurious in its decadence, like a fine champagne bursting from its bottle.

In a flash Robert pulls me forward. As he stands I remain laying on the surface of polished oak, my straight legs supported against his chest. I feel his erection against my thighs, eager for entry. I grant it by lifting my hips; his hands quickly reach to hold them in place as my back rises with them into the air.

He enters me again and moves slowly, the gratification of this steady, cadenced hypnosis. This is what it is to
feel
beauty, to experience the texture of bliss.

For a moment I think I hear music like I heard in my fantasy but it’s only our mingled breathing, his growls harmonizing with my cries of rapture as he drives into me again and again.

What if Dave comes home? What if he sees Robert making love to me in his house, on his table where I have served him coffee, where he would have me sit by his side, the perfect subservient wife.

He’d broadcast the news to the world, to my family, and to my employers.

But as Robert grinds against me, I find that I don’t care. This is my rebellion. It’s a day of sunshine amid a season of rain and I will not waste it.

And then the dance shifts. He releases me, pulls away, lays me flat on the table. For a moment I’m confused, disoriented. I’m not ready for this to end.

And neither is he. He pulls me up so now I sit before him as he stares. The intimacy of a look can have its own tender eroticism. I link my legs around him, lean my weight back on my hands. The summons could not be clearer. With a single thrust he’s inside me again but this time he reaches new depths. I cry out as he leans forward, his teeth nibbling my ear before his tongue seeks out the nerve endings there.

“He’s never going to touch you again,” he whispers as he speeds up his rhythm. The table vibrates with our movement but it’s sturdy and strong, stronger than the rules I once set for myself, stronger than the threats of my enemies, stronger than my restraint that crumbles the moment Robert enters a room.

“I am the only man you will ever make love to again.”

I feel myself tremble as my muscles begin to contract.

“I’ll have you in his house, in mine, in your office, in a thousand beds all over the world. But this,” and now he pushes into me with even more force, “this is mine.” Again I cry out as yet another orgasm rips through me. And I feel him join me, feel him coming inside me, feel him throb as he claims me in the only way a man can really claim a woman.