Just One Night, Part 3: Binding Agreement (5 page)

I haven’t thought of it like that before. “This isn’t a direction I’ve chosen for myself,” I say softly. “He’s chosen it for me.”

“And you’re afraid you’ll get lost?” Simone asks. She shakes her head, stirs her drink. “You can’t retrace your steps, Kasie. What’s happened, happened. As long as you’re at your firm, people will remember. You can either see this thing through and find out if it takes you to a place you like or you can leave the firm and go somewhere else. Start from scratch.”

“Are you kidding?” I exclaim. “I’ve put six years into that place! And where would I go? There is no other consulting firm in LA that has their reputation.”

“You could work for yourself.”

I blink. It’s not that the thought has never occurred to me but I’ve never taken it seriously. The risks involved in being self-employed are too great. The only structure is the one you create. “I’m not cut out for that kind of uncertainty.”

“Well then you have a problem.” Simone gathers her blonde hair into her hands, pulling it up to the nape of her neck. “Everything about your life is pretty uncertain right now. That’s not going to change regardless of what you do.”

I hang my head, defeated. “I’m lost.”

“No, you know where you are, you’re just not sure which routes you want to take,” Simone notes. “You have to make your own decisions, and you will. But I
will
tell you this, you’re not done with Robert Dade. Not by a long shot.”

When she says his name, I feel him. Feel his smile, his hands; I feel his lips against my neck. He’s never far away. Never out of my mind, always causing ripples. No, I’m not done with Robert Dade. I’m not sure I ever will be.

CHAPTER 7

T
HE NEXT MORNING
comes too soon. The drum of regret pounds gently at my temples, reminding me of last night’s decadence. The moment I arrive at work Barbara tells me in a voice laced with marvel and glee that I’m being moved to Tom’s office.

I nod, unable to show enthusiasm. “Did Mr. Dade call?” I ask. He hadn’t called the night before. There were no texts on my phone this morning.

Barbara shakes her head, her loose curls holding absurdly still due to an excess of hair spray. “You two didn’t have a spat, did you?” She leans forward conspiratorially, “I liked Dave but Mr. Dade is so much hotter.”

I bristle at the remark. It’s not fair to Dave that he be compared to Robert. They are no longer competing for the same prize. I nod curtly at Barbara and walk into the office I’m about to abandon.

I’ll be moving one floor up, a physical symbol of my current trajectory. I don’t make a fuss. No one comes to my office to congratulate me or help me in the move. It doesn’t take long. Six years and the only things in my office are papers and files. No pictures of kids, no cute little paperweights, no paintings that weren’t placed there by the company. There’s nothing in here that says,
This is Kasie’s office,
except for those files, which, of course, are more than enough. Many a night I have found comfort in the numbers and calculations that are stored so neatly in files and storage disks. Their cold logic is something I can count on. If I could manage to turn my entire life into a math equation, I’m sure I could figure it out.

Still, I’ve become accustomed to my office, the way the drawers of the file cabinets creak their greetings when I pull them open. I’m fond of my desk with its hardwood dyed black, the subtle curve of its legs that hint at a certain femininity to this utilitarian piece of furniture.

But of course my new office is better. The view shows a little more of the city, the desk is made of a slightly better wood, the chair is a little more comfortable. The only thing that intimidates me is the work that waits for me here. Files stacked on top of one another are filled with information about departments I’ve never been briefed on. My in-box is flooded with information that needs learning and questions that need answers. I will be organizing teams for projects without knowing the players I’ll be picking from. I will be helping those teams address problems I don’t understand. Mr. Costin seems to have “forgotten” to give me password access to some files I’ll need in order to manage the departments successfully, so I end up spending at least an hour talking to the IT guys—IT guys who, if I didn’t know better, were instructed to deliberately try my patience. I might have written it off as the normal inconvenience of tech problems if I didn’t see one of them smirk when I wondered aloud why Mr. Costin hadn’t given me the authorization he knew I’d need.

And still Robert doesn’t call.

I spend the day reading and taking notes. A few of the people who will be working for me stop by to offer congratulations. All the words are right and the bitterness is concealed but I can still detect it. I can see the gleam of resentment in their eyes as they shake my hand, offer their help in the transition, and so on. None of them loved Tom but they all respected his work. Will they feel that way about me? Is that what I want? Respect mingled with animosity? Well, you play the hand you’re dealt. I bend my head over yet another file.

And still he doesn’t call.

It’s a good thing, I tell myself. I need some space from him. I can’t have him touching me with his voice, his eyes, his hands every day. He wants to corrupt me. I need space from him so that doesn’t happen. It’s good that he hasn’t called.

I keep reading the file, a low level of anxiety quickening my pulse.

Eventually the night arrives. I don’t leave until six thirty. There’s no point in staying longer. I can only learn so much in one day.

I’m ill at ease as I enter the garage, step into my car. Mr. Costin did not come to see me and when I tried to call him with questions, my calls were sent to voice mail. He’s trying to help me fail.

I pull my car onto the busy city streets. As usual the traffic is an exercise in patience. Most Angelenos can tolerate it as long as we’re moving forward. It’s when traffic is completely stopped that we become agitated. That’s when we have to admit that we chose the wrong route and are not going anywhere at all.

I eye the sign for the 101. South will take me home, north will take me to him.

I need to go south. It’s where I live, where I belong. I’m not ready for anything else. I don’t want it.

But I need it.

The Los Angeles traffic continues to creep; someone leans on his horn in a useless expression of frustration.

The palms of my hands are moist and slide up and down along the smooth leather of the steering wheel.

Go south; it’s where you belong. You don’t want what he wants.

I’m shaking now. The numbers I reviewed all afternoon have all been left in the office. There is nothing clear or simple for me to hold on to here. I’m closer to the freeway entrance. I see the little arrow pointing the way for me, urging me onto the freeway that will take me home.

But I don’t go home. I go north.

And when I pull onto the freeway, I see that the traffic going along this new direction isn’t so daunting. The devil has cleared the way.

Soon I get to his exit and in minutes I’m curving up the familiar street.

The gate to his driveway is open; the door, unlocked. I walk in without announcing myself.

He’s waiting for me in the living room. A bottle of champagne is chilling in a bucket. Flames dance in the fireplace.

“You’re late,” he says without animosity.

“I’m not supposed to be here,” I say quietly.

He’s wearing dark jeans and a T-shirt, his sports coat the only thing that indicates he’s not planning on a quiet evening at home. His only response is a smile.

“I haven’t heard from you since the meeting,” I add.

“So you came to me.” He pops the champagne, pours the bubbling gold into two waiting glasses.

I don’t answer; I don’t like to think of what my being here means.

“Drink, Kasie.”

My hand is unsteady as I take the glass. “I’m not supposed to be here,” I say again.

He simply wraps his hand over mine, raises the drink to my lips. “You were magnificent in that boardroom,” he says quietly.

The bubbles tickle my confidence. I bring the glass down and whisper, “I was. But I’m not ready for this promotion.”

His hand caresses my cheek, runs up through my hair before finding its place at the back of my neck. “You’re ready for anything.”

“If I screw this up, what happens?” I ask. “Will I get another chance? Will you make them indulge my incompetence?”

“You’ve never been incompetent.”

“And what’s the price for these favors?”

“Take another drink,” he suggests, his eyes smiling. He steps back, watches me, his own glass untouched.

“You were magnificent,” he says again. “The only price is that I want you to be magnificent every day. I want people to see it, feel it. And then I want to be inside the power that I’ve helped grant. I want to make you come, I want to see you command the world and tremble at my touch. I want to fuck you right here, and in my office, in yours; I want you to relish in the pleasure of both authority and submission on a daily basis. It’s an intoxicating combination and you are one of the few who can explore both.”

“I’m scared.”

“If you weren’t, you wouldn’t be very smart. But”—and with this he slips his hand under my shirt, under my bra, pinches my nipple—“fear can be fun. Like a scary movie or a haunted house. Fear can be its own high.”

“How can the man who makes all the rules and takes what he wants without apology, how can
he
be afraid of anything?” I counter. “You’re asking me to take pleasure in an emotion you know nothing about.”

“Ah, you’re wrong there.” He steps away from me, walks to the bookshelf, lets his finger slide over the bindings until it stops at one title, John Milton’s
Paradise Lost
. “It was my mother’s book,” he says, pulling it out. “She was the manager of a small office for a large company. My father was a broker working his way up, trading commodities and stocks he himself could barely afford. Buying and selling the promises of companies whose operations he knew little about. Don’t get me wrong,” he says, turning to me, smiling in the way people do when they relive uncomfortable memories. “He wasn’t bad at his job. His firm liked him. He was a team player.”

The last words are spoken like a curse. He walks to the fireplace, turns up the gas, making the flames surge. “When they set him up to take the fall for an insider trading charge, he didn’t stray from the script. He kept up the party line. Loyalty before survival; that was the way my father lived his life. He believed their promises. He told us they’d take care of him, make sure no felony counts would stick. He wouldn’t do a minute of prison time, his career would survive intact. They were such charming promises, dandelions in a field; that’s how my mother described them. Weeds, flowers that weren’t planned for but were pretty nonetheless.”

“They were lies,” I say. I’ve heard this story before. Different actors, same plot. I know how it goes.

“Most promises are,” Robert says, his eyes still on the fire giving him an eerie illumination that somehow tantalizes even as it intimidates. “People who are speaking the truth don’t have to promise. When a child promises to never sneak another cookie, or a husband promises to never flirt with another woman, when a criminal promises God he’ll be good if he can just get away with one more crime . . . those are always lies. The mother knows it, the wife knows it, God certainly knows it. But not my father, he chose to play the fool, and he paid for it.”

“Why are you telling me this?” I ask gently. I am not berating him but this confession doesn’t seem to connect to the conversation it was born from.

“Do you know why he couldn’t see through the lies?” Robert asks. The question is clearly rhetorical, so I remain silent and wait for him to continue.

“Because disobedience was scary. It’s always safer to do what you’re told rather than blaze your own path. People find it comforting to follow other people’s rules; they’ll choose certain destruction over a risk that might lead to possible salvation. They cling to this idea that it could be worse and they’re more terrified of that than they are attracted to the idea that it might be better.” He sighs, walks back to the bookcase, puts
Paradise
back on the shelf.

“How long was he in jail?” I ask.

“Four years. It turns out there was more to the story and the crimes than my father knew. Securities fraud, false filings with the SEC, and so on. By refusing to explore the unknown he allowed the unknown to devastate him. My mother became a single parent. She put in long hours at her work but was continually passed over for promotion. Too many people she worked for knew about my father and they bought in to the idea of guilt by association. She could have quit, she could have worked a few less hours and spent some of her time sending out résumés to other places. God knows she needed to make more money and she had the intelligence to get ahead in a firm that would give her a chance. But she had been at her company since college. She was addicted to the familiarity.”

He comes to me, his arms encircle me, his hands slide to the small of my back. “Their mistakes were common ones. Sometimes we have to step out of our comfort zones. We have to break the rules. And we have to discover the sensuality of fear. We need to face it, challenge it, dance with it.”

“Dance . . . with fear?” my voice falters.

He smiles. “Yes. I’ve always pursued the paths that scare me, not because I want to conquer fear but because I know I have to live with it if I’m going to accomplish anything interesting. I take the risks that will unsettle me, and add an edge to my life because if I can make fear my lover, then she’ll serve me.” He raises his hands, puts one on either side of my face. “Fear is a lover I want to share, Kasie. I want to share her with you.”

I know what he’s saying is madness. The rantings of a hurt child whose greatest goal is rebellion. And yet the words entice me. How can they not? Deep down, in the part of me that I’ve tried so hard to bury, I am like Simone, always desirous of adventure.

He leans in close; his lips rest against my ear. “Come with me, pursue her with me now.”

And I let him lead me. We walk out of his home, into his garage, into his car that resembles art and power. It pulls out onto the street too fast; I feel my stomach drop as I’m pressed back in my seat. He takes the turns with the skill of a racecar driver and the recklessness of a teenager. I take a breath and realize he’s right. The fear is exciting.

I don’t ask where we’re going as we navigate the back roads of LA, streets that aren’t so carefully monitored by the LAPD. We’re a little off the grid, playing by Robert’s rules.

He finally pulls into a back alley behind a string of small restaurants and cheap nail salons. Most of these businesses have closed up for the night but I notice that there are still cars parked in a small, dingy lot that Robert slides us into. A light shines down on a white door against a dull brown building. He leads me to it and I see the word
Wishes
in small letters painted in red on the white surface. The color reminds me of blood, and passion and rubies.