Gagged (29 page)

“You’ve had a weird little back and forth for a week now. I vote that it’s close enough.”
 

“It’s way too early. And besides, it’d only be his mother anyway. His father just passed away. It’s been in the news and everything.”
 

Jasmine might be the only reporter who doesn’t read or watch the news, visit news sites, or even really care about the news. “Oh. That sucks. So when are you seeing him again? He didn’t say, ‘I’ll call you,’ did he?”
 

I’m seeing him tomorrow. Or at least I assume I am; we didn’t really make plans. But I’m sure that’s how it’ll be. Except that he’s a super-hot billionaire playboy who could have any woman he wants, and the freshness seal on this particular girl is no longer unbroken. Mission accomplished.
 

Stop it, Aurora. Just stop being a bitch to yourself.
 

“No. And I don’t know. But this bet I told you about … I don’t know how far it goes. How long we play his little game. So tomorrow … ” I trail off, unsure how that sentence ends.
 

“You still think he wants to win some stupid bet?”
 

I think of Lucy. Of things she told me about her family, her brother, her father. Caspian already told me about the similar bet he made with his dad: a battle of worldviews that was rigged from the start, that Caspian could never have won. And Lucy, unprompted, gave me the same basic story.
 

He doesn’t like to lose.

And coming from Lucy, I took that to mean that Caspian wouldn’t just vanish from my life until he was damn good and ready. That he wouldn’t “lose” me simply because I didn’t want to play. That no matter how far I tried to run from the man, he’d follow — so I might as well turn and face him, then get from each other what both of us need.
 

But now I imagine Lucy’s words meaning something different.
 

He doesn’t like to lose, Aurora. The only person who ever beat him was our dad
.
 

It makes me think that Caspian actually
does
care about this bet. Because he’s built his entire life around being an asshole who treats people terribly because they don’t deserve any better.
That
is the worldview that underpins every one of his decisions. Caspian’s company has changed the world, but only so far as it fattened his pockets. He doesn’t do charity. Even the way he entered my life displays his greedy, hoarding, self-centered view of the world: I took pictures of his ever-expanding building, money always flowing into excess instead of where it’s needed most.
 

If Caspian loses our bet, he’ll have to admit that maybe my worldview is as valid as his. He’ll have to consider the idea that maybe there is good in people, and that not all of us are like his father. Maybe charity and philanthropy make sense, and that maybe leaving positive change in his wake — not just amassing the most gold — would be his best legacy.

Caspian has a lot invested in believing he’s right about the world.
 

If he has to admit there’s joy in being kind instead — like our session today, which was so opposite his usual aggressive approach that it seemed to scare him — it’ll make him reevaluate just about everything.
 

And that’s something Caspian White won’t want to do.
 

Because he lost once to his father and won’t want to be defeated again.
 

Oh yes, Jasmine, I think this bet with silly old Aurora Henley matters
plenty
. Because I got to him today — and the man does not like to lose.

Today was a doozy for Caspian.
 

And tomorrow is bound to be a doozy for me.
 

“Exactly,” Jasmine says, apparently deciding I’ve agreed that the bet means nothing.

But now I’m wondering what today’s delicate lover will do to me tomorrow, when the padding comes off.

It makes me nervous.
 

But there’s more — something that threatens
my
worldview, and every decision
I’ve
made.

And it’s that thinking about what might happen tomorrow doesn’t just make me nervous.

It also turns me on.

CHAPTER FORTY

C
ASPIAN

T
HERE
’
S
A
KNOCK
ON
MY
door as I’m preparing.
 

On my fucking door
.
 

It’s right beside the elevator, but I don’t think I’ve ever opened it. I’m irked that it’s even there, but apparently building inspectors don’t like the idea of a penthouse accessible only by elevator. They think it’s a fire hazard, and that you might need stairs to escape. I think it’s my home and none of their fucking business, but it seems there are things money can’t buy after all.

But every door is locked, all the way up. It’s concrete on both sides, and opening the doors takes a key that only I have. Putting locking doors inside a stairwell is something else inspectors don’t like, but their resolve goes only so far.
 

I’m so sure I must be imagining things that I ignore the knock until I hear it again.
 

And then with my brow furrowing, I say, “Who’s there?”
 

“Theodore.”
 

The door’s so thick, it sounds like a woman. “Theodore who?”
 

“Theodore wasn’t open, so I’m knocking.”
 

“Oh.
Seriously
. Fuck off, Lucy.”
 

“Open the door. I want to talk to you.”

“How did you even get up here?”
 

“I blew the guard.”
 

“The guard is a woman. And she doesn’t have a key.”
 

“Then I blew a cat burglar.”

“Seriously, how the fuck did you — ?”

“I
run
this building, Caspian, that’s how! Do you really want to get into this now? Hell, I’ll give you a thousand dollars if you can even tell me where
your
key to the downstairs door is! Now open up! There are spiders in here.”
 

I look over my shoulder. Since I never have visitors and don’t like anyone in my space, I didn’t attempt to make my foyer presentable. The place looks like a leather dungeon. Today it’s a little disorderly; I still haven’t reeled in the ceiling cable I used to hold Aurora’s hands. Ironically, the farther-in places are more upstanding. You could have an elegant business meeting here once you’ve traversed the sex gauntlet.
 

But I don’t really want Lucy to see this. She knows a lot about me, and I’m sure she suspects even more. Of all people, she’d understand and forgive me. But there are social rules about letting your sister lay eyes on things you shove into other women.

“I’ll come downstairs. I’ll meet you in my office.”
 

“I’ve been calling you for hours. You keep ignoring me.”
 

“I’ve been in the shower.”
 

“For hours?”
 

“It’s been a filthy day.”
 

She slams her fist on the door. “Open it.”
 

“Ten minutes. Downstairs. I promise.”
 

“I have a key to this door too, Caspian. I just didn’t think it was fair to barge in. But you’re going to talk to me, and you’re going to do it right fucking now.
Here
. Don’t make bust in on you. Just open up.”
 

I look back again. She doesn’t know this side of me. Nobody does — except, now, Aurora. And the maids, who I pay well and who I get the impression have seen much worse. But if Lucy says she has a key, she probably does. And as amusing as the image of a power struggle over the turning doorknob is, I’m a bit too old to engage in that with my sister.

“Fine,” she says.
 

I hear keys jangle. I hear metal stab at the door’s back.
 

So I unlock the door, turn the knob, and open it. Lucy pushes through as if I might still slam the door on her, then jangles a bottle opener in front of my face and coos,
“Suck-er.”

Then she sees it all.
 

“Jesus. What is all this?”
 

“You insisted. I told you I’d rather meet downstairs.”
 

She’s walking along the wall, taking it all in. Not touching a thing, nor backing away. She keeps looking over at me, her big eyes wide.
 

“How long have you been into this?”
 

“That’s my business.”
 

“And that sweet girl Aurora? Is she into this kind of shit, too?”

“I’m not discussing this with you, Lucy.”
 

Her eyes go to the cable, unreeled from the winch, trailed in a snakelike pool on the floor. She says nothing, but I’ll bet she’s connecting that dots, looking at me with something that’s working hard not to be judgment.
 

She looks across the room. At me. And then she sort of softens and almost shakes her head.
 

“They really fucked you up, didn’t they?”
 

“Who?”
 

“I’m sorry, Caspian. I had no idea. I thought you were exaggerating. I know you never got along all that well, but I … I thought you were being you.”
 

Is she feeling sorry for me? That just pisses me off. I was already agitated, and the knock at my private door ruffled me further. This is icing on the cake. I didn’t invite her here. I didn’t
want
her here. I tried to keep her from being here, just like I’ve always kept my truest pieces under wraps. I’m not ashamed of who I am. I just don’t want anyone to see it.
 

“Why are you here, Lucy? What was so damn important for you to force your way up into my space, knowing how much it would fucking piss me off?”
 

There’s a moment of hesitation, then she seems to mentally shelve the sex dungeon topic for another time and says, “It’s Mom.”
 

“What about her?”
 

“She’s not doing well. I want you to come and see her.”
 

“Lucy … ”
 

“I know, Caspian. I know.” Her eyes scan the room again, seeing all my black leather and whips and restraints and benches and gags.
“Believe
me, I get it now. But I’m not asking for her. I’m asking for me.” When she stops and I don’t immediately leap down her throat, she adds, “Like the funeral.”
 

“I told you, I’m not going. I feel no need to say goodbye. He and I said all that needed saying. I don’t feel like standing around with everyone watching me, with fucking camera crews trying to sneak their way in, trying to decide whether I prefer to come off like a stone cold automaton or would rather pretend to cry and miss him so I don’t look like an ass. There’s no way to win. And the worst thing? He wouldn’t want me there. He’d tell me I should be working — trying to make this little podunk company of mine worth something, somehow.”
 

“He’d want you there, Caspian. He loved you, and you know it. The two of you had some good times, too.” Then she seems to decide on an added benefit and adds, “Besides, if you came to the funeral, you could talk to her.”
 

I give Lucy a look that says,
Let’s move on
.

“Just Mom, then.”
 

“I don’t have much to say to her, either.”

“She’s confused. Clinically. It’s like she’s having a breakdown. He was her rock, and now that he’s gone, she — ”

“He wasn’t her rock. He controlled her, like he controlled us.”
 

“Either way. She’s kind of like a boat without a rudder now.”
 

“Why don’t you take over telling her what to do? Tell her what to wear, how to act in public, how to serve you in private. What do you think their sex life was like, Lucy? Do you think they had one? Because I think they did. And I’ll bet it was as hot and sexy as rape.”

Lucy half collapses, half sits. She’s on my spanking table, but I’m going to do my best not to point it out.
 

And she’s crying. Again.
 

“Let it go,” I say. “You’re letting them control you.”
 

I put my hand on her shoulder, but Lucy slaps it away. She’s suddenly all eyes, her stare practically knocking me back. She’s made up for work, and her mascara has darkened, threatening to run.
 

“Fuck you, Caspian!”
 

“Me?”
 

“Yes! You! Why are you like this? Why are you such a bastard?” Her eyes again take in some of my toys, silently adding them to her side of this strange argument. “You keep telling me this isn’t your problem. Dad getting sick wasn’t your problem. Mom getting worried wasn’t your problem. When he passed away it wasn’t your problem; his funeral isn’t your problem; Mom blabbing about moving back to Inferno Falls,
alone
, isn’t your problem. So whose fucking problem is it? It’s
mine
, that’s whose. Not Mom’s and definitely not Dad’s anymore. No. It all falls right
here.”
And she points at both of her shoulders. “But do you care? Do you even care about me a little?”
 

“Our mother wants to move back to Inferno?” I can’t help myself, so I say, “Maybe we’ll finally have distance.”
 

Lucy is back up in a second. Punching me in the chest. Trying to slap my face. If I lower my guard, I’m sure she’d scratch me. I can see how thin her resolve has become. She keeps a great facade but is fraying under the surface. Great outer appearances and blighted centers — both could be on the family crest.
 

“Fuck you!
FUCK! YOU!”
 

I grab her hands.
 

“Lucy!”
 

And she collapses against me. All the fight leaves her, and there’s only sobbing. I guess I’m the rock now — except that’s not true at all. I’m not the port in the storm; I’m the breakwater that ships dash themselves to pieces upon. I’m not her cure; I’m her disease. I’m not solving Lucy’s problems. I’m only making them so much worse.