Just One Night, Part 2: Exposed (5 page)

She stands up, crosses to me. She stands close, too close. “I would never fuck Dave,” she purrs. “I’d fuck you, though. Tell me, Kasie, have you ever been touched by a woman?” She reaches forward and brushes her hand against my breast. I jump back, shocked and completely thrown. When I asked Barbara to invite Asha into my office, I had a plan. I had set a trap for a wolf. I hadn’t understood that the predator I faced was a viper.

“I’m not a lesbian, not exactly,” Asha explains, answering a question no one had asked. “It’s more like authority, privilege . . . entitlement that I’m attracted to. I like to strip it away like so much unneeded clothing. I’d love to see you naked, tied to a bed, your body responding to my touch even though you wouldn’t want it to. I’d love to see you completely vulnerable with no semblance of control. Then again, you’re completely vulnerable now, aren’t you? And if there’s anyone in this room with control, it’s me.”

Is Asha trying to commit career suicide? She reports to me! If I told Human Resources what she’s saying to me now . . .

My cheeks heat up as what she already knows comes crashing home to me. Her smile is gentle, almost sympathetic.

“You’re not going to tell anyone about this conversation, Kasie. You can’t. One of us cares about her personal reputation, and I can destroy it with a word.” She leans her shoulder against the wall next to me, too close but not touching me. “I bet you made yourself vulnerable to Mr. Dade. That’s a man who can make a woman beg; I’m
sure
he can make you beg. And I bet that man is hung. Guys with big, rough hands like his always are. I bet your pussy’s sore for days after he’s done with you.”

“Get out of my office.”

“But you’re the one who asked me to come, didn’t you, Kasie?” she asks. “You brought me here to toy with me, find out what I know. Well,” she says, inching even closer. I turn my head away but I can still hear her whisper, a malicious seduction that makes me shiver: “What you’ve found out is that I know
everything
and now it’s my turn to play.”

She pushes herself off the wall and starts to walk toward the door.

“I don’t have as much to lose as you think,” I call after her. “If Tom already knows what I’ve done, as you suggest, then he’s known for a long time. And I still have my job. Nothing’s changed for me here.”

“Ah, but Tom is comfortable with corruption as long as it works to his purposes. But even he knows that if Dylan Freeland, the founder of our company . . . the fucking
godfather
of your fiancé, ever found out, your office would be mine.”

“So why are you talking to me?” I ask. “Why not tell the world?”

She shrugs. “Because this is fun. And if Dave hasn’t exposed you yet, it’s because he’s giving you another chance. He’ll back up any lies you spew. It’ll be his word . . . and yours and Robert’s against mine. I wouldn’t stand a chance. But if you slip up again? And Dave finds out?” She wags her finger at me. “That’s when the real fun begins.”

She smiles again knowing everything she said is perfectly clear and totally ambiguous. Then with another shrug she says, “See you at the meeting!”

I watch her leave and then, with the wall pressing into my back, I slide to the floor; my knees come to my chest and I bury my face in my hands.

CHAPTER
5

I
DON’T KNOW HOW
I got through that meeting. Every one of Asha’s comments and questions were completely appropriate. Her composure was perfection. Mine, not so much. I knocked over a bottle of water on my files, I tripped up on my words, I had to ask Taci to repeat her proposal for Maned Wolf’s international repositioning twice.

The problem was not what Asha knew. The problem was that Asha didn’t lie. She treasured the viciousness of complete honesty. She used truth as a weapon every bit as much as I used lies as a shield. That meant that if anyone ever asked Asha the wrong question . . .

Even now as I sit in my office, alone among a pile of paperwork, the thought makes me shudder. When did I become the fly in the web? But no, that’s wrong. The fly is an innocent. I am not.

Most of my coworkers have already gone home. Barbara left ages ago, but I’m still here, as is often the case. This office was once my sanctuary and I hope that in my solitude I can find a way to recapture that feeling.

Daylight is fading behind a smoggy sunset. The sky is a brilliant combination of pinks and lavenders. That’s the thing about smog. It’s toxic and according to the American Cancer Society it can even be deadly. But when framed the right way, at just the right moment it can make everything beautiful, and you forget. You look up at those colors as the sun rises and declines and you forget that the very thing that is enhancing the natural light, the thing that makes everything look so intensely beautiful, is slowly killing you. Eventually the sun gets a little higher and you see the ugliness of it. But by then it’s too late. You’ve been pulling it into your lungs for hours. It has you. It’s in you. That’s it.

I wonder if my affair with Robert Dade has been a little like that. Intense, brilliant, beautiful . . . but now it’s killing me. I’ve lost control and for me, for my entire life, control has been my oxygen.

I stare intently at the colors, wishing they would stay. What if I had never met Dave? What if I had found this job that I have loved so much on my own? What if when I had met Robert in Vegas, I had been free? How would things have proceeded? Would we have dated like a normal couple? No, nothing about Robert Dade is normal. But still, we would have become a couple. I’m sure of it. We would have traveled together—sometimes hiking up the Mayan pyramids; other times making love in “The Hotel of Kings” in Paris, the Tuileries Gardens below our window.

But I’m being too conventional in my thinking. We could go to Nice, to the Musée Marc Chagall, rent out the concert hall for a private performance. Not something the Musée would normally agree to, but Monsieur Dade could make it happen.

A small band of musicians is waiting for us on the stage as we walk into the room bathed in the blue light streaming through the stained glass. A pianist sits with his fingers poised over a baby grand that would be completely unremarkable if the lid of the piano wasn’t open to reveal painted lovers rising into a blue-gray landscape. Around them are villagers, a quarter of the size of the lovers. They don’t attempt to match the couple’s grandeur but they seem to rejoice in the warmth that emanates from them.

Robert leads me past rows of empty seats until we are in the front of the room, just a few feet from the stage. He steps away from me only to extend his hand in my direction, his palm up, offering a universal invitation that he reiterates with words when he asks, “Will you dance?”

As I take his hand the band starts to play and we begin to move. The bass is so low, its vibrations tremble against my skin as I follow Robert’s lead in something that resembles a waltz but is different enough to make it uniquely ours. I throw back my head and laugh as I’m twirled around the room, wrapped up in blue light and Monsieur Dade’s arms.

But then he stops, right there in the middle of the floor and with a slow smile, he tells me I’m beautiful. Lifting myself onto my tiptoes, I kiss his lips, lightly at first but then his hand moves to the back of my head, pulling me in closer.

The music soars with my pulse and we begin to dance again. But this time it’s different. Our shirts drift to the floor as the sonata ends, bringing us to a new, more rhythmic melody. Then comes his belt, my skirt, everything, until we are dancing naked through the hall. A red dove on painted blue glass seems to swoop down on us as his tongue parts my lips. The music beats through me as we sway. I feel him get hard against me. The musicians don’t even seem to notice us; that’s not their place in this dream. They are only required to provide Robert and me with a soundtrack for our passion. And as he lowers me to the floor, as I roll on top of him, straddle his hips and feel him push inside of me, I know that, in the ways that count, it is just the two of us. I ride him slowly, moving with the tempo.

The musicians have the stage. We have each other.

Robert’s hands slide to my waist, guiding me, moving me so I can feel the full length of him inside of me. Painted memories of Chagall’s youth seem to fall from the sky as Robert sits up. He’s still inside me as I sit facing him in his lap. For a moment we don’t move; we just take a moment to feel what it is to be connected, with our bodies, with our eyes, by an emotion that is so much bigger than either one of us.

And then the dance starts again. I gasp as his hips buck against mine, splitting me open until it feels like it’s not just him but the music itself that’s inside of me, moving through me, resonating against every nerve ending to make me frantic with desire.

With one decisive movement he flips me over and I cling to him as he begins to pull out only to enter me again with a forceful thrust and a gentle kiss. “I love you,” he says, and I respond in kind.

He positions one of my legs above his shoulder. “Follow my lead,” he whispers.

And with that he thrusts again and my world is filled with ecstasy. The music, the art, the man who makes my heart pound . . . it brings me to the brink of nirvana and as Chagall’s lovers swirl in their blue light I come with a cry that echoes through the room.

His sweat is mingled with mine, my nose is filled with the sent of our sex . . .

. . . and we’re not done.

He turns me on my stomach and again he enters me. On the ground I can see fragmented reflections of blue, a cool contrast from the red heat inside me.

As he pushes farther and farther inside, his hand strokes the length of my back with a subtle pressure that brings me to crescendo. And as I come again, I hear him cry out, too. We climax together in the blue light of Chagall’s concert hall, surrounded by music.

My name is on his lips and it’s what I hear as he lays his head between my shoulder blades. “I love you,” he says again as the musicians transition to a quieter song.

And in the perfection of that moment I know it’s true.

Just as I know the sunset I see right now is beautiful.

But like my fantasy, it’s fading. Darkness is coming.

The door opens to my office. I don’t turn to see who it is. I know just by the way my ring seems to get heavier on my hand.

“The workday’s over,” Dave says; his voice is laced with his newfound cruelty. “Get your stuff together. I have plans for us.”

CHAPTER
6

W
E DON’T SAY
much as we crawl along with the late rush-hour traffic of the 405. Dave keeps his eyes on the road, his hands on the wheel. I can smell the smoke of cigars on his clothes. He stopped by his men’s club before coming to me, sat in a leather armchair, chortled while some stockbroker told him a dirty joke, basked in the glory of being one of the elite. But whatever cheer he derived from those interactions fell away as soon as he got within touching distance of me.

I want to tell him that if he’s truly repelled by me, he should just let me go, spare us both. But I know it’s not that straightforward for him. There’s pride involved and maybe, to use Asha’s word,
entitlement
. There’s more, too, emotions and motivations I can’t yet read, but I’m too tired tonight to dip deep into that brew. I rest my head against the passenger window and wonder how long I can extend the silence.

“I talked to your parents today,” he says.

And I can feel the smog in my lungs.

I force my brain to start running through the facts rather than giving in to the panic that’s ebbing its way in. Dave is not like Asha. He can lie. He could be lying to me now. He has every reason to want to unnerve me.

“You called them,” I say, making my words into a statement rather than a question. If I’m wrong, he’ll smirk, inadvertently giving me a clue as to what’s going on. If I’m right, he’ll think I know him better than I do.

But of course I don’t know him at all. The man sitting by my side is little more than an ice sculpture of the warm human being who used to hold me through the nights.

Dave doesn’t smirk. Instead he nods, almost reluctant to acknowledge the accuracy of my statement. Perhaps he wants to keep me guessing about everything.

“Do you want to know what I told them?”

It’s funny, but I don’t think I’ve ever heard menace and hope mingled together like that. He wants so badly for me to take the bait. He wants to win the game. For him this is a sporting event, one that he’s only beginning to master.

For me it’s a war.

“Only if you want to tell me,” I say, a false retreat as I work to lure out the truth.

He gives me a sharp look. “I guess it doesn’t matter. Obviously I told them enough to keep them from calling you.”

“Is that obvious?” I ask. One more bullet deflected.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, aren’t you trying to prove a negative? You’re assuming they didn’t call me after your conversation, but you haven’t actually asked me if that’s the case.” I reach over and take his hand, ignoring the frostbite sting of his touch. “If you truly want to help me, like you say, then you need to communicate with me honestly.”

Again the silence comes as Dave keeps his eyes on all the brake lights ahead; they’re like the intent red eyes of demons watching a show.

“Things are supposed to be a certain way,” he says after we’ve rolled through another quarter of a mile. The statement isn’t meant for me; it’s not exactly like he’s talking to himself, either. This has the sound of a prayer, like he’s gently correcting God, reminding the universe how to act.

My hand is still on his, keeping the force field down. “What did you tell my parents, Dave?”

“I am so incredibly angry with you.” Again I’m not sure if the words are meant for me or God, though undoubtedly they ring true for both of us. “I’m not going to let you go, but I can’t let
it
go, either. They say love and hate are the opposite sides of the same coin but I never understood that expression before. I never got it. Now I do.”

I withdraw my hand. If this is what’s beneath the force field, it’s not worth my time. “This isn’t a coin toss,” I say. “If it was, I’d pick it up and flip it back to love.” I snap my fingers and then smile down at them wistfully. “It would be that easy.”

He doesn’t say anything and keeps his eyes on the highway. “I told them you were acting like Melody. I didn’t need to say much more before they speculated on the details themselves.”

I freeze. That bullet hit. My throat begins to constrict. But . . . “If you had told them that, they would have called me.”

“I told them not to. I told them I’d set you straight . . . or not.”

“I don’t understand.”
And if it doesn’t make sense then it can’t be true,
I want to add. It can’t be true. I won’t allow myself to even entertain it.

“Your mother thinks she did this to you. Maybe she did. She’s hysterical. Your father probably agrees but he won’t say as much. Since they think they’re the cause of the problem, they’re letting me be in charge of the solution.”

I feel myself color. “You think you’re in charge of me?”

“Yes. They’re disgusted with you, Kasie. They think you’re nothing better than a common slut fucking her way to the top. After we spoke, your father actually speculated that you might have been granting favors to some of your professors.”

“Shut up.”

“Tell me, how did you get an A in physics when you don’t know the difference between fission and fusion? Did you stay after class? Crawl under his desk, rub yourself against his leg like a dog in heat?”

“I earned every grade I got.”

“But
how
did you earn them? In sweat? Was it the papers you put on the professors’ desks that pleased, or was it the view of you bent over their desks, arching your back, offering your body as a door prize?” He shakes his head. “I think the saddest thing I ever heard was your father saying that it might have been better if they hadn’t had children. I don’t know, Kasie—they could be done with you. Just like they were done with the disappointment they spawned before you, even before she died.”

I can see my father sitting at the kitchen table with my mother. I hear him running through the filthiest of possibilities as my mother gets smaller and smaller in her chair. They don’t know I’m there, standing outside the room, peeking in. I only turned nine a few days earlier; my birthday party had ended badly right after my father had caught my sister and some man together in her bedroom.

“She was high, Donna,” he says to my mother. “My guess is that he gave her the drugs. That’s what she was doing, she was paying him with the only currency she has. And she did it during Kasie’s birthday. She taints everything she touches. We have to kick her out. I won’t have that kind of depravity in my house.”

“She’s our daughter.” It takes me a moment to realize it’s my mother speaking. She sounds so different. The polish has faded from her perfect diction and her words are laid bare, the desperation on display for all to see.

“She stopped being our daughter when she became a whore.”

Is there a tremor in his voice? Is he struggling with his proclamation? I don’t know. All I hear is the definitiveness of the sentence. I hear the condemnation. Only yesterday we were innocent, my sister and I. Her oddities were eccentricities; she was a handful. My father needed to take her in hand; that’s all.

But now she’s a whore.

Whores are nothing.

Whores can be cast out, punished, hated. I’m watching my father learn to hate my sister.

“Not under my roof,” he says, and I wonder if I’ll ever see her again.

I reach for my handbag, but Dave stops me with a look before asking, “What are you doing?”

“I’m calling my parents.”

Dave opens his mouth to protest, then stops and shrugs. The traffic is lightening as I fish out my cell and dial the numbers of my father.

It’s hard to hold the phone; my palms are slick with sweat and my eyes are already misting over.

My father picks up. “Kasie?” he says, surprised. Perhaps he didn’t think I’d be brave enough to call.

“Dad, I . . . we need to talk. I know . . . I know how angry you must be with me.”

There’s a long pause on the other end of the line and I anxiously try to think of a way to proceed.

“Kasie, is there something you’re trying to tell me?” he finally asks. His voice is cautious . . . and confused.

“You . . . you don’t know why you might be angry at me?” I look over at Dave. He’s grinning.

“Have you done something?”

I pull the phone away from my ear. Part of me wants to laugh with relief and hysteria and pain. Dave’s playing a game. I’m fighting a war. He’s winning and I’m dying.

With a shaky hand I bring the phone back up. “I just realized that I didn’t spend much time with you at the party and I didn’t even offer to drive you back to the airport the next day. I’ve been horribly neglectful.”

“Which is why you had Dave call us,” my father says; his voice isn’t guarded anymore. It’s relaxed; he’s pleased with my apology for what he sees as a minor offense. “Dave explained how things are at your work right now. You do what you need to do, honey.”

“OK,” I say, numbly.

“Dave’s a good man,” my father says thoughtfully. “He’s . . . decent and he comes from a good family. I really like him.”

“I know,” I say.

Dave pulls us into a new lane and we pass a stream of cars slowly making their way to an exit.

“We’re proud of you, Kasie. We’re proud of the choices you’ve made in your life. And please don’t worry about being caught up at work. Your mother and I completely understand. And it’s not forever, right?”

“Right.”

“Good! So soon you’ll be the sweet, attentive daughter we all know and love. Just make sure you don’t neglect that man of yours. He’s a treasure, too.”

Trust, sweet, love
 . . . these words seem loaded to me now that I’m living in a world of deception, bitterness, and hate. Dave’s clearly enjoying my unraveling. He’s savoring the sour taste of my betrayal, letting the vinegar slide around on his tongue before swallowing it, and now I can smell it on his breath and seeping out of his pores. It defines him.

I say good-bye to my father, doling out enough pleasantries in the process to distract him from the sadness he might hear if he bothered to listen too closely.

I look at Dave. He’s still smiling but his smile doesn’t seem to be attached to the rest of him. His shoulders are rigid, his eyes are hard, his hands grip the steering wheel like it’s a rifle someone might try to pull away from him.

“I’m sorry,” I say. For the first time today I mean it. “I’m sorry I made you so very sad and so horribly angry.”

The smile stays plastered in place but his shoulders rise even higher. “Just because I didn’t tell them this time doesn’t mean I won’t. Your father won’t forgive you.”

“Dave, you don’t have to let this happen.”

“What?” he says with a short laugh. “I don’t have to expose you?”

“You don’t have to let my misjudgments change who you are.”

He’s quiet for a moment; we switch from the 405 to the 101 and the traffic slows once more. “When you took off your clothes for him, when you let him touch you in all the places where only I was supposed to be allowed to touch you . . . was that a
misjudgment
?”

“Perhaps I should have chosen a different word but—”

“Like when a track and field athlete hits the bar during a vault . . . or a quarterback tries to throw the ball to a teammate only to miss his mark and have it intercepted . . . that kind of misjudgment?”

“We’re not arguing semantics while we stomp on one another’s hearts.”

“No, we’re not arguing; I’m asking you a question. I’m giving you an opportunity to explain yourself.”

“I’ve already done that.”

“Have you?” He turns to me. The traffic has stopped . . . an accident perhaps. Someone’s carelessness has destroyed property and lives.

“I had wedding jitters . . . I got scared—”

“So you slept with someone else. You fucked a security blanket? Rubbed it between your legs, that made you feel . . . safe?”

“Dave—”

“Because I can do that, if that’s what you need.” With a jerk of his hand he plunges it between my thighs, roughly rubs the fabric against my vagina. The man driving the SUV in the next lane, bored and weary, looks over at the wrong moment. He sees where Dave’s hand is, makes eye contact with me, lifts his eyebrows.

I grab Dave’s hand and pull it away. “Knock it off.”

“Ah, so whereas when he fingers your pussy, it makes you feel safe, but when I do it, you find it repulsive.”

“When you do it in hate, yes, it’s repulsive.”

“You want to be touched in love?”

“Yes.”

“Then make me feel love.”

Perhaps it’s the accidental sincerity of his tone. I turn in my seat, try to study his expression, but his eyes stay stubbornly on the road. There’s something tragic in what he’s said.

“I don’t know if I can make you feel that.”

“Does he love you?”

I hesitate before answering. “I don’t know. I don’t even know if it matters.”

“And you?”

“You’re asking if I love him?”

“Yes . . . no . . . I . . .” His voice trails off and he blushes slightly, embarrassed by his own fumbling response.

The traffic in our lane starts to move. The witness to Dave’s brief assault falls behind us, making the memory nothing but a shrinking image in my side mirror. “What do you want to know, Dave?”