Binding Agreement

Chapter 12





I GET THROUGH THE night, back at my house, alone . . . but, God, it’s hard. I want to help Dave. I even want to help Tom now. But I don’t know if I can. I certainly can’t do it tonight. But I suppose that if Robert has taught me one thing, it’s that, when all else fails, help yourself. It’s just that now I think that helping myself means making myself better, not through wealth or power, but through the effort of rediscovering my own humanity.

And then the pain . . . in my gut, in my heart, it’s overwhelming and keeps me up until dawn. I lost something extraordinary, something that I’ve come to think of as essential. I lost the moon.

And now it’s morning and I’m at work trying to see my coworkers with new eyes. I notice that Barbara is more deferential than she has been in years past, more so than even a month ago. She no longer tries to gossip with me, no longer rolls her eyes when one of the other employees says something silly, not in front of me anyway. I always thought Barbara was a little too familiar anyway but now I find that I miss her casual demeanor. Maybe she respects me more now . . . or maybe she’s just scared.

Other people in the office behave similarly. Everyone is polite; many of them go out of their way for me. I’ve asked for reports from various people and they’ve all been delivered a day early. Robert would be so proud. I’ve learned to make fear work for me.

It’s fairly rare that we respect the individual who has that power over us.

Simone’s words. But if I believe them, if I actually buy in to her whole philosophy on this topic, then I have to accept that I represent the status quo, the norm. I have to accept that despite Robert’s influence I’m not exceptional at all.

I sit at my desk, sift through my e-mails. One of the consultants writes to inform me of the three new companies they’ll be approaching this month; another reports on the retention rate of the clients we have. The e-mails are so neat and clean. What’s being said in the rooms where those e-mails are being written? What are they saying about the woman they address in these messages as Miss Fitzgerald?

. . . when someone has power over us we go out of our way to look for that person’s flaws. We exaggerate them in our minds and in our gossip.

Well really, how much exaggeration would be necessary? She picked him up in Vegas, while playing blackjack, while sipping scotch, while wearing a dress that revealed all her secrets. She went to his room where he dabbled the scotch on her skin, where he tasted her. She called him Mr. Dade.

All this while her lover of six years waited for her at home. While he trusted her, while he boasted of her modesty.

No, no elaboration was needed. Any details they might imagine could not be more salacious than the truth. Barbara buzzes my office, tells me in a polite, clipped voice that a package has arrived. Unreported profits and losses of a client who wouldn’t dare risk sending an electronic file out into the wild-robber-ridden-west that is our cyberworld.

We convince ourselves that they’re not really deserving. That they’re not better than us.

But I’m not deserving. I’m not better than any of them. Maybe I have the talent and intelligence necessary for the job but I haven’t paid the dues. I’m here because I slept with the right men. Everyone knows that.

More e-mails light up my in-box. More reports, more requests for permission to pursue one account or another. All addressed to Miss Fitzgerald, all written with practiced caution.

We still respect the power and we will still bend to it regardless of how we may feel about the hands that hold it.

I look down at my hands, remember how they feel when they’re against Robert’s naked skin. I remember the pleasure and the excitement.

I remember how it felt when I first wrapped my hand around his erection, how the ridges rubbed against my palm as I moved my hand up and down.

And I remember how it felt to slip that same hand into Dave’s grasp less than a week later when he gently led me to the jeweler where we could shop for a ring.

I close my hand into a fist, turn my head away in disgust. I know how people feel about the hands that hold my power. They’re the hands of a slut.

But then again that’s not really true, is it? Because it’s Robert who holds my power. That’s common knowledge. All this time I’ve fooled myself into believing that people fear and respect the ocean but in the tradition of all the great ancient societies, it’s the moon they worship. It’s the moon they respect and pay homage to, pray to. The ocean? That’s nothing more than a consequence of the greater gods.

This fear I’m banking on, it’s fear Robert has loaned me. Once they all find out that Robert is no longer part of my life, what holds it all together?

And how do I live knowing that I will no longer be able to lay my hands on him? How can I breathe without the promise of that sin?

The thought makes me feel slightly ill. I try to focus on other things—the reports, the files, the balance sheets—but in the end my thoughts keep going back to him. I need his guidance, the comfort of his voice.

I look down at the file open in front of me before slamming it closed. Numbers can be comforting but right now I need the distraction of antagonism.

I go down to Asha’s office. I don’t call ahead first although I should. Her assistant doesn’t stop me as I walk to her door, open it without knocking. She’s sitting at her desk, poring over a file. Draped over her chair is a fox-fur–trimmed coat, the kind of coat you could never justify a need for here in LA. She looks up at me with her eyes without moving her head, her dark hair hanging loosely over her shoulders. Her lips curl into a slow, sinister smile.

Ah Asha, I can always count on you to reject fear in favor of hate. I step inside, close the door behind me.

Leisurely, she straightens her posture. “Have you come up with some fresh torture for me today?”

“I could have you fired,” I say blandly. “Doesn’t that bother you?”

“We’ve had this conversation, right here in this office. Why retread old ground?” When I don’t answer, she presses further. “Why are you here, Kasie?”

I sigh, let my eyes run over her white walls, her dark wood desk. Like me she doesn’t have any photos of loved ones and I remark on it.

“I don’t take my personal life into work with me,” she says simply.

“Do you have a personal life?”

Again she smiles. “Ask me during my personal time.”

I nod although I doubt that she’ll ever answer a question she doesn’t want to answer regardless of what time it is. “I’m sorry I didn’t let you lead the Maned Wolf project,” I say, gesturing to the file. “Daemon didn’t earn the privilege.”

“Don’t apologize; it won’t do you any good.”

The comment takes me by surprise. “You act like you’re the one with the upper hand here.”

Asha leans back in her chair, swivels back and forth, half thoughtful, half bored. “As you’ve pointed out a few times, you could have me fired and for a little while there I thought you would. When you gave Daemon the authority that should be mine, I thought you had plans to bring me down slowly, painfully; at least that’s what I thought for a second.”

“For a second?”

“You know, when you asked me to acknowledge him as my superior. That was quite a move on your part, way up there on the evil scale. Except as soon as you got me to say what you wanted me to say, as soon as I had humiliated myself in front of my coworkers, you got this look on your face—”

“What look?”

“The look of guilt of course,” she laughs. “You really want to be bad, you just can’t quite carry it off.” She stands up, walks around her desk, and props herself on top of it. “I think that’s why you’re with Mr. Dade. I used to think you were using him to get ahead. But now? Now I think you like him because he gives you permission to be bad, and when you don’t take him up on it, he’s bad for you. He does all your dirty work, pulls you into doing what you want to do but don’t dare to initiate. That way you can avoid the guilt . . . or least that’s the theory.”

“Your theory?”

“No, no, it’s yours. My theory is that your theory isn’t working out for you. You let him take control, do the things he tells you to do, let him touch you in ways and places you think you should be ashamed of all in the hope that you’ll be able to enjoy it without the guilt. But your guilt is a little more tenacious than that. It enslaves you, like it always does.”

“I’m a slave to my guilt?” I snap. Somehow this accusation more than all the others pisses me off. “Tom is gone. I haven’t campaigned for him to get his job back. I haven’t let Mr. Costin shame me. I haven’t apologized to anyone—”

“You just apologized to me.”

I stand there with my mouth slightly open. She’s got me there.

And she knows it. She stands up, crosses to me, takes her hands and pulls my hair back off my shoulders. “Why the fascination with me? Is it because you want to be me?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Because I live without guilt. I know what I want, and I don’t agonize over it. Sometimes I don’t get it right away, sometimes it takes a while, but I can be patient and when I need to be, I can be ruthless while smiling.” She drops my hair, steps back, and lets her eyes move up and down my body until I cross my arms over my chest protectively. “If I had been in your position during our last meeting, I would have made you call Daemon your superior, too. But I wouldn’t have felt bad about it. Then I would have found a way to arrange yet another meeting, just the three of us.”

“Why would you want to do that?”

“Because I’d want Daemon to see what I could do to you.” She reaches out again, lets her fingers rest against my throat, slide down to the curve of my breast. I step back.

I step back . . . but not away. I’m not shouting at her or threatening her. I simply step back. If fear is my lover, then here in Asha’s office it masters me, makes my heart race, keeps me there with its dark allure.

“Can you imagine it?” Asha asks. “If Daemon was sitting right there”—she looks back at her desk and seems to make eye contact with eyes that aren’t there—“imagine how he’d react if he saw you jump when I do this.” Her hand moves forward again, between my legs; again I jump and step back.

“Imagine if he saw that,” she says again. “He’d never leave you alone, not your superior, Daemon. He’d be calling you into his own office every day, just to test you, touching you in a different place each time. Sometimes he’d brush his hand against your breast, seemingly by accident. That’s probably where he’d start. Then he’d give you a pat on the butt on the way out, maybe even give it a little squeeze. The next meeting would be worse. He’d see your nipples get hard under your blouse as you anticipate his next move, just as they’re growing hard now as you imagine it.”

“They’re not—”

“And he’d ask you to take off your blazer, you know, just to make yourself comfortable. He’d insist . . . as your superior. He’d walk around the chair, massage your shoulders until his hands slipped a little lower, still massaging but now the top of your breasts, then his hands would slip inside your blouse, play with those hard nipples while his other hand slipped between your legs. You’d start to protest and he’d stop you, tell you to call him sir. And you would because this is what you want, isn’t it, Kasie? To be led to debauchery? To be fondled in public places without the guilt? And really, what could you do? He’s your superior. You would have already fessed up to that much, in front of me, in front of everyone you work with. I bet just thinking about it is making you wet. I bet he’d slide his hand into your panties, feel the wetness before slipping a finger or two into your p-ssy while his thumb played with your *. I bet he’d make you come right in that chair as you squirmed and called him sir.”

“Why are you saying these things? I could—”

“Fire me. Yeah, yeah, I know. But you’re not.” This last part she sings. “You’re not going to fire me because you need to study me. I’m the woman you want to be. Or perhaps more importantly, I’m the woman Mr. Dade wants you to be, the woman he’s training you to be. If he only knew there was a premade version right here in this office . . . well what would he do, Kasie? Would he toss you aside? The missionary’s path is hard and riddled with rejection and setbacks. Why not take the easy route and preach to believers?” She leans in, whispers in my ear. “Like me. I’m a believer. I walk the walk, I’ve embraced this gospel. I’m the real thing, and you?” She laughs lightly, shakes her head before walking to her desk.

“You never will be.”

There’s some truth to what she’s saying, but what bothers me is not that I’ll never be like Asha; it’s that I ever wanted to be. What bothers me is that if I stay at this firm, my future will be riddled with these kinds of conversations. I do have options, just not here.

Later that day I go into Mr. Costin’s office and hand in my notice.