Binding Agreement

Chapter 3





I COULD HAVE ASKED him to stay the night. He could have requested it. But we both sensed that space was called for. I need to let the high tides recede to something more manageable, less intense.

Otherwise I’m afraid I’ll drown out the world.

We talked a little. I again argued that Tom shouldn’t be railroaded for a moderate infraction. But Robert cuts through challenges and concerns like they’re paper and he’s scissors.

My sister treated such things with similar disregard. Except she did it with manic adrenaline and chemical vices while Robert does it with confidence, disdain, and sheer strength of will.

But in the end won’t the results be the same? Destruction, loss, broken hearts? Isn’t it possible that worries are like scabs. Ugly but part of healing?

But then, what would I know about healing? I don’t believe I have any scars, just open wounds that I’ve learned to cover loosely with Band-Aids.

Working through the pain and healing are completely different things.

And here it is, morning, and I’m in my bed alone. I had tried to sleep in my French terry gown but the tags and seams that never bothered me before irritated my skin. My entire body is more sensitive now, after his touch. So I took it off, let the softness of my sheets lull me to sleep.

As I stand, naked in front of the mirror, I realize that this is how I’m going to feel all day. Naked, vulnerable, embarrassed. I can think of no reason why Tom would have left quietly. By now what happened between me and Dave will be all over the office. And the focus will undoubtedly be on Mr. Dade’s role in the breakup. Both Robert and my coworker Asha have assured me in their different ways that I will be moved into Tom’s job. My professional achievements have been impressive but not enough to have earned that honor, so it’ll be rightfully assumed that I earned it on my back. Those who are my equals today will report to me tomorrow but they will still see me as a slut who will make herself sexually available to any man who might advance her.

And how many men will test that theory? As long as I’m with Robert, perhaps no one. But without him every executive will feel that he has the right to take his place. They’ll expect me to spread my legs for my career.

And of course there’s Mr. Freeland, the cofounder of the company and Dave’s godfather. Surely I’ve made an enemy of him. He has to tolerate me due to Robert’s influence but for how long? On how many fronts will the attacks be coming from?

I should hate Robert for putting me in this position. But as I roll through the memories of last night, being underneath him, feeling him pulsing inside of me, remembering how he looked afterward, by my side, naked and perfect . . . well, I don’t hate him.

So with shaky hands I pull on a conservative light wool suit in black paired with a white chiffon blouse that ties in a prim bow at the neck. Thin armor for such a battle but it’ll have to do.

When I get to my office, Barbara is ready for me. Reports have been printed onto glossy stationary and held together in deep blue folders. I have a meeting in less than a half hour.

I go through my in-box. There’s a memo announcing Tom Love’s departure. Odd to think that was only yesterday.

The message explains that until Love’s replacement is named (which will be within days) we are all basically being left to our own devices. If any of us have a question that needs an immediate answer or a project that needs the input of management, we are to e-mail Love’s superior, Mr. Costin.

Love’s superior. I can’t help but smile at that. Those words could mean so many things. But my amusement quickly wanes as more pressing issues consume me. So they’ll be naming Tom’s replacement in days. And yet no one has even called me. Maybe Robert, Asha . . . maybe they’re wrong. Maybe Tom’s job will be offered to somebody else.

And if that’s the case . . . I can’t decide if I’d be relieved or profoundly disappointed. I should probably be the former, and if that’s how it goes down, that’s the emotion I’ll show the world.

But deep in my gut? There will be a rage of disappointment. It shouldn’t be that way but I don’t think I’ll be able to help it.

At nine thirty sharp my team files in to review and prepare for the Maned Wolf presentation. Taci, Daemon, Nin, and Asha all have their roles to play, details they will explain, questions they’ll be prepared to field. But in the end they’re just backup singers. Tomorrow is my day. I will be the one to rise or fall.

They’re looking at me differently . . . but not with judgment exactly. All of them, with the exception of Asha, seem nervous. When I ask a question, they jump to respond, their eyes anxious; then they sigh quietly in relief when I toss out words of approval. There are nuances, of course. Taci appears a bit curious, Nin’s apprehension seems tinged with disapproval. When I stand, Daemon’s eyes seem to linger on where my skirt hugs my hips. When I send him a questioning glance, he immediately looks down at the floor, bending his head as if in prayer . . . or in shame.

They all know. But they’re not testing me and they’re certainly not mocking me.

They’re afraid of me. And that fear seems to simultaneously repel and attract them. That should probably upset me. But there’s really only one takeaway that I keep coming back to.

I’m getting Tom’s job.

Daemon glances up again as I pace the room, going over the numbers. His gaze rises above my hips this time, to my breasts. He doesn’t think I notice; he doesn’t think I know what he wants me to do to him.

And that’s the key, isn’t it? It’s about what he wants me to do to him. I can see he would never dare try to be the aggressor. His deference is tangible.

The people who would mock you or try to make your life harder? They’ll bow before us.

The thought is unsettling. . . .

. . . And a little thrilling.

I know it shouldn’t be but . . . well, I’ve never tasted this kind of power before. And oh, how many years have I hunted, fought, and cultivated control. And here, in a single act, Robert has given it to me.

I swallow hard, switch my focus to Asha. She’s the only one whose attitude remains the same. Her dark eyes are attentive but give away nothing. She is the picture of calm and composure. Ironic since she’s the only one here who deserves to be cowed.

A little of my confidence fades away. Not much, not enough to make me humble, but still. I roll my shoulders back, finish up the meeting. We have all the information we need for tomorrow’s presentation. All that’s left to do is to go back to our individual corners and practice our lines.

In the end I gesture with a silent hand that it’s time for them to leave my office. And just like that, they file out. Taci, Nin, Daemon with a lingering smile. All obedient, all ready to please.

Again that little thrill . . .

. . . which is quickly squashed when it becomes clear that Asha is hanging back, waiting until it’s just the two of us.

“Did you want something, Asha?” I ask when the others are gone.

“Is today my last day?”

The question hits me like an electric current, rendering me temporarily unable to speak.

We stand opposite each other, taking in each other’s details. She, too, is wearing a black suit, but unlike me she’s wearing pants and a stark white button-down shirt under the neat blazer. Her hair hangs down her back, the same midnight shade as her clothes.

“Why would you ask me that?” I finally sputter.

She meets my eyes but doesn’t answer.

“Did you tell them I slept with Robert?”

Her mouth curves down into a grimace. “No,” she says shortly. “I had hoped to hold that information over your head but it’s obvious they already know. Perhaps Tom thought telling them would be his drop of revenge. Clearly it’s backfired.”

The idea of Tom retaliating makes me shiver. I cross my arms over my chest protectively.

“Is today my last day?” she asks again.

“Not that I’m aware of,” I say. “But again, why do you ask?”

Asha studies my face before responding. “Your lover is setting the stage,” her voice is steady, emotionless. “He’s picking the players, dismissing the actors who don’t please him. It’s what needs to be done before the curtains rise.”

“And then what?”

Her lips curve into a Mona Lisa smile. “And then he can make his pretty little marionette dance.”

A flash of anger but the cutting retort jumps to mind too late. She’s already walked out.

I turn and look out the window. The sky is a dark gray; perhaps a storm is brewing. When I was a little girl, I was afraid of storms. But now when I think of a storm, my mind wanders to the ocean. Those choppy, white-capped waves creating a sense of excitement, danger, and most of all, beauty.

“I am beautiful,” I say quietly to myself. It’s funny because in the past I’ve always thought of beauty as a thing for princesses. But when I say the word these days, it feels different. It’s like I’ve changed the meaning to something richer, darker, and considerably more sensuous.

“I am beautiful.”

It’s a mantra, a chant, an aspiration. I sit down at my desk. There’s calm in the isolation of work.

I didn’t know I wanted to be a business consultant when I was growing up but I knew I wanted to do something that involved numbers and strategy. In high school I fell in love with Einstein’s beautiful equation, and as a child I used to love playing chess with my father . . . although he began to lose interest in the game when I was about thirteen . . . right around the time I started regularly beating him.

What would Melody have done with her life had she lived? Her dreams for the future were always a bit mercurial. One day she would want to be a dancer, the next an actress; once she pulled me aside and whispered that she wanted to be a jewel thief. She said she wouldn’t even sell all the jewels she stole but just hide them in her attic until she had so many that when you climbed up in there the darkness would sparkle like a night sky filled with earthbound stars.

I was about seven when she told me that, and I remember the mental image made me giggle with delight. Melody was always making me smile back in those days. She was so fun and vivacious. I loved her. I think my parents loved her, too . . . just not unconditionally.

In the end, she took it all too far and like a supernova she ended up shining so bright that she burned herself up. And my parents just turned away from the spectacle, pretended it wasn’t there, and focused on me. My light was never as impressive as Melody’s, but it was steady, and that’s what was needed for me to keep the love Melody had lost. My father told me not to shed tears for her. He said she simply didn’t exist anymore, not to us. And so it was. At night I would bury my face in my pillow and fill it with tears. Still, I was cared for and she was just . . . erased.

Their rejection of her was even more terrifying than her death. After all, by then I already knew all about death. But it wasn’t until then that I realized people could become completely invisible to those they love.

My parents don’t even know that I’ve broken up with Dave. Obviously I have to tell them eventually but part of me is so afraid that if they see that my light is no longer steady, they’ll erase me, too. And yet here at work I’m still the star everyone turns to, despite my mistakes . . . maybe even because of them. Like an alchemist Robert turns mistakes into rewards. He makes sure people see me and they don’t get to turn away if I shine a bit too brightly. That’s the reality of Robert that both attracts and scares me.

They’ll play by our rules and we’ll change the rules as we please.

That’s a very different game than the chess I was raised on.

I try to push those thoughts out of my mind as I work, memorizing statistics, double-checking figures and percentages. At six, Barbara sticks her head into my office to see if there’s anything else I need before she leaves, but I simply shake my head and wish her good night. Everything I need is in the folders on my desk. The tangibility of the numbers soothes me. They’re something I can hold on to when everything else is upside down and backward. By the time I lock up my office well into the night, the building is dark and virtually empty.

Except.

The light in Asha’s office is on. It’s not entirely uncommon for her to stay late, but not this late. Not after the sky is completely black and the only other people in the building are janitors and security personnel. I should pass her door without a glance. How many times has she sought to undermine me, humiliate me, even dominate me? A thousand times. If you count today, a thousand and one. I should ignore her.

But her light is on and for some reason I find myself reaching for her door.

I don’t knock. Instead I just turn the knob. I expect to see her poring over copies of the same files I’ve been studying or perhaps researching other companies, trying to find new ones to bring to the firm to enhance her status, but instead she’s staring at the wall with such intensity, I wonder if she sees something I don’t. An apparition maybe, or the hazy outline of a lost dream. Something other than white paint.

“I graduated in the top ten percent of my class at Stanford,” she says. She hasn’t even looked up at me. I shouldn’t be here at this time in this place. I should have knocked. But none of that fazes her. She just glares at the wall and continues.

“I was recruited. This firm wanted me. They knew what I could do for them. I didn’t need to sleep with anyone to get here.”

“I never slept with anyone out of ambition,” I say, acknowledging and correcting the insult, but this time without offense. I’m a bit too tired for a brawling fight. “Tell me something,” I ask, “if I had, would you really have a moral problem with it? Is your bitterness coming out of disapproval or disappointment?”

She remains silent, waiting for me to clarify.

“If there was a man who could help you with your career,” I continue, “someone you were attracted to, would you have made yourself available to him in exchange for his assistance?”

She shakes her head. “Not my thing. When I use sex as a tool, it’s as a knife not a stepladder.” She finally looks at me with a thin smile. “You use sex as a skeleton key. It opens doors for you. Your way appears to be amazingly effective.”

Asha’s taken her blazer off. Her white shirt is sheer against her light brown skin. She’s of East Indian heritage but something about her transcends nationality. She’s almost more of a concept than a person. She embodies cool, aggressive ambition, fierce sensuality, malicious honesty. . . . She adds femininity to sadism.

“I didn’t want to get Tom fired,” I say quietly.

“Why not?” Asha asks. “You’re going to get his job. I heard it from a reliable source. The higher-ups probably thought it would look better if they gave it to you after you have your predictably successful meeting with Maned Wolf.” She pauses, cocks her head slightly to the side. “Tell me, where did you run off to after you found out Tom had been let go? You left in such a hurry.”

“I had to confront him.”

It takes a moment for Asha to contextualize the words but once she does, a light, gentle laugh escapes her glossy pink lips. “Mr. Dade? You think what he did was unscrupulous?” She stands, crosses to me, her lips by my ear. “You have never been a beacon of morality,” she points out. “You get no points for being conflicted if you constantly choose the path of wickedness.”

“I haven’t—” I begin but Asha cuts me off.

“You are wicked, Kasie,” she reaches for me, tucks my hair behind my ear, runs her fingers up and down my back as I grow rigid. “You f*cked a stranger,” she says, her voice as gentle as a caress. “You betrayed your fiancé by taking Mr. Dade’s cock in your mouth. You lied to Tom about it, to everyone really.”

“You do remember that I can get you fired,” I say tersely.

“Oh I know that’s around the corner. Maybe not tomorrow, maybe not even next week, but soon. First Tom then me, it makes sense. I might as well have my fun while I have the chance.” Her hand slips down to my ass but then she steps away before I have a chance to protest.

“I will say that if I had been given the opportunity, I would have slept with your Mr. Dade.” She walks to the window, puts her fingers against the glass. “When he walks into a room, he dominates it; it’s almost impossible not to look at him. His form, the broad shoulders, the muscular build . . . and yet all that is nothing compared to his presence. He has a . . . a savage sophistication. He’s Daniel Craig’s James Bond; a young, sexy Gordon Gekko.”

“He’s Robert Dade,” I say with a smile because while the analogies work I can’t compare this man to another. His effect on my life is so unique and unexpected; he stands apart from the giant cinematic images of men wrecking havoc on fictional adversaries.

“Yes,” Asha agrees. “He’s Robert Dade and I’d be a willing and eager player in his bedroom games. Not because I want his assistance but because I’d like to see if I could break him.”

I laugh, almost charmed by her arrogance.

“You don’t think I could?” She asks . . . although maybe it’s not a question. Her voice has no inflection. She turns back to me and shakes her head. “Your problem is that you have never fully understood the power of being a desired woman.”

My mind flashes back to a night in Robert’s bed. I had climbed on top of him, refused him until he said, “Please.”

Asha smiles, reading my mind. “Power between the sheets means nothing if you don’t learn to extend its reach outside of the bedroom.”

I look away. The room seems to be getting colder. I rub the back of my arms for warmth.

“You don’t have to believe me,” Asha continues. “It’s in the stories of your religion. Adam and Eve, Samson and Delilah, Salome and her dance of the Seven Veils: they all speak to the same undeniable truth. If a woman truly wants something, whether it’s having her man bite into an apple, bringing a divinely appointed superhero to his knees, or a Baptist’s head on a silver platter, she can have it. A woman can have anything if she knows how to use what God gave her.”

I start to laugh, but then . . .

If I give you the world on a platter, will you take it?

A Baptist’s head on a platter. Is that really so different from what Robert is offering?

Yes, I tell myself, because Tom is no John the Baptist and Asha is a far cry from a saint.

Asha’s fallen silent, giving me time to try to see the stories of the gospel through this new lens.

“If you knew how much power you have, you’d have courage,” she finally adds.

Sometimes, when people name the thing you want, that thing gains texture. You can see it and therefore you’re sure you can have it if you just do or say exactly the right thing.

That’s sort of how I feel when I hear Asha suggest I can be courageous. It’s what I want.

But in a moment the image fades away. Melody and her love affair with destruction and divorce from sanity, my parents and their complete abandonment of her . . . I have nursed cowardice all my life, hoping it would protect me from all of that when nothing else would. It’s part of me now. I don’t know how to expel the beast.

“I don’t have any interest in helping you keep your job,” I say, shifting my weight onto my heels, suddenly tired and resigned. “But I promise to do what I can to keep you from being fired over false pretenses. If you get thrown out of here, it’ll be your fault, not mine, and not Mr. Dade’s.”

“You say that now—”

“—and I’ll say it tomorrow.” I turn and pull open the door. “Good night, Asha. Go home and get some sleep.”

“I’m not tired.”

“Then go to the park and pull the wings off butterflies,” I say with a sardonic smile. “That seems like the kind of thing you would enjoy.”

She smiles back, shakes her head. “Butterflies are too weak.”

“Then shoot a coyote, whatever,” I suggest. “But your work day’s over. We all need our rest and if I’m going to be a dictator, I’m going to try to be a benevolent one.”

As I walk out of her office I hear her gentle and appreciative laughter. For a split second I feel a jolt of camaraderie and forget that she’s the personification of evil.

But no doubt she’ll remind me of that in the morning.

As I step into the elevator I mull over her words. Your problem is that you have never fully understood the power of being a desired woman.

That’s where she’s wrong. Robert made me feel that power. When we make love, I always feel protected, frequently overwhelmed, but I also feel the power I have over him. It’s an aphrodisiac that has become rather addictive.

Power between the sheets means nothing if you don’t learn to extend its reach outside of the bedroom.

As the elevator makes its descent to the parking lot I realize that she might have a point. But I’m learning . . .

. . . and rather quickly.