Binding Agreement

Chapter 7





THE 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 f*ck 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.

He opens the door for me and I see we’ve arrived at a neighborhood speakeasy. The bar is small, the furniture is composed of sofas and soft chairs, things that would be perfectly at home in a private living room. There are no more than ten people here but a woman stands at a mic, singing something mournful and beguiling. Next to her a man with wire-rimmed glasses and a golden tan plays the double bass.

Behind the bar is a woman with long red hair, almost as red as the words on the door. She smiles when she sees Robert but her smile gets a little brighter when her eyes land on me.

“Mr. Dade,” she says as we approach, “it’s been some time.”

“Hey, Genevieve. One of your famous margaritas for my friend here,” he says as he gestures for me to sit on one of the bar stools.

“I don’t drink tequila,” I say as I pull myself onto a seat.

“Why? Are you afraid you’ll lose control?” he asks. The question is gently teasing and I don’t bother to answer or put up further protest.

In a moment I have a margarita on the rocks; a thin layer of salt adorns the rim of the glass. I feel the eyes of the room. When I glance at a man at a corner table he looks away quickly, the woman at the other end of the room keeps her head down as she studies her drink with an intensity that suggests she’s actively avoiding some other vision. There are little conversations around the room, drinks are raised and lowered, and yet somehow, in a million different little ways, everyone seems tuned in to us, as if they, too, feel the gravitational pull of the moon, as if they sense the rising tide.

“She’s good,” Robert says, gesturing to the singer. Her hair is black and falls just past her shoulders; her eyes are closed as she sings about the cruelty of love. She reminds me of Asha.

“She is,” Genevieve says but her eyes stay on me. She puts her finger against the glass in my hand. There’s an intimacy there, touching the same glass without touching each other. “Take it slow,” she says coyly. “I have a feeling there will be more.”

The singer finishes her song. Robert nods at our bartender who reaches above her head and rings a large, rusty bell that jars the patrons from their conversations and alcoholic musings. “Last call,” she cries.

It’s nowhere near two and there’s some grumbling among the patrons, but no one complains too loudly, accepting this odd twist of fate as the norm rather than an unexpected offense. A few order another drink while they still can but most just get up and leave. The singer and bass player take a seat. Neither packs up. I sip my drink as more and more people file out. “Is this your bar?” I ask Genevieve.

She laughs lightly and pours a drink for herself. “No,” she says lightly. “It’s his.”

I turn to Robert, who smiles secretly. “It’s my bar,” he agrees. “I set the rules.”

And then we’re alone. The patrons are gone. It’s just me, the musicians, Genevieve, and . . . him.

“I bet you were a good girl in college,” Genevieve says lightly as the singer steps up to the microphone again. The song is a little grittier this time, the deep echoing notes of the double bass set the mood. “I bet you never once went to a rave, danced on the bar, made out in public . . . I bet you never even did a body shot.”

I shake my head. “I was busy studying. I had goals.”

Genevieve’s smile broadens. “Don’t we all.” My drink sits half empty on the bar and she slowly drags it away, out of my reach. “Let me show you how to do a body shot.”

The singer raises her voice as the song builds. I send a sharp look at Robert but his eyes are on Genevieve. He’s watching her closely, attentively, and I realize that, without saying a word, he’s somehow directing this. He’s taking me away from the familiar, introducing me to the thrill of unease.

Genevieve places a shot of tequila on the bar before she walks around the counter, a saltshaker in one hand, a wedge of lime in the other. She takes my arm and with a quick look at Robert slides the lime along the inside of my wrist, along that vein that gives away my pulse. She sprinkles the trail with salt before lifting the lime to my mouth. “Bite,” she instructs.

My heart is pounding. I look at Robert again. This is beyond unfamiliar. I’m not comfortable with it at all . . . and yet I can’t say that part of me isn’t eager.

I open my mouth, gently wrap my lips around the lime as she raises my wrist to her mouth. She keeps her eyes on Robert the whole time as she licks the salt off my skin. With languid movements she reaches for the shot, throws it back, and then leans forward for her lime. I feel her tongue slip slightly past the lime and I almost pull back but then I feel Robert’s hand, on my knee, sliding up my leg. A familiar delight to ground me. She takes the lime in her teeth and pulls it from me, squeezes the juices into her mouth.

“Your turn.”

I start to shake my head as she gets another slice of lime but this time she takes the lime to Robert’s neck. He tilts his head, agreeably allowing her to create a trail for the salt. She pours another shot of tequila, places the lime between Robert’s teeth. “Go ahead,” she says. “Taste him.”

I think I hear laughter in the singer’s melody but it could be my imagination. I lean forward, let my tongue dip into the salt on his throat. “Get every grain,” Genevieve coaxes. “It would be a sin to waste it.” She watches and continues to whisper encouragements as I seek out the grains of salt that have fallen behind his collarbone. When I finally lean back, it’s Genevieve who reaches for the shot glass. She holds it over his shoulder, urges me on with a raise of her eyebrows. I glance back at the singer and bass player. The music continues with the casual smoothness you would expect from professionals but their eyes are on us. The blush starts in my cheeks and spreads with the speed of a five-alarm blaze. This has been my fantasy, being watched, but I never dreamed I’d have the courage to actually act it out. It’s too scary.

But fear can be thrilling and so I stand up, step between Robert’s open legs, press my body into his as I reach my chin over his shoulder. Genevieve brings the glass to my lips, tipping it back, letting the alcohol trickle rather than stream into my open mouth. Finally she pulls the drink away as I take the lime from Robert. His hands move down my back, to my ass, through my legs, pressing upward. I take in a sharp breath, murmur his name.

When I pull away I’m shaking. I stare at Robert as he puts the lime down neatly on a cocktail napkin. Genevieve stands behind him, her eyes sparkling with hints of danger as she places her hands on each of Robert’s shoulders and leans in to his ear. In a stage whisper she says, “It’s your turn, Mr. Dade.”

Robert stands up and makes a vague gesture that Genevieve seems to understand. She quickly clears away everything on the bar.

“Lay down, Kasie,” he says, his voice quietly authoritative. I stand, a little agitated, a little scared. I glance at the musicians again. They’ve moved on to a quieter piece; their music offers no distraction from what is happening. Not for me, not for them. I think I see the bass player wink at me but I’m not sure.

“I don’t think I—” I begin, but Robert stops me by pressing his finger against my lips.

“You can make the fear your lover.”

The words means nothing, but I’m compelled to acquiesce. I let Robert lift me until I’m sitting on the bar. I pull up my legs, lay back, feeling completely vulnerable to the others in the room. Genevieve is behind the bar; Robert, in front of it. I feel her hands on the hem of my shirt as Robert works to unfasten the buttons on the waist of my skirt.

“What are you doing?” I whisper but Robert hushes me. “You’ve taken the power; now is the time to submit.”

Genevieve pulls my shirt from me; I feel my skirt sliding down my legs. The music stops and I hear the whispered voices of the musicians as they discuss what they’re seeing.

From the corner of my eye I see Genevieve pour another shot. I feel the cool glass as she drags it along my thigh.

“What’s your name?” she asks.

“Kasie,” I murmer. “Kasie Fitzgerald.”

“Well, Miss Fitzgerald, I need you to spread your legs, just a little, that’s right; you’re not going to be a good girl tonight.”

Robert chuckles softly and I can feel the coldness of the glass through the fabric of my panties. “Hold this in place here, please,” Genevieve instructs as Robert smiles down at me.

“Submit,” he says again. “For me.”

I squeeze my thighs together holding the glass in place as he caresses me with a lime, along my stomach, to my chest, along the outline of my bra. The lime is then placed between my teeth and I feel the salt as it sprinkles down on me. My skin is so sensitive now, even this light touch is startlingly seductive.

Robert leans down, tastes the salt that lines my bra, reaching inside to pinch my nipples as Genevieve tastes the salt on my stomach; she’s moving lower, dangerously lower. I see the musicians moving in closer.

I think of protesting, of spitting out the lime and telling them that this takes more audacity and courage than I have.

But I don’t. I’m not pulling away. Genevieve moves even lower, kissing the edge of my panties and then the fabric until she gets to the glass. She laps the tequila up as if she’s a kitten tasting milk.

I feel a new shot of coolness as Robert pours a thimble’s worth of tequila into my belly button. It spills over, runs down to my panties, which are already wet.

I don’t protest this time, not even as he removes my bra from me, runs a lime over my nipples before coating them with salt. Genevieve straightens her posture and watches as he drinks from my belly button, follows the stream down.

Carefully, Genevieve pulls the glass from between my thighs, making sure her fingers touch more than they should as she drags the glass along.

“The tequila must have gotten into her panties,” she says, “they’re certainly wet.”

The singer giggles; the bass player coughs into his hand.

Robert pulls my panties down. He pulls my legs open a little more then tastes me.

A flash of memory, Mr. Dade touching my * with a scotch-drenched ice cube that first night I met him. I close my eyes . . . bite down on the lime. It’s the same sensation but so much more powerful under the watchful eyes of these strangers.

My hips instinctually raise to him; my back arches. Again I hear the whispered voice of the singer as I moan.

But he pulls away right before bringing me to the point of climax. My breathing is erratic as I feel his lips move up my hips, along my waist, over my breast and throat until he reaches my mouth and takes the lime. When the juice has been tasted, he hands the lime to Genevieve, who obediently takes it, her eyes running up and down the length of me as Robert leans in again for a kiss. The taste of tequila and sex overwhelm me, making my mouth water. I feel Genevieve’s fingers caressing my leg, gently touching my sex.

“I bet she’s stunning when she comes,” a man’s voice says. In my peripheral vision I can see the bass player has moved closer. He’s younger than I thought. No more than twenty-three, his wide-eyed innocence gives away his inexperience.

Robert pulls away, smiles again. “May he touch you?”

I don’t say a word. Not yes, not no, but in the silence is my consent.

Genevieve steps away as the bass player steps forward; his fingers only touch my inner thigh briefly before raising to my *.

A jolt of electricity makes me jump. But his solicitations continue as Robert kisses my shoulders, my breasts. I feel this man’s fingers moving faster and faster and I moan again. The singer has moved very close now. I see that she stands next to Genevieve, whose hand is around her waist, touching her softly as she watches me.

I can feel that I’m about to come. I cry out softly but again Robert stops me, sharply telling the man to step away. “Only for me,” he explains. “She only comes for me.” And with that it’s his fingers that are touching me, not just playing but entering my body, first one then two. There’s no waiting anymore. The orgasm comes hard and shakes my whole body from the inside out.

In an instant his shirt is off as well, then his pants; he’s naked as he climbs on top of me, entering me in front of this small group of employees.

Because in the end, that’s what they are, I realize. They’re the people Robert hires and fires, the people he would give me similar authority over. The power lies with Robert and me, here on this bar as he enters me again and again. They watch with awe and excitement, privileged to be included in this moment.

I wrap my legs around his waist. The bar is wide but I do wonder if we can maintain this balance. At what point do we go too far, forget ourselves, fall to the floor?

But that doesn’t happen. Robert holds us in place. It’s as if our will alone keeps us from falling. I hear him groan as my nails run up and down his back. This is no longer submission. The fear has stepped aside, giving us room to revel in the aphrodisiac of power.

“She’s magnificent,” sighs the singer.

Yes, magnificent. Just like in the boardroom. I feel it. I know it. In this moment I’m absolutely sure he’s right about everything. I was shy, slow to see the brilliance of my situation. I can do anything. Anything. We make the rules. No one else. Just us.

“This is the only price,” he breathes into my ear, “to be inside your power.”

“Yes,” I whisper back and my body starts to shake once more. This orgasm builds slowly, with each thrust. I feel his hands, his mouth, their eyes . . . I feel him grinding inside of me. When I come, he comes with me, no longer able to hold out for another minute. Together we raise our voices and our audience collectively sighs.

I know they want to touch me again. The singer looks as if she wants to touch Robert. But they’re not allowed. We’ve made fear our lover, power our foundation . . .

. . . and we make all the rules.