Gagged (10 page)

But then I look at the vibrator and realize an odd reality: a man I can’t stand sent me a sex toy, and I shoved it inside myself then came three times.
 

I’ll throw it away. I’ll wrap it in something then sneak it out to the trash. I won’t be able to face Jasmine if I don’t. How could I accept what he gave me? Now that I’m no longer aroused, this seems stupid and foolish. Maybe even somehow dangerous.

But I don’t throw it away.
 

Instead I bury it deep in my underwear drawer.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

C
ASPIAN

M
Y
CELL
RINGS
ON
T
HURSDAY
, just as I’m getting off my office phone with the Deluca’s event coordinator. Normally Lucy would handle my reservations and other social matters, but Deluca is more complicated than an ordinary dinner reservation. Besides, for obvious reasons, I’d rather Lucy didn’t know all of the ins and outs on this one — but regardless, I’ve found I don’t like handling things myself. There are so many loose ends, and I’ve got that damned event planner involved, with too many stupid opinions. I’m just the guy writing the check, yet somehow I’ve ended up far more involved than I should be.
 

I keep telling myself it’ll be worth it. Then I remind myself just how perfectly things are falling into place.
 

But then the cell phone shatters my sense of accomplishment. I look at the phone as if it’s offended me. I’ll bet it’s fucking Bernie, calling about the Einstein module again. He shouldn’t have my number, but seeing as I called him on Monday he has it now. And that kind of obnoxious, presumptuous bullshit — using a private number just because he knows it — sounds like Bernie to me.
 

But it’s not Bernie. It’s Lucy, speak of the devil.
 

“Caspian?”
 

“Not a good time, Luc,” I say, annoyed. I’ve got too much shit to do and not enough time. That by itself is vexing enough, but at least it’s normal. Today I’m irritated because so much of what I’ve been doing is the kind of thing that should be handled by someone who earns $75 or less an hour. I’m worth more than this. My wasted morning has probably cost this company millions.

“Caspian? It’s Dad.”
 

I stop with the phone pressed to my ear. Irritation evaporates, replaced with anger.

“I don’t have time for his bullshit,” I say.
 

But then she just starts crying.
 

I don’t interrupt her. I feel my mind split in half. One part of me has already got the message clear as day, but the other part is still obstinate, refusing to give that old bastard any more of my attention. I didn’t visit him in the hospital his first, and still refused this second time. I went to a therapist, just once, who told me I should forgive him. I didn’t like that answer, so I went to a different therapist who told me I could settle for apathy and ignore the old man forever. That answer struck me as avoiding, but I liked it a lot better and have been practicing since. The wall I’ve built is so strong, even my sister’s tears have trouble loosening the mortar.

The tall window to my right is semi-darkened, making the surface reflective. I catch a glimpse of myself standing there, looking ready to murder.
 

“Caspian? Are you there?”
 

“Yes.”
 

“He’s gone. He passed away an hour ago.”
 

My expression doesn’t change. I don’t buy it. My father could never “pass away.” It’s too gentle.
 

“Caspian?”
 

“Yes, Lucy.”
 

“Did you hear what I said?”
 

“I heard.” Then, speaking to Lucy but definitely not about my father, I say, “I’m sorry.”
 

“Are you … are you okay?”
 

“I’m fine.”

“Can you come? To the hospital?”
 

Why? He’s dead. I’m not sure what my presence would accomplish, other than possibly attracting the
Esquire
magazine version of paparazzi.
 

“I can’t,” I tell her.
 

“Why not?” It’s obvious she was only asking because she thought it sounded right, that she never remotely considered my coming. Of course I’d drop my entire day to go and fake-cry. It’s not like I have anything better to do.
 

“I’m really busy today.”
 

“Your father just died!”
 

I think:
And?

“There are things I can’t cancel. Appointments to keep.”
 

“People will understand. He’s your — !”

“Lucy. Listen to me. I can’t. I’m sorry. There’s nothing to be done. Dead is dead.”
 

I think she’ll shout at me, but she only cries harder. I feel something strange prickle at me, but I don’t have time for that, either.
 

“I’ll call later if you want,” I say.
 

“If I want?”
 

“I’ve got to go.” And then I hang up, sure I’ve done something wrong, resenting the entire situation. I didn’t make my bed; my family made it for me. I was the one who refused to lie in it; I was the one who clawed my way out and built my own empire. And now, because of circumstances beyond my control, I’m supposed to drop everything I’m doing and go back into the den of roaches? I’d rather go the other way: grab Lucy’s hand and pull her out to stand beside me. She didn’t love our father either. She simply feels obligation as if it were love.
 

But I’m still unsettled, staring into the darkened glass. Because I know what Lucy would say if I told her that.
 

What do
you
know about love?
 

I put my cell phone back on my desk. Then, because it doesn’t align perfectly with the corner, I adjust it so it does. I walk to one end of my all-white office then back. I’m at a curious impasse. I’ve already lost most of my morning, and here I am, doing nothing at all.

Eventually I pick up the phone and tap the button for my receptionist.

“Get me Dreadnought Records,” I say.

CHAPTER TWELVE

A
URORA

W
E
’
RE
BOTH
WEARING
LITTLE
BLACK
dresses — Jasmine’s decidedly more scandalous than my conservative number — when she rushes up to me and grips my arm like a kid giggling to her mother.
 

“I have good news and better news,” she says, her green eyes like little round lanterns in the elegant room.
 

“It’s open bar?”
 

“Okay, I have good news,
more
good news, and even
better
news!”
 

I feel myself squint. I was kidding. This is supposed to be an official university event — an honors reception featuring the dean and stuffy agendas written in a sensible font. Why is there even a bar at all? This is a swanky place, so maybe the waiters could offer to bring us a glass of wine or something. But a
bar?
And not just a bar — but an
open
bar?

“I give up,” I tell Jasmine. She’s all giggly and has been since we got ready. Her hair is up in a beautiful red swoop, and for once her cleavage looks elegant more than salacious, though the evening is young, with alcohol flowing.
 

“You’ll never guess who the speaker is.”
 

“Dean Quincy?”

“No.”
 

She says nothing, just keeps staring with those Christmas-morning eyes.
 

“Why don’t you just tell me?”

“Guess.”
 

“Rip Torn.”
 

“Who’s that?”
 

“Just tell me, Jas.”
 

“It’s Hunter Altman.”
 

It takes me a minute to place the name. Then: “What, the music guy?”
 

She nods. “The LA producer. You know. He discovered Diamond Rough?”
 

“Hmm,” I say.
 

“What, that’s your reaction?”

“Yay,” I amend, putting zero enthusiasm into my voice.

“You’re not impressed?”
 

“I’m not into music like you are. Besides, what does Hunter Altman have to do with USF honors?”
 

“He’s an alumnus.”
 

“So what?”
 

Jasmine is rolling her eyes then sort of pouting at me. I’d better pretend to be more wowed by this misaligned non-news, or I’ll be facing a bout of sullenness about how I’m never any fun.

“Well. That’s interesting. So what’s he speaking about?”
 

“I don’t know.” Jasmine shrugs. “Who cares? He’s fucking
hot.”
 

“Well, that certainly qualifies him to speak.”
 

“You aren’t impressed.”
 

“I’m super-impressed, Jasmine. Really. I’m over the moon. Look at me. But anyway, whatever. What’s the ‘better news’?”
 

“Ohmygod. Ohmygod, Aurora, you’re not going to believe this. Guess.”
 

“I don’t want to guess. Why don’t you just — ?”

“He brought Blonde Ambition with him!”
 

“The band? What, are they speaking, too?”
 

“They’re playing! At our thing! Here! Tonight!”
 

“You’re kidding me.” I don’t understand any of this. These events are obligatory bullshit, sufferable only because advisers like to see that students actually care about the awards we’re given for our supposed excellence, even though no student in history ever actually has. There are never any good speakers, entertainment, alcohol, or fun. And, by the way, no
budget
. How can the school afford this? Is
this
why I’m accumulating such massive student loans?

I look around. I see Dean Quincy. He’s wearing his usual bow tie, his hair straight out of a 1980s movie about jocks versus nerds.
 

“Someone is messing with you.”
 

“I saw Laura Denali in the other room, setting up!” She points. But I’m still having trouble believing any of this.
 

While I’m trying to absorb and Jasmine is trying not to leap out of her dress, someone taps the microphone, and I gather that we’re supposed to sit. So we do, along with the other three people around our table — honors students I recognize but don’t actually know. This is a big reception by school standards but not nearly big enough for an act like Blonde Ambition. The audience is mixed; plenty of parents came, though I of course didn’t invite mine and Jasmine didn’t want to bother hers for something so lame. Although right now I’ll bet she’s changing her mind. Her younger brother loves Laura Denali enough to have posters in his room.
 

Dean Quincy takes the stage. He adjusts his bow tie before speaking then welcomes us. He says a few paragraphs of nonsense about our group representing the future and the best and brightest, yada yada. I’m already zoning out and playing with my silverware on the starched white tablecloth when Jasmine slaps my arm fervently enough that I wonder if I’ve caught on fire.
 

“What, Jas?” I whisper.
 

She’s looking at the podium. I glance up and see Quincy going on and on, now thanking the donors for making all of tonight’s festivities possible with such generous donations.
One
donor in particular, he clarifies.
 

Jasmine is still slapping my arm.
 

“Knock it off! You’re going to give me a bruise, and … ”

I trail off, because now I see what’s nabbed her attention.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

A
URORA

B
ORING
SPEECHES
.
 

L
ISTS
OF
NAMES
of people who are apparently being honored. I miss it when some lady I don’t even know reads my name, though she surely must have.

A much
less
boring speech by Hunter Altman, just as Jasmine promised and I failed to believe.
 

But I believe it now because I have the missing piece of the puzzle. San Francisco isn’t terribly far from LA — not if you’re flying by luxury copter — and it’s the kind of trip I can absolutely seeing one billionaire making as a favor to another, even going so far as to bring one of his star acts if the right request was made. And from the files of infamy, everyone knows that Hunter Altman (and Trevor Stone) share a cabal with Caspian White, so it all fits.
 

He’s right there on the little ad-hoc stage, two chairs down from Dean Quincy and one chair from Hunter Altman, back in his seat. He’s wearing a different suit, dark charcoal, but this time his tie is a bright white, textured instead of shiny in the overhead light. The white tie lies against his crisp white shirt, its large knot nestled against his prominent Adam’s apple, beneath his cleft chin.
 

And he keeps looking right at us.
 

Right at
me
.

I want to stand up and walk out. I used to hate Caspian White for all he stood for — or, in the case of my biggest passion, what he stood against. On Monday, I learned to hate him on a personal level. I learned that my prejudices weren’t untrue; he struck me with every molecule as rude, dismissive, arrogant, entitled, and cruel — the kind of man who’d willfully do the wrong thing just to watch others squirm. He was presumptuous and pushy and highly inappropriate — he made things personal instead of simply refusing to answer Jasmine’s or even my questions. He dangled an opportunity in front of us just so he could snatch it away, laughing.
 

But then on Tuesday, I think I started to be afraid of him. And what’s worse, I started to fantasize about him at the same time.