Burning Rivalry (Trevor's Harem #2) Read online

  CONTENTS

  The Burning Rivalry

  Chapter One - Daniel

  Chapter Two - Bridget

  Chapter Three - Bridget

  Chapter Four - Daniel

  Chapter Five - Bridget

  Chapter Six - Bridget

  Chapter Seven - Daniel

  Chapter Eight - Bridget

  Chapter Nine - Bridget

  Chapter Ten - Bridget

  Chapter Eleven - Bridget

  Chapter Twelve - Bridget

  Chapter Thirteen - Daniel

  Chapter Fourteen - Bridget

  Chapter Fifteen - Bridget

  Chapter Sixteen - Bridget

  Chapter Seventeen - Bridget

  Chapter Eighteen - Daniel

  Chapter Nineteen - Bridget

  Chapter Twenty - Bridget

  Chapter Twenty-One - Bridget

  Chapter Twenty-Two - Daniel

  Chapter Twenty-Three - Bridget

  Chapter Twenty-Four - Bridget

  Chapter Twenty-Five - Bridget

  Chapter Twenty-Six - Bridget

  Chapter Twenty-Seven - Bridget

  FIND OUT WHAT HAPPENS NEXT!

  THE BURNING RIVALRY

  CHAPTER ONE

  Daniel

  The big screen in the mansion’s third-floor conference room comes alight, avatar replaced with streaming video. Suddenly, I’m looking at the hard blue stare of a man who resembles a Norse god. Our technology is top end, but Caspian White has pulled off something special back at GameStorming HQ. Normally, when people chat, they look at the screen and are captured by the camera above. Not so with Caspian’s setup. He’s somehow eye to eye, and the effect is unnerving. Exactly as I’m sure he intended.

  “Hello, Daniel,” he says.

  “Always a pleasure. What can I help you with?”

  Caspian pauses. The shot is chest-up, and of course he’s wearing a suit. A fine, dark, tailored suit with a lightning-blue tie. I just finished a workout; he’s lucky I got formal enough to put on a shirt. But this is how Caspian is. You get used to it working with him. He has to dominate everything. If you want to know if he’s visited his local Starbucks, go in and look at the baristas’ trousers.

  “How are you, Daniel?”

  Daniel. When he’s looking right at me. But Caspian always uses names. Always. With men, anyway. It’s either false familiarity (because nobody knows this man, probably including what’s left of his family) or some sort of domination tactic, like the constant game of dress-up — a dog humping another dog, just to show who’s boss.

  “Doing well.”

  “And Trevor?”

  “Also well.”

  “Where is Trevor, Daniel?”

  “Would you like to talk to Trevor … Caspian?”

  A small smile. If I were a woman, this is where I’d have my orgasm.

  “No, that’s fine. But thank you for offering.”

  Jesus Christ. The way he’s acting, swiveling slightly in his big expensive office chair, he might as well be petting a white cat and telling me about his latest plan to take over the world. Although ironically, that last part isn’t terribly far off.

  Another long pause. I wish he’d just get to the point, but there are legs to hump, guys to show who’s boss. He knows I don’t have time. He knows Trevor doesn’t have time. I have a harem downstairs to supervise and observe, and Trevor … well, I guess he’s got a dick that needs sucking. In theory, Trevor should be taking notes almost as studiously as I am, since the girls all know it’s his wife we’re supposed to be choosing. But they also know that it’s best to curry a man’s favor directly, not secondhand while he watches. They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. But really, it’s through his cock.

  “What can I help you with?”

  “I got the board’s report,” Caspian tells me.

  “The board of directors?”

  “The other board.”

  “Hmm. Glad to hear it.”

  “It troubles me, to be honest.”

  “Ah. And why is that?” As if I don’t know. As if I haven’t already finished this conversation in my head so I can get back to work. Back to observing the competition, both seen and unseen.

  “Your twelfth contestant. Your recent disqualification.”

  “It’s handled,” I tell him.

  “Hmm.”

  “It’s handled, and frankly none of your concern.”

  Caspian gives me a well-bred frown. His blond hair is two inches short of shoulder length, but he wears it slicked back. A strand falls out of its perfect place as he tips his head thoughtfully.

  “I could argue that anything that impacts data is my concern.”

  “We’re plugging into your demographics and data, not the other way around.”

  “You’re negotiating to,” he corrects me. “But all interfaces go both ways. Nothing should be more obvious, considering the fleshy nature of your little competition.”

  “It’s personal, not professional. How Trevor chooses to indulge himself isn’t your concern, either.”

  “Everything is professional. And everything is personal. If it’s just a bunch of people fucking, Daniel, then why is it being overseen by the board?”

  “Objectivity. Another thing that’s none of your concern.”

  “Then why did I receive the board’s report?”

  “Disclosure?” I shrug, the shirt still sticking to my skin from the sweat. “It wasn’t my call.”

  “Ah. But I do know what was your call. That twelfth contestant. That disqualification. Or, I suppose, its reversal.”

  “I can’t possibly see how — ”

  Caspian cuts me off, his manner shifting, becoming almost grave. We’re through sniffing around the edges. The true reason for this call is coming.

  “Listen closely, Mr. Rice. Right now, your company needs mine more than mine needs yours. You’re paying, of course, but LiveLyfe has already delivered me a king’s ransom, and I had more than I’d ever need even before that. Money means little to me. What interests me is your ambition.”

  “You mean Alexa’s ambition.”

  “Not officially, considering she isn’t affiliated. But unofficially, in light of the actual truth, yes. Her vision reflects mine. Trevor’s? Not nearly as much.”

  “I still don’t understand why — ”

  “People think GameStorming is just about research. You know better. You all do. Alexa most of all. That’s why we’re talking now. I don’t need any more money. I only work with those who intrigue me and expand the vision. So far, I’m intrigued. I have reams of information on human behavior, garnered by use habits on the surface and scores of other things I won’t admit. Just as Alexa has gathered behavioral data that, strictly speaking, she shouldn’t have. Both companies hold hidden aces. I’m trying to figure out whether yours is a fake.”

  I sigh. He’s such an asshole. All pretense. All hot air. I can’t see his fingers, but I’ll bet they’re tented.

  “I know you’re ‘choosing a bride,’” he continues, his condescending air quotes somehow audible. “But even you, Daniel, know all about the methods that went into choosing each of your contestants. Personal? Yes. But with professional research and data behind it. You’ve repurposed assets, like when someone wants the best possible hard copy of a poster in their home, so they use the company printer to make it. And in turn, I can only imagine the kinds of games you’re planning at your little playground in the coming weeks, to separate wheat from chaff. I know you’d be a fool not to loop what you learn back into the general pool. It’s not often that you get to conduct experiments like this, to see where lines lie, where human becomes animal with h
er social masks removed.”

  That stops me. Of course he’s right. The amount of data our group parsed to choose these women could choke a Cray. We’re recording it all, running it through a few types of shitty AI filters, sending what’s left to a team of eggheads. I could argue that this experiment isn’t meant to blur the lines — sex and business, recreational and professional — but he knows we went out of our way to include a few archetypes, including one girl who’s practically a databank in herself. I won’t argue. Caspian isn’t stupid.

  “Your point?”

  “Unless I’m reading wrong, you have an unscreened contestant.”

  “Not unscreened. Just screened differently.” Meaning she was screened by me, without more than rudimentary research and reconnaissance. Using my personal prejudices and preferences — first negative, now regrettably positive.

  “And yet on the first night, she was disqualified for fighting.”

  “She was provoked.”

  Caspian laughs. “If that’s the only time one of your contestants is ‘provoked,’ you’re wasting your time.”

  “It’s handled.”

  “Is it? The board’s reinstatement seems so reluctant. Seems you pulled a few strings to make it happen.”

  “It wasn’t fair. She didn’t earn the DQ.”

  Caspian shrugs. Fair is a concept he understands intellectually, but has little experience with in life.

  “Are we finished here?”

  Caspian watches me then slowly nods. “I suppose it’s your party.”

  Yes. Yes, it is. I can only say it so many times in so many less-overt ways, but none of this is any of Caspian White’s fucking business. At all. Just because we’re negotiating for his data doesn’t give him the right to question what Eros does. He can bark all he wants about intermingling polluted information, but this is his need for control rearing its head. His famous desire to dominate all he meets. Trevor might bend to that. I won’t. I’ll be civil and professional, but I’m nobody’s stooge. I just don’t give enough of a shit for the rules, for decorum, or even for my position. Take it all; go ahead. No one orders me around.

  “We’ll be in touch about your visit. Me, Trevor, or one of the others.”

  His tone shifts back to casual. “Perfect. I look forward to it.”

  “I need to be getting back.”

  “Of course. Go to your whores.” He laughs to show it’s a joke. Which, coming from Caspian White, it definitely isn’t.

  I reach for the disconnect button. But before I touch it, Caspian says, “The money you wired out this morning. Where did you send it?”

  He’s only half asking. Really, he’s displaying his giant balls. Pointing out that he knows a wire was sent — something even Trevor doesn’t know, because I did it privately, off the network, using my phone. Maybe Caspian even knows where that money was sent and what it means: Bridget’s birth mother getting her second chance at life after the thousandth beating from her brutalizing husband. But I won’t poke this wound. If the contest is none of his business, my stepping in to help Bridget when she lost her contest stipend definitely isn’t.

  “I have to go,” I tell him.

  He nods again as I reach to disconnect. He seems to wait until it’s too late then rolls off a single short sentence before the connection breaks.

  “I hope she’s worth it,” he says.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Bridget

  There’s a knock at my door. Maybe it’s Daniel. I hope so, though I probably shouldn’t; his latest interlude of humanity was as short as the one we had in the arboretum yesterday. He seems, in the hours since my return, to have become a distant asshole all over again. But the broken part of me is sure that’s only camouflage — bad behavior to deflect accusations of special treatment after he stepped in as my White Knight. I try to forget that good/bad isn’t either/or. I’ve had plenty of boyfriends who were brilliantly sweet to me one day and abusively cruel the next.

  But it’s not Daniel. I invite my visitor in, and Jessica enters.

  “Feeling any better?”

  “I’m not sick, Jess.”

  “No, of course. But … ” She stops, making vague gestures. But you just got vag-slapped by a world-class bitch and humiliated yourself in front of everyone.

  “I’m fine.”

  Jessica’s mouth forms a devious little smile at one corner. The women here are all stunning — billionaire’s pick of the litter — but most strike me as magazine-cover gorgeous. The kind that requires upkeep and ego maintenance, the kind that falls apart when there’s not sufficient makeup in the morning. Not Jessica. She’s girl-next-door pretty. If I were a guy, I’d probably like her best. But it’s not like men do or think what makes most sense — and that goes for the men here most of all.

  “She’s so pissed,” Jessica says.

  “Who?”

  “Kylie. She won’t admit it, but I can tell. Everyone can. It’s been … what … eight hours? She’s been back and forth between holding court in the Great Room and hate-fucking one of the guys six times in those eight hours. She took Logan the last time. Logan.” Jessica raises her eyebrows.

  “Maybe she told him to be nice. They’re supposed to do whatever we tell them.” I wouldn’t know. I haven’t had sex with anyone since I’ve been here. Except for Daniel’s fingers. And myself, thinking about Daniel and his fingers. But I might be the only one.

  “He can,” Jessica says. “But I tried him out. Twice. Once each way. The first time, I told him to kiss me all over. The second time, I told him to pull my hair and spank me.”

  “Jess!”

  She shrugs. Sweet as she looks, Jessica seems to have a matter-of-fact take on sexuality. If she’s here to get dirty, and if she enjoys getting down … well … then she might as well. “I’m just saying. But she didn’t get the nice version. She turned him up to ten.”

  “Ten?”

  “On the rough sex scale. Okay, maybe eight or nine. If he went to ten, she’d be dead.”

  I let that disturbing tidbit go. “How do you know?”

  “We heard it.”

  I let the image settle: a group of women with their ears to a door, listening to the sounds of slapping and choking. I’m embarrassed to realize I like it.

  I avoided the group when I reentered the mansion after Daniel’s reprieve, then let myself run into individuals here and there in the halls. Kylie and Ivy, her apparent ally, were both at lunch, but she never looked up at me. It’s an unsolved issue, and I’d been allowing myself to think it might quietly pass, or that maybe I was the only one damaged throughout the debacle. But if Kylie can’t shake off the dust with all that railing — and if she took punishment as the final course — then maybe there’s a victory here after all.

  “You sure you’re holding up?” Jessica asks.

  “Of course.”

  She plays with a strand of straight brown hair. It finds her full lips, brushing across them.

  “Tell you something?” she says.

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “I know you feel stupid.”

  “Gee, thanks.” But she’s right; I do. I made a scene in the dining hall; I cried; I begged. All I could think about was my mother and how I was failing her in losing the money I’d promised to send Jenny. All I could think about was Linda dying from her wounds, and life down in Miami going on without a hitch. I don’t know that she won’t die, of course, and I never found out just how bad her condition is. But at least I’ve done all I can. Or rather, Daniel did it for me.

  “But it’s good. After you came back, a lot of the others started talking about how there must be extenuating circumstances.”

  “What do I care what the others think?”

  “Don’t you care what I think?”

  I shrug as if to say whatever. At breakfast, Jessica was the only one who stood up for me. And yeah, I care.

  “Honey, if you’re in this, then you’re in it. You’ve seen reality TV, right?”

  “This
isn’t reality TV,” I tell her.

  “Close enough. Cameras everywhere. Eliminations. Bonuses based on how long you stay. And did they tell you about the video confessionals?”

  I shake my head.

  “Well, we’re supposed to do video confessionals. That seems like the same basic rules to me. And what else happens in those kinds of contests? When there are challenges and eliminations and who knows what else? Alliances, that’s what.”

  “‘Alliances.’”

  “You can try to be a team of one. But bitch, I won’t let you.”

  Okay, this is how I know I’ve had a fucked-up day. Because when Jessica calls me a bitch and says she insists on being my friend, I feel momentarily spectacular.

  “Well, thanks.”

  “Erin likes you. You know that.”

  I frown. I got along fine with Erin, but then at exactly the wrong moment she decided to put on a sex show in my room. I guess this is a sex competition and I’ve decided to stay for some fucked-up reason — although I guess I know why — so I suppose I should get over it. But I’m not the only awkward one. Erin, apparently quite the little nympho once the flag drops, has been weird around me as well. I might know why, though that’s even weirder.

  “Yeah. I think she likes me, too. Maybe too much.”

  “You ever been with a girl?”

  I cringe. “No. I’m straight.”

  “So am I,” Jessica says, “but there’s something to be said for hiring a plumber who already knows all the pipes.” Her eyes flicker briefly up and down, taking me in, and I understand immediately that she’s done stuff with girls before and would, if I raised the suggestion, do so with me right now. The thought gives me a strange rush: heat and power mixed as one.

  “Erin,” I repeat.

  “Erin,” she says. “But also Malory, maybe. Blair. Whatshername, Renee? With the big boobs? And Ruby, the redhead. Now, on the other hand … who’s the one with the teeth?”

  “They all have teeth.”

  “Roxy. The girl who made the Sybian comment. I’d guess she’s on Team Kylie.”

  That shakes something inside me. Have I become the central issue? Have I drawn the line by which the rest of this contest will be judged?