Burning Rivalry (Trevor's Harem #2) Page 3

  That’s not what this is.

  Trevor is looking for a winner, just like we told them. But because everyone sees the world through the filter of their own experiences and prejudices and preconceptions, it’s going to take many of these mice longer to figure it out than others. Right now, none of them knows which end is up. They’re here for Trevor, and yet they’ve barely met him. They’re here in the middle of all this sexuality, but what they’re doing now is academic and boring enough to peel paint.

  I watch the feed. I observe the six women in the Twos group, Richard at their front, entertaining them with a story. Right now, the action is PG at best, miles from X. That might change. If it does, I’ll take plenty of notes, and add them to the pile.

  My eyes, as they have since I committed my mistake and started this thing, go to my old foe Bridget.

  I’m supposed to be objective. And I want to be.

  But I’m also supposed to conduct the true challenge one by one through sleight of hand, pulling each away while the others are distracted.

  I’m not allowed to touch any of them. That’s been made black-and-white, blood-in-the-water clear to all involved.

  But I can’t help thinking: neuroscience tells us that what we usually call reality is highly, highly subjective.

  And so, if nobody sees the liberties I take, it’s possible they don’t really exist.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Bridget

  “Bridget.”

  I turn around, see Erin, and blink. I looked for her a minute ago, because I’m tired of the weirdness between us. If we’re just supposed to sit here and wait for the Ones group to finish whatever Billionaire Bachelor shit they’re doing right now, we might as well use this time to bond. I’ll be here for two weeks, until I’m eliminated. Kylie, whom Daniel added to this group as if to torture me, is still giving me the evilest eye I’ve ever seen. I need allies.

  But I didn’t see Erin when I looked.

  I sat tall in my oversized chair, searching the room with my eyes. It’s big, but not so large that I can’t see the whole thing. I supposed she might be hiding behind one of the other chairs, but why? We’ve been told to stay here. I don’t know if this is supposed to devolve like last night’s dinner, but I get the feeling it might. Richard is here. There are six of us and only one of him, but his button-up shirt is open and we can all see his abs, and I can feel the room’s temperature climbing with every passing second. These women are all nymphomaniacs. I’ve never felt such sexual tension as I’ve felt every second in this mansion. Daniel was right: I’m out of my element. I can actually control my pussy most of the time.

  Looking around the group, I see restless hands. I see lips being licked. From the front of the room, it’s obvious that Richard feels the tension, too. His jeans are tight, and his bulge is huge.

  I almost wish I were slutty. Fucking the studs earns you points here, right?

  But now Erin is back. Right where I thought she’d be when I looked around and found her missing, now back in the big purple chair as if she never left.

  “Where did you go?”

  Pause. “To the bathroom.”

  But I’m pretty sure she’s lying. I don’t know why, but I think it just the same.

  Her eyes flick around. There’s some sort of nonverbal communication happening here, but I’ll be damned if I know what it is. She’s trying to tell me something and I badly want to tell her to blurt it out. But then I remember the cameras upon us. They’re easy to forget, when most of what’s happening doesn’t make any sense. I could say fuck it, but I really don’t want to get kicked out again because, shit, I can really use the money. But I’m on my second strike, and don’t imagine I’m supposed to get more than one.

  She fixes me with those azure eyes. They tick sideways, and after a minute she gets up and crosses the room. She stops in plain sight, right in the middle of a giant dot in the carpet’s pattern, then waits for me to follow. Finally, with nothing better to do, I go.

  “Get closer to me,” she says, beckoning me into her chest — where, I’m a bit embarrassed to see, her nipples are sticking up.

  “I’m very flattered,” I tell her. “But I’m just not into … ”

  She cuts off my hetero-declaration, grabs me by the waist, and pulls me forward. At first, I think this is another advance, but my skirt stays. Erin lets me go, nods, and says, “Okay.”

  I look down, and then I remember. This is one of the blind spots they told us about last night. On reality TV, the blind spots are in logical places, like bathrooms and bedrooms, where people use facilities and change. But because this place is a giant mindfuck, the safe areas here are places like this: on the big dot in the second-floor gathering hall.

  “Look,” she says. “I was just with Daniel … ”

  “With Daniel?”

  And her nipples are hard.

  And, I’m now realizing, she seemed a bit out of breath when she returned from wherever she was — which, it would now seem, was with the man who’s supposed to be off limits for all of us.

  “Yes. And — ”

  “I thought Daniel was with the other group?”

  “He wanted to see me in private.”

  My jaw slides side to side. I look Erin over with new eyes. She’s wearing a little pink dress, but the bottom is wrinkled. Her hair is mussed and face flushed. I’ll bet she’s flushed all over, blood running to various body parts hither and yon.

  “What for?”

  “I’m not supposed to tell you. He said not to.”

  “Me specifically, or anyone?”

  “What does it matter?”

  She seems to be rushing me through this. I push away my annoyance. Maybe she’s trying for the same advantage everyone thinks I have, and if she is, I can hardly blame her. Her lipstick is smudged just a little, so maybe she was in a hurry when she put it on. Or maybe she just got done using her mouth for something unauthorized.

  Either way, I guess it’s none of my business. I don’t know why Daniel got me into this, but he’s basically admitted to doing so as a grudge. I was vulnerable last night, and during his afternoon of icy stares I’ve decided that vulnerability caused me to misinterpret his sending money as a kindness, when, in fact, it was a way to prolong my humiliation. I mean, shit, I haven’t even been paid. Maybe he’s tricking me into all of the downside with none of the upside.

  If Erin is breaking the rules, so be it. I’m only in this for the money.

  “Look, I was with him, in this dark room with a bunch of screens.” She glances around as if by searching for cameras, she might see Daniel looking back at us. “We were … talking. And — ”

  “Talking?”

  “And I saw that on one of the screens, he’s got an email account up. It’s yours, Bridget.”

  Okay, I didn’t see that coming.

  “MINE?”

  “He said to send you in. You’re next.”

  “Next for what?”

  “Just go, Bridget.” She points. “There’s a door to the right of the bathroom in the hall there. That’s where he is. He said to send you in.”

  “As part of the contest? Or, like … off the grid? Because you seem so … secretive.”

  Erin nods. “He said I had to keep it quiet. That you’re supposed to keep it quiet, too. He told me not to say I was in with him, just that he wants to see you. But I had to tell you about the email, Bridget. He summoned me in, but I think the door was supposed to be locked. He seemed surprised and tried to hide it. I saw some of the email headlines. You … well, you should know. I saw the name Brandon. Like, lots from him, and lots of exclamation points. So you should know that Daniel is in there, and just that if you can, you really need to find a way to check it.”

  I look down at my Fitbit. I haven’t received any new email notifications like that first one, from Jenny, that made me Skype her in what I assumed was secret. But I shouldn’t be surprised; Daniel told me they’d set all of that up: let me get the notification on a
suspiciously open Wi-Fi network, let me find and use a conveniently unsecured computer without interruption.

  It’s just another mind game. Now the network’s secure, I’m not getting notifications, and Daniel is messing in my private affairs while my birth mother convalesces, assuming she’s not dead. Wonderful.

  “Door to the right of the bathroom,” Erin repeats. “But remember, I only told you that he wants to see you, no more. Don’t tell him I told you I was in with him, or about the email, or any of that. If he asks, I told you that I ran into him when I was walking over to splash some water on my face or something.”

  I should thank Erin for delivering the message, but I find myself annoyed. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being fucked with. Daniel is up; Daniel is down. Trevor is supposed to be this party’s host, but we haven’t seen much of him so far, and his bride tests, I’m guessing, involve wife candidates screwing other men. The uber-rich are weird. But they cross the line when they fuck with my family.

  I leave the room, hearing Erin’s voice in my head.

  I saw the name Brandon. Like, lots from him, and lots of exclamation points.

  I’ll meet Daniel, if he wants to meet with me. No problem.

  But one way or another, I’m talking to my big brother, too.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Bridget

  The door to the bathroom’s right doesn’t even look like a real thing. I mean, it’s a door. But that’s about it. Nobody would ever come in here. Not even to get a broom, because in a house like this, brooms are probably kept in crystal racks and can’t be held without pristine white gloves. Dust is terrified around here. It’s not removed so much as murdered, made to have never existed.

  To me, it looks like the closet in the first foster home Brandon and I shared. There were actually two, with some time spent apart in residence (but still close by) between them. In the second foster home, Brandon protected me with his fists. In the first, we learned what kinds of things kids might need protection from.

  The mother and father were nice enough. Poor, yes. Oblivious, yes. But mostly kind. They had one biological child: a seventeen-year-old son. Brandon was fifteen, and I was thirteen. The third kid in the house liked me, a lot. Or maybe he was socially fucked up enough to have no other outlets.

  That house had a walk-in closet just like this. A place where I was taken a few times, before Brandon grabbed a knife and threatened to end our fostership one way or another.

  I don’t know why the door next to the bathroom, in this posh mansion, reminds me so much of that time and place. It’s only a door, tucked almost into a corner. If the shadows from the long windows fall just right, you might not even notice it, or if you did, you’d take the door for an oversight or unfunny joke on the architect’s part.

  I open it, sure I’m in the wrong place and being foolish. I’m supposed to raise my shields here; I decided that when I agreed to stay. I’d done vulnerable, same as sniped and yelled-at and bothered and weak. Until I hit that first elimination and am told to get my prude ass out with my pile of money, I’m in Iron Bitch mode. At least that’s how it’s supposed to be. But my palm is sweaty on the knob. I can feel my heartbeat in my throat and hear it in my ears. The hallway beyond the door, apparently leading into a deeper, larger room, is narrow and too long for … for whatever you’d expect behind a door that I’d swear was the same goddamned one from that foster home, shipped here to fuck with my head. It’s too dark. There’s plenty of light in the hallway and in the room I can make out ahead, but the space between is like a secret passage in an old home in a classic murder mystery. Something Scooby Doo and his gang might run into.

  It’s too dark. In just this little stretch, which can’t be more than twenty feet long, it’s practically black. It doesn’t smell musty and there aren’t any cobwebs, but I keep wanting to brush at my hair to free it of spiders.

  Ahead, a large office chair rolls from one side and blocks the exit from this coffin of a passageway. There’s nobody in it. The chair is just sitting there, blocking a few feet of the illuminated rectangle ahead. My logical mind knows I can walk forward and push the chair away, but the deeper part is suddenly terrified. The closet door closing all those years ago, with me and my tormentor inside.

  A hand settles on my left shoulder from behind. I jump hard enough that I swear I almost hit the ceiling.

  “Relax. It’s just me.”

  I know the voice. It’s Daniel. But now the hallway door is closed and without any light above, he’s mostly a shape in the shadows.

  “The bulb’s burned out. Watch your step.”

  “I didn’t see you,” I say, trying to control my breathing. My mind is a frightened animal, and I’m trying to wrap my hands around it. I don’t want him to hear how badly he startled me.

  “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  Bullshit. I feel certain, right now, that’s exactly what he meant to do.

  “Don’t worry. You didn’t.”

  A small chuckle in the darkness. He nudges me forward because we’re facing off in the gloom.

  “They say animals can smell fear,” he says.

  “Good for animals.”

  “Humans, too.”

  I’m not sure what that’s supposed to mean, and don’t want to ask. We’re out of the little passage a second later, and I’ve shoved the rolling chair aside. There’s nobody here in what Erin called a control room, so I have no idea how it moved earlier. I can properly see him. He must have noticed the chair move while he was lurking behind me in the dark, but he doesn’t seem mystified. It’s just another game he’s playing with me, as he’s been doing all along. Falling for any of it makes me feel stupid. I got spooked for no reason. It’s irrational and if Daniel is trying to fuck with me, he got lucky once but won’t again.

  “It’s true, you know.”

  “What?”

  “We can smell fear. Not consciously. Not even in a way that’s really understood. But study after study shows that on some level, we’re all aware of things happening with other people that they may not even know — or admit — about themselves. Like moods. Like chemical signals that we don’t have any kind of ordinary capacity to even detect, but still somehow seem to.”

  “Fascinating.” I’m already looking around, interested only in finding whatever Brandon-related communications are in here, then confronting Daniel for snooping. It isn’t straightforward. The room is larger than I’d have imagined, filled with monitors, computers, and controls of all kinds. I suppose the narrow passageway is supposed to connect the hall and a room that seems to have been shoved behind the bathroom. No wonder the door seemed so out of place: There’s no space for a room behind it, between the bathroom and the wall. We’re closer to the home’s heart, tucked neatly away.

  “I’m only telling you,” Daniel says, “because if you’re afraid, there are people who will be able to — ”

  I spin to face him. “You’re snooping in my email.”

  “Erin told you.”

  “Of course Erin told me. You thought she wouldn’t?”

  I wait for him to react with shock as I fumble for the upper hand, but he gives me a cocky little lift of his mouth, as if I’m merely amusing to him.

  “No, I knew she would. She’s loyal. It’s one of her key strengths.”

  I spy a laptop to one side, open to a Gmail window. I cross to it, but Daniel is faster, slapping the lid shut then standing mostly over my shoulder, holding it closed.

  “We need to talk.”

  “That was my email, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t recall giving you permission to read my email.”

  “I don’t recall feeling I needed it.” I pry at his fingers, trying to shove his hand away. But he’s a hell of a lot stronger than I am, and it’s clear he’s playing with me, like a cat with a dying mouse.

  “Fuck you, Daniel. Let me see it.”

  “It’ll only upset you.”

  I look rig
ht at him. If that’s honestly supposed to be something that will decrease my interest in what he’s keeping from me, he’s vastly miscalculated.

  “I can take care of myself.”

  “No, Bridget. You can’t.”

  “If you’re trying to help me — ” … again, my mind adds.

  “I’m not trying to help you. I’m trying to protect you.”

  “That’s not your job.”

  “It is now.”

  “‘Now’?” There’s some cue that’s changed hands here, and I don’t know what it is. I want to ask why now, of all times, Daniel feels he needs to be some macho, alpha-male savior. He helped me out with Linda and I really appreciate it, but I’m not looking for support. I’ve always made it on my own. I don’t want help. I never want help other than the kind I make for myself.

  “You know what they say about the life you save. It’s your responsibility forever.”

  “You didn’t save my life.”

  “The continuation of brain waves and a heartbeat isn’t the only definition of alive, Bridget.”

  “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Now he’s making me mad. And what’s worse, I think he’s trying to.

  He’s staring right at me. His intense brown eyes. Hard, unshaven jaw. My hands are still scrabbling along his, halfheartedly trying to prize the laptop away so I can see how much he’s been meddling, and as I struggle my hands keep trailing along his forearm. He isn’t doing much more than leaning his hand on the laptop, but still his muscles have become like a sculpted iron pillar.