Gagged Page 4

  “I didn’t necessarily mean coffee,” I tell Lucy, dodging the apology she probably expects me to make. “They have all sorts of whipped things you can get instead.”

  Lucy seems to let it go. It’s exhausting to keep up with all of his baggage. When hasn’t my father had something shitty going on? The bastard has been sowing what he reaped for five years now.

  She sighs and drops it. “I’m good. So how was your interview with that girl from USF?”

  “I haven’t done it yet.”

  There’s silence on Lucy’s end of the line then the clacking of keys. Usually we both have steel trap memories inherited from our father, so the idea of her checking something she already knows to verify something I already know is somewhat amusing.

  “Caspian … that was at one o’clock.”

  “I know.”

  “It’s quarter to two.”

  “I know.”

  “Did she reschedule?”

  “Who would she reschedule with if not you?”

  “So she didn’t show up?”

  “She showed up. I talked to James. He says she’s waiting outside my office.”

  “Did you … did you forget or something?”

  Of course I didn’t forget. I left just before James let her in and came out here. It’s not like I was going to let some random college student interview me without having a much bigger plan — one that required me to be right where I am at this exact moment while Jasmine Lewis cools her heels in my office. Or — knowing what I know about Jasmine from her supposedly private data, including her small obsession with me — she’s probably warming up rather than cooling down. But that’s a game for later, after my errand is over.

  As if on cue, the line brings me to the barista. I give him my order — black house roast, small, with an extra shot of espresso. The kid looks at my black AmEx as if he barely believes it’s a real thing, but it swipes just fine, adding another two bucks to my unlimited line of credit.

  “What did you call me for, Luc?”

  “Hunter called me.”

  “Hunter Altman?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why did he call you?”

  “A mistake, I guess. He’s got both our numbers. And he sounded drunk. Or high. Or like he was getting head. Or, knowing Hunter, all three. And that reminds me: For the last time, can you set me up with him? He’s so hot when he’s not fucked up.”

  “Never. Hunter is worse for women than I am.”

  My thoughts turn to Jasmine, waiting in my office. My cock stirs in my pants. Not for Jasmine, but for the chain of events to follow.

  “You’re a pussy,” says Lucy. “But I’ll never tell anyone.”

  Someone is suddenly behind me, yelling, so I tell Lucy she can tell me about Hunter later, and I hang up.

  I straighten my collar. I brush the wrinkles from my blazer.

  Everyone in the coffee shop has already turned to the yammering voice behind me with wide eyes, shocked by all the vitriol spewed without the slightest hint of warning.

  But I know exactly who this blonde girl is, and I’m not surprised in the least.

  CHAPTER SIX

  AURORA

  I’M NOT SURE WHAT’S GOT into me. Maybe it’s the texts from Jasmine, which I couldn’t resist reading as I marched a half block to the Hill of Beans, forming a long, slow story of decay in haiku: a girl losing faith in herself in few-minute intervals, usually in 140 characters or less. Or maybe it’s the morning with all those bright-eyed children who deserve better, the second school decidedly underprivileged, their futures uncertain even as they reach for the stars. Maybe it’s the minutes I’ve spent staring up at Caspian White’s glimmering white monument to overcompensation like a giant penis stretching toward the sky. Or maybe it’s all those things together, brewing a stew of blame: all that’s gone wrong for me and for everyone is his fault, as he sits up there on his throne, helping nobody beneath him.

  But whatever it is, I thought I had it under control. I was even rehearsing lines in my head as I walked. I’d give him the benefit of the doubt; maybe he and Jasmine had their wires crossed, and he thought later while she thought now. And then I’d calmly ask him the questions I knew she wouldn’t. I could even be cogent. I could give him the dollars and cents and ones and zeroes, so far as I understood them. He’d agree that open source made sense or he wouldn’t, but at least I could say that I tried.

  But then I heard Caspian say, “She showed up. I talked to James. He says she’s waiting outside my office.”

  It prickles my scalp. I know he’s talking about Jasmine. His cavalier, cocky tone says, Yeah, I made that bitch wait. So fucking what?

  My vision goes red. My fists clench. There’s a pounding in my ears, and suddenly I can’t think straight. My well-reasoned arguments and calm points of discussion all fly out the window, along with any benefit of the doubt. By the time I’ve pushed through the people behind him, I’m in hysterics.

  Caspian seems to hear me and realize I’m here for him. He puts his phone away but doesn’t turn; first he adjusts his collar and brushes his sleeve. It’s the exact same I’ll get to you when I get to you, little girl attitude I heard in his voice when he was talking about Jasmine … who he’d deal with “whenever.”

  I stop yelling when he turns. I hate what my pause must say, but his physical presence is as disarming as the gossip shows claim. He must be six-three, dwarfing me even in my heeled boots. He’s broad at the shoulders, narrow at the waist, his suit cut perfectly to accentuate the V of his impressive torso. His eyes aren’t shy; they fix me so immediately and intensely that I honestly feel like I’m swimming in their ocean-deep blue. His face has a day’s worth of stubble, blond like his hair, longish and brushing his collar. And there’s that smile. That maddening, cocksure smile. Like he’s heard all my hate, and finds it sweet.

  “Go on,” he says. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your tirade.”

  “Jasmine Lewis. She’s my friend.”

  “It’s good to have friends.” But again: a slow tip of his infuriating lips that says he’s toying with me.

  “You have an appointment with her. Right now.”

  “I don’t think I know a ‘Jasmine Lewis.’”

  “From USF. The journalism major who wrote to your office requesting an interview.”

  More of that smile. I know it, too, from his press photos — the one Jasmine calls his panty-melter.

  “There must be a mistake. I don’t accept interview requests, Miss … ”

  I ignore his prompt. I know what he’s doing and want to slap him. The way he’s trying to make me dance is infuriating, but here I am, waltzing all the same. I can’t make myself walk away. Not now that the entire shop’s clientele and staff are staring. Not now that I’ve already so completely embarrassed myself.

  “You know goddamn well what I’m talking about.” I don’t swear much, and the word feels odd on my lips.

  “Wait. She wanted to interview me for a class,” he says, putting a finger to his chin. “Is that right?”

  “You know she did.”

  “Hmm.” He looks at his watch, brushed silver and probably worth more than my Civic. “Was that now?”

  “One o’clock!”

  “Well, I’m not going to make that.” He lets his watch hand drop, moves down the counter to where his coffee is waiting. He takes the cup and slides over to the cream and sugar. I happen to know Caspian’s drink is a red eye without sugar or cream; it was in an Esquire piece Jasmine and I found during our research for this all-important day that Caspian couldn’t give a fractional shit about. He doesn’t need anything from the little bar, but he’s peeling a stir stick without hurry, tossing the paper toward the trash, missing, picking it up, missing again, bending again. I feel seconds ticking. I can feel Jasmine’s discomfort all the way down here, at Earth level two blocks away. I know how she is. She’s personalized all of this. She won’t see this as Caspian being an ass; she’ll take it as a reflection on hersel
f. To Caspian, she’s nothing — and right now, that’s exactly what his disregard is reducing her to.

  “You have no right to treat her like this.”

  “Who?”

  I won’t answer. I won’t keep playing this game.

  “Who do you think you are? What’s wrong with you that everyone is beneath you? What the hell is wrong with you?”

  He dips the stir stick into his coffee. Stirs slowly. I have plenty of time, while he purposely dawdles, to peek at my phone. It’s 1:50. Fifty minutes my friend has been sitting up in this asshole’s office, her best clothes probably sticking to her sweating skin, trying to be the woman I know she truly is even though she always, always sells herself short as just a girl who’s down for a fun time. She’s debasing herself by staying this long, and what’s worse is that I know she’d wait another three hours if she thought it meant her finally getting her precious time with Caspian.

  He hasn’t answered my question. But after he takes his time to stir nothing into his coffee (or perhaps the shot into his brew), he drops the stir stick into the trash and leans with his hip against the bar. A companionable stance, and his stupid sideways smile.

  “I’ve seen you before,” he says.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I have.” He snaps his fingers. “Right. My executive assistant was showing me footage of you from the traffic camera just down the street.”

  “How do you have footage from the traffic cam?”

  “She thought you might be a troublemaker. Always taking pictures of my building. But I told her you weren’t.”

  “How do you know I’m not?”

  He almost snorts. “Well, look at you.” He gestures. I thought I looked pretty good, but all of a sudden I feel two inches tall and dressed like a hobo. “You’ve obviously never been in any trouble in your life.”

  “This isn’t about me. This is about my friend.”

  Caspian runs a hand through his hair.

  “All right. What’s your name?”

  “None of your business.”

  “You like to take pictures.”

  “I’m an amateur photographer.”

  He gives me a look like he’s about to pat me on the top of the head and tell me I’m adorable for all my ambition and big words.

  “You seem to know who I am.”

  “Oh yes,” I say. “I get the feeling I know exactly who you are, Mr. White.”

  “I’m flattered. Maybe you also know that I don’t grant interviews, except for the one I now remember I set with your friend Jessie.”

  “Jasmine.”

  “GQ has been bugging the shit out of me to do a photo shoot. They say I’m ‘fashionable.’ I don’t know what they mean; I just dress well. Maybe that’s fashionable to people who dress in crap.” Another up-and-down glance with those brilliant blue eyes. “I’ve been turning them all down. But I’d already set aside some time for your friend, so maybe you’d like to come up, too. Once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

  I feel myself scowling, but it’s hard because I’m certain he finds my anger adorable, like someone with my face and personality can’t possibly radiate menace. So with as much venom as I can manage, I say, “No thanks.”

  “Please. In fact, I won’t take no for an answer. I owe you one for all of — ” He gestures around the coffee shop, at the patrons pretending I shouldn’t be embarrassed for the scene I caused in the face of this pleasant and accommodating man. “This.”

  The people are glancing at me, trying to pretend they’re not. I know I’m right by a large margin, but still I feel wrong. He’s not apologizing any more than he accidentally left Jasmine in the breeze for nearly an hour now. I want to justify myself — to explain the whole Jasmine-is-waiting-and-he’s-blowing-her-off-on-purpose thing behind my anger — but I can’t; it’ll come off horribly if I try.

  I firm my jaw. I shake my head. “You’re an ass.”

  I leave, and Caspian follows. After a few seconds he calls out, “Miss Henley!”

  I turn back and look at him. He’s standing beside his fancy car, which it seems the pretty boy with the silver spoons actually drove here himself.

  “I hear you’re interested in education. If you’ll let me make this up to you, maybe that’s something we can discuss.”

  I take a step forward, curious despite my anger.

  But then I stop.

  Because I didn’t tell him my name, back in the shop, when he asked.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  AURORA

  CASPIAN IS OBVIOUSLY TRYING TO pull something, but I’d be a fool not to pursue this — to at least discover whatever I can without doing something stupid. But I’m a cautious girl, and not the kind of person you dupe. I don’t go to many bars, but you bet I watch my drinks when I do, then keep them in my hand so nobody can slip something into them. I don’t walk through questionable parts of town alone at the wrong times of day; I don’t jog alone on secluded paths. My parents had plenty of faults, but a healthy dose of skepticism was one thing they gave me — unlike Jasmine, who does all the things I’m thinking of and more. She’s never been robbed or raped or beaten or killed, but that doesn’t mean her frivolity is right and my caution is wrong. And I’m not going to wait until something happens to prove I’m right.

  This is Caspian White, and he works there in that big building, and right now we have all sorts of witnesses. But I’m not stupid enough to climb into his fancy car. Not in a million years.

  I sort of laugh a superior little chuckle — the one weapon I might have in my arsenal against someone like him, and only because I’m a woman who can reject a man if I choose.

  “You’re full of it,” I say.

  “I need to make it up to you somehow. Your friend gets her interview, and you can take pictures.”

  I know it’s bullshit. But I still haven’t walked away.

  “Come up to my office. Jasmine will need a ride home anyway.”

  That’s true. Her friend Greg drove her. He has an enormous crush on Jasmine, but she thinks he’s just a friend. Today’s ride was a drop-off because he had class and Jasmine said she’d take the bus back. It breaks my heart to imagine her in one of those dirty seats with her nice clothes, feeling as beaten and alone as I know she will.

  How Caspian could know she’d need a ride — that’s another question.

  He opens the door to his shiny black car.

  “Please. Get in. I assume you’re already parked?”

  I am, two blocks up. But that’s not the point. “I’m not getting in a car with you.”

  I think he’ll try to explain why that’s dumb of me, but instead he closes the door and walks my way. And holy shit, is he tall. In his black suit, starched white shirt, and powder-blue silk tie to match his eyes, the man is larger than life. His hair has a shine in the sun because it’s got something in it, mousse or gel or something that keeps it looking slightly wet. I’m trying to hold my ground, but I find myself rooted, watching his approach.

  “Then we’ll walk,” he says. “It’s only two blocks.”

  I look back at his car. There’s no way that’s a parking spot. He just took what he wanted from the San Francisco streets like he takes what he wants everywhere else.

  “I’ll have someone pick it up.”

  “You’re going to get a ticket, or towed.”

  “I’ve plenty more.” At first, his words don’t make sense — plenty more what? Tickets? — but as he walks by, clearly expecting me to blindly follow, I get the feeling I know the answer: Cars. If the city tows that one, I’ve plenty more cars to replace it. But it’s all moot, isn’t it? Caspian White is a favored son. The cops won’t give him a ticket or tow him the way they would anyone else — not the man who can afford it, wouldn’t be affected, and doesn’t even care.

  He looks back at me. “Are you coming?”

  I know how Jasmine would answer.

  He’s watching me with those blue eyes — hard eyes, yes, but different than I’ve seen
online and in magazines. I don’t like the way he’s staring. Despite all that’s happened in the last few minutes, I get the feeling that I’ll be the rude one if I refuse. I said I wouldn’t ride in a car, so he offered to walk. Ignoring that I never agreed to go via any mode of transportation, it seems perfectly sensible.

  Caspian doesn’t talk during the stroll to his building. Fine with me; I’d rather not talk, either. He’s two steps ahead, never looking back, leaving me a view of fine cloth on a broad back. I feel like a toady as I clack along the sidewalk in my heeled boots — like someone trailing the man to do his bidding or maybe take notes, or like a fan he can’t quite shake.

  We round the first block and approach Caspian’s building to find construction fencing on our right. We circle around it — farther into the construction area — rather than over to the front entrance. I want to ask him why but already feel so pathetic. Asking questions will only make me feel stupider. I could bail at any time — seeing as he’s gone from talking me into this to clearly not wanting me here — but I don’t. The opportunity is too great. I’m sure he’ll mock me like he mocked the last interviewer to ask him about GameStorming’s open-source educational opportunities, but I’ll regret it every day if I don’t at least try.

  Because you’re going to change his mind, Aurora. All sorts of people have pitched this to him, he has business partners counting on him to make billions, and he’s already publicly said that he’ll do what he wants and those who disagree can eat it. He’s got the world on a plate and answers to no one … but yes. YOU will effortlessly convince him.

  My feet keep moving, knowing they’re only making this worse.

  We reach a small, inconspicuous door around the corner from the loading dock — the kind you’d find a blue-collar breakroom behind, if not an outdoor gas station bathroom.

  “There’s a news crew camped in my front lobby,” he explains. “This way, we won’t be bothered.”

  The ugly door has a fancy electronic lock, and something on Caspian’s wrist must be keyed to it because he waves his watch hand over the lock and the door clicks. He pulls it open and waves gallantly, inviting me to go inside first. And I think, Ladies first into the meat locker.