Burning Rivalry (Trevor's Harem #2) Page 7

  But then I find myself thinking back to Kylie’s little speech the first night. About preparing for all of this in advance because she cracked the website code and looked up who was behind it. The puzzles I’ve seen thus far are so convoluted, I’m not sure if I believe she tricked Trevor’s group or if a deliberate loophole was left for her to discover what she needed, provided she was clever enough. The distinction hardly matters. Kylie cracked the code. She sniffed around and uncovered hidden information, just as I’m betting she’s done now.

  Somehow, she’s been in my room.

  Which, of course, presupposes she was motivated enough to do it.

  I think back to what Daniel said about Roxy: that technically speaking, she’s a sociopath. There’s a library down one of the long hallways, and while bored yesterday and avoiding one fuckfest or another, I perused it. I found a dictionary then decided to find out whether my fellow contestant was dangerous. But it turns out that sociopathy is characterized by lack of empathy and normal social understanding, not serial killing. Some of what’s been said has led me to believe there are a few other oddities here as well, like they’ve taken a sampler from the overarching girl spectrum. We have international girls, local girls, girls like Kylie who can nose their way into places and get computers doing the tango, and holy shit does Jessica have a memory for art. She keeps telling me about paintings I haven’t noticed, then reciting their artist, creation date, and the amount they were last sold for as if from an internal whiteboard. How anyone would even find that information if they thought to want it, I can’t imagine. But Jessica acts like it’s no big deal.

  So maybe Kylie has something special between her ears, too. She could be a hacker for all I know.

  I think back to what Kylie confessed to overhearing between Daniel and Trevor, when they were training shirtless in the upstairs gym. About me and Linda, how she was in trouble. Abusive trouble. And now, thinking about the computer lock that someone breached to put gum in my hairbrush, I wonder if that’s how Kylie heard about my situation after all — or if instead, she’s been snooping like a digital sleuth.

  I look at my gummed hairbrush, sitting in the bottom of a garbage can that seems far too fancy for trash. The can liner is probably made of unicorn foreskin. And I think of how I want to take Kylie’s genius-scheme-to-do-something-really-fucking-immature and answer it by punching her vagina hard enough to make the bitch prolapse.

  I’m such a lady.

  I pick up a new brush from the vanity and start working my hair, noticing the brush’s warmth in my hand. I’ve heard of fancy brushes like this; you’re supposed to use them with a dryer to flatten hair without the extra step of a straightener. But unless I’m mistaken, those fancy brushes didn’t have enough heat without being plugged into the wall.

  I finish up and set the brush down — a normal-looking brush, with no cord.

  This place is such a mindfuck.

  And now I have a date with one rich guy and two girls. Lucky me.

  I close myself in the walk-in closet, certain there are cameras hidden in here too, but at least decreasing the number of lenses capturing my every movement.

  Preparing for the date will be tricky because I know nothing about it. On purpose, I’m sure. We might be dancing in some ballroom I’ve yet to discover, swimming, or organizing a bunch of tired-looking accountants to do Trevor’s taxes. I tried getting more information about where we’re going and what we’re doing — as did Kylie and Kat, our sharp and icy third — on the basis of needing to choose my clothing. I’d have appealed to Daniel, but he was absent yet again. I found a man named Eric, whom I’d literally never seen. Given the electronic door handle and nuclear hairbrush, Trevor strikes me as a man rich enough to have single-serving help, like this guy. I figure Eric shows up once for a defined purpose and is then disposed of.

  But Eric just told the three of us, “Choosing your clothing is part of the date.”

  Duh. Thanks, Eric. Really using that single serving of yours to the max, aren’t we?

  I could probably have pushed, but decided to save preserve my dignity. I may not be a ninja like Kylie or a freak like Roxy, but I’m smart enough to see the patterns. I’ve had a life filled with duplicity and people who say one thing while doing another, so in a weird way I’ve been primed to recognize intentional mind games when I see them. Everything that’s happened here has been about misdirection and sham. Yesterday’s tests — setting one group up to run through nonsense while both groups were observed to learn something else — was the most obvious example. And to think, it’s women who get the reputation of not just saying what the hell they mean and holding hidden agendas.

  So I don’t ask Eric again about the date or the dress. I don’t try to find Trevor or Daniel. I don’t inquire about The Manager, whom I increasingly see in my head like Big Brother from 1984, though maybe I’m being dramatic. Instead, I hike up my self-respect while Kylie berates Eric and pokes him in the chest, satisfied that at least this time she’s embarrassing herself more than I am.

  With no specific instructions, I choose comfortable clothes. And since I don’t give a shit about winning favor or making Trevor like me, this is easy. I find some loose canvas pants that are probably still quite expensive and manage to not make me look like a painter’s assistant. Then I pull on a simple cotton top. The outfit won’t be a winner if we’re expected to catwalk for Trevor’s assessment, but if that’s what they want, my biggest problem won’t be the clothes. My outfit is passable enough for something physical, perfect for anything casual, and yet not scrubby enough to be a total fail if we’re supposed to be elegant. But again, who gives a shit? Let Kylie and Kat duke it out for the win. I’ll be happy enough in comfy duds.

  I report at the time and place instructed: the rather neutral and non-revealing area with the giant chandeliers, which I’ve been calling the Great Room. Kylie’s in tall heels that make her tower above me even though we’re normally about the same height and a black dress that seems almost plasticized. She looks like an expensive escort — the kind you can take to a business dinner because she knows which forks to use when, but who everyone at the table knows can suck a golf ball through a hose. She’s applied enough eye makeup to frighten an army of owls. Her legs are bare more than halfway up her thighs, there’s this little crisscross strap thing at her chest that provides a window to the sides of her smallish boobs, and her tiny nose is sparkling so brilliantly that I’ll bet it was recently polished.

  Kat, amusingly, looks like a shrunken Kylie. Like someone put Kylie in a Xerox machine and reduced her by 40 percent. The dresses are similar; the heels are just as tall; Kat’s hair is immaculate and razor straight. Yet there’s a difference between them that’s initially hard to identify. Kat’s makeup is far more natural, but there’s more to it … and then I have it. Somehow, the same basic look feels haughty and trying-too-hard on Kylie, whereas it looks perfectly normal on Kat. Maybe it’s Kat’s tiny frame or the attitude difference between them — standoffish on Kat, haughty on Kylie. Or maybe it’s the giant stick up Kylie’s ass.

  It’s just the three of us at first. Despite myself, I’m self-conscious immediately. I didn’t slob it up; I actually think I look decent — business casual, maybe, if not ready for a cocktail party. But beside these two, I’m clearly the ugly duckling. Trevor will walk in here and play that game where one thing isn’t quite like the others, and that’ll be it for Bridget at this little soiree.

  Kat gives me an expressionless glance. Kylie takes me in more thoroughly, making the visual journey from flat shoes to flat hair that I’ve again pulled into a sorta ponytail. I expect her to say something annoying, but she just sort of laughs, the sound coming out as half snort.

  There’s a noise from one side, and Daniel enters. He doesn’t even look at us. He’s obviously cutting through for a workout because he’s dressed in shorts and a sleeveless white shirt. I almost gasp, and react in several more subtle ways I’m embarrassed to admit. Because despite
my short, strange, and confused history with Daniel, I’ve never seen him in so little. He’s always kept his shirt on. But now I can finally see his arms for the impressive things they are. He’s cut as shit, striations visible in the muscle of forearm and biceps, giant triceps muscles rounding him out from the back side. The tribal tattoo I’ve only seen hints of is now almost on full display, crawling up his neck at one end and twining his forearm like vines on the other. I don’t know how much of his chest and back it might cover, but I can see where it crosses powerful shoulders his physique has only hinted at before.

  I don’t want to react like some ditz, but I can’t help it. He’s so much hotter than I realized, and I’d realized plenty.

  I watch him pass us, trying not to be obvious — not to Daniel, who’s again been absent and distant, and not to the other girls. Kat sees nothing because openly she’s watching him, short-nailed fingers moving to idly flip at her dark brown hair. But Kylie sees it all, because she’s not watching Daniel. Her eyes are on me, trying not to watch him.

  I’m sure Daniel is about to pass out of view when he stops, turns, and faces us. His eyes linger on mine for a moment, and I’m instantly so wet, I wonder if I’m in danger of looking like I’ve peed myself.

  A satisfied little thought hits me as I see Kylie’s attention leave me for Daniel, finally unable to resist taking him in.

  I’ve had him, and you haven’t.

  But then I think of my little break-in, and how someone, somewhere, had to give her access.

  I think of Erin, whom Daniel called yesterday before he had her call me.

  And I think of how Daniel’s word is my only reason to believe that he told me the truth, which I tend to buy more or less based on my arousal.

  Kylie bites her lip. Her chest puffs a little, displaying her windowed tits.

  I wonder what Daniel will say before heading off to his workout, but then Trevor enters from the same direction. We hear him coming like a cat wearing a bell, because he’s jangling like a janitor with too many keys.

  The jangling is coming from a clutch of metal in Trevor’s hand: a harness of some sort dangling carabiners. He has a bag of gear over his shoulder and is dressed like Daniel: two hot lean guys for the price of one.

  Kat looks at the harness, and I know she’s thinking of her supposed boyfriend back home — the acrobat who wears women’s makeup. They must do all sorts of dangling, hung-from-the-ceiling stuff together. Any man willing to send his girl off on something like this must host a fun-filled relationship, and I can only imagine what Kat might be thinking about the suspended, strung-up orgy we’re about to engage in.

  But I’ve seen this gear before. I’ve used this gear before, and it’s not what Kat thinks.

  “I hope you’re up for some rock climbing,” Trevor says, flashing his boyish smile.

  This time, it’s me snorting a laugh.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Daniel

  The first time I climbed rocks, it was with Bridget.

  I wonder if she remembers.

  I’m thinking this while Kat and Kylie run off to change, another nugget of data duly recorded. But it’s not like we care, in and of itself, what clothing the girls choose for an unknown date when left to their own devices. It’s more that we want to keep them guessing. That we want to make them jump through hoops for no other reason.

  I’m not in love with the approach, but Eros has its policies and procedures, obfuscation cornerstone among them. The board, when challenged, defends our way of doing things by talking about the need to establish experimental controls. Outcome data is suspect, they say, if there’s a chance the subjects know what’s actually being tested. This kind of thing requires misdirection: pretending to measure one thing while secretly measuring something else.

  I know it’s true, but establishing blinds isn’t truly the reason for much of what we do — of what I’ve been asked to engage in as this experiment’s moderator and most interested party. Much of it is mind fucking. Most of it, if I had to guess, would be frowned upon in the future if we ever released our results publicly rather than feeding them into Alexa and Caspian’s greedy algorithms. That’s the way so much of this kind of thing is seen years later: regrettable in retrospect, but fortunate overall. The Stanford Prison Experiment might have been reprehensible and resulted in long-term psychological damage to its subjects — but hey, it’s great that we learned so much about human nature, societal roles, and the importance of ending up on the side of those calling the shots.

  Trevor lets the idea of forcing them to rock climb in their current apparel settle, then lets the three girls off the hook and tells them they can go change. He does it with his boy-next-door smile and matching laugh. Oh, ha-ha, we’re just teasing you, ladies. We’re not trying to fuck with your heads at all.

  Bridget meets my eyes for a moment after Kylie and Kat scamper back to their rooms. Not Trevor’s. Mine.

  And she’s the first one back. Her facade took less work to disassemble. Bridget doesn’t wear much makeup and never has, as far as I’ve seen. Kat and Kylie are probably upstairs now, scrubbing off all that eyeliner and God knows what else. She’d be able to quickly swap her moderate dress for athletic apparel, whereas I’m sure the other two will require contortions and shoehorns. They’re all still defaulting to everything being sexual. Probably because of our obfuscation policy, the fact that nobody seems able to keep anything in their pants with options generously provided in a no-rules zone, and the fact that we more or less said as much.

  Yes, this is about sex.

  And no, it’s not about sex at all.

  I’m thinking this after Bridget returns, after she’s giving me the eye yet again. Trevor is looking right at us, eyeing Bridget like something he’d love to possess. I thought he was against her being here, and then all of a sudden he turns around and selects her for this first group date. I know they talked last night, but I don’t think that’s why his mind seems to have changed. Maybe it’s because Bridget is, for a hard-shelled and mostly reserved woman, shockingly magnetic. Or maybe it’s because Trevor knows something he shouldn’t, and is doing this to punish me, instead.

  I look back at him. He’s smiling. Bridget looks at him and can’t help but smile back. There’s something there, all right, and it makes my fists tighten.

  Bridget is wearing long, semi-loose yoga pants, not shorts like me and Trevor. It’s as if she remembers that day, years ago, and is guarding against the same thing happening again. Maybe she does, and maybe she is. It’s a day etched in my memory for sure. She scraped her leg something fierce after missing a toehold, and they had to belay her back down like she was repelling rather than back-climbing. She was crying too hard to hold on. I remember the way the group gathered around as first aid was administered. The way I realized, all at once like a smack to the face, that the tough girl wasn’t bulletproof after all, and could be hurt like the rest of us.

  I remember watching her long legs as cotton swabs were wiped along them. As ointment was smeared high enough to get my mind racing. Does she still have that scar? You’d think I’d have looked by now, but I’ve been too preoccupied by other things: our perpetual rush, the frenzied nature of it all, the way clothes have stayed on more often than not. The way it’s forbidden. The way my attention has been drawn to other parts of her. Parts I yearn for as I stand here now, watching Bridget watch Trevor, watching his eyes scraping her body.

  She’s wearing a loose-fitting tank top, a sports bra beneath. I realize she just changed in her room, and the thought of her naked body going unseen by me makes me crazy. But she fills even the thrown-on outfit like she’s taken great pains to excite me. I can’t move my eyes from the swell of her breasts. The shirt is shapeless and loose, and I catch glimpses of her waist and belly when she shifts. My cock is rock hard as I’m thinking of what’s hidden. I want to make an excuse and leave. To take her with me. Then I want to tear that shirt off. Claw that utilitarian bra from her like a grudge, slide
my hand down between her legs into the wetness, and claim what’s mine.

  Jesus. I can’t keep thinking like this. Trevor might already suspect I’ve taken liberties, and the last thing I can afford is to drool while he’s right there with us — with me as an observer on a date that’s supposed to be his.

  This experiment isn’t about sex. Not really. But in a way, it sort of is, and there has been and will be sex aplenty.

  I know Bridget has bills to pay and a mother to save. She needs to stick around.

  She’s not the kind of girl who can be bought.

  But I’m not a nice guy, and Trevor is. I can see the way his charm is already working on Bridget — maybe as the better option, all things considered.

  Kyle and Kat return in a farce of athletic gear. They’re both wearing shorts so stretchy and tight it’s like they’re painted on. Same for the tight tops, nipples on full display.

  Trevor has options. Eleven plus Bridget.

  And Bridget, she’s not like the others.

  But I can’t stop staring at him. Staring at her. My fists, for some reason, unable to unclench.

  I’m here to do a job. To be impartial.

  But if Trevor chooses wrong and so does Bridget, I may have to intervene.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Bridget

  I haven’t done this in forever, like, since I was a kid, but it’s obvious Kylie has never done it before at all. Kat either, but at least she’s small and compact, like a monkey, giving her an advantage in leverage that mostly negates her disadvantage in experience. Kylie, on the other hand, is tall. Normally that means she’s statuesque. But today, on the rock, she’s just gangly. Her toned legs aren’t especially strong; well-kept fingernails do nothing to help her grip little crevices. She doesn’t understand how important it is to hug the rock so she’s closer to standing than hanging on for dear life, and I’m sure as hell not telling her. Mostly, she’s an increasingly sweaty and grunting mess, and keeps staring daggers back at me as if this was all my idea.